“I wouldn’t put that past some sicko. But at least this girl hasn’t turned up dead in someone else’s bed. She’s just disappeared.”
“I know.” Sully stares past him at mountains cloaked in somber gray. “Let’s just pray she doesn’t turn up bald and shrink--wrapped.”
“Mr. Walker? I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Kurt looks up to see a middle--aged man standing over him. Everything about him is puffy: curly blond hair, navy down jacket, even his face and breath, both of which bear the florid evidence of boozy nights.
He lowers himself into the seat opposite Kurt. They’re in a small office just off the building lobby, where the first cops on the scene escorted Kurt to get him away from his stepfather’s dead body.
That was almost an hour ago. He has no idea who summoned the police. Most likely one of the third--floor neighbors called in response to his screams. Or maybe the doorman heard the commotion from two floors below.
Still huffing a little and mopping his brow with a handkerchief, the man in the chair introduces himself as Detective Lindgren with the local police force. Kurt wonders whether he’s sweaty and out of breath from the exertion of taking an elevator and walking a few yards, or if the bloodbath upstairs got to him.
“Can I get you anything?” the man asks. “Glass of water?”
“No, thank you.”
One of the cops had asked him the same thing, and so did the doorman. It happened when his mother died, as well. Why, he wonders, do -people assume that proximity to death is accompanied by great thirst?
“I need to tell my brothers and my sister what happened,” he tells Detective Lindgren.
“Are they close by?”
“One is. I’ll go tell him in person. I’m going to have to call the younger two. They’re away in college. They’re going to have to make travel arrangements, and . . .” He looks at his watch. “They’ll want to come right away. Today.”
“I understand. I just have a few questions for you, if you feel like you can answer them right now? I know this is a terrible time but the sooner we get this out of the way, the better.”
He inhales and exhales shakily, nodding. “I’ll answer them if I can.”
“Thank you. When was the last time you saw your father?”
“I don’t know . . . it’s been a while.”
“Why did you come over here this morning?”
“To check on him. None of us had heard from him since . . . I don’t know, Monday, I guess.”
“None of us . . .”
“Me, my brother, my half sister and half brother. And my dad’s friend, Bob—-he’s in Florida. We were all worried.”
“So he was your stepfather, correct?”
“Yes, but he adopted me and my brother when he married our mother.”
“When was that?”
“Twenty years ago last summer. I was six, and my brother was four.”
“And your father’s friend Bob—-who is he?”
“Bob Belinke. He lives in Florida.”
The detective wants more information, including Bob’s contact information.
As Kurt answers the questions, he realizes his mouth is dry. Now he wants the glass of water, but if he asks for it, the cop might think it’s an attempt to distract his line of questioning.
Why is he questioning me anyway?
Rick committed suicide. He slit his wrists and he left a note, just like Mom. There can’t possibly be any question about that . . . can there?
“What about your father?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your biological father.”
“What about him?” Kurt presses his hands against his cheeks, suddenly exhausted. “I haven’t seen him in at least ten or fifteen years.”
“His name?”
Why does that even matter here? What the hell is going on?
He answers the question: “It was Kurt. Kurt Clark.”
“Same as yours.”
“My name is Kurt Walker.” Now, anyway. But even as a child, long before Rick came along, he resented being named after his deadbeat dad. His mother and brother called him by any number of nicknames that evolved from God only knows where—-Cookie, Kiddo, Buddy, KitKat . . .
“And you’re estranged from your biological father?”
“We all are.”