The Ninth Step (21 page)

Edgar understood that Poole’s invasion of his personal space was her cue to him that their relationship had shifted. That he was in a very serious predicament. That the heat had closed in.

She handed the glasses back to Edgar.

“See, that’s funny. I would have thought, with me showing up at your home like this, I would have thought that you would figure that it must have something to do with your wife Judy’s death. I mean, you used to show up at my desk every week asking if there was any news. Now I show up at your house asking do you know this man who’s missing, and you don’t even ask me if it has anything to do with your accident. That’s funny. Don’t you think that’s funny, Alvin?”

“That’s funny.” Deadpan.

Lying was never something Edgar did well, especially when it required feigning ignorance, but he quickly shifted his facial features to something he hoped would convey sorrow and curiosity with just a hint of shame.

“Was he the one?”

“Was? Past tense. Don’t know. But I do know this. His trailer burned to the ground two nights ago. His vehicle was there, but there wasn’t a body recovered from the site.”

There was a silence, and Edgar felt compelled to fill it.

“Could he be out of town?”

“Most people take their vehicles with them when they travel.”

Edgar nodded.

Poole nodded back at him.

Edgar felt that enough time had elapsed that he could start to maneuver his body toward his car, to rest himself against the trunk. If Poole had seen the thumbprint, hopefully she would not see a cause and effect.

“I still don’t understand why you drove out here to tell me this.”

“Kind of a funny thing about Smith; he was arrested for shoplifting at the Walgreens right up the street from here. About eight months ago. His trailer is—excuse me, was—more than twenty miles from here. That’s a long way to drive for a five-finger discount on a pack of Juicy Fruit and black hair dye.”

He watched as Detective Poole extended her hand to her partner. Edgar took the opportunity to place his hand on the back of his car, striking, he hoped, a pose of idle rest.

Miller handed Poole a small plastic envelope with a piece of paper inside. A newspaper clipping.

“Even funnier thing. This was found in the glove compartment of Smith’s car.”

She handed Edgar the evidence envelope. The plastic sheath was beaded with moisture from the mist.

It contained the newspaper account of Edgar and Judy’s accident.

“That clipping is over a year and a half old. But it was found in the glove compartment of Smith’s car. Along with a slip of paper with your name and address written on it. Now that raises
the question: Why would this missing man have an old newspaper clipping that concerns you in the glove compartment of his car?”

Detective Miller, speaking for only the second time, added, condemningly, Edgar thought, “Wasn’t buried down deep, either. Was sitting right on top. Like he’d just looked at it.”

“When you couldn’t be found, there was some concern for your safety.”

“That’s right. And this Smith was a habitual drunk. Four DUIs.”

“Four?”

Edgar glanced at Helen in the car. She had the baby in her lap, watching, waiting.

“Right. And he was a suspect in a hit-and-run case in Indiana seven years ago.”

“Sounds like you’ve found the man responsible,” Edgar said, handing the clipping back to Poole. He took the opportunity of movement to now lean himself against the back of the car. He used the seat of his pants to imperceptibly rub at the thumbprint.

Poole lit a fresh cigarette. The wind picked up and misty rain formed a nimbus around her.

“No. We haven’t found him at all. The way I see it, it sounds like the man responsible is missing. And I’ve got a funny feeling that if he does turn up, he won’t be breathing. What do you think?”

Edgar looked back at Helen and the baby, and this action was meant for Poole’s benefit. “I think that would be just fine.”

Poole arched her eyebrows and nodded.

“We had looked at him before all this. Looked hard. In fact, with the prior hit-and-run suspicion, the DUIs, we questioned him. Even had Science go over his car. Nothing. No physical evidence. No alibi either, so we never really cleared him.”

Poole looked over at her partner, and Miller nodded in agreement.

“But I know you were running your own little private investigation for a while there. Your charts and graphs. And I was thinking that if we had looked at this Smith, maybe you looked too.”

Poole crushed out her cigarette on the wet driveway.

“Maybe you took matters into your own hands.”

Edgar shook his head. “I’m not that kind of man.”

“Didn’t figure you were. Just wanted to let you know what we found.”

Edgar pushed himself off the back of his car, giving one last good rub with his ass. It seemed to be over. The heat had closed in and their loop had closed on nothing. Nothing at all. The devil doll stool pigeons had kept their mouths shut.

Doo-dee doo-doo doo-doo doo-doo; doo-dee dee-dee dee-dee dee-dee deeeeee.

The cell phone rang and the electronic notes of “The Entertainer” filled the air.
Goddamn it! Why hadn’t he turned that damnable thing off when he’d had the chance?

Edgar very nearly threw up on Detective Poole’s black polished shoes. His legs did fail him, however, and he stumbled backward. Poole grabbed him.

“Easy.”

Poole reached into her coat pocket, retrieved her cell phone, and answered it. “The Entertainer” stopped. She listened and nodded.

“Have you run the dentals? Give us five minutes.”

She pocketed her phone.

“You okay?”

Embarrassed, Edgar said, “It’s been… long. It’s been…”

“Say no more. Go be with your family.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m closing the case. Your case. Figured this was as good a time to tell you as any. With your new baby, new wife, and all. It’s over for me. What about you?”

“I’m satisfied.”

Poole nodded and motioned Detective Miller into the Crown Vic. She sat in the car without closing the door and cranked the engine.

“Closed, that is, provided Mr. Smith doesn’t turn up. In one way or another. At least, that’s the way I see it.”

“Yes. Me too.”

“Good. So, what’s her name?”

“Huh?”

“Your daughter, what’s her name?”

“Oh. Isabella. It means—”

“Pledged to God.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you.”

