Dax Blackwell rewound and replayed that portion.
16
Another advantage of the train — beyond the fact that it didn’t make her heart thunder or her vision blur white in the corners — was that Abby could work while she traveled.
She typed up the details of the visit with Shannon Beckley (and Tara Beckley, though that felt more like a visitation, a respectful glance into the casket) on her laptop while the Downeaster rattled back north. Or, as befitted its name, back down east, a term that referred to prevailing summer winds along Maine’s coast. In most places in America, down meant “south,” but in southern Maine, down took you north.
The visit had been as pointless as Abby had promised Hank it would be — nothing that she couldn’t have accomplished with a phone call. And yet she found herself more invested in the work because she’d made that pass by the casket, glanced down at the beyond-reach Tara Beckley in her comatose state.
Those eyes. Her eyes looked so damn alert...
But Abby knew they weren’t. She’d been through that cruel illusion before.
Luke was famous for his face, but the audience didn’t understand that his eyes were what made his face work. They were so alive, penetrating and laughing and alive. There was a reason he’d moved so quickly from sending in his head shots to getting auditions to being offered lead roles in blockbuster action films, and, yes, some of it was talent, and, yes, some of it was his physical beauty, but Abby knew the secret was his eyes.
When they made love, he kept his eyes closed. When they made love, she wanted to see him. Finally, one night, when he was on top of her and inside of her but somehow still absent, she’d put her hands in his hair and tugged his head back and said, “Look at me.”
He’d opened his eyes then, and even in the darkness she’d felt that strange, powerful energy, the unique sense of life that came from within his gaze. They’d finished together, face-to-face, clenching and shuddering and gasping but never breaking eye contact, the best sex of her life by far.
“I like to see you,” she’d whispered, and she bit his shoulder gently.
He’d laughed, the sound soft and low in the room, and said, “I’ll remember that.”
And he had. He always had.
That made those moments in the hospital even crueler.
Her phone rang, pulling her thoughts away from Luke. It was Hank, calling from the office. Abby answered just as a couple seated beside her burst into laughter.
“Where are you?” Hank asked.
“Headed back.”
“Who’s in the car with you?”
“Nobody.” She grimaced and tried to shield the phone from the sound of the voices.
“Then who am I listening to in the background?”
“I’m on the train,” Abby admitted.
“The train? Why in the hell would you take the train to Boston?”
“It gives me time to work.”
“You turn a six-hour day into ten or twelve hours so you can buy time to work? I know you’re a product of Biddeford public schools, Abby, but that is really bad math.”
Hank had gone to Thornton Academy in Saco, which was a public school for some local residents but an in-demand private boarding school for the rest of the world, and he liked to wear it as a badge of honor. He rarely mentioned that he’d dropped out of community college shortly after his stint at Thornton.
“Funny,” Abby said. “But I’ve got the report caught up, and I dealt with the sister and saw Tara, so I checked all the boxes you needed.”
“Great. But you’ve got a big one unchecked that is going to stay that way — Carlos Ramirez isn’t talking to you.”
“Finally got smart enough to hide behind a lawyer?”
“Nope. He’s dead.”
“What?”
“Yup. Bullet to the brain.”
“Suicide,” Abby said, less a question than a statement, because it seemed to make so much sad sense — Ramirez knew he was looking at prison time, and he hadn’t been able to bear that prospect.
“Nope. Caught two shots down in Brighton in the passenger seat of a stolen car. I just heard the news. Guess they found him yesterday, last night, something. But he was murdered, so whatever trouble we thought he had over that accident might have been only the surface. I wonder if they checked that van for drugs. Just because his blood was clean doesn’t mean he was, know what I’m saying?”
The train clattered and swayed as Abby held the phone to her ear without speaking.
“Crazy shit, right?” Hank prompted.
“Yeah. Crazy.” Abby wasn’t sure why the news bothered her so much, why she couldn’t view it with the detachment that Hank did.
“Whatever closure Oltamu’s family might’ve felt from watching that guy go to jail is gone now, and that’s a problem,” Hank said. “Maybe they look elsewhere for it and sue the school. Meanwhile, my trusty investigator is worried that Ramirez didn’t get his facts straight when he talked to the police, which will not make the liability folks happy. Can you get yourself in line with his statement?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?” Hank sounded stunned.
“I think he lied.”
“He took the blame! Why in the hell would he lie to take the blame?”
“I have no idea, Hank, but I’m sure that he didn’t tell the truth. I don’t care if it was because he lied or because he was confused, but he did not tell the truth. That isn’t good news for your client either way.”
“No, it sure isn’t.” Hank groaned. “Are you positive his version doesn’t hold together?”
“Yes. And somebody is going to notice eventually, so we’d better warn people before that happens.”
“Shit. You’re ruining this, Abby. It was so damn simple! Wreck, fatality, confession, and then the guilty dude’s dead! That’s as clean as they come.”
That’s why this news bothers me, Abby realized as the couple next to her laughed loudly in her ear again. Ramirez being killed makes it even cleaner.
“Let’s talk it over when I get back,” she said. “Something’s wrong here.”
“You sure know how to spoil a good thing.”
“Come on, Hank, you’re an investigator! Where’s your detective’s gusto?”
“Gimme a break. I hold that friggin’ PI license only as a necessary credential to support my career as a bullshitter.”
“But this could be a break in the case. That should make your day.”
“I’ve never desired to break open any case that wasn’t filled with beers.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to do both for a change.”
“Wouldn’t that be something,” Hank said dismally.
“Chin up,” Abby said. “You might be a hero when this is all done. Get the key to the city or something.”
“I got plenty of bowling trophies, thanks. Come by the office and we’ll talk, all right?”
“It’ll be late by the time I’m in.”
“Because you took the friggin’ train. Meanwhile the Hellcat’s sitting out back.”
Abby didn’t respond, and Hank sighed and said, “We’ll catch up in the morning, then. And I’ll start looking for a new employee. ‘Wanted: slow learner with lack of ambition.’”
When they ended the call, Abby didn’t put her phone away. She sat there for a while as the couple beside her laughed again, that wonderful oblivious-to-everything-else laughter that came when you were so locked in with another person that the rest of the world was only peripheral. She wanted to glance at them but didn’t want them to catch her staring, didn’t want to intrude on that moment. Good for them if they had that connection. Hopefully they could keep it.