“I am no spy. I feed old people and babies and then clean up their piss and shit. That’s what I do.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Listen, you hide out here while I go empty out what I got at the ATM. You take it, get on a train to New York. But you have to promise you’ll get in touch when you get there. I need to know you’re okay. I love you. You know that, right? I love you more than anything in the whole world.”
Sarita was tearing up again. She put her hands over her face.
“I can’t get it out of my mind,” she said.
Marshall hugged her again. “I know, I know.”
“Seeing Ms. Gaynor like that. It was so awful, how she looked.”
“I’m tellin’ ya,” he said. “It’s an opportunity. He’s got money. Fancy house, nice car. Guy like that has to have money. I mean, shit, you worked for them. You ever see financial statements, that kind of thing?”
She brought her hands down, thought a moment. “Sometimes,” she said quietly. “But I never really looked at them. I didn’t bring in the mail or anything. I just helped with the house and the baby. Ms. Gaynor, she was so upset. She thought having a baby would make her happy, but it just made it worse.”
“Yeah, well, raising kids is no joke,” Marshall said. “I think I’d get pretty depressed if I had to look after a baby.”
Sarita shot him a look.
“Unless it was with you,” he said quickly.
“I think her husband knew all along what was going on, but when Ms. Gaynor found out . . .”
“You have to stop thinking about it,” Marshall said. “You just have to move on, you know?”
“It’s my fault,” Sarita said. “If it hadn’t been for me she never would have started putting it together.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean it has anything to do with what happened to her,” Marshall said. “Unless you think it was him. The husband.”
She shook her head. “He loved her. I mean, he was away a lot, and he hardly ever talked to me, but I think he loved her.”
“Yeah, but sometimes, even people who were in love once, they do bad shit to each other. All the more reason to give him a call, tell him what you know. He’ll come across; I guarantee it. You’ll have enough money to get settled in someplace else, and have some left over to send to your folks.”
“No,” she said firmly. “No.”
He put up his hands. “Okay. You say no, then it’s no.”
“All I ever wanted to do,” she whispered, “was the right thing. I’m not a bad person, you know?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ve always tried to be good. But sometimes it doesn’t matter what you do, it’s wrong.”
Marshall gave her a kiss on the forehead. “You wait here while I get you some money. And I’ll pick up something to eat, too. Maybe an Egg McMuffin and some coffee.”
Sarita said nothing as Marshall finished getting dressed. Before he left, he double-checked that the slip of paper where he’d written Bill Gaynor’s phone number was still in his pocket.
THIRTY-FIVE
BARRY Duckworth was up at six.
He hadn’t gotten in until nearly midnight. As he’d pulled into the drive he’d noticed a white van parked at the curb opposite his house, but didn’t give it much thought. He hadn’t noticed the writing on the side.
He struggled up the stairs, stripped down to his boxers, and collapsed into bed next to Maureen. She mumbled, “Hmmm,” and went back to sleep.
He was worried he’d lie awake all night. Haunted by the sight of that student with half his head blown off. Rosemary Gaynor on the autopsy table, the ghoulish smile cut across her abdomen. Those three mannequins on the Ferris wheel.
Even those goddamned squirrels.
But he didn’t dream about any of those things. He went into a six-hour coma. He’d set his mental alarm for six thirty a.m., but his eyes opened at five fifty-nine. He glanced over at the clock, decided it wasn’t worth trying to get back to sleep when he’d be getting up so soon. He swung his thick legs from under the covers, planted his feet on the carpeted bedroom floor.
Maureen rolled over. “That was late last night.”
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his eyes, then reaching for his phone to see whether he had any messages. There was nothing that needed his immediate attention.
“I tried to wait up for you,” she said.
“Why?”
“To celebrate.”
“Huh?”
“Twenty years. On the job. I didn’t forget.”
Now, with light coming through the window, he saw two tall fluted glasses on the dresser. An ice bucket, a bottle of champagne. By now, the bucket would be full of water.
“I didn’t see that when I came in,” he said.
“My detective,” Maureen said. “Nothing gets past you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Shh,” she said. “I should have said something. But we can have a little celebration now.”
She reached down under the covers, found him.
? ? ?
When they were finished, he said, “I have to get moving.”