Edgar turned to get back into his own car so he could pull it into the garage.

“Mr. Woolrich?”

Edgar turned back to the detective.

“Got something on the back of your pants there. Something red.”

Edgar brushed at the bit of Cornell Smith’s blood on the seat of his pants and watched the detectives back out of his driveway.

Jane and Steve peered down at the baby, cooing and making silly faces.

Edgar and Helen watched, proud.

“I know we should have waited a few days, but I just couldn’t. She’s beautiful, you guys.”

“Thank you.”

Tyler Ketchum came through the front door, struggling to carry a box of dinners that Jane had prepared for the new parents.

“Goddamn it, Tyler, I told you to put a plastic bag over the top. They’re soaked.”

Jane took the box and handed it to Edgar.

“Each one of these has a complete meal in it, okay? All you have to do is put it in the microwave. Ten minutes if it’s frozen, five if it’s thawed. You shouldn’t have to cook for at least a week.”

“Thank you, Jane.”

“And we’re gonna leave. Before the storm hits for real. Let you guys rest.”

Kisses and hugs all around.

Day had given way to night, and the predicted storm indeed looked to be settling in. Edgar had thought that he would wait until the small hours of the morning, but it was dark now and the whipping rain would cover him nicely. He went to the garage.

Later, from the baby’s room, Helen looked out the window over the backyard. Beads of moisture accumulated and trickled down the pane. She saw that Edgar had finished digging the hole. Now she watched him push a wheelbarrow across the backyard. From her vantage point, it looked like the wheelbarrow held a heavy, rolled-up rug. It would be even heavier, she thought, once the rain soaked it.

Helen sat down and fed Isabella. After that, she gave the baby a warm sponge bath and powdered her before wrapping her in a dry diaper. In the corner, Mitzi was sacked out, snoring like a cartoon, and nestled up to her warm belly were the fabled Yellow and Black Attack, Molly and Agnes. And seeing that, for
some reason, made Helen believe that yes, everything was going to be all right. That life was good, and fair, and worth living.

When she looked out the window again, Edgar was tamping down the sodden earth with the back of the shovel blade. She could just barely make him out in the dark storm.

The sound of the rain was so constant that she almost didn’t hear the doorbell. But she did hear it and went to see who would be bothering them at this most inopportune time.

When Helen saw that it was Martha, her fear was replaced with relief.

“I’m sorry for the other—”

Martha shushed her.

“All I want to know is if you’re all right.”

“I’m fine. We’re fine.”

“I thought maybe you’d started drinking again and Edgar was covering for you.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“He told me to fuck off. I almost shit my pants.”

Helen laughed at that. And Martha did too.

“It’s been a crazy week. We just got home from the hospital today.”

“Oh dear, who was hurt?”

“Nobody. We had a baby.”

“A baby! You had a baby?”

Helen nodded, grinning, and Martha squealed with genuine delight.

“Let me see that precious thing!”

Later, when Edgar peeked into the baby’s room, Martha was standing over the bassinet, oohing and ahhing at the tiny new life.

“I’m sorry for the other—” Edgar began, but Martha waved him off.

“Water under the bridge. Your business is your business.” She peered at Edgar. “You’re soaking wet.” Edgar was still wearing his shirt and tie—his Edgar suit—from the previous two days. He was wilted.

“Oh, I had to take Mitzi out for a walk.”

“You might want to give some consideration to using an umbrella. Not that it’s any of my business.”

Martha plopped down in the sitting chair that matched the one Helen was resting in. She unshouldered her purse and placed it at her feet. She patted Helen’s knee.

“I want for us to talk.” Then, to Edgar, “Girl talk.”

Edgar took off to his bedroom so that Helen and Martha could visit.

Martha leaned over with a grunting effort and began to rummage through her voluminous purse.

“I have something here…”

In the bedroom, Edgar congratulated himself on being able to interact with Martha in a normal manner. He unknotted his necktie, leaving the ends dangling down his chest. He stared at his
reflection in the dresser mirror. He was surprised to find that he had no trouble looking himself in the eye. He felt good about himself, about the things he had done. Well, maybe
good
wasn’t exactly right, not
le mot juste
, but he definitely didn’t feel guilty. No, he did not feel guilty. Or did he? No, there was no guilt. Guilty people could not comfortably look into their own eyes in a mirror. And Edgar could look into his own eyes just fine. Just fine.

He didn’t necessarily like what he saw in those eyes. A new depth was reflected in them. A new quality. It was knowledge, Edgar realized. He had been changed not by his own actions, but by the knowledge that he was capable of them.
What else are you capable of? Yes, Edgar, what other deeds might you commit?
And in looking into his own eyes, he saw that the answer was
almost anything
. He was capable of almost anything. He would protect his home and his family and himself from any and every outside threat.
But what if the threat came from the inside, old sport? From within you? What then?
Then he would deal with it. He would be vigilant. He would be watchful. He would be thorough.
Who had evaded the heat closing in? Edgar had, that’s who.
Yes, he would be vigilant. Watchful.

And just what the fuck was that crafty-eyed bitch Martha doing here, this late, in the middle of a nor’easter?

“Really, Martha, it’s not necessary. And that phone call the other day…”

Martha was still digging in her purse.

“Yes, that phone call. Had me worried. Did everything—”

“Everything turned out perfect. As you can see. Everything. Everything is perfect.”

“You deserve it. You deserve everything that’s coming to you. Truly you—wait, here it is.”

Martha pulled out a clasp envelope and handed it to Helen.

“I really hate to do this, dear. I really do. And I probably should have waited for a better time, but…”

Helen opened the envelope.

There was a photograph inside.

And everything changed.