The Witch of Agnesi (16 page)

The inexorable downward spiral of the logic had a dizzying effect on Bonnie’s mind. She shook off her lethargy. “Let’s try another tack. If Edmund was driving that truck Friday night, and Ali and he were lovers, then why break into her house?”

Armen leaned back in his chair and said nothing. His empty expression answered her question.

“You don’t believe the break-in happened?” she asked.

“Not for a moment.”

The timer on the stove buzzed. Armen rose and slipped on a pair of oven mitts. He returned with a glass casserole dish in which a concoction of red sauce, corn tortillas, and cheese bubbled furiously. After a juggling act involving the transfer of one of the mitts to his mouth, Armen deftly placed the enchiladas in the center of the table. He was heading back toward the oven when the kitchen phone rang.

“Callahan’s Pleasure Palace.” Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, Armen’s expression changed to a grim mask. “Uh huh. My God! I’ll tell her. I don’t think it’ll do any good.” He re-cradled the phone.

When he hesitated in speaking, Bonnie felt the hair on the back of her neck bristle. “Who was that?”

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Franklin. He and Keene investigated the footsteps be-hind the Sheridan barn. They found the body of Peyton Newlin buried in a shallow grave.”

Bonnie recognized Armen’s attempt to subtly cheer her, but she wanted none of it. The world had become a madhouse—two of her beautiful children dead, the other two suspects in their murder.

She and Armen sat on a pair of hard metal folding chairs outside the office of Kevin, the County Coroner’s solitary night attendant. A tall blonde with multiple facial piercings, Kevin looked as though he’d be more at home carrying a surf board or playing hacky-sack than spending his evenings babysitting corpses.

He’d been surprised at their arrival.

No
, Bonnie corrected herself. Kevin had been annoyed.

No doubt, most nights he could count on no one sharing his nocturnal vigil, at least no one capable of conversation. He’d informed Bonnie it might take hours for the crime scene investigators to release Peyton’s body, hinting she’d be wise to go on home.

Bonnie declined.

Kevin’s tiny Spartan office, big enough for a filing cabinet, desk and chair, felt like the walls were closing in, so Bonnie chose the hall. Here she sat, feeling like God’s first fool.

She glanced nervously at Armen. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

Armen shook his head. “You’re not as good at reading people as you believe you are. I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you feel guilty. The guilt may have led you to this irrational late-night decision to see Wendy Newlin.”

It was her turn to undermine an assumption, even though it was true. “I promised Wendy I’d be there for her then promptly—and conveniently—forgot about her while I . . .”

“While you what? Spent time with me?” He turned away, his face hard.

Well, yes.

“I didn’t say that. All I meant was someone needed me, and I forgot about them. That’s not like me to for-get a promise.”

Armen dug the edge of his fist into his eye and yawned. The hard edges of his brow and jaw softened.

“That wouldn’t have prevented Peyton’s death. You could’ve stood by Wendy’s side all day. Peyton would be just as dead.”

Damn you and damn your logic, Armen Callahan.
“What would you have me do?”

For the first time since they’d sat, he turned his tired face her way. “Just what you’re doing, being Juanita-on- the-spot to comfort this Newlin woman. But do it for the right reasons. None of this is your fault.”

“Should I chant that as a mantra?”

“If it helps to give you perspective.” He offered an I’m-on-your-side shrug. “There’s an APB out on Edmund’s car. They’ll find him, Bonnie.”

“I know.” She rubbed Armen’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re with me.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He pointed at their stark surroundings. “You’re opening up new vistas to me.”

He yawned again.

“And you’re looking a little haggard there, Mister Mouse.”

The smile he offered drooped a little at the edges. “Does this mean you no longer find me the ridiculously handsome hero of your secret love fantasies?”

She kissed his cheek. “Don’t push it.” She nestled against his side.

“You know Franklin’s not going to be happy to see us here.”

She waved away the statement without lifting her head. “The boy just doesn’t know his own mind. If he didn’t want me to come, then why call? No call, no Pinkwater and Callahan treading water in the depths of the City and County Building.”

“Your logic contains more holes than a Robert Trent Jones golf vacation, but I’m too tired to argue.”

She reached up and patted his face. “Wise man. Did Franklin say anything about Ali?”

Armen jostled her with the shaking of his head. “I told you everything he said. Not a word about Ali. I didn’t get a sense as to whether he’d read the e-mails yet.”

Bonnie sat up straight. “But Wendy is definitely coming here?”

Armen regarded her for a long moment. “That’s what the man said. They wanted her to identify Peyton away from the scene, and Wendy agreed.”

