And She Was Read online

  Brenna put the magazine down. When she’d come to the hospital, she hadn’t even expected Nelson would want to see her—what could she do for him now? Yet after he regained consciousness, she was the one person he’d asked for, and now he wanted her to drive him home. He really has no one.

  The waiting room door pushed open. A man stomped past—red-faced, bug-eyed, gut straining against a cheap brown suit. It was as if everything within him were trying to ram its way out the front. Brenna had never seen a more obvious cop, and she knew he’d been in there talking to Nelson. This is what it takes for him to get their attention, Brenna thought, and then Morasco came through the door like a response. When he saw Brenna, his pace slowed a little and his eyes locked with hers and sharpened to points. “Call me,” he said as he passed, so quiet only she could hear.

  Chapter 12

  “I didn’t kill my wife,” Nelson said.

  Brenna, who had just started up her car, put it back in park. “Did the police accuse you?”

  “Please, Ms. Spector,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Brenna started up the car again. Morasco’s face flashed into her mind, the sharpness in the eyes, the urgency—but then she put it away. Whatever he had to tell her could wait. Otherwise he’d have pulled her aside and said it right there.

  Brenna would take Nelson home, pick Maya up at choir practice, and then she would call Morasco, from the normalcy of her own home. For now, though, she needed to focus on Nelson Wentz, whose home had no normalcy, not anymore. “You’ll see your place looks a little different,” she told him. “The garage is taped off—still considered a crime scene, but the house is all yours again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes.”

  “They went through my house?” Nelson’s eyes were wide, his face even paler than usual.

  “Looking for signs of a break-in—blood maybe,” Brenna said. “They wouldn’t talk to me much, but it seemed what they were doing was pretty cursory. What happened to Carol . . . That was most likely over a week ago, they said.”

  “Did they . . . did they take anything?”

  Before pulling out of the hospital parking lot, Brenna gave Nelson a long, careful look. Then she turned her eyes back to the windshield and pulled out onto the dark, peaceful street. “What don’t you want them to find?”

  Nelson said nothing, but he didn’t have to. At 12:30 P.M., Brenna had noticed Theresa Koppelson, weaving her way through the cluster of neighbors. Theresa’s hair was shorter, with chunky highlights, there were a few more lines around the dark eyes, and she’d gained the smallest amount of weight, all over her body, as if someone had stuck Theresa with a bicycle pump and given it maybe three or four squeezes. Immediately, Brenna had flashed on Theresa ten years ago, tired and drawn, in the driveway of her colonial home. Theresa, as expected, hadn’t remembered Brenna at all.

  Assuming Brenna was a reporter, Theresa had answered questions about Carol’s giving nature and her involvement in local charities, until Brenna had finally asked her if Carol had any reason to be interested in the Iris Neff case. Theresa had looked at her directly, that flash of shame long gone from her eyes.

  “The Iris Neff case?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Someone told me that Carol’s husband had been questioned during that case. Do you have any idea why?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Around town, it was common knowledge, but you should probably keep this off the record.”

  “Of course.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know why Carol stayed with him. It’s not like they had kids to worry about.”

  “Turn left on Bahhhhnaby Lane,” drawled Lee, the GPS.

  “You know something funny?” Brenna asked Nelson. “I really don’t need a GPS. The way my mind works, if I’ve been someplace once, I remember how to get there, down to the last hard right. I even remember which streets are one-way.”

  “Why do you have a GPS then?”

  Brenna shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Company?” She smiled at him. “You understand, right?”

  He stared out the window. “Yes.”

  “So,” said Brenna. “I heard you and Lydia Neff had an affair.”

  Nelson’s head snapped back around. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Does it matter? Apparently, it was common knowledge.”

  “It’s . . . it’s not true. I swear to God.”

  “Nelson,” she said. “It’s been one day since we met, and already, I can name several very important things you either lied about or neglected to tell me.”

  “That’s different. Some things slip my mind.”

  “That may be, but if you’re not going to tell me the truth about Carol withdrawing money from an ATM, why should I believe you when you say you and Lydia didn’t have an affair ten years ago?”

  “Recalculating,” said Lee.

  “I never cheated on my wife. Not with Lydia Neff, not with anybody.”

  Brenna made a U-turn. Nelson’s eyes were moist, and she recalled the way he’d cried on the phone with her, begging her to find his wife. “I’m sorry for your loss, Nelson,” she said. “I really am. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now.”

  “I want you to keep working for me.”

  “Doing what? You hired me to find Carol.”

  “I want you to find out who killed her.”

  Brenna made a left on Muriel Court. “I’m a missing persons investigator, not a homicide detective,” she said. “The police are on it.”

  “No they’re not,” he said tightly. “They think I killed her.”

  Brenna was nearing Nelson’s house. To her relief, she saw the news vans and squad cars gone, save for one car parked in front of the walkway—one of those tight silver muscle mobiles Brenna hadn’t seen since the eighties. A 1982 Pontiac Trans Am in the suburbs. Mid-life crisis much? “When I was in high school, I dated a guy with a car like that one—only it was powder blue,” Brenna said. “The license plate said Blu ID Soul, and the whole interior smelled like Polo cologne.” She glanced at Nelson. “I had low self-esteem.”

