21
The last time Mickey had set foot inside Dell’s was the morning after Claire was snatched from the top of the Hill. A storm broke for a couple of hours later that morning, and the lead detective, a guy named Atkinson, and his people had used Dell’s as a makeshift base of operations to help organize the volunteers who searched the wood and then later Belham, Boston, Logan Airport and airports in Rhode Island. They were armed with colour printouts of Claire’s face, alongside her age, height and weight – her six years of life compressed into a single sheet of 8 × 10 paper, the word MISSING written in bold red letters at the top, right above Claire’s smiling face. Atkinson had also brought in a Belham cop whose sole job was to get Claire’s picture out on to the Internet and to the FBI and other agencies who specialized in child abductions.
Mickey saw Darby first. He tried to read her face but she didn’t give him anything.
Kennedy put out his hand. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘What is it? What’s going on?’
‘If you’ll follow me, I’ll –’
‘Answer my question.’
He expected Kennedy to turn guarded, maybe even defensive, the way all cops did. His face, though, had softened. ‘There’s something I need to show you,’ he said softly. ‘This way.’
Kennedy brushed past him and went outside. Mickey followed him, his legs feeling hollow and his brain scrambling, trying to figure out what was going on, what was so goddamn urgent, when he saw a white tent covering Claire’s memorial.
‘What’s a tent doing there?’ Mickey asked.
Kennedy, walking several feet ahead of him, didn’t answer. Mickey turned to Darby.
‘He wants you to take a look at something,’ she said.
‘What?’
She didn’t answer. They were standing outside the tent now. Kennedy pulled back a flap held in place by Velcro with one hand, his other holding a flashlight. ‘Don’t touch anything, okay?’ he said.
Mickey ducked inside and saw a flash of pink and his breath died somewhere in his throat.
‘I need to know if this is your daughter’s jacket,’ Kennedy said, handing the flashlight to Darby.
Claire’s pink snow jacket was fitted over the cross, the hood draped across the top.
His daughter’s winter jacket was here.
On a cross.
His first, immediate thought: This has to be a prank.
Early on, during those first couple of weeks when the police had been investigating Byrne – no, fuck that, well after Byrne became the prime suspect – Mickey’s physical mailboxes and email box were flooded with anonymous letters from people professing to know what had happened to his daughter. Some were from prisoners doing serious time, murderers looking to trade what turned out to be made-up stories about who had taken and killed Claire in exchange for a reduction in their sentence. Nearly one hundred per cent of every email and piece of mail he’d received was completely bogus, and he had been the victim of a select few who got off on mailing pieces of a pink snow jacket to him, usually with a printed letter that went into great, gruesome detail of the things done to his daughter before she was killed.
The letters were bullshit. Heather usually bought Claire’s clothes in pairs, Claire being the type of kid who really did a number on them, going through them quickly. The replacement snowsuit Heather had purchased was sent to the FBI lab and the report came back with specifics: it was manufactured by a North Carolina company called Bizzmarket, the pink model being one of the company’s most popular: it was sold all over the Northeast exclusively at Target.
And now some sick fuck, some bored asshole who hated his life, had decided to come out here during the night and place a look-alike jacket on top of the memorial’s cross.
Kennedy’s hands were covered in blue latex gloves. He gently removed the hood and Darby pointed the beam of her flashlight at the jacket’s tag.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Kennedy said gently.
Mickey leaned in, slow and uncertain, as if the jacket might suddenly reach out and grab him.
CLAIRE FLYNN was written in black lettering across the jacket’s white tag.
Mickey didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice in his ears when he said, ‘That’s Heather’s handwriting.’
‘You sure?’ Kennedy asked, his tone still gentle. Sympathetic.
Mickey nodded, remembering the day at the kitchen table when Heather had written Claire’s name on the fabric tag with a black Sharpie marker. Claire’s name on the inside tag was a detail that hadn’t been made public. I can remember Heather writing Claire’s name on the tag and the type of marker she used, but I can’t remember my daughter’s face. I can’t remember it unless I look at a picture of her. What’s wrong with me?
Kennedy said something to him. Mickey couldn’t recall it.
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked if you’d take a look at the pocket,’ Kennedy said.
Mickey had to move around the memorial to see it.
The edge of the left pocket had a small tear in the stitching – another detail that hadn’t been made public. Claire’s puppy, Diesel, had done that. Now Diesel was dead and Claire was –
Mickey’s eyes snapped shut. When he opened them, Claire’s jacket was still there.
And it was Claire’s jacket. There was no question in his mind. It was Claire’s jacket and here it was, eleven years later. Claire’s jacket.
Mickey didn’t know his heart could beat this fast.
Darby brought Mickey a cup of coffee. Mickey wrapped his hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth.
This isn’t happening. Your missing daughter’s winter jacket doesn’t suddenly show up eleven years later in the middle of the night.
Darby pulled up a chair. Kennedy sat across from him. The fluorescent lights above them hummed.
It occurred to him they were waiting for him to speak, so he did.
Kennedy answered the question. ‘Deb did. She came in around four, like she usually does, to get everything ready for when she opens up at seven. She pulled in and saw the jacket.’
Mickey caught something in the man’s voice – a sense of hesitation – and when he looked up he saw Darby exchange a look with Kennedy.
‘What?’
