“Was the car window down?”
“I couldn’t say for sure.”
“You didn’t see anyone in the car with him?”
Charles shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. And truthfully, that’s as much as I know.”
“Well, I appreciate your time. If you should think of anything else, would you give me a call?” I took a business card from my bag and handed it to him. “I can be reached at this number. There’s a machine if I’m gone.”
As I left the porch and started out across the parking lot, I turned and waved. Charles was still there, staring after me.
I sat in my car for a while, thinking about the fact that I was parked right where Dow Purcell had been on the night of September 12 I did a 180 survey, turning my head. What had happened to him? The rain kept tapping on my car roof like the restless drumming of fingers on a tabletop. He hadn’t been assaulted. He’d gotten in his car and he’d sat there a while . . . doing what? I started the car and backed out of the space, heading, as Purcell had, toward Dave Levine Street. I glanced back at the building. Charles was gone by then. The walk was empty and the rain slanting against the light made the entrance seem bleak.
I turned right, scanning the street on either side of me. The area was residential. St. Terry’s Hospital was only four blocks away. There were medical buildings in the surrounding area, apartment buildings, and a few private homes, but not much else. No bars or restaurants along this stretch where he might have stopped for a drink. Once I reached the next intersection, it was impossible to guess which way he might have gone.
I circled back to the office, and by 5:30, I was typing up a rough draft of the next installment of my report. It helped to be forced to lay it all out again in narrative form. I’d done an additional four hours of work, which I deducted from the balance of the retainer, leaving me $1,125 of indentured servitude. I could feel anxiety whispering through my bones. I was no wiser now than I’d been when I first started and probably no closer to finding Dr. Purcell. I didn’t even have a scheme, no clever strategy about how to proceed. What more could I do? Fiona wanted results. I was moving, but getting nowhere. I checked my watch. 6:02. I leaped to my feet. I was already late for Rosie’s, but it couldn’t be helped. I shoved the report in my handbag, thinking I could work on it later if I needed to.
Traffic was heavy on the rain-slick streets. While stuck at a stoplight, I turned the rearview mirror to check my appearance. I seldom wear makeup so I looked much the same; sallow by the light of street-lamps, my hair a dense thatch of brown. I felt less than glamorous in my jeans and turtleneck, but it couldn’t be helped. I didn’t have time to go home and change. Into what? I don’t have anything else. This is what I wear.
I parked my car in front of my apartment and dog-trotted the half block to Rosie’s. I pushed open the door, dumped my umbrella, and left my slicker on a peg. Where Friday night the place had been emptied by the weather, tonight it was jammed. Both the jukebox and the television were going full-blast, Monday Night Football having captured a rowdy cluster of sports enthusiasts at the bar. The cigarette smoke was dense and all the tables were taken. I saw William emerge from the kitchen with a tray at shoulder height while Rosie was uncapping beer bottles as fast as she could. I searched the crowd, wondering if I’d managed to arrive before Tommy Hevener. I felt a plucking at my sleeve and looked down to find him looking up at me from the first booth on the right.
Oh, my.
He was freshly shaved and he’d changed into a white dress shirt with a sky-blue wool crew neck pulled over it. He said something I missed. I leaned closer to him, taking in the scent of Aqua Velva. When he repeated himself, his voice in my ear set up a tickling chill that went down to my feet. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. He got up and grabbed his raincoat off the seat across from him.
I nodded and began to inch my way toward the door again. I could feel him following, one hand against my back. The gesture assumed a familiarity I should have objected to, but didn’t. We paused at the entrance while I collected my slicker and my umbrella. He shrugged into his raincoat and turned the collar up. “Where to?” he asked.
“There’s a place one block over. Emile’s-at-the-Beach. We can walk.”
His umbrella was the larger so he raised it and held it over my head as we emerged into the pelting rain. I kept my hand on the stem a fraction of an inch from his and we moved forward with the odd gait one assumes when walking in tandem. The rain was coming down so hard, the water was propelled through the umbrella fabric like a mist. A car passed, throwing up a plume that landed in front of us with a splat.
Tommy stopped. “This is nuts. I’ve got a car right here.” He took his keys out and unlocked the passenger-side door on a new Porsche, painted candy-apple red with a license plate that read HEVNER 2. I stepped from the curb to the interior, not a dainty maneuver given the low-slung chassis and the torrents of rainwater coursing through the gutter. He closed me in on my side and then circled in front of the car to his. The interior was done in caramel-colored leather, the whole of it smelling as earthy and rich as a tack room.
“Where’s your pickup?” I said.
“That’s business. This is play. You look great. I’ve missed you.”
We chatted about nothing in particular on the short drive over to Emile’s. Tommy let me off at the door. I went inside and staked out a claim for us while he found a place to park. We were seated at a table for two, next to the window in the narrow side room. The air smelled of sauteed garlic and onion, roasting chicken, and marinara sauce. The atmosphere was intimate with only half the tables occupied because of the rain. There was a quiet buzz of conversation and the occasional clatter of silverware. Votive candles provided circles of light in the darkened space. The waiter brought us two menus, and after a quick consultation, Tommy ordered a bottle of California Chardonnay. While we waited for that, he sat and played with a fork, making plow lines along the edges of a paper napkin. His watch was white gold and he wore a gold ID bracelet, heavy links glimmering against his ruddy skin. “I went back and read your rental application. You’re divorced.”
I held up two fingers.
He said, “I’ve never been married. Too much of a rolling stone.”
“I tend to appeal to guys on the move,” I said.
“Maybe I’ll surprise you. Where’s your family?”
“My parents died in a car accident when I was five years old. I was raised by my mother’s sister, my aunt Gin. She’s dead now, too.”
“No siblings?”
I shook my head.
“What about the husbands? Who were they?”
“The first was a cop … I met him when I was a rookie . . .”
“You were a cop?”
“For two years.”
“And the second?”
“He was a musician. Very talented. Not so good at being faithful, but he was nice in other ways. He cooked and played piano.”
“Skills I admire. And where is he now?”
“I haven’t any idea. You said your parents were gone?”
“It’s weird being an adult orphan, though not as bad as you’d think. What’d your father do for a living?”
“Mail carrier. My folks were married fifteen years before I came along.”
“So you only had five years together as a family.”
“I guess that’s right. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Poor babe.”
“Poor everyone. Such is life,” I said.
The waiter returned with our Chardonnay and we watched him politely as he went through the ritual of extracting the cork, presenting a sample of wine, and then pouring two glasses. We hadn’t even looked at the menus so we were accorded a few minutes to decide what we wanted. I ended up ordering the roast chicken and Tommy ordered the pasta puttanesca. We shared a salad up front. Once the entrees arrived, Tommy said, “Tell me about the boyfriend. What’s the deal on him?”
I lowered my fork, feeling defensive on Dietz’s behalf. “Why should I talk to you about him?”