explain it too. If what Krug told me about him is true- the hitting, the stalking, the whole obsessive-lover-spurned thing- then Werner has to know he’d look very good to the cops.”
“He looks pretty good to me too,” Metz said. “And so does Coylemaybe good enough to make an ADA think twice about going after your brother.”
“I’ll try Coyle’s PO on Monday, and we’ll see how he looks then. And who knows- maybe lawyer Vickers will call back.”
“Don’t hold your breath. But work fast on Coyle; I want to move on this next week.”
“I’ll be quick as I can, but David still needs convincing. Last time we talked, he thought the idea of going to the cops was crazy, and maybe you were too. And he wasn’t listening too well to reason.”
Mike snorted. “Well, something you said sank in. He called me last night, and he was a model of cooperation.”
“He called you?”
“He ran down his whereabouts for me on that Tuesday, and answered all my questions about times and places and people. Almost all, anyway.”
“What’s the ‘almost’ part?”
“He’s still reluctant to talk about Stephanie, or to let me talk to her.”
I sighed deeply. “Can he account for his time?”
“Some of it. His day’s a little patchy, but with some legwork we can probably fill the gaps. It’s the nighttime that’s a problem.”
“He told me he was home.”
“That’s what he told me, too. But apparently Stephanie is the only person who can substantiate that.”
“And he won’t let you talk to her. Great. Does he say why?”
“He says she’s out of town and that he’ll talk to her when she gets back, though he doesn’t say when that will be.”
I took another deep breath. Shit. “What does he say about going to the cops?”
“He seems to understand it’s the best course.”
“Which is not quite the same as agreeing to do it.”
“No,” Mike said. “But it’s getting there.”
“Does he understand that we can’t talk to the cops until we talk to Stephanie?”
“Yes, though it doesn’t seem to translate into actually letting us talk to her. And he’s developed a theory that the timing of Holly’s death actually works to his advantage.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“His reasoning is, How could he have killed her when, on that Tuesday, he didn’t even know who she was. He’d hired you only twenty-four hours before, and you didn’t even tell him her name until the following day.”
I almost laughed. “Sounds watertight to me- we might as well pack up and call it a day, Mike. Except, maybe, for the fact that she’s the one who was calling him-and visiting his house and probably following him around. It won’t take the Einstein of cops to work out a scenario where she calls him, they arrange a meeting, and things go wrong. Hell, maybe she didn’t even call; maybe she just waylaid him on the street somewhere.”
“I explained all that, though without the sarcasm. I’m not sure how much got through.”
“So where does that leave us?” I asked.
Mike cleared his throat. “With you and him having another talk, I’m afraid.”
I managed not to throw the phone through the window, but hung it up instead. Clare came yawning and stretching from the bedroom, her gray eyes puffy from sleep. She poured a glass of cranberry juice and sat at the end of the sofa and put her feet in my lap. They were cold and white and I rubbed her toes. She picked up the TV remote.
The news had gone from plowing and digging to melting and flooding, and there was footage of water, water everywhere- on roads, in basements, and coursing through storm drains and subway tunnels. Images of JFK came on the screen, where the runways were clear, and long lines of planes were landing and taking off, and the stranded, rumpled, bleary, and unwashed were more or less on their ways. I looked at Clare, who drank her juice and watched in silence. When the images shifted again- to scenes of plows pushing mountains of snow into the river- she looked at me. I opened my mouth to speak, but Clare beat me to it.
“He’s not flying in from anywhere, if that’s what you’re wondering.” I had been, and now I was wondering why not. A tiny smile flickered on Clare’s lips. “He’s not snowbound anywhere, except at home.”
I sat up. “No?” I said. My voice was tight.
Clare shook her head. “No.”
“Then where does…” There was a little rushing sound in my ears. “What did you-”
“I left him.”
“You…”
“I left him. I walked out.”
I nodded, more out of habit than because I understood anything. “You…what are you-”
“Don’t worry; I’m not planning on moving in. But the storm made it impossible to get a hotel room.” She drank some more juice and looked at me over the top of her glass. “I was going to give it a couple of days, but I can start calling the hotels now if you like.”
“No…I…You don’t have to do that,” I said.
Clare nodded. She went to the kitchen and put her glass in the sink and stood by the windows. Her back was straight and stiff.
“What happened?” I asked. She shook her head but didn’t turn around. “You can stay as long as you need to,” I said, “as long as you want.”
“Which is it,” she asked softly, “ ‘need’ or ‘want’?”
“Whichever,” I said.
She nodded, and watched a wing of snow slide from a rooftop across the street and break into diamonds on the way down. “It’s all coming loose,” she said.
Clare went for a walk in the afternoon, and didn’t ask for company, and I went for a messy run. My shoes were heavy with water when I got back, and my eyes ached from squinting. Clare was still gone, and still gone when I got out of the shower. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and opened my laptop and my notebook.
I found Phil Losanto’s telephone number on-line, and found him at home, in Yorktown Heights. He had just gotten back from forty-eight hours of skidding across northern Westchester County, covering the county’s response to the storm and, according to him, freezing his freaking nuts off. His voice was permanently tired and permanently amused.
“Plus the wife’s on my ass now ’cause our drive’s the only one on the block that isn’t shoveled. Christ, let me get a Pepsi first.” There was a lot of noise on his end- a television playing loud cartoons, the piercing trills and beeps of a video game, small children fighting, or playing, or both, and a shrill, exasperated woman yelling at them. My heart went out to Phil.
“You wrote a couple of articles a few years ago about Jamie Coyle.”
Phil thought for a while amidst the noise. “Yeah, in Peekskill, right. The kid who beat the crap out of that video store guy. He got sent away for a while.”
“And got out about a year ago. You recall much about him?”
“Enough. Why?”
“Your article talked about him being a star athlete, local-hero type. Was that for real, or was it just good copy?”
Losanto snorted. “What, you don’t trust the press? No, that was mostly for real. Until the knee thing, the kid was a phenomenal defensive tackle- made all-county in his sophomore year- and he was Golden Gloves champ in his class since he was fourteen. As far as the hero part goes…that’s a different story.”
“Don’t leave me hanging, Phil.”
He laughed. Behind him something glass shattered, the woman yelled, and one of the children shrieked. “Even before he got into the collection business, Coyle was no altar boy. He was a hell-raiser in high school, with a