Kennedy shifted slightly in his seat. ‘Someone had collapsed in the parking lot,’ he said. ‘She thought the person was hurt, so she took out her phone and called 911.’
‘Who was it?’
Kennedy’s expression changed, his eyes flicking to Darby.
Darby said, ‘It was Byrne.’
A white noise filled Mickey’s head.
‘It seems Byrne walks around a lot at night and during the early morning, when it’s dark,’ Kennedy said. ‘During the day, he’s pretty much a shut-in. People who recognize him – some have thrown rocks, whatever. Others have pushed him. A couple of months back, he claimed someone tried to run him off the road. So he only goes out when it’s dark, and he usually disguises himself.’
‘And visits the place where he abducted my daughter,’ Mickey said, the words strangling his throat.
Kennedy looked to Darby. She said, ‘The problem is Deb didn’t see Byrne plant the jacket on the memorial. If she had –’
‘Where is he?’ Mickey squeezed the mug. ‘And the answer better be jail.’
Darby leaned against the table. ‘Listen to me, Mickey.’
‘Don’t say it.’
‘Listen to me. Byrne called 911 roughly five minutes before Deb did. The police were already on their way.’
‘So he fell down and called for help. So fucking what?’
Darby was shaking her head. ‘He called about the jacket.’
Mickey slowly ran his hands through his hair, squeezing his skull.
Kennedy said, ‘I understand you’re upset. Trust me, I get it. What you need –’
Mickey slammed a fist down on the table. ‘You’ve had eleven years!’ His voice boomed through the store and blood exploded against his ears and he shoved a finger in Kennedy’s face and screamed, ‘Eleven fucking years to build a case against him, and now you’ve got an eyewitness who can place him right fucking next to my daughter’s jacket – that’s her jacket out there. The fuck you waiting for? For Byrne to ring your doorbell and say, “Hi, I did it”?’
Kennedy said nothing. He didn’t look away – didn’t look ashamed or embarrassed, his face getting that blank, impassive expression all cops got when they shut down. Talk, scream, yell – share any intimate detail about yourself or break down and cry, all they did was give you this blank look of nothingness, like he was discussing the weather or how to make a ham sandwich, whatever, instead of a missing kid – his missing kid, his missing daughter.
Darby, though, didn’t have that look. She looked genuinely sad and frustrated in equal measures, and for some reason it made him want to lurch across the table at Kennedy, grab the guy by the back of the head and smash that stone-cold look of his against the table until it shattered. Instead, he grabbed the edge of his seat and squeezed so hard his arms shook.
Kennedy said, ‘You’re aware that Byrne’s dying.’
‘Well, there’s a fucking news bulletin. Thanks for sharing that.’
Darby said, ‘What Chris means is, where do you think Byrne’s most likely to talk to us? In a jail cell or sitting in his favourite chair in his house where he’s comfortable?’
‘Comfortable? Are you –’
‘The jacket,’ Kennedy said, ‘will be at the lab first thing this morning. It’s our top priority. Darby will be there with me, we’ll make sure the lab does every single test it can. She’s the best in her field, which is why I brought her into this. When we find anything out – anything – I give you my word I’ll call and tell you. Why don’t you head on home, get some sleep?’
Mickey stared down at the table. ‘How long?’
‘How long what?’
‘For the jacket,’ Mickey said, his voice raw.
‘It’s our top priority, like I said.’
‘And Byrne’s caretaker, nurse, whatever she is – you talk with her?’
‘We will.’
Again that tone in Kennedy’s voice, like he was holding back something. Mickey looked up, knew what the man was going to say before he said it. ‘I need you to stay away from her.’
‘I’m pretty sure she isn’t part of my restraining order.’
‘Mr Flynn –’ Kennedy began.
‘Oh, it’s Mr Flynn now.’
Kennedy folded his hands on the table. ‘I got a report that a truck was parked on a side street near Byrne’s house. Unfortunately, the person who called it in didn’t get a good look at the driver’s face, the truck’s licence plate, or its make and model.’
Mickey’s gaze cut sideways to Darby before he could stop himself.
‘It wasn’t Dr McCormick,’ Kennedy said, ‘if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘Then who was it?’
‘Doesn’t matter. What does is your restraining order. You go near him – if you so much as say hello – all he has to do is pick up the phone and call us and you’ll be doing five to eight. And there’s nothing I’d be able to do for you. The judge won’t cut you any slack.’
‘Man with the best lawyer wins, right?’
‘The thing about cell phones?’ Kennedy said. ‘They’re constantly sending out signals to towers, tracking your location minute to minute. If your PO, a judge, whoever – if someone decided to pull your records, they would get a detailed history of your movements throughout each day. And if the records showed that you were parked near Byrne’s house …’
Mickey rubbed his forehead, trying to wrap his mind around everything. Christ how he needed a drink.
‘What I’m trying to tell you,’ Kennedy said, ‘is that you need to let us do our jobs.’
‘You’re saying this is all my fault.’
‘I’m saying we’re running on borrowed time here. I think I’ve got a way to get what I need from Byrne, but for it to be done right you’ve got to stay away from him, the nurse, all of it. Darby and I will worry about Byrne. Just go back to your normal life.’
‘I don’t have much of a life any more,’ Mickey said, glaring at him. ‘And I can guarantee you what’s left of it is anything but normal.’