“Why shouldn’t he be?”
“He’s got a criminal record, a history of violence. His statement on the record says he’d been watching Elijah from the house that afternoon, but your officers missed something. I missed it too at first.” I explained about the trees from the crime scene photographs, although I neglected to tell him from whom I’d gotten them. Probably in a town Westlake’s size, there was only one crime scene photographer, and Strohman didn’t need to ask.
“Where are these photos?”
I groaned inwardly. “Probably somewhere over Pennsylvania by now.” Strohman frowned.
“I had them with me at the cemetery. They blew away after Dentman punched me in the face, then handcuffed me to the fence.” Now it was my turn to frown. “How come you haven’t asked me what I was doing out there, anyway?”
“I already know.”
“How?”
“Dentman phoned it in this morning.”
“Son of a bitch. He admitted to it?”
“Phoned it in anonymously,” Strohman said. “From a pay phone in West Cumberland. But I know it was him.”
“Well, shit.”
“I’m going to share something with you.” Strohman got up from behind his desk and went to the door, opened it.
A round little woman with silver hair stood on the other side, two Styrofoam cups of coffee in her hands. I hadn’t even heard her knock. Strohman took the cups and thanked the woman, then closed the door with his shoe. After he handed me one of the cups, he sat in front of me on the edge of his desk. I heard the wood creak in protest.
“This is what you wanted to share with me?” I said, savoring the warmth radiating through the cup. “Coffee?”
Again, Strohman grinned. My mind summoned an image of a young Kirk Douglas. “In situations like the one that happened to the Dentmans, the families are always the prime suspects. We always address the parents first. In this case, I spoke personally with both the boy’s mother as well as his uncle. The mother”—he waved a hand to indicate her mental instability—“she was of limited capacity, let’s say. Of course,” he added, leering at me from over the rim of his cup, “you’ve met her, so you know.”
He slurped his coffee. “I questioned David Dentman extensively. His story never changed.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”
“We had no body and no evidence that a homicide had taken place. What I’m saying is there was no probable cause to even make an arrest.”
A glimmer of hope ignited within me. I leaned forward in the chair. “So you believe he killed the boy?”
Strohman set his coffee on his desk, then folded his hands in his lap. “I did seven years in Los Angeles as a uniformed officer and another two in homicide. I love this little town—it’s pretty and peaceful, and I got a wife and a litter of youngsters who’re much better off here than back in L.A.—but I’m aware of its shortcomings. I’ve been here four years, and we’ve only worked two wrongful death cases in all that time. And only one of those was an honest to God homicide. A squabble down at the ‘Bird, fists flying, some guy pulls a knife. That’s hot news around here. Most of my officers have never seen blood let alone worked a homicide investigation.”
That tabloid celebrity smile returned. He had perfect teeth. “But I’ve worked some pretty gruesome cases. I could tell you stuff that would make you spend the rest of your nights sitting up in bed, listening for every little creak in your house. When it comes to doing those sorts of things, well, that’s my bread and butter. And just because I moved my family out here for a better life doesn’t mean I’ve surrendered all my training and instincts. You don’t leave those things at the airport security checkpoint, so to speak. You catch me?”
“What about the fact that the kid’s body was never found?”
“My guess is it’ll show up sometime in the spring when the lake thaws. Point I’m trying to make is I’m not sitting around here with my thumb up my ass. I know how to run an investigation. I don’t need you sniffing around in my shit. Comprende?”
Rising off the desk, Strohman returned to his seat. The chair’s casters squealed. “So tell me what I have to do to put your mind at ease.”
“Aside from reopening the investigation, I assume?”
“This is a good town. The people are better served forgetting about an accidental drowning than to be the center of a homicide investigation that would never go anywhere.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I’m patient with you because your brother’s a good cop and a good man. Anyone else and I would have let Dentman file those charges. Think about that.” He checked his wristwatch. “Officer Cordova will drive you home now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
When we turned into the cul-de-sac and Cordova spun the cruiser around in a tight semicircle, Freers made some offhand comment about the Dentman house. Apparently he hadn’t known I lived here now.
Cordova got out of the cruiser and opened the rear door for me.
I got out, stretching my legs. My head still pounded. “You interviewed Nancy Stein the day the Dentman boy drowned in the lake, didn’t you?” I asked him.
“Huh?” It was probably the last thing he expected me to say.
I shook my head. “Never mind.” Glancing at my house, I spotted Adam standing in the front doorway. “Christ.”
“Yeah, well, you just take it easy,” Cordova said, climbing inside the car. “And you should probably go get your head checked out.”
For one insane moment, I forgot about the bump on my head and assumed Cordova was recommending I consult with a psychotherapist.
As I walked up the gravel path to the house, my brother’s formidable presence in the doorway like impending doom, I could hear the police car heading toward Main Street. Despite the cold, I was sweating. My shirt stuck to my chest, and I felt rivulets of perspiration running down the sides of my ribs from my armpits. I clutched my notebook, my fingernails cutting crescents into the cardboard cover. Reality wavered. There is clarity here. I felt like I was about to blink out of existence.
Adam stood in the doorway like a sentry. He was in jeans and a white sweatshirt with a star-shaped emblem at the breast, his muscular arms folded over his chest. On his face was the indignant countenance of a frustrated parent.
Hopeless, I paused at the bottom of the porch steps and laughed. There was nothing funny about any of this, not by a long stretch, but I had lost all control of myself. This sick, humorless chortle was all I had in me.
“Get in the house,” Adam said, turning away and preceding me through the threshold.
Beth and Jodie sat on the couch in the living room. As I entered, Beth stood. She looked more than just distraught—she looked ill, cancerous, bulimic. Jodie watched me with gaunt, dark eyes. Once again, I felt the urge to break into laughter. This time I was able to arrest the outburst before it made the situation even worse.
“Travis,” Beth said, “what the hell happened to you?”
“Long story. I’m okay. I just need to talk to Adam.”
“Goddamn right,” my brother said from behind me. There was a cancerous quality to his voice as well. He gave me a shove, which set me in motion toward my wife.
“You all right, babe?” I said.
“Your head,” Jodie said simply. On the coffee table in front of her, the wooden blocks were stacked into a pyramid, a staircase.
“It’s fine. Just a bump.” I could sense Adam and Beth communicating to each other without words.
Beth rubbed one of my shoulders, then took Jodie’s hands. “We’re going to put on some coffee and make sandwiches,” she said, leading my wife off the couch and out of the room.
I remained where I was, not too eager to face Adam.