“Well, I haven’t. I don’t know how an imprint of my tires could get there. The truck was in the garage all weekend. I only use it for business, use Virge’s for personal stuff. Cleaner that way, in case the IRS starts looking at me. And I didn’t even take it when I went to Alan Lindsay’s house on Sunday, because Virge’s Toyota was blocking the garage door.”
“Have you been to the Quinley property recently?”
“I haven’t been there since the burger stand closed down. Hell, nobody goes there except real estate agents and prospective buyers. And your father, of course.”
A chill tickled her shoulder blades. “Jack goes there? Why?”
“To fish and take abalone, of course. That’s one rich cove.”
“But it’s contaminated—”
“Has your dad ever stopped to think about health hazards? Not once in his life. The old buzzard drinks a fifth a day, eats everything they tell you not to, smokes cheap cigars. He’ll probably outlive us all. He’s been fishing that cove for years. In fact, I saw him pull out of there last Friday morning.”
Friday morning. Not Friday night or Saturday. Shame washed over her for having entertained suspicions of her own father.
“You sure that’s when you saw him?”
“Hell yes. Virge and I were heading up to Calvert’s Landing for lunch and some heavy-duty shopping. Your dad recognized the Toyota and beeped.” Will sighed heavily. “Such an ordinary thing, an ordinary trip. I never suspected that was the last lunch at Tai Haruru Virge and I would ever have.”
The house where the photographer, Dave Moretti, had his studio was on a quiet side street at the northern end of town. At first Moretti was surprised but pleased to see Guy; he became silent and wary as Guy explained why he was there. Moretti’s protruding front teeth nibbled nervously at his lower lip, and he cast anxious glances behind him as if he were afraid someone was listening.
“What exactly do you think was wrong with my film?” Guy asked.
“Defective, I suppose.”
“I doubt that. It looked to me as if it had been exposed.”
“A light leak in the camera, maybe.”
“A leak would produce a spot on the image, not eradicate it.”
“A large leak—”
“I would have noticed.”
Moretti nibbled on his lip some more. “Since you’re dissatisfied with my work, I’ll be glad to refund the processing fee.”
“I’d rather hear why you — an experienced photographer and processor — ruined my photographs.”
“I didn’t— Oh, hell, why not? It wasn’t an official request.”
“Someone asked you to destroy any film that came in for processing with my name on it?”
Nod.
“Someone connected with the sheriff’s department?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me guess: Deputy Wayne Gilardi.”
“You got it. He told me you were gonna stir up trouble that the town didn’t need. Said if we all got together and discouraged you, you’d go back east where you belong.”
“So you did this for the good of Signal Port.”
“Hell, no. Wayne, he’s somebody you don’t want to get on the wrong side of.” He paused. “And I didn’t destroy the film.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh. Those prints and negatives you got, they’re not from your film. I got too much respect for other people’s work to ruin it. So I used some film I had laying around here and kept yours in case you figured out what happened and complained. Now... tell you the truth, I’m kinda relieved.”
“How long will it take you to develop and print my film?”
“Half hour, give or take.”
“I’ll wait.”
Will Scurlock had decided he wanted to talk with his attorney before giving a more formal statement and promised to come to the substation at four that afternoon. After Rho left him she interviewed several more people on her portion of the witness list with little result, and now it was less than an hour before she and Ned Grossman were scheduled to meet with Wayne. A coil of anxiety wound tight in her stomach and she felt lightheaded. She’d eaten nothing all day, but the thought of food nauseated her.
When she entered the substation she found Valerie sitting idle at her desk, hands folded, staring down at its cluttered surface. Rho said to her, “I never did thank you for bringing Cody back the other night.”
“I should thank you for leaving him here. He was a comfort to me.” Valerie’s hands twisted, one washing the other. “Jack phoned. He said he told you about us.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you hate me for keeping it a secret all these years.”
“Hate you? Never. You’re good for him, and you’ve been like a mother to me. More of a mother than my own was, and now I know why. Probably it’s just as well I didn’t find out until I was ready to accept it. Besides, we’re all entitled to our secrets.”
Valerie smiled with relief and reached for a file in her inbox.
Rho went to her desk and began her report on her interview with Will Scurlock. His statement that he didn’t know how the imprint of his truck tires came to be at Quinley’s had rung true to her at the time, but now she feared she’d placed too much trust in him. How well did she really know Will? How well did she know any of her friends and neighbors?
The phone rang. Valerie spoke briefly with the caller, said, “Rhoda?” There was an urgent note in her voice that made Rho swivel away from the keyboard.
“That was Wayne. He’s at home, cleaning up, and he wants you to come over there so the two of you can talk privately before he comes in.”
“I can’t do that. I’d be violating—”
“Rhoda, please, he sounded strange.”
“How?”
“Like he’d been crying.”
Wayne, cry? Never. Unless—
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
Guy sat down at the desk in his room and shuffled through the prints Dave Moretti had made for him. The old car covered with pine needles. The oil sump with the stick glistening nearby. The Blakeley house. A few shots of the town taken along the highway. Images to refresh his memory when he wrote the book, back in New York a few months from now. Not particularly good photographs — he had little talent in that area — but serviceable enough for his purposes.
He set them down and thought of the long winter months he’d spend in Manhattan, hunched over the computer in his TriBeCa loft — a spacious and comfortable place he’d purchased after memories of Diana had driven him from their elegant co-op apartment in the East Sixties. Occasionally consulting photographs, maps, and notes jotted on index cards, but mainly working from his own memory and emotions, he’d create a living portrait of this town, its people, its tragedies. Every evening after he finished he’d relax in front of the gas-log fireplace, drink in hand, and—
Be lonely.
He’d been lonely most evenings since he’d lived in the loft, but now he found he couldn’t face the prospect. The flickering flames that weren’t a real fire no matter how artfully simulated. The single-malt scotch that warmed his body but not his soul. The muffled pulsing of a vibrant city that he kept at bay with well-insulated walls. The occasional but increasingly rare call from an old friend, fruitlessly pleading into the answering machine, “Pick up, Guy!”
He’d been lonely so long it had become a way of life that wouldn’t change once he was safely home again.
Rho approached Wayne’s house on Jasmine Street, anxiety making her heart hammer. His truck was in the driveway but silence hung over the half acre crowded with old sheds and an ancient rusted trailer. Pink plastic flamingos preened by the front walk.
When she rang the bell no one came. Oh God, she thought. She breathed deeply several times before she tried the doorknob. It turned and then she was inside and walking past the empty living room toward the den at the back of the house. Not bothering to call out, just walking silently past the framed needlepoint sayings Janie had hung there.