this time, instead of seating himself behind his desk, he perched himself on the desk’s edge, one foot hanging off, the other planted firmly on the floor. Today he was wearing a tan blazer over a white button-down, no tie. The bulge under the left breast pocket told me he stored a pair of reading glasses inside the interior pocket. He crossed arms over chest. Over his right shoulder I could see that the previous calendar day had been neatly X’d off in blue ballpoint. The precinct still stunk like a sewer. But no one mentioned a word about it.
“The paintings,” he began to explain. “Thus far the Albany labs see nothing to indicate Whalen had any kind of contact with them whatsoever. My guess is that the only people to lay hands on them-besides present company of course-is your student, Francis, perhaps his mother, maybe your partner, Robyn. But no Whalen.”
When he said the name Robyn, I felt a tug in my stomach. I wondered if he was aware of the overnight attack on her at the Cocoa Motel. I wanted to ask him about it. But not yet.
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “Although I am somewhat relieved.”
Harris raised his eyebrows.
“You suggesting Francis could have somehow been working with Whalen?”
I shot a glance up at Michael where he stood beside my chair. His eyebrows were raised just like the detective’s.
I shook my head.
“Not a chance,” I insisted. “Franny would never do anything to hurt anyone. He also knows right from wrong and Whalen is definitely wrong.”
“Francis having direct contact with Whalen would certainly answer the question of how the artist is able to paint your memories.”
The tug in my stomach intensified. I felt like all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out through the vents, leaving only the foul odor.
“What about Whalen?” Michael pressed. “Did you make contact with his parole officer?”
The detective looked up.
“I did,” he confirmed. “Whalen’s been employed at the Hollywood Carwash on Central in the west end. He lives in a half-way house on Clinton not a block away from work. Fully registered with sex offenders, as you well know. Shows up for the early and evening meals per state regs, where’s a monitoring bracelet around his right ankle. It’s house-arrest from that point on until work starts the next morning. Lights out at ten. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Whalen is a model parolee; a system success story.”
“So what you’re trying to say detective?” Michael posed. “That there’s no reason to suggest Whalen has been acting in anyway suspicious? You don’t see him as a threat?”
Harris shook his head.
“Not an immediate threat,” he stressed. But then raising his right hand, pointing an extended index finger at the painting I’d brought into the office with me. “I remain however, more than a little curious about Franny the artist.”
The Hollywood Carwash…
“Wait a minute,” I broke in. “I had my car washed on Tuesday morning.”
Michael and Harris immediately turned their attention to me as if an alarm had just gone off.
“I had my car washed and an older man dried it. The Hollywood Carwash on Central. A small white-bearded man with a head full of white hair. He smiled at me, spoke to me. I gave him a five dollar tip because I felt sorry for him, for having to work in a car wash.”
Harris looked at Michael. Michael looked at me. Both their faces looked pale.
“I can only assume that’s him,” Harris said, standing up straight. “Did he give you any reason to suggest he knew you? Did he use your name?”
My head was spinning.
“No,” I said. “The man didn’t say much of anything.”
“What made you go to the car wash in the first place?”
“I get Molly’s car washed every Tuesday morning, whether it needs it or not. It’s what Molly always did. Every Tuesday, rain or shine or snow. It was her ritual.”
“Dollars to donuts,” Harris said, “if that was in fact, Whalen, he knew you were coming. He would have planned it that way.”
“I’d never seen him there before.”
“That’s because you weren’t aware of him until recently.”
An explosion came from outside precinct walls. Thunder. Loud enough to cause all three of us to glance at the far wall, as if there was a window to see out of.
“Tell him about the texts,” Michael insisted.
I looked up at my ex-husband, then shifted to Harris.
“Someone unknown has been sending me texts over the period of a few months.”
Harris raised his eyebrows.
“What did the messages say?”
I told him. “Just my name at first. Then later on, rebecca. My name in the lower case.”
He jotted down some notes in a small notebook he stored in his shirt pocket.
“You saw him in the carwash on Tuesday,” Harris recalled. “Did his face ring any kind of bell whatsoever?”
I felt my stomach drop. Did the face of the nice old man match the face of the rapist in the ViCAP database?
“Not at all,” I said. “Not with all that hair. I guess I might have seen the same white-haired man there a dozen times before over the course of a few months. But only on Tuesday did I feel the need to pay attention to him.”
“The texts,” Harris went on. “What was the number left on your caller ID?”
“That’s just it,” Michael spoke for me. “Unknown Caller.”
Harris transferred himself behind the cluttered desk. He shifted his eyes back to me.
“I’m going to check into the possibility that Whalen could be texting you, Rebecca. If he’s got the money for a cell phone, he’s allowed a cell phone. Simple as that. You save the messages?”
I told him I had.
He asked to see my phone.
I handed it to him from across the desk.
He pulled his reading glasses from inside his jacket pocket, slipped them on. Then he flipped open the phone, thumbed some buttons. Although I couldn’t see exactly what he was getting at, I knew he had to be looking at the messages. I knew he was trying to get something from their accompanying information. Or in this case, non-information.
After a time, he looked up.
“Verizon,” he said, handing the phone back to me.
“You’re not going to confiscate it?”
“I have your number. Cell phone records are easy enough to access.”
“How is it Whalen would be able to block his caller ID?” Michael interjected. It was a question both of us wanted to ask.
“You want to block your ID and number when making a call or a text,” he explained, “you just punch star-6-7 before dialing the desired telephone number. You want to unlock your ID, punch in star-8-2. It’s as simple as that and totally legal.”
Then I remembered something. “There was another woman there at the Hollywood Carwash. A well dressed woman who was driving a Mercedes Benz. She was upset because she had lost her cell phone while her car was being washed.”
Harris bit down on his bottom lip.
“That explains it,” he said, as though a light bulb lit up over his head. “I’m guessing Whalen is stealing cell phones, using them to text you.” He opened a bottom desk drawer, pulled out a phone book and slapped it heavily onto the desktop. “I’m going to call the Hollywood Carwash, find out if they’ve had a rash of lost mobile phones over the past few months.” Looking back at me, he continued, “If that’s everything, I need to get on this right away.”
