“And—what did I say?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t talk. You were barely more than a baby, barely talking as it was. I never heard you say a word. But we hoped you might remember what the guy looked like. The shrink showed you photographs, and you pointed at one. She shuffled ’em, and you pointed at it again. Same one. But two days later when we could organize a lineup, you wouldn’t ID him. Wouldn’t point at anybody at all.”
I thought about this. “How did you know what pictures to show me? I mean, were they random? Or did you have a suspect?”
“We had a few. We questioned the man who used to clean your parents’ gutters. He couldn’t keep his story straight about where he’d been that afternoon. Turned out he spent it blind drunk in a bar, didn’t want his wife to know.” Beasley shrugged. “More promising, there was a guy who’d done a few burglaries around your neighborhood. We picked him up when he tried to off-load silverware and jewelry he’d lifted from a house on Cantrell Road.”
“The random-burglar theory.”
“Exactly. And there was jewelry missing. Apparently your mama had a particular necklace she favored, that she never took off. It was gone. Never did turn up. But . . . there was nothing to indicate the Cantrell Road guy ever set foot inside your house.”
I shook my head in confusion. “So whose picture was it that I picked out?”
“We also had—we had a statement from a neighbor. Directing us towards someone.”
“What neighbor? The Rooneys?”
Beasley screwed up his face in concentration. “Can’t say I remember the name. She was a teacher. Lived next door.”
“That’s Cheral Rooney. I met her yesterday.”
He looked wary. “And what did she say?”
“Nothing about a suspect! She just talked about what the neighborhood used to look like, what my mom was like. She gave me an old pair of Sadie Rawson’s earrings.”
“Uh-huh. Well, she was under the impression—I’m sorry if this comes as yet another shock—but she was under the impression that your mama had been having an affair. And she thought this other man was someone we should question. So we did, and we thought we might be onto something, because that’s the picture you pointed at. His picture. But we couldn’t make it stick.”
I tried to take in this latest piece of information. “Was it true? Was she having an affair?”
“Who knows?” Beasley shrugged. “He denied it, and there wasn’t any evidence. So maybe it was true, or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the neighbor just didn’t like your mama. Or maybe she was jealous. Women can be vindictive. No offense.”
“The newspaper said police arrested a suspect and let him go. Was that—”
“No, no, we never arrested anybody. We questioned him and then we let him go. He had an alibi. Airtight. And we had no physical evidence, not a scrap. We couldn’t hold him.”
? ? ?
IN THE PARKING lot outside the newspaper building, a chilly rain was falling. I pulled my jacket over my head and dashed for the Mazda. Wet and panting, I climbed in and flicked on the heat and the windshield wipers. They were old and made a squeaky, scraping sound each time they shuddered across the glass. Every two seconds, they cleared a glimpse of the gray world outside, then the rain sluiced down to blur it again. I forced myself to concentrate on the wipers, to use them as a metronome. Steady. Deep breath. Everything will be okay. I willed even the throb in my neck to obey the commanding rhythm. Scrape, throb, breathe. Don’t think. Scrape, throb, breathe.
I’m not sure how long I sat like that, staring at the half-fogged windows. I knew I needed to step on it if I was to make it to the airport with any hope of catching my flight. But I couldn’t muster the energy to shift the car into drive. When the throb had quieted to a manageable level of pain, I twisted around in my seat belt, reached for my phone, and dialed Martin.
“Sis! How are you? Where are you? Still in Atlanta?” His voice sounded so normal, so unburdened, it seemed to come from a different world.
“Yes,” I said dully. “Still in Atlanta. I’m—”
“Would you do me a favor and phone Mom? She’s completely freaked-out, says you didn’t call yesterday.”
“Sure. I will. It’s been crazy down here.”
“Seriously, Sis. Call her. And listen, can I call you right back? I’ve got an investor on the other line, we’re trying to close on a deal this week.”
“Martin.” I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “Hang up on him and talk to me.”
“Sure, okay, but he’s in Abu Dhabi. We’re recapitalizing his properties in Manhattan, I’m talking hundreds of millions in office/flex—”
“You know I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please.” My voice cracked. “I need—I need you to tell me what to do.”
Martin is too much the classic oldest child to resist such a plea. He has always exhibited an almost parental sense of responsibility toward Tony and me. It seems to coexist easily alongside the pleasure he takes in teasing and tormenting us (and in Tony’s case, actually giving him a physical pounding from time to time). I could picture him now, pulling his shoulders back, preparing to launch into full older-brother, let-me-tell-you-how-to-fix-your-problem mode.
Except that my current problems were not easily fixed.
He listened in silence as I told him about Beamer Beasley and -everything that I had learned.
“Wow,” he muttered when I had finished.
“Yeah.”
“That’s insane about the bullet in your neck being the same one that . . .” He broke off. “It’s hideous, actually. It’s . . . Christ, I don’t even know what it is.”
“That’s what I said when I found out.”
“But aren’t you thinking that maybe you could have the bullet removed? You’re going to go see a surgeon, right?”
“I’m supposed to do that tomorrow. Will set it up.”
“Who’s Will?”
“My regular doctor.”