A twinge of uneasiness rippled through Bonnie. She had no idea how Wendy would view this intrusion. That was the funny thing about good intentions. More often than not when they reared their innocent heads the world played whack-a-mole with them. Here she and Armen sat on these bottom-numbing chairs just waiting to offer whatever assistance they could to a grieving Wendy Newlin, but it was just as likely the woman would want to be left alone.

And what about Ralph-the-Creep?
“Holy Moley, you don’t think Ralph Newlin will show, do you?”

Armen winced. “Will you relax? There’s no way to know what happened with the good Colonel in the last twelve hours. Considering the man’s status with the powers that be, if he finally made an appearance at Peterson then all may have been forgiven. On the other hand, the Colonel could be incarcerated or a fugitive.”

The Fugitive?

For a fleeting moment Bonnie held the image of Ralph Newlin chasing the infamous One-Armed Man up an electrical tower.
If there’s any justice in
this world, Ralph should be cooling his heels in some
smelly stockade.
She smiled at the thought, then just as quickly remembered their reason for being here.

Peyton was dead. First Stephanie, now Peyton. That scholarship was proving more fatal than Ebola. The sound of a buzzer sliced through her reverie.

Kevin emerged from his office. He was past where they sat before Bonnie could ask what was happening. He didn’t say not to follow so Armen helped Bonnie to stand. She kept a discreet distance behind the night attendant.

Kevin pressed a button on the hallway wall, and a small garage door rumbled into life. A moment later, Bonnie shielded her eyes against the headlamps of Franklin Valsecci’s El Camino.

Kevin met Franklin at his driver’s door. After what seemed a heated exchange with Kevin gesturing and pointing up the entrance ramp, Wendy Newlin emerged out of the passenger side of the car.

Bonnie gasped and clutched Armen’s forearm. Ex-cept for the brilliant shock of red hair, Wendy was unrecognizable. The entire left side of her face was bloated in gruesome asymmetry, with the eye on that side swollen shut. The left side of her mouth looked as if the woman’s usually full lips had been replaced with engorged night-crawlers crisscrossed with stitches. Her nose appeared broken.

Wendy hesitated then strode past Kevin until she stood face to face with Bonnie. A single tear crept from beneath the swollen eyelid. “Hell of a day.”

CHAPTER 13

A
S BONNIE WAITED FOR FRANKLIN, THE ambulance arrived. She kept an eye on Wendy, not sure how the woman would handle the delivery of her dead son. Afraid Wendy might faint, Bonnie captured Armen’s attention.

“Stay close,” she mouthed. “Be ready with an arm.”

He nodded understanding and sidled up next to Wendy.

If she was aware of anything happening, she made no mention of it. Her body was ramrod straight, her good eye fixed on the stretcher rolling through the morgue door. She bobbed her head to some unheard rhythm, lips moving in wordless repetition.

A song, or maybe a litany from the rosary?
Bonnie had no doubt she was witnessing someone in emotional and spiritual dissolution. In the face of such heartache,

Bonnie felt impotent.

Keene came around the rear of the ambulance in the company of Franklin. The former had a toothpick in his mouth, his hands jammed in the pockets of his grey trench coat, his eyes downcast as if searching the entrance for evidence. Though the night was calm, he appeared disheveled, windblown.

By contrast, Franklin looked crisp—his thinning hair combed, his tie pulled straight and tight. He picked up his pace, falling in behind the stretcher. Glancing at Bonnie, he offered a cheerless perfunctory nod.

Kevin, the night attendant, led the stretcher and its bearers past where Bonnie stood propped on her crutches. On the rolling platform, a zipped, black bag revealed the outline of the small figure contained within. For the briefest moment she felt anxiety for Peyton.

How could the boy breathe all shut up in that
sealed bag?

Her vision blurred before she blinked back tears.

Wendy made no move to follow the litter bearing her son.

“Are you ready?” Franklin’s face was a studied mixture of concern and cool reserve.

You’ve done this before, Mister Valsecci. What a
life you’ve chosen for yourself.

Wendy nodded. She let Franklin take her elbow then turned back to Bonnie. “I need to do this without you.”

At first, Bonnie heard the words as separate entities, empty of meaning. When, seconds later, the signifi- cance sank in, she was stunned. She nodded and heard herself say, “Whatever you want.”

Franklin led Wendy away.

Without you
, Bonnie thought.
Not—I’ve got to do
this on my own—but specifically, “without you.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of the statement, but a part of her—the Catholic schoolgirl part no doubt—accepted it as a form of retribution. After all, she’d abandoned Wendy just when the woman needed her most.

