I moved to the TV. Merv, the weather guy, was talking about a snowstorm expected that weekend. He was fat and bald and way too cheerful about the prospect of ten to twelve inches of snow. Tawny Jane Reese, I thought, would not make a good weather bitch.
Then I froze. I looked at the scanner, then back at the TV, then at the scanner again.
“I have a huge scoop for you,” I told Tawny Jane when she answered.
“It’s late.”
“Two huge scoops.”
“Why the hell would you give me a scoop?”
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to sleep with me. But I need to ask you something personal.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“True. You want the scoops or not?”
I waited. “Give me the first one,” she said.
I told her about the Pilot ’s imminent demise.
“Like the bosses at Media North are going to let me report that,” she said.
“That’s up to you,” I said. As I talked, I stared at the name I had scribbled earlier: Elizabeth Josephine Pound Whistler. I drew circles around the four initials.
“What’s the other one?”
“First I get to ask you.”
“I might not want to answer.”
“Understood. But at the hospital the other night, when they took Phyllis, you were late.”
“Yeah. So?”
“You’re never late. You’re always on the ball.”
She was. And if she’d heard the bulletin about the break-in at Mom’s house at the same time Whistler had, there was no way she would have been late to the hospital. No way would Tawny Jane let a guy she was fucking beat her to the story- especially a guy she was fucking.
“Thanks,” she said. “Except when my scanner goes bonkers.”
“What scanner?”
“I have a police scanner next to my bed. It died on me Sunday morning.”
The hairs stood up on the back of my neck.
“So,” I said, “Whistler was not with you that night.”
“Sunday night? No. Why?”
I told her everything I knew about Nilus, Sister Cordelia, Whistler, the box he had stolen away. She must have said, “Oh my God,” ten times.
I called Darlene again and told her what I now knew.
“Calm down,” she said.
“He’s getting away.”
“No.”
“They got him?”
“No, I’m going to get him.”
“You mean we’re going to get him.”
“Are you still at the Pilot?”
“Yeah.”
“Wait there.”
“Out back?” I said, but Darlene had already hung up.
I turned off the lights and the TV and locked the door and stood in the back parking lot watching for headlights. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. I called Darlene’s cell. She didn’t answer. I walked out to South Street and looked up and down, as if that would make her arrive faster. At half an hour, I called again. It went straight to voice mail. I called the department.
“Pine County.” It was Catledge.
“Deputy Esper, please?”
“Sorry, Gus. She’s gone.”
“Don’t bust my balls, Skip.”
“Not busting your balls. She hightailed it out of here forty-five minutes ago. Said she was going to make last call at Dingman’s.”
“She doesn’t drink at Dingman’s.”
“Good night, Gus.”
I stood listening to the wind hum through Starvation Lake, wondering where Darlene was and whether I’d see her again.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Half the town came to watch the arraignment of Wayland Ezra Breck. By the time Mom and I squeezed between Millie and Elvis Bontrager in the third row of the gallery, every fold-down wooden seat in the courtroom was taken. Reporters jammed the jury box. Dingus and county coroner Joe Schriver sat behind the prosecution table to the judge’s left. There was no sign of Frank D’Alessio, whose campaign for sheriff appeared to be over.
Breck stood at the table opposite the prosecutor, alone. An orange jumpsuit bagged on his frame. Shackles bound his feet and hands.
I scanned the courtroom for Darlene. She was not there.
The night before, I’d gone home and moved an unpacked box from Mom off of the sofa and lay there with my cell phone within reach, waiting for Darlene’s call. I dozed for snatches of ten or fifteen minutes, waking amid dreams of my cell phone ringing, only to see it resting silently on the end table. At six-thirty, I started calling her. Each time, her phone went to voice mail. Either she was choosing not to answer or she couldn’t.
I considered calling Dingus, then recalled what Skip Catledge had said about Darlene-“One hell of a police officer, if you ask me”-and called him instead. I swore him to secrecy and told him Darlene had gone after Whistler.
Now I left Mom in her seat and walked up to where Dingus was whispering with Prosecutor Eileen Martin. When he saw me mouth the words “Where’s Darlene?” he turned away in what looked to me like disgust. “What happened?” I said, too loud, and the prosecutor gave me a dirty look and pointed me back to my seat.
I sat again, patting my coat pocket for the tissues I’d brought in case Mom needed one. She and Millie were holding hands. I hadn’t told her about Darlene.
From atop his bench, Judge Gallagher peered down through his horn-rim spectacles. He rapped his gavel once.
“We have before the court today a single arraignment,” he said. “Counsel?”
Eileen Martin stood, wobbly as ever on her high heels. “Yes, Your Honor,” she said.
“Thank you, Ms. Martin,” Gallagher said. “Mr. Breck, am I correctly informed that you have declined counsel?”
“I will take my own counsel, sir.”
“Sir?” Gallagher said. The judge smiled as he shuffled papers around. The residue of Brylcreem that usually made a circular shadow on his leather chair was gone. The judge had lost most of his silver hair while undergoing chemotherapy for an unspecified cancer. “I suppose ‘sir’ will do. But please tell me, Mr. Breck, that you are trained, at the very least, as an attorney.”
“I am, sir.”
“I assume you’re familiar with the old joke about the lawyer who represents himself?”
“If you’re saying I am a fool, so be it. I come to represent more than myself.”
“Well, I’m interested solely in you. What do you plead, sir?”
“Excuse me, Your Honor?” Eileen Martin said.
