Taylor shrugged. “Thirteen ‘useful’ is thirteen customers lost, to say nothing of the people who read the review but didn’t comment. That’s dollars lost to a small business, plus a bad reputation in a good neighborhood.”
“See what you can find out about the business. Let’s pay a visit to the manager. For now, let’s go back to the office. I want to get the war room set up. There’s so many people that hated this professor, I already need a program to keep track of them.”
*
CHARLIE CHAMBERLAIN SAT ON HIS SOFA for a long time after the detectives had left. He sat with perfect posture, staring into the middle distance, images and arguments tumbling through his mind. Pandora’s box had opened wide, and all the memories came spilling out, one running into the next, and into the next.
Him at five in short pants and a bow tie, with knobby skinned knees, and tears on his cheeks. His mother’s drunken, angry face; her mouth twisted open like a gash in her face. His father’s cold stare.
He saw himself at nine, at twelve, at fourteen. He heard the voices.
Stupid boy . . .
I told you never . . .
. . . so disappointed . . .
Get out of my sight . . .
Worthless . . .
. . . mistake . . .
He saw the hand striking, the belt swinging.
He saw his sister and heard her crying.
He felt the helplessness of a child.
“Such a perfect family,” everyone used to say. They didn’t know, and wouldn’t suspect. Appearances were all that mattered. Appearances, accolades, money, the right car, the perfect dinner party. Two children brought out on cue and promptly put away.
Seen not heard.
Don’t cause a problem.
Don’t say a word.
He didn’t know how much time passed as he sat there. Years passed through his head. He might have sat there an hour or all night, lost in a trance, in emotional limbo. So many feelings tore through him and collided that they canceled each other out until he was numb.
What was he supposed to feel?
The doorbell brought him back into the moment. He had no idea of the time. Maybe the detectives had come back to take him to the morgue to identify the bodies.
He put an eye to the peephole and took in the distorted view of his sister—hair disheveled, eyes red, face swollen.
“Di,” he said as he opened the door.
“They’re dead, Charlie,” she said, her face twisting in anguish. “Oh my God, they’re dead!”
She threw herself against him and began to sob. He put his arms around her and held her. They had only ever had each other.
“They’re dead,” she mumbled through her tears. “We’re free . . .”
Even as he tried to comfort her, he knew that wasn’t true. They weren’t free. The future might be clear ahead, but the past was something no one could escape but the dead. There was irony. They would always be damaged by their pasts and by the choices other people had made. The only ones free in this story were lying on slabs at the county morgue.
But he said nothing as he held his sister, and they cried together.
13
Nikki read files until her eyes burned and her vision blurred. So much for the idea of no late hours working cold cases. While there may have been no outward sense of urgency in solving a case that had been gathering dust in the archives for a quarter of a century, that didn’t change who she was. She was still going to dig and scratch and poke and prod with the focus of a terrier.
At least she got to do it at home.
She had gotten home in time to make a nice dinner for herself and the boys, and had taken an hour to watch some TV with them. Every commercial break included a promo for the local news: More on the story of the double homicide of a university professor and his wife! Tune in at ten!
The big news of the new cold case squad and the unsolved murder of Detective Ted Duffy hadn’t even managed a twenty-four-hour cycle in the media. Everyone in the metro area was now captivated by the bigger, fresher, more gruesome crime.
She had caught the coverage of the press conference on the six o’clock edition. The mayor, the chief of police, Deputy Chief Kasselmann, and Lieutenant Mascherino, all looking suitably grave as they gave their statements. No Kovac. No surprise. Sam loathed press conferences. He would have been out doing his job, sure not to pick up the message that his presence was required in front of a news camera.
She wanted to call him, to find out what was going on, if they had any leads, but she wouldn’t let herself. He was busy, and it was none of her business. He was probably setting up the war room, scribbling all over the whiteboard with his terrible handwriting. Tippen was in on the case, and Elwood would be as well. They’d be up all night drinking bad coffee and eating pizza out of cardboard boxes.