Deeper Than the Dead

“What are you reading?” Tommy asked as he walked around the desk, running his finger along the carved edge.

His father didn’t look up. “The news. You want to see? Here’s a picture of where I was this afternoon.”

Tommy came around to his father’s side and looked at the photograph. A bunch of people standing around in a field. The headline above read: SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING OAK KNOLL WOMAN.

“There’s Wendy’s dad,” Tommy said, putting his finger on the image of Wendy’s father in serious conversation with a blonde lady.

“Yep.”

“Who is that lady?”

“That’s Jane Thomas. She runs the women’s center.”

“Did you find the missing lady?”

“No. Not yet.”

“She’s probably murdered,” Tommy said gravely. “That’s what serial killers do.”

“Hopefully not,” his father said, taking a sip of his drink.

Whiskey. Tommy liked the smell and the color of it, but he had once tasted some left in the bottom of a glass on the blotter, and it was gross. He had coughed and choked and gagged on it until he ran into the kitchen and got a drink of water.

“Dad? Did we watch Cosby last week?”

“Last week? I don’t remember. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy said. “Miss Navarre asked me today if we were home last week on Thursday. I think we were.”

“Why would she ask you that?”

Tommy shrugged and winced because it still hurt his ribs to move. His attention was already on to something else. He had started to read the article about the search. He recognized the place in the picture. He and his father had gone there once to look for parts to the old Mustang convertible that sat in the garage in a million pieces. It was a cool place in a kind of a creepy way.

“That’s a strange question,” his father said. “Did she ask the whole class?”

Tommy shook his head. “Nope. Just me.”

“Huh.”

He turned and looked at his father. “Dad, I’m not going to have to go to another school, am I? I like Miss Navarre. She’s a really good teacher.”

And pretty. And she smelled nice. And she really cared about him. But he said none of that to his father. Being married and old and all, he probably didn’t remember what it was like to like a girl.

“No, son. Your mom was just upset about what happened yesterday. She’ll calm down.”

How does she think I felt? Tommy wondered. His mother had been all worried about him at the emergency room after Dennis beat him up—when there were people all around making a fuss—but she hadn’t had much to say to him since then. She was too caught up being mad at people. But Tommy said none of this to his father, either.

“I think the Dodgers’ll win tomorrow, don’t you?” he said instead.

His father got up from the desk, went to the bookcase, and poured himself another drink. “I hope so.”

“If they win tomorrow, then it’s only one more game and then they’re in the World Series!” Tommy said, thrusting his fists into the air like a champion—then quickly bringing them down because that hurt like crazy. He turned around in a couple of tight circles until he started to get dizzy.

“I’m going to check on dinner,” his father said. He ruffled Tommy’s hair absently and walked out of the room.

Tommy wasted no time scrambling into the big leather swiveling desk chair. Someday he would have a desk and a chair like this one, and he would do something important, like his dad.

He went back to reading the article in the newspaper to see if his dad’s name was in it.

Karly Nicole Vickers, 21, originally of Simi Valley, California, was last seen around 5:00 P.M. on the afternoon of Thursday, October 3, in the office of local dentist, Dr. Peter Crane . . .

44

It took Sharon Farman nearly five minutes to come to the door. Mendez and Hicks stood on the front steps, periodically ringing the doorbell, then knocking. They had been told at Quinn, Morgan that Mrs. Farman had stayed home for the day to look after her son. Her maroon minivan was parked in the driveway.

“Why doesn’t the kid answer the door?” Hicks asked.

“He’s probably chained to a radiator,” Mendez said.

“Maybe he slit his mother’s throat and took off.”

Mendez rang the bell again and banged his knuckles on the door.

“Frank is going to shit a brick over this,” Hicks said.

“We don’t have a choice. If he’s got nothing to hide, then he should shut up and let us do our jobs.”

“Yeah. That’ll happen.”

The door opened then. Sharon Farman had clearly been asleep. Her puffed-up hairdo was lopsided, squished flat on the right, and there were creases on her cheek. Her eyes were a little bleary. Her lipstick was smudged.

“Mrs. Farman? Detectives Mendez and Hicks,” Mendez said, holding up his ID. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

She stared at them, confused. “What’s this about? Dennis?”

“No, ma’am. Would it be all right if we came in for a few minutes?”

Still slow to react, it took her several seconds before she stepped back from the door. Mendez watched her closely. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet, and he began to wonder if it wasn’t something other than sleep impairing her reaction time.

She led them into a dining room.

“Are you feeling all right, ma’am?” he asked as they all took seats at the table.

“I was having a nap,” she said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she lit up.

“We’re sorry to interrupt your day,” Hicks said. “We have just a couple of questions and we’ll let you go.”

“Questions about what? Are the Cranes going to press charges?” she asked, irritated. “Kids get into fights. Maybe they should teach their precious little angel to stick up for himself.”

The longer sentence gave her away. Her speech slurred ever so slightly. She’d been drinking.

“This isn’t about your son, ma’am,” Hicks said. “We need to clear up a couple of things as to your husband’s whereabouts last week Thursday evening.”

“My husband? Frank? You work with him, for heaven’s sake, why don’t you just ask him?”

“This is a bit delicate,” Mendez admitted. “Because your husband made a traffic stop on Karly Vickers the day she went missing, we have to make sure his time after that is accounted for so he can officially be ruled out as a suspect.”

Sharon Farman sobered at that. She sat up a little straighter. Her cigarette burned down in her fingers. “A suspect? You think Frank had something to do with that?”

“Not really, ma’am,” Mendez said. “Deputy Farman’s reputation speaks for itself. The timing was unfortunate, that’s all. This is a formality.”

Hand shaking again, she put the cigarette in the ashtray.

“I’m not comfortable with this,” she said. “Maybe I should speak to my husband first.”

“It’s really not a big deal, ma’am,” Hicks said easily. “We just need to nail down his time line. Do you remember what time he got home that evening?”

“We eat dinner at six thirty sharp,” she said. “Every night.”