  “Do you?” Nelson said.

  “Not anymore. I mean, I’m not exactly self-help book material, but I know overcompensation when I see it.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not talking about that.”

  Brenna reached the front of Nelson’s house. She pulled to a stop in front of the Trans Am, and its lights went on.

  “Do you believe I killed Carol?”

  She looked at him. “Nelson. I’ve only known you for two days.”

  “The police believe I did.” Nelson was staring straight ahead, into the Z. The interior lights were on, too, and so Brenna saw him clearly. Red Face from the hospital waiting room. “Drives fast,” she said. “Of course, some of those vintage Trans Ams can go from zero to sixty in 6.5 seconds.”

  “Huh?”

  “I saw him leaving the hospital. Detective, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Of course he is.”

  Pomroy switched off his interior light, then started up his car and drove away, Nelson staring after him.

  “You’re home now,” said Brenna. “Try and get some rest.”

  “This will not look better in the morning.”

  “No, but with some sleep, you may see it more clearly.”

  “Miss Spector, please. I know I’ve been less than forthright about some things. But I never cheated on Carol. And I didn’t kill her. I need to find out who did kill her and why, and you’re the only one who can help.”

  “Detective Morasco is very capable.”

  “Detective Morasco couldn’t even find a little girl.”

  Brenna’s hand dropped away from the car door. “What?”

  Nelson exhaled. “Never mind.”

  “No,” said Brenna. “What did you mean?”

  “He was on the Ir
is Neff case. Much too young for the job if you ask me.”

  “You can’t blame him,” Brenna said. “Girls . . .” Her throat clenched up. “Children disappear all the time and are never found.”

  “Well, I’m not the only one who felt that way.” He turned to her. “They demoted him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Everybody did—though most probably don’t remember. I just thought of it myself.”

  “Probably gossip.”

  Nelson shifted in the car seat. “No. It was a lot more than gossip.”

  “Really?”

  “Carol’s best friend, Gayle Chandler. She was very active in our Neighborhood Watch group and had many, many dealings with the police.”

  “She used to be Lydia Neff’s neighbor.”

  “That’s right.” Nelson squinted at her. “How do you know that?”

  “I just remember the name.”

  He took a breath. “Anyway, Gayle Chandler had it on good authority that Morasco was demoted for insubordination. There was a rumor, too, that he’d wasted police resources on . . . how did they refer to it? He was following up on the wrong clues. He was pursuing the wrong line of—”

  “A bad lead.”

  “Yes! That’s it.”

  Brenna recalled her phone conversation with a young Morasco, eleven years ago, too young for his job. Patronizing and dismissive, she had thought. But it wasn’t that way. He’d been shamed. Morasco, perfectly friendly until he’d heard those two words and then his voice had gone cold. “Blue car.” Two words that had ruined his career.

  “That never should have been leaked to the press.”

  “No, I’m glad it was leaked because—”

  “It was a bad lead.”

  “A bad lead?”

  “It was false.”

  “People change,” Brenna said. “Detective Morasco isn’t young anymore.” She got out of the car and opened Nelson’s door.

  “None of us are young anymore.” Nelson’s voice was small, defeated. He pulled himself out of the car without looking at her, and Brenna was overwhelmed with pity. She heard herself say, “I’ll help you.” Said it even before the idea had fully formed in her mind.

  Nelson’s garage, the door still wide open, was completely empty now—a big, hollow mouth trapped in a gasp.

  As she and Nelson passed the garage, Brenna said, “Don’t be surprised if the house looks a little different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Well, police aren’t exactly known for cleaning up after themselves.” By now, Nelson had flung open the door and switched on the light, and to Brenna’s surprise, the house was in surprisingly good shape. There were a few open drawers and cupboards in the kitchen, but all the fixtures looked spotless, without a trace of fingerprint powder if there had ever been any—and even the block of knives remained intact. Nelson, though, was focused only on the answering machine—on the word “Full” blinking on the digital screen. “I don’t think this answering machine has filled up since we bought it.” He shut his eyes tightly and Brenna knew what he was thinking. We. He’d said the word so naturally, but now, it stuck in his throat.

  “Probably reporters,” Brenna said. “They can wait, right?”

  Nelson pressed the button. Sure enough, the first call was from a young Daily News reporter, offering condolences in a voice much too chipper for the words she was saying. Nelson deleted the message without listening to the rest, only to receive yet another sympathy call—this one more sincere-sounding—from Steve Sorensen, the senior crime reporter at Jim’s paper, the Trumpet. “I know him,” Brenna said. “Nice guy.”

  Nelson looked at her. “Do you think I should talk to him?”

  “Not yet,” Brenna said. “You give interviews too soon, people will think you’re being defensive. They think you have something to hide.”

  Nelson snapped, “I don’t have anything to hide,” just as Steve’s message ended and the next one began.