At the end of the wide hall, past Kevin’s office and the behind-numbing chairs, Kevin slid open an over-sized, smoke-glass door labeled Examination Rooms.

From what Bonnie could see, the decoration scheme beyond the door was basic—black-on-white tile and acres of stainless steel. Steel cabinets sporting steel handles, gleaming steel tables, steel troughs emptying into steel basins. Even the overhead lights appeared to be cowled in polished metal.

Bonnie stood with Keene and Armen in awkward silence as the sliding-glass door slid shut. Through its smoky translucent surface, the blurred shapes of Wendy and the rest dissipated as if into mist.

The smell of cigarettes, coffee, and garlic caught Bonnie’s attention. Keene stood at her elbow.

More to keep from obsessing on “without you” than any real desire for conversation, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be in there?”

The big man picked his teeth with a toothpick in the final stages of decomposition. “My job was to find Peyton Newlin. He’s been found.” Keene’s bulldog face was an unreadable stony mask.

He scratched his chest near his shoulder holster, and Bonnie could swear the fingers of that hand appeared to be aching for the pistol in residence there.

Bonnie couldn’t blame him. She’d like to shoot something or someone right about now. “How did Peyton die?”

Keene’s eyes flashed when he turned his gaze on her.

She braced herself for another lecture—she had no business in these matters of murder.

The big cop’s gaze softened. “What the hell?”

He pointed with his lantern jaw toward the exami-nation room. “That’s what they’ll figure out when the medical examiner gets here, but I’d say his neck was broken sometime early Friday morning.”

The same night as Stephanie.

Bonnie tried to swallow her next question, but it demanded voice. “You saw Wendy Newlin’s face?”

Keene squinted at her. “Yeah, I saw it.” His tone was wary, with an accompanying air of finality.

“Has it occurred to anyone that in the middle of all this violence there’s a violent man on the loose?”

Keene’s nostrils flared. “You’re a real piece of work. You know that?” He brushed past her, heading for the smoky-glass door.

“No, math lady,” he called back over his shoulder. “It would never have crossed the minds of us slow-thinkin’ flatfoots to consider Colonel Newlin. Thank God we got you to keep us in line.”

He slid open the door to the examination room.

Without a look back he shut it between them.

“That went well.” Armen patted her hand.

Bonnie felt heat rise from her neck to her face. “I suppose I should work on my tact.”

He created a centimeter gap with thumb and fore-finger. “Maybe a little.”

An uncomfortable pang shot through her lower ex-tremities, particularly her insistent right foot.
Need to
get off these damn crutches.
She hobbled to a hard-metal chair and plopped down.

Staring up at Armen, she said, “It just makes me nuts. You’d think Ralph Newlin would try to keep it together so he and his wife could get through this nightmare. Instead, what’s he do? He beats her almost unrecognizable.”

From the look on his face, it was evident Armen had no answer for the perverseness of the human race, let alone Colonel Ralph Newlin. “I think Sergeant Keene would like to get Colonel Ralph alone in an empty in-terrogation room for a little one-on-one.”

She reached up and took Armen’s hand. “You think?”

“Like I told you before, you’re not as good at read-ing people as you believe you are. Keene’s no tin man. He may be rough around the edges, but the man’s got a heart.”

He has no trouble hiding it around me.

With a hiss, the door to the examination slid open. Franklin Valsecci emerged first. Without hesitation, he strode the thirty paces to where Bonnie sat and squared up on Armen. “Do you mind if the lady and I have a private conversation?”

Armen glanced uncertainly at Bonnie. She nodded, and Armen released her hand.

As fast as her crutches allowed, she followed Frank-lin into Kevin’s small office. Her former student shut the door. Ten seconds passed then another ten and still Franklin didn’t turn around.

Okay, Mister Valsecci, what’s on your mind?
She pulled out the desk chair and sat.

With his back still to her, Franklin said, “That woman out there is on the brink of a nervous break-down.”

The statement was so obvious Bonnie held her breath waiting for what Franklin would add.

He turned around and leaned against the door, his hand on the knob. His posture indicated he meant to keep her prisoner in the tiny office until he had his say.

With a motion Bonnie had come to recognize as his I’m-about-to-get-serious-gesture, Franklin used his thumb and forefinger to wipe the corners of his mouth. “She doesn’t need someone in her face right now mak-ing demands on her.”

“By someone, you mean me.”

Franklin nodded and held Bonnie’s steady gaze. “By someone, I mean you.”

The room began to feel claustrophobic, and she found herself liking this conversation less and less.

You’re a big boy now, Franklin, and this isn’t Algebra
One. Spit out what you really have to say.
“You can’t think I’m that insensitive. Of course I won’t make de-mands of Wendy.”

