Her door was still about six inches ajar. With Gilbert looming over her shoulder, she pushed it open the rest of the way.
The apartment was as she’d left it, lights turned off but illuminated in gray and dark blue tones, amber splashes from the street light nearby. Jolyon’s graphic novel lay forgotten on the living room floor. She checked the bedroom with caution, including the big closet, then the bathroom between the bedroom and living room, flicked on the light, even slurped a breath and drew open the shower curtain. She moved to the kitchen, passing Gilbert – who stayed just inside the doorway – glanced in the kitchen, then to the far end of the living room, and finally circled back.
“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “Thank you so much.”
“Not a problem,” he said in that deep voice. “You should…”
He trailed off, looking past her. She followed his line of sight through the living room windows and beyond the stone church, where her street intersected with Saranac Avenue.
A figure stood beneath the street light. He was looking in their direction, no question. Bobbi moved toward the window, and he jerked into motion as if he saw her, too. Then he hurried away.
Twenty
She was tough, that Bobbi. Which was part of what made her so tantalizing, but not because she was actually tough. She wasn’t. Chicks like her liked to think they were tough, they tried to convince themselves, but it was laughable nonsense. What was the saying? “Feminism: strong, smart, and independent until things get a little bit difficult.”
What made her tantalizing was that she thought she was something extra special, just like Alison Hadley. And just like Hadley, she’d decided she was too good for him, too. Bobbi had slipped through his grasp once, but she wouldn’t again.
He walked the dark streets, once again pleased how things took shape. It was hard when you were a young man – a few people might remind you that being normal was unexciting, that being different was being superior, but it still hurt, it was still a lonely road.
And the people who said that had their little place in society all carved out. It was easy for them; it hadn’t been easy for him. He’d discovered too soon that the world was a selfish place full of selfish people, that in the name of a better society, people played God. But then, everyone went home at night and who did they care about? They cared about themselves. The rest were lies, lies and masks he could clearly see through and had been able to see through for some time.
He stepped to the water’s edge and looked out over its black surface. Maybe he was shining the light on a problem that plagued humanity.
But, then, that would be his own ego getting in the way of things, tainting things, just like their egos did. No, the point here was not his own exultation. The point was to…
* * *
He stopped, once more having lost the thread of his own consciousness, and realized he’d waded into the water and was standing up to his knees. That smell was back, the stink of something chemical, burning in his nostrils, twisting in his stomach. He bent toward the water and threw up, then swirled it clear with his foot. He checked to make sure no one was watching; no one had been. It was late, or maybe early, and it was time to set things in motion again.
He grew excited: This next step was going to be something almost religious.
* * *
“Okay,” Mike said, “where are we at?” He was tired; sleep hadn’t come easy the night before. Today marked a week since Harriet Fogarty had been discovered. It felt like the case had multiple identities, only one of them true. Or none of them, which was depressing to consider.
Murders in the red longer than a week rarely got solved.
He was gathered with Lena and her chief of police, Brewer. Reggie Hume, his BCI supervisor, was on the phone from Albany. Mike had it on speaker.
“We’ve got a couple of main directions on this thing,” Mike said. “One, I got a call early this morning from Bobbi Noelle, who says she had an intruder at her apartment last night. So that whole line of inquiry might be top drawer again; I sent a trooper over there this morning to have a look, and I’m going to talk to Noelle as soon as I can.”
“She thinks it was Rentz?” Hume asked.
“First she thought it was her neighbor, mucking around, but then she was with him when she saw someone down the street, she says, looking at the building, then moved off. She couldn’t offer much for a physical description, he was about 100 yards away. Maybe he had a lot of hair, she says. If it was Rentz, his appearance may have changed.”
“And we don’t have any tags on this guy?” Hume asked.
“Negative. We put out the BOLO, but so far, nothing.”
“Tell me about him,” said Hume.
Lena leaned toward the phone, her notes out. “Jameson Matthew Rentz, D.O.B. October fourth, nineteen ninety-three. Went to Almond High School, graduated 2012; attended Rochester Institute of Technology, dropped out in 2014. His father is an engineer. Mother doesn’t show a work history. Rentz has never really been gainfully employed. He’s got a juvenile offense, record sealed. But Mike spoke with Bobbi earlier about this and it’s most likely for battery. He was sixteen, beat up his girlfriend, also sixteen.”
“But… so he’s got nothing to do with the Department of Social Services, here or in Watertown?”
“We’re checking,” Mike said. “But so far we haven’t seen his name in any of the Fogarty or Lavoie files. If Harriet was killed by Rentz, it’s back to this whole thing possibly being this guy screwing up, killing her when he meant to go after Noelle.”
“So,” Hume’s disembodied voice said, “you pretty much crossed this guy off before – I see Placid PD had someone looking in on her, but they weren’t there last night. So it’s like he’s been around, waiting, maybe, for the right chance. What’s he living on, if not his old man’s money? Where’s he living?”
“In his car, maybe. He’s got an older Ford Focus registered in his name. It’s white. It’s four-door.”
“Ah,” Hume said. “Okay. Well, we need to pick this guy up. He moved out of his family’s place… when?”
“Looks like right after dropping out of school, so summer of 2014,” Mike said. He glanced at Lena, who added, “I just talked to the mother, Geena Rentz. She said Jamie and his father had a falling-out when he left RIT before graduating. Haven’t spoken in more than a year, he’s not coming home for holidays, that kind of thing.”
“Was he squatting at the house on River Street?” Hume asked. “I’m looking at it right here – there was a white car, four-door, seen on River Street a few days before the Fogarty murder. I mean, Mike, what are we waiting for?”
“Motive,” Mike said.
“Motive? He’s in love with this Roberta Noelle, he’s obsessed with her. His life has no meaning without her, that sort of thing.”
“It leaves out Corina Lavoie.”
“She could know him,” said Hume. “If he’s drifting around… Maybe the sister knows him. You got a picture you could show her?”
“I’m just not—”
“It doesn’t fit into your ‘old score’ theory,” Hume interrupted. “I know. That’s your other main angle on this; that it all goes back to something that happened years ago, when Lavoie and Fogarty were under the same roof, sharing cases. In Lake Haven.”
Mike said, “I can see someone traveling to Watertown to abduct, possibly kill Lavoie because of something involving the Pierce County DSS, but I’ve had a hard time seeing Rentz kidnapping and maybe murdering Lavoie because he’s a lovesick psychopath.”
“Well maybe you’ve got to let go of Lavoie, Mike. Maybe you’ve got to face that you can’t get these to connect because they don’t.”
Mike could feel himself getting worked up and was about to let fly when Lena spoke. “Can I say something here, please?”