“Great.”
“Mr. Bender?”
Osley is back.
“Do you want more coffee, Detective?” Edgy, edgy, Park.
“Naw, I’m fine. Just letting you know we’re wrapped up in the shed. It’s a bit of a mess, but some wipes will take that dust away. How ya doing? You look wrecked.”
“I am wrecked, Detective,” he says, running a hand across his jaw. He hasn’t showered, he hasn’t shaved. He is rumpled and dirty and sad. “Tell me, what are the next steps?”
“Well, first, I gotta get your prints, for elimination.” He pops open a small case and sets it on the table. “Just press the pads of your fingers here, if you don’t mind.”
Park has the sudden urge to say no, I want my lawyer, but he complies. He always complies. When you have nothing to hide…
But you do, Park. You do have something to hide.
He presses the pads of his fingers, then his thumbs, watches the loops and whorls assemble into a marker almost as specific to his body as his DNA. Good thing they don’t have a way to measure the soul. His would be spilling everywhere right now like blood from a cut.
“Great. Thanks. So now we put everything in the system and see if we get a match. I hear your wife had some excitement this morning, too. With the sketch of the dude, and prints from both places, we might be able to wrap this case quickly. I sure do hope so. Makes me jumpy, having a killer roaming around. You take all the precautions you can, okay? Keep your doors locked and alarms on, just in case. And keep an eye on your wife.”
Osley’s phone dings with a text, and he glances down at it. The bonhomie cowboy is gone, and Park sees the sharpness inside the man, the face suddenly tense and wary. It’s an act, Park realizes. The steady stream of good old boy I’m your buddy we’re just havin’ a chat patter is just a way to get people to open up, to say something that can be used against them later.
Osley is on the move. “Gotta go. We’ll be in touch.” And he’s out the door, the car whipping away from the curb with a squeal.
Something has happened, that’s clear enough. Probably another case. Park knows the cops work on more than one at a time.
As Osley promised, the shed is a mess. Park takes it all in, sighs, then starts cleaning up, stacking paper, wiping off the pens, the doorknob, his phone, the safe. Something bad is happening, something out of his control.
Twenty-eight kids. He’s going to sue the shit out of Winterborn. He and Olivia are never going to have to worry about money again.
And as he’s examining the facets of that little diamond, he turns it slightly, and the kaleidoscope reveals itself. He’s been suffused with excitement and hasn’t wanted to admit it. There’s nothing he’s ever wanted more than a big, boisterous family. Will he meet them all? Will they want something from him? Will he want something from them? Call me Dad, I want to be your friend, walk a few girls down the aisle, all that?
Maybe. And he has to admit, the thoughts fill him with joy.
But. One of them has killed a woman. Where will it end? No place good, that’s for sure.
He has no idea how to act, what to think, just feels the simmering emotions inside him. He didn’t ask for this. He doesn’t want it like this. Like he told Olivia, he wants the weekend back again, wants to stand over the king-size sleigh bed in the early morning sun watching his wife sleep, her lovely face blank with dreams, his son safe and warm in her belly. He wants her to birth his children, not a bunch of faceless strangers. And he sure as hell wants the easiness of their earlier troubles. Infertility is a bitch, but fathering a murderer?
He’s still holding onto one shred of hope that the police have made a mistake.
The landline rings, and he answers it, hoping it’s Olivia, though why she would call the house phone, he has no idea.
“Mr. Bender? This is Erica Pearl again, from Channel Four. We’re about to file our story, and I would so appreciate it if you’d talk to me. I know you want your side of the story to be revealed, and I’m just down the street. Could we come talk?”
Shit. The woman is persistent, he’ll give her that.
He disconnects the call, then, for good measure, removes the phone from the cord.
A list of questions begins to form in his mind. First among them, what the hell should he do next? The way this is going, a lawyer, definitely. He calls Lindsey, whose phone goes to voice mail.
“Linds, I need your help. Call me the moment you get this.”
He looks at the coffeepot, the black sludge accruing in the bottom, opens the cabinet, and pulls out the half-empty bottle of Dalmore 12. It burns going down, but the warmth makes him feel steadier. He drops into his chair, fighting back the urge to scream, and pokes at his cell phone, calling Olivia again.
This time, she answers. “Park, I’m sorry. I’m upset, and I was cruel. I apologize. I should never throw Perry in your face.”
The fight leaves him. They have to stick together; they have to be a team. That’s how they get through this, how they’ve always gotten through their troubles. “I’d call it even, then. Apology accepted. Honey, where are you? I need you. We really do have to come up with a plan.”
“I’m in the car on the way to meet with the sketch artist. Come to the police station.”
“I was hoping we could avoid—”
“Park, another woman has gone missing.”
21
THE WIFE
At the police station, Olivia talks and describes and corrects, and it doesn’t take long for the artist to put together a reasonable facsimile of the man calling himself Griffin White.
“It’s him. His beard is a little darker, though, and the eyes are wrong.”
“Okay,” the artist says patiently. Thin and narrow-shouldered, his name is Roger, and he gives off a calm, steady vibe that’s helping her relax. “Eyes are the hardest to replicate accurately, as I’m sure you can imagine. The windows to the soul. Tell me again.”
Olivia appreciates his cool, collected manner right now, because she is freaking out inside, and she just wants Park’s traitorous arms around her. She can’t take much more of this. She’s never been inside a police station before, and the tension coming off the cops is palpable. Until Lindsey answers her damn phone or Park shows up, Olivia is feeling very much alone in the world.
Roger the artist shows her the sketch again. “Better?”
“Closer. If you can draw him without a soul, it would work. He just looked mean inside, you know? Cold. Shrewd. Excited. But flat and empty, too. He’s a handsome guy on the outside but void inside. I doubt you can capture that.” She wraps her arms around her torso and walks the small room. Outside the open door, phones ring, piercing through the low hum of voices from many people chattering at once. The high-pitched whine of a light bulb about to blow comes from overhead; the fluorescent flickers every few seconds. It’s all making her nerves jangle.
“You’d be surprised.” Roger tweaks a bit more, and when she looks again, a chill parades down her spine. He’s managed Griffin White’s emptiness perfectly.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Like that.”
Moore knocks on the doorframe, making Olivia jump. She has changed into a much more formal black pantsuit with a white silk blouse underneath, which strikes Olivia as strange.