“HIS mother is dead?” I said. “I don’t—earlier today I asked him what he was going to do and he said he might visit her.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Why would he say he might see her, and why would he act like he was talking to his mother on the phone, if she’s dead?”
“It’s something he does. It helps him. When he was in therapy, it was something that was suggested to him. That when he was stressed-out, when he was angry, he could verbalize his feelings. That it would help him, help release the tension.”
“Let’s sit down,” I said, and steered her into her own living room. We took chairs across from each other, a coffee table between us. “When did his mother die?”
“When he was seventeen,” she said. “Nearly twenty years ago.”
“What happened to her?”
“She killed herself. Jumped off a bridge onto the interstate. She wasn’t right in the head, if you know what I mean.”
“Depression?”
“That, and other things. Angus’s father walked out on them when Angus was eight, and his mother raised him until she passed away.”
“Sounds like a rough childhood,” I said.
“She was . . . she was not a very good mother to him,” Gale said.
“Abuse?”
She nodded. “Not just physical, but psychological, too. She wasn’t always that way. When he was little, she was pretty happy and normal, for the most part. But then something happened to her after her husband walked out. She changed. Like, her mind completely changed. It’s amazing that Angus turned out to be as well-adjusted as he is. You know, for the most part.”
“What do you mean, for the most part?”
“He has this thing . . . he has this thing about us never having children. He doesn’t want to have them. Like he’s afraid I’m going to turn into the kind of monster his mother was.” Her eyes filled with tears as she leaned forward. “I would never become that kind of person.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” I said. “Since he couldn’t have gone to see his mother, are you sure you have no idea where he might be?”
She shook her head. “None.”
“You say you tried phoning him, but he didn’t answer?”
“That’s right.”
“What about texting him?”
“I didn’t do that.”
“It’s easy not to answer the phone, but a person almost always looks at a text. I want you to send him one.”
She got up, went to the kitchen, and returned with a cell phone.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Something that will make him call home. Something he can’t ignore.”
Her lower lip began to quiver. “What’s going on? Why do you need to talk to him so badly?”
“Text this to him. Call me. Put an exclamation mark after that.”
“What’s going on?” she asked again.
“Just do that, but don’t send it yet.”
With one thumb, she typed the two words. “Okay, now what?”
I tried to think of something that would make any man call home immediately. Besides an invitation to sex. Or, in the case of someone like me, cake.
“Say there’s a leak under the sink. Water everywhere.”
“But there is no—”
“Please.”
“I don’t like lying to him,” she said. “It’s not right.”
“I’ll tell him I made you do it. I’ll explain. The important thing right now is that we get him to phone you. Soon as the phone rings, hand it to me.”
Gale took two deep breaths, then typed what I’d asked.
“Send it,” I said.
She hit the button.
“Now we wait,” I said.
We sat there across from each other, not saying a word, counting the seconds. Ten, fifteen, thirty.
A full minute went by.
When the phone rang in Gale’s hands, she jumped, as though it had the power to electrocute her. I extended my hand and she placed the phone in it. I hit the button to accept the call.
“Angus,” I said.
A pause, while he dealt with the surprise. “Barry?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s—what’s going on? I just got a text from Gale about a busted pipe or something. Are you there?”
“I’m here, with Gale.”
“How bad is it? Which sink?”
“There’s no leak, Angus. I’m sorry. It was a trick. I made Gale do it, so you’d call. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”
“Jesus, what the hell?”
“Yeah, I know. I didn’t want to do it. I went looking for you at the used bookstore.”
“The what?”
“Naman’s. Gale said you were going there.”
“She shouldn’t have said anything. I was just checking out a possible lead. Probably nothing.”
“But you never went.”
A pause at the other end. “It’s my next stop.”
“Where are you now?”
“Just driving around. What is it you want, Barry? What’s so goddamn important?”
“There’s something I need your help on. I wouldn’t have pulled a stunt like this if it wasn’t important.”
“Fine. Go ahead.”
“Not over the phone, Angus. It’d be easier to talk face-to-face.”
“What is it? Just tell me.”
“Seriously, Angus, this is a conversation I’d rather have with you in person.”
There was a long pause from Angus. Then, “I don’t think so. If you can’t give me some idea what it’s about, it’ll just have to wait until the next time we run into each other.”
I ran my tongue over my front teeth. “Okay, then,” I said slowly. “Did you know that about a week before Olivia Fisher died, and a few days before Rosemary Gaynor died, they each got a speeding ticket?”
A long pause. Then, “No. How would I know that?”
“Because you wrote them,” I said. “Both of them.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” he said. “I was in uniform. I drove around. I wrote tickets.”
“And you interviewed Lorraine Plummer just days before she was murdered.”
An even longer pause at the other end. “Yeah, of course I did. I told you all about it. I don’t know what you’re getting at, Barry.”
“It seems odd you never thought to mention that you’d met Fisher, and Gaynor, too.”
“I write a lot of tickets, Barry. Do you remember everyone you gave a ticket to when you were in uniform?”
Gale was watching me, her eyes wide.
“I’m struck by the fact that you came into contact, one way or another, with each of these three women shortly before they were all killed. I’m trying to get my head around that. That you never thought to mention it in the cases of Fisher and Gaynor.”
“What did I say just five seconds ago? I didn’t remember. I don’t remember.”
“We need to talk. Face-to-face. Let’s sort this out. I’m sure it can all be explained away. What do you say?”
I waited for a reply.
“Angus?”
He’d ended the call.
I looked at Gale, saw a tear running down her cheek. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
It was then that my eye caught a framed picture on the mantel over the fireplace. It was a portrait shot, faded over time, of a woman in her thirties. Good-looking, with dark eyes and black hair that fell gently to her shoulders. She looked, at a glance, not unlike Olivia Fisher or Rosemary Gaynor or Lorraine Plummer.
“Who’s that?” I asked Gale.
She followed my gaze, sniffed, and said, “That’s Angus’s mother.”