Spinney's brow furrowed. "Yeah, but that name doesn't ring any bells."
"His sister, Katie, was living with Pete Shea when he vanished into thin air."
Chapter 10
After Peter Shea went on the lam, Klaus Oberfeldt succumbed, and Ellen slipped away forever, Joe began to do some sliding of his own. He had hoped-even planned on-the newly minted homicide to distract him, maybe even afford him an emotional bridge he could use to distance himself from Ellen's death. But the frustration of Shea's total disappearance, leaving behind no alternate leads, ended up compounding Joe's sense of loss and lack of direction. He became distracted, sleepless, and could find no satisfaction in anything he did.
It was Frank Murphy who eventually gave him a handhold at work. Without him, Joe always believed, he would have hit the ropes just as Willy Kunkle did later, and maybe worse. He'd never know for sure, fortunately, but that was in some ways precisely the point.
It wasn't the first time Frank had come through, either. After seeing combat as a young man and then dropping out of college on the West Coast a couple of years later, Joe had found himself rootless, restless, and without a plan. By then back on the farm and attempting a fruitless return to a bygone life, he got a call from Murphy, an erstwhile older neighbor and friend and now a Brattleboro cop, and went down to take a look at what Frank was offering, as much to prove him wrong as out of any true interest.
But interested he became. Now, several years later, Murphy again reached out and took Joe under his wing, inviting him over to dinner regularly, taking him fishing, and making him one of his own family. Nurturing him, occasionally covering for his mistakes, Frank Murphy coaxed Joe back to health, inspiring him in the process to be a better cop.
In many ways, that was why he continued to stick his neck out for Willy Kunkle. There was a tradition at stake, and it involved the saving of one's own, no matter how obliquely.
Except that in Joe's own case, Shea was never found, the Oberfeldt case was never closed, and Ellen's loss never fully overcome. It took years before Joe could commit to Gail, and then only because of her own interest in a completely unconventional relationship.
Now, suddenly, these ancient wounds were being revisited in odd ways-some through the distorted lens of memory, others in light of confusing current events, but all linked to names and actions Joe hadn't thought about in decades.
"Okay," Joe asked. "What've we found out?"
The entire squad-Willy, Sam, and Lester-were convened at the VBI office, something that occurred with increasing rarity as the agency picked up more cases.
"I dug into the tax records and confirmed what Margo Wilson showed us," Sam answered first. "Her place was definitely owned by Larry Clark when the Oberfeldt assault took place."
"The same Larry Clark who then died of cirrhosis of the liver ten years later," Willy added. "Can't imagine how he came down with that, but that's when the house ended up on the market."
Joe ignored him-usually the best policy. "Any guesses on other family members, like Katie?"
Spinney held up a computer printout with a small flourish. "God bless the Internet," he said. "I tried every police resource we have, and in the end, it was one of those 'find your high school sweetheart' ads on the Net that finally worked. Katherine Madeleine Clark is listed as living in Orange, Massachusetts-assuming," he added with emphasis, "that she and your Katie are one and the same, which, given the common names, may be a stretch."
"How did you match them up?" Joe asked.
"Date of birth and where she went to high school. But like I said, Katherine Clark is right up there with John Smith."
"That's standing by your guns," Willy commented.
Sam threw a pencil at him, which he batted away. Out of the office, Sam and Willy formed a complicated couple, although so far, despite regular fireworks, they seemed to be lasting.
Joe had been sitting on the edge of his desk and now leaned forward to take the printout from Lester. "Can't hurt to give it a try."
"You going to check her out personally?" Sam asked.
"It's not far," he answered, "and if it's the same woman, I actually met her once. Plus, you've all got more than enough on your plates to waste much more time on this. Chances are, even if I do get a fix on Pete Shea, he's been dead for years."
"Jesus, boss," Willy said, "you sure know how to sell a thing. You better not be writing that in your expense voucher."
Orange, Massachusetts, regardless of its own pride in self, is duplicated a hundredfold all across New England. Mill towns long ago, they are stamped as such by huge, hulking, soot-grimed architectural remnants of an era that once made the region a global industrial powerhouse. Nowadays they are crossroads with brick downtowns and Civil War memorials, their efforts to survive hanging on tourism, or on being attractive to part-time city dwellers, or on trying to cope commercially in a world that time and again proves it doesn't need them anymore. Often as not, they are the places people drive through wondering, "Why is this place here?"
Orange is healthier along those lines, what with its proximity to several recreational lakes, including the enormous Quabbin Reservoir to its south. About half the size of Brattleboro and also equipped with a river, it has a similar background of mills and factories.
Joe located the address Lester had given him, just off the town's main thoroughfare. It belonged to a heavy brick office building long ago converted into an affordably priced and severe apartment complex, right across the street from an oddly shaped, slightly forlorn park dedicated to local World War I veterans.
He parked his car and approached the building's front door, pausing when he heard music floating just above him. He glanced up and saw the back of a woman's head almost resting against a first-floor window, seemingly lulled by the soft classical notes emanating from her apartment.
He proceeded to the front lobby and studied the names above the mail receptacles. "K. Clark" was attached to the only apartment on the ground floor, clearly the one he'd noticed with the music and the apparently sleeping woman. Encouraged, he pushed the bell.
There was no answer. He hesitated, giving the lineup of names a second look to rule out any error. He rang again.
Still no response.
Leaving the lobby, he returned to the window and, standing tall on his toes, rapped on the glass with his knuckles.
In almost cinematic slow motion, the head above him stirred, swung around as if on a rusty hinge, and finally revealed the round, pale face of a woman who looked as if she'd just been shaken from a very deep sleep.
"Katie Clark?" he half shouted at the closed window, conscious of how people on the street might interpret this.
The face showed no change of expression. It was as if she didn't see him.
Maybe she's blind, he thought. He waved his hand at her and saw her grimace slightly, clearly in reaction. Reassured, he pointed toward the building's entrance and said, "I'll talk to you on the intercom."
Back in the lobby, he repeated his effort with the bell and again got no satisfaction.
He jogged back to the window, only to find it empty. She'd left, presumably to speak to him on the intercom.
"Goddamn Marx Brothers routine," he muttered, running back.
Once he got there, however, there was no voice on the speaker, and no answer to his third push of the button.
He stood motionless for a couple of minutes, wondering what to do next, when suddenly, making him jump in surprise, an angry and exhausted voice inquired, "What do you want?"
"Katie Clark?"
"Who's that?"