It wasn’t until hours later, when Willow was lying in bed thinking about Cole and trying to go to sleep, that she realized her mother had never answered the question about who was on the phone.
That night she dreamed that Cole called her and told her how sorry he was for letting her down, for not being there when he said he would. He told her he loved her and that he couldn’t wait to see her again. But then she woke up and realized that she’d only been dreaming, and the crushing disappointment she felt was almost too much to bear.
chapter twenty-eight
“I have to be honest. After our last session, I didn’t think you’d be coming back.”
Dr. Dahl was well pressed as always, looking particularly dewy and flushed, as though he’d just come from his daily workout. An open bottle of water, half empty, sat on the table beside his chair.
Jones shifted in his seat. “Well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure I would.”
The doctor looked at him with an open, expectant gaze. He seemed hopeful. Maybe even a little smug? No, not that. But there was something about his expression that annoyed Jones.
“So what are we doing here?” Dr. Dahl said.
Jones started to say how it was about Maggie, how he was afraid of what might happen to their marriage if he didn’t keep coming to therapy. And even though this was part of the reason, it wasn’t the whole reason.
“I realized that you were right,” he said, even though it practically killed him. He cleared his throat. “That I’ve been holding back, afraid to move forward into the next phase of my life.”
The doctor gave him an approving nod, which made Jones want to get up and leave again.
“What have you been afraid of, do you think?”
You had to love the guy. He went right into it. No foreplay at all. The headache was already starting.
“Well, I guess I’ve been afraid that there is no next phase,” said Jones. “That there would just be this puttering around for the next however-many years, taking pointless classes and mowing lawns. We’d take a few trips, go on some cruises. You know, I’ve been afraid that this was it. The only thing left was a kind of slow, inevitable trek toward the end. I mean, I don’t even play golf.”
“But you’re a young man. Plenty of law-enforcement folks retire young, take their pensions, and find other work.”
“I guess I don’t feel that young sometimes,” said Jones. “But anyway, some things have happened over the last couple of days.”
He told the doctor about the cases he was working on, about Maggie’s suggestion that he might hang out a shingle.
“And you’re happy to be engaged in this type of work again? It gratifies you?”
“It does. I guess I originally came to police work as a kind of penance,” said Jones. “A way to make up for wrongs I’d perpetrated.”
“And has that changed?” The doctor took a sip from his water bottle.
“It has.”
“What does it mean to you now?”
Jones thought about it a moment. But he didn’t have to think about it much. He had a strange clarity on the subject.
“You know, I think I’m a little lost unless I’m helping people.”
Part of Jones expected the doctor to praise him for his selflessness. But Dr. Dahl was quiet a moment, seemed to be turning over Jones’s words.
Then, “You know, I think that’s fine, Jones. As long as you don’t use the work of helping others to hide from things inside you that need tending. I guess we both know you did that for a long time, first with your mother, then in your profession.”
What was it with these guys? Was there some kind of manual they were all reading from? Maggie had said almost the same words. Jones didn’t respond, really, just mimicked that affirming noise the doctor often made.
“But we can talk more about that next time,” said the doctor. “Our time is up.”
This was the other thing that always irked Jones about therapy. When your time was up, you got booted. It was like you were just getting comfortable, getting used to confiding in someone, and then you were asked to leave.
Back in his car, he turned on the cell phone; he expected messages. But there was nothing. Nothing from Chuck about the bones they’d found, which were being analyzed, or about Michael Holt, who’d apparently disappeared into the mines and had not yet emerged. Nothing from Paula Carr’s parents; he’d called them twice, only to get voice mail. Nothing from Jack at the credit bureau on Paula Carr, or on Cole’s mother, Robin O’Conner.
This was the thing about investigative work that people just didn’t get. There were all these dead, waiting spots: waiting for DNA results-or in this case dental records-for contacts to wade through a river of other requests just like yours, for people who didn’t want to talk to you to call you back. That’s why cops drank after hours and overate on the job. How were you supposed to deal with the agitation, the urgency in the spaces where you had no control whatsoever? You went and got some food, scarfed it down in your car.
While he was still holding the phone, staring at it in frustration, it started to ring as though he’d willed it to do so. Ricky had set Jones’s cell so that it sounded like the ringing of an old rotary phone. The tone was oddly comforting, that solid clanging of a bell, that sound of a real mechanism working-even though it wasn’t that. The world had gone so quiet, all the noises that machines made now were soft and ambient, musical.
“Okay,” said Kellerman. “Here’s what I’ve got.”
“Great,” said Jones. He felt the relief that always came with action.
“Paula Carr hasn’t used her credit cards or made any bank withdrawals in forty-eight hours.” Kellerman paused to issue a hacking cough. The sound of it made Jones cringe.
“Sorry,” Kellerman said. “One interesting thing. I did a little digging and found an account under her maiden name, husband not listed as an account holder. Last week there was a large withdrawal. Ten thousand.”
Jones thought about this, and it made sense. She was planning a flight. She wanted to find Cole’s mother before she left with her kids; that’s why she’d called him. Something had happened to force her hand. Or maybe something worse.
“That’s interesting,” said Jones.
“Looks to me like she wanted to get lost.”
“Maybe.”
“Something else notable. Paula Carr hasn’t made any ATM withdrawals in years. Her paycheck from a small company was direct-deposited into a joint account. But that account only had one ATM card, and that was for the husband. Her credit-card purchases are strictly mom-type charges. I’m talking about grocery and big-box stores, kids’ clothing stores, online book retailers. There’s not a charge on there over a couple hundred dollars.”
“So her husband had her on a leash,” said Jones. “Controlling her spending.”
“I wish I could keep my wife on a leash,” said Kellerman. He started laughing, but the laugh turned into that horrible cough again.
“You all right, man?”
“Ah, got this cough,” Kellerman said. “I’m seeing a doctor on Friday.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Jones. “Allergies, probably.” The cough sounded bad, rattling and deep.
Controlling the money was a way of controlling the relationship. Jones thought about how Carr had referred to Paula only as “my wife,” how the house was spotless, no pictures, how nervous and apologetic Paula had been throughout the visit. Jones was starting to get the picture. Kevin Carr was all about control.
“If I find anything on her, I’ll give you a call. People get sloppy or careless after a while. Think no one is paying attention. Or they run out of cash.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“The other woman, Robin O’Conner,” Kellerman went on. “She’s broke. She was recently fired from her job. She’s got five maxed-out cards, about ninety-five dollars and change in her account. She’s been evicted from her apartment, with two months owed in back rent.”