When she didn’t materialize, when fate didn’t throw them together walking down College Street at high noon, he went looking. He searched for her in every registry and every database at his disposal. When there was no Maggie Price, he thought maybe she’d given him her maiden name, and he started looking for Maggie Anything, or Margaret. Turned out there were quite a few Margarets in Belle River. For every one, he took the time to pull a driver’s license photo if there was one, or to scour the Internet for a picture that would rule the woman out. (He could’ve gotten fired for some of the things he did, if anybody had known.) Owen was a busy man. A single father, in a new job, with the eyes of the town upon him. But he worked his way through every Margaret in Belle River between the ages of twenty-five and fifty (he put her age at mid-to-late thirties, but he was casting a wide net) before he threw in the towel. At some point it dawned on him that she’d given him a fake name on purpose—he remembered that moment of hesitation when they shook hands—because she didn’t want to be found. Still, he didn’t quit until he was forced to, by virtue of running out of Margarets.
And now, after all that fruitless searching, she’d turned up on his watch. Some jogger had found her washed up on the riverbank a few hours back, at a location that fell within Owen’s jurisdiction to investigate. Owen regretted not asking for her number, not taking her back to his room, not becoming her lover, her friend. He remembered her wistfulness that night, and her glamour and her breathy charm. He remembered their kiss, and the feeling of her breasts under his hands. And he remembered her husband, standing outside the bar, staring at her through the plate glass with rage in his eyes. Owen could have saved her, he was certain, but it was too late now. Now all he could do was figure out what happened, who did this to her—the husband, presumably—and bring that piece of shit to justice.
21
Griff woke to the sound of pounding on the front door. He groaned and rolled over onto his back, struggling to open his eyes through the crud that crusted them shut. He’d spent the last two days and three nights on the white sectional in the living room, in his boxers, surrounded by crushed beer cans and an increasingly empty bottle of Absolut. He was in no condition to receive visitors, so he pulled a sofa cushion over his head and waited for whoever the hell was at the door to give up and go away.
More pounding followed, compounded by the incessant ringing of the doorbell. He felt like his head was about to explode.
“What the fuck … get lost!” he shouted, clapping his hands over his ears.
“Mr. Eastman!” a deep voice yelled through the door. “Open up, police. We need to speak with you.”
Police? Shit. As if they hadn’t done enough damage to Griff’s life already.
He sat up and peeked through the living room blinds. It was afternoon already, what time he couldn’t say. Dead leaves blew down the street in a stiff breeze. The sun sat low and weak in the sky, but the light of it on his burning eyes was still enough to make him wince. Two people stood on the front steps. A tall guy with dark hair who looked vaguely familiar, and a young black woman in a trench coat. They were both in plain clothes but they looked like cops right enough. He thought about whether to get off the couch and find out what they wanted with him. Once upon a time, Griff’s father had a clever lawyer named Burt Lippmann, and Lippmann had offered Griff this piece of advice: You were not required to let a cop in without a warrant, but you should probably do so—unless of course you were sitting on piles of evidence that needed destroying. Otherwise, it was smarter to play nice, or the cop would get the warrant anyway, and come back looking to screw you over for the inconvenience.
Griff knocked on the window, and the cops turned to look at him in unison.
“Just a minute,” Griff mouthed, holding up a finger.
He cast around the living room for clothing, and found none. It was damn cold in here. He’d forgotten how much he disliked this godforsaken climate. There was a bathrobe, he remembered, hanging on the hook on the back of the door in the moldy downstairs bathroom. He went to get it, stopping to splash some water on his face. Griff combed his hair with his fingers, and it felt stiff and dirty to the touch. He was forty years old, life as he’d known it was over, and it was feeling increasingly like a hassle to carry on with things. He looked green and ill in the harsh light. His eyes were bloodshot and yellow. Drinking your dinner for three nights running was not the best thing for the liver. He needed a shave. There was a bruise on his left cheek, and his lip was puffy. He probed it gingerly with his finger, and winced. Using his tongue, he poked around his mouth and found that the entire left side of his jaw was tender.
At the front door, he hesitated. Did he really need to let these bloodsuckers in? He decided to compromise, opening the door but leaving the chain on.
“Can I help you, Officers?” he said, through the chain. A bitter wind swept through the gap, and Griff’s eyes began to water.
The man stared at Griff intently, which naturally made him uncomfortable, given that the guy was a cop and Griff was in a bathrobe and bare feet in the middle of the day.
“Do you know it’s after two o’clock?” the cop asked.
“Right, Officer. Is there something I can do for you?” Griff said.
The man pulled a leather wallet from his jacket pocket and flashed a badge.
“Chief Owen Rizzo of the Belle River Police Department. This is my colleague, Detective Keisha Charles. Are you Keniston Eastman?”
“No,” Griff said.
“Is Mr. Eastman available?”
“No.”
“When is he expected to return?”
“Mr. Eastman doesn’t live here. He owns this house. I’m the tenant,” Griff said.
“Oh. Mr.—?”
“Rothenberg.”
“Mr. Rothenberg, do you mind if we come in?” the officer asked, glancing at the chain lock suspiciously. Nobody in this one-horse town so much as locked their doors. Griff must look paranoid, but he had his reasons for hating cops.
“What is this about, Officer?”
“This is in reference to a Katherine Eastman,” the police chief said, and Griff’s stomach dropped to his feet.
“What about her?”
“You know her?”
“Yes.” Griff was using the Burt Lippmann approach to talking to cops. Say nothing, or say as little as possible.
“How about if you invite us in, and then I’ll explain. It’s damn cold out here.”
Griff was leery of letting cops into his house, but the mention of Kate’s name had an effect on him, as it always did. Maybe it would be a foolish move to let them in, but he needed to know what they had to say.
“All right. Come in.”
Griff stepped back and removed the chain. A wintry draft blew into the hallway along with the cops, making him pull the bathrobe closer. He watched with mingled amusement and embarrassment as they took in the surroundings.
“Cleaning lady’s day off,” Griff said.
That was an understatement. The place looked like the health department should pay a visit. Griff and Kate had done nothing to fix it up in the months they’d lived here, other than moving in their sleek New York furniture, which looked ridiculous in the dilapidated rooms. Neither of them could bear to think that this Belle River misadventure was anything but temporary. And of course, Kate was above doing housework. They’d never had to get along without help until recently, but at least Griff tried—for a while anyway. Lately, not so much.
“Is there somewhere we can sit down?” the police chief asked, with a dubious look at the living room. It was like a frat basement in there, the floor studded with beer cans and pizza boxes.