“Do I have your word on that?”

Bonnie opened her mouth to agree, but something made her hold back the promise. “What’s going on, Franklin?”

Another long moment passed before Franklin spoke. “Wendy Newlin refuses to press charges against her husband.”

“You’re kidding me?”

Bonnie winced. She’d always hated that phrase. People invariably used it at the most inappropriate times. It rang out no less stupid when she was the one giving it voice.

“Did Wendy have a reason?”

Franklin approached her. Hands on both arms of the desk chair, he leaned close. “I didn’t ask. I was es-corting a woman to identify the dead body of her son.”

Bonnie felt as if she were being violently wrenched in opposite directions. A large part of her wanted to see Ralph Newlin drawn and quartered. She wanted Wendy to be his executioner all the while screaming, “Enough is enough.”

But Franklin was right. For whatever reason, Wendy had made a decision—a misguided one to be sure—but one of her own choosing. The city morgue, where Peyton lay dead, wasn’t the place to try to change her mind.

“I won’t say a word.”
For now.

Franklin held her eyes a moment longer then pushed off the chair. He towered over her. “Thanks, Missus P.”

Somehow she didn’t feel kindly enough to respond to Franklin’s gesture of gratitude. She’d always hated being shamed into doing the right thing.

“At least tell me the police are looking for this maniac.”

“He’s wanted for questioning by both civil and mil-itary police.”

She could almost taste his eagerness to throw her this bone.
Thank God for small favors.
Her sense of claustrophobia returned. “What say we get the hell out of here?”

Outside the small office, Wendy stood next to Armen, her arm linked through his. As Bonnie and Franklin approached, Wendy turned her disfigured face in their direction. “Your charming man has vol-unteered to take me home.”

RIDING IN THE BACK OF ALICE, WITH WENDY AND Armen up front, put Bonnie in mind of an interminable New England car vacation she took, as a child, with her father—three, no four states—on one sweltering, eternal July day.

His moon-face aglow with a maniacal mixture of fatigue and hubris, her father had turned back to her and exalted, “We’re making good time now, shrimp-boat.”

Bonnie hadn’t wanted to burst her father’s bubble by telling him she was carsick. Ten minutes later when she threw up all over her little brother, her secret came abruptly, and disgustingly, out of the closet.

Perched dead-center on the edge of the back seat, trying to peer through the front windshield, she felt a little like that nauseous child right now. More than likely the fact that Alice should have had her shocks replaced some time in the administration of the first George Bush was a major contributing factor. Every bump, every swerve in the road went straight to her head or the pit of her stomach, most times both. And just like that long ago vacation, she didn’t want her nausea to be the focal point of the trip.

Face it, Pinkwater. You don’t want Armen to see
you hurl your cookies.
And if she didn’t want a repeti-tion of that embarrassment, she needed to do something, anything to take her mind off the road. Unfortunately, she’d promised away the subject starring center stage on her mind—Colonel Ralph Newlin being drawn and quartered.

Wendy solved the problem for her. “You’re mighty quiet back there.”

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk.”

Wendy swiveled in her seat to give Bonnie a one-eyed stare. “Depends on the subject.” She sighed as if she held back an ocean of tears.

Bonnie laid a hand on the woman’s arm. “I want you to know how sorry I am for not being there today.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” She curled her fingers around Bonnie’s hand. “No sooner had I hung up the phone than Ralph came storming into the living room, bristling for a fight. I knew what I was in for and should have ducked and covered. Instead, I let him know that when Peyton . . .”

The life went out of her voice. She sat for a time shaking her head and staring into the space between the seats. Like at the morgue, her lips moved, but no words came out.

Bonnie reached to embrace her.

Pulling away, Wendy raised her fists. Her chest heaved, her breathing becoming rapid and shallow. She regarded Bonnie warily.

Not sure what to do, Bonnie leaned back, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the anxious woman. She knew damned well it wasn’t a good time to speak inanities.

Little by little the tension eased in the car until Wendy lowered her hands. She tried to smile, but the asymmetry of her face made the expression seem more like a grimace.

Bonnie was once again sure she was in the company of someone destined to fall into a thousand pieces.

“I told him.” The three words fell from Wendy’s lips in a soft whisper. “When Peyton came home we were leaving.”

Silently, she mouthed, “I told him.”

“Wendy, this can wait.”

The woman cocked her head and leveled her good eye in Bonnie’s direction. “Are you sure? It doesn’t feel like it can.” Her fist came to her face, and she abraded the swollen cheek like she could sand it back into con-formity.