  “I know you don’t, Nelson. But for now, the only people you should be talking to are me—and a lawyer if you need one.”

  Nelson’s face was white. He was staring at the machine. Brenna stopped talking, aware now of the hoarse whisper coming out of it, the words. “ . . . fucking animal. Murderer. You’ll pay. I’ll make you pay.”

  Nelson turned off the machine.

  “Crank call,” Brenna said. “You should get an unlisted number, soon as you can.”

  Like a sarcastic comeback, the phone rang. “Can you please pick that up?” Nelson said quietly.

  Brenna answered the phone to static. “Hello?” she said again. “Is anyone there?”

  No response.

  Brenna glanced at the caller ID, which said, “Unknown Caller,” then she looked at Nelson. “I think we have a bad connection,” she said. “I’m going to hang up—”

  “Please don’t.” It was a female voice—not a woman. A girl. A teenager. “Who is this?” the voice said.

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

  “Is it a girl?” Nelson asked.

  Brenna nodded. “I’m Brenna Spector,” she said into the phone. “Mr. Wentz’s investigator.”

  “I’m sorry,” the voice said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “I’m sorry about . . . Carol.”

  “Mr. Wentz accepts your condolences.”

  “No.” The girl said something else, but static enveloped the words.

  “What did you say?”

  “ . . . Carol. It was my fault.”

  Brenna froze. “Your fault?”

  Nelson grabbed the phone from her. “Who are you? Please. This is Mr. Wentz. I lost my wife and I don’t know why. But . . . but maybe you do? If there’s anything you know, then please, please young lady, I—” Nelson stopped. Carefully, he replaced the phone. “She hung up.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She called last night,” Nelson said. “She said, ‘It’s my fault.’ ”

  “Strange.”

  “I thought it was probably a prank, but . . . Maybe it was just the mood I was in. The loneliness . . . It stuck with me. Even in the hospital, when I was coming to, I could hear it in my mind. She sounded so sad.”

  “Did caller ID say unknown last night, too?”

  “Yes.” Nelson sighed. “I think I’m grasping at straws. Looking for meaning where there is none . . .”

  Brenna was scrolling through the phone’s call roll—all the incoming calls from today and the day before. “She said Carol’s name to me.”

  Nelson’s eyes widened. “She actually said—”

  “It still could be nothing—Carol’s name has been all over the news. But here’s the thing I find strange.” Brenna glanced up at him. “You didn’t get any other calls today from Unknown Caller.”

  “So?”

  “Even Mr. I’ll-Make-You-Pay. He called from an actual number. Looks like a cell.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “So this call from the young girl, which we got two minutes after we walked through the door. This call where she told me she was sorry about Carol. That was the first time Unknown Caller called, all day.” Carefully, Brenna replaced the receiver. “You know what I’m saying?”

  Nelson stared at her. “I’m starting to.”

  “Either this girl has amazing timing,” Brenna said. “Or she knew we’d just come home.” She gave him a long look. “I think she’s been watching your house.”

  “She couldn’t be watching the house,” Nelson had said—not once but five times, the tension growing in his voice so that, by round three or so, the sentence’s meaning had reversed. She could be watching the house. A thought that clearly disturbed him to a surprising degree, considering everything else he’d been through today. But then again, this was a man who had said, “My house has been ransacked,” over the tiny adjustments made by the police—the coffee table to the left by around two feet, the couch pushed back a few inches, the b
raided throw rug half a foot nearer the window . . . all noticeable only to someone with perfect memory—or chronic OCD.

  “Why would she be watching?” he had said of the teenage girl. “I can understand her calling. But why would she be watching?”

  Walking out to her car, Brenna could feel eyes on her—not from the neighboring homes or the small woods flanking all of their backyards, but from inside Nelson’s house. When she turned, she saw his silhouette in the big bay window in the living room, a shadow, staring, terrified at the thought of someone staring back—terrified of some sad-sounding teenage girl.

  Brenna was nearing the garage now. She walked up to the gaping door, and stared inside—at the empty hooks, all Nelson’s tools removed and bagged and brought to the lab. Her gaze drifted from the lone band saw in the corner to the oil stain on the garage floor and then again, she recalled Carol’s car, that grim procession headed for the county crime lab garage. She caught a hint of death smell, and gagged—unsure whether it was the scent of decay that lingered here, or just the memory of it.

  Brenna backed away, headed fast for her car. She needed to pick up Maya at chorus practice, and that was all she thought of as she walked. She didn’t turn to look at Nelson in the window, searching the darkness for his troubled young caller, nor did she pay much attention to the sound she heard, drifting from a pathway in the woods behind the house. It was a hissing, undermined by a slight, rusty squeak. And it wasn’t until she was driving away, recalling the sound, that she identified it as the wheels of a very old bicycle.

  Chapter 13

  Maya was not a performer. In the third and fourth grade, she used to play the clarinet—played it quite beautifully, in fact—but all Brenna had to do was bring that up, and her daughter would go into a frenzy of eye rolling. “Oh come on, Mom, you hated the way I played.”