one missing. Dennie Shambaugh’s got one.” Russ tapped the print report laid on the desk next to him. “And according to Sergeant Morin, his prints are in my house. Clare’s aren’t.”
Jensen hooked her thumbs into her pockets. She was wearing low-slung pants instead of a skirt this morning, with a tight shirt that fell over her waistband and a cushy jacket. If she had been in his department, he would have sent her home with orders to dress like a grown-up instead of an Abercrombie and Fitch model.
“I’m going to remind you, Mr. Van Alstyne, that you’re here on sufferance. You’re still suspended from duty pending the outcome of this investigation.”
Like he needed a reminder. The empty space on his hip where his gun wasn’t was like a missing tooth, constantly drawing his hand to test if it was still gone.
“I want a time line based on what we have now,” Jensen said, turning to the whiteboard on the wall. “McCrea?”
Eric put down his white mocha latte and flipped open his notes. “There were three phone calls made from Mrs. Van Alstyne’s cell to Audrey Keane’s cell. The last one was Friday at 6:00 P.M. On Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Van Alstyne spoke with Margaret Tracey from the house’s landline. Her son, Quinn Tracey, later witnessed Audrey Keane’s vehicle parked in the Van Alstyne driveway late Sunday afternoon, just before sunset.”
“Four to four thirty,” Lyle murmured.
“We’re still waiting on the phone company to fax us Keane’s records,” Eric continued. “Mrs. Tracey finds the body about 4:00 P.M. Monday. The next significant development is at 2:00 P.M. Wednesday, when the chief surprises Dennis Shambaugh at Keane’s house.”
“I dug out Shambaugh’s case file from seven years back,” Lyle said. “Audrey Keane was his girlfriend back then, if anyone had any doubts.”
“Was Shambaugh out early on parole?” Russ asked.
Lyle nodded. “He’s still got three years to go if he violates. We’ve got a call in to his parole officer.”
“Why was he still there?” Mark asked.
Everyone looked at him.
“I mean, he’s out on parole. If he so much as runs a red light, he’s going back to Clinton. Why hang around his girlfriend’s house for forty-eight hours or more after he killed her?”
“It’s his address of record?” Eric McCrea pitched his question to the room at large, pointedly not speaking to Durkee. “If he’s not there, he’s in violation of parole.”
Lyle shook his head. “Address of record is the Lafayette Arms.” The Lafayette was a single-resident occupancy hotel in Fort Henry.
“His computer setup, then,” Eric said.
“It would’ve taken him a half hour to unplug everything and pack it into the car.” Mark turned toward Russ. “I get why he ran when he saw you, Chief. There’s gonna be enough evidence on those computers to put him away for another ten years. I just don’t get why he was still there waiting.”
“Maybe because Dennis Shambaugh didn’t kill Audrey Keane,” Jensen said. She took a dry-erase marker and underlined Keane’s name twice on the board. “It doesn’t make sense if he killed his girlfriend. But if she wasn’t the intended target-if Linda Van Alstyne was-then why should he run? There’s no report in the news that Audrey Keane has been killed. Maybe as far as he knew, his girlfriend was still alive and kicking someplace.”
“After a woman had been murdered in the house where Keane was cat-sitting?” Mark sounded dubious.
“Maybe he thought Keane killed Mrs. Van Alstyne,” Kevin suggested.
“She has no record of violence,” Lyle said. “No record of any kind.”
“Besides,” Mark said, “wouldn’t that make it more likely he would’ve cleared out? Before we came knocking on the door?”
“Enough.” Jensen raised her hands. “We need Dennis Shambaugh. Family member?”
“A whole lot of ’em,” Lyle said. “He was one of seven kids scattered between here and Buffalo. Mary Ann, Mary Beatrice, Charles, Dennis, Eugene-”
“Jesus. They sound like the road company of
“We’ll start with what we can get from his parole officer,” Eric said. “I’ll call Clinton and see if they have any visitors on record.”
“Good.” Jensen let her gaze travel slowly around the squad room, making sure everyone there knew he was in her sights. “We need statements from everybody he and Keane came into contact with since he got out. We need to question this Deacon Aberforth who saw Reverend Fergusson Monday afternoon, and I want a warrant to search her car and that cabin she was staying at. We’ll pick this up again tonight at five o’clock. Maybe this investigation will make better progress now we’re not all worried about where Mr. Van Alstyne is.”
He had written down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the last five clients Linda had worked with on site. He gave it to Harlene. “I don’t expect you’ll be able to reach my cell phone much,” he said. “A lot of these places are in the mountains. If you hear anything, anything at all, and you can’t reach me, try one of these numbers. I put ’em in pretty much the order I’m gonna visit ’em.”
Harlene, who had three counties’ worth of roads in her head after thirty years on dispatch, looked up from the list. “It’s supposed to start coming down hard around lunchtime. Are you sure you want to be out driving around in a storm? Can’t you just call ’em instead?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “You know as well as I there are things you find out in person you’ll never get over the phone.”
She gave him a look that said,
“I’m useless here. A lame duck.” He waved a hand at himself: no badge, no gun, no uniform. “I don’t get out and do
She shook her head. “Take care of yourself. Don’t make more work for us by wrapping your truck around a tree.”
He twitched a smile at her.
Walking down the hallway felt oddly final, as if he were going and not coming back. He paused in the foyer to zip his scarf inside his jacket and heard footsteps behind him. He turned. It was Lyle.
“Where are you going?”
“To find my wife.”
Lyle jammed his hands into his pockets. “We got that BOLO out on ’er. Coast to coast. Describes her as a cop’s wife, so everyone’ll be looking that much harder for her.”
Except, of course, the ones who would assume she was running away from the domestic violence that sometimes erupts in police families. He pulled his gloves from his pocket and tugged them on.
“Russ,” Lyle began.
He held up his hand. “Don’t.”
“Come on. You gotta hear me out.”
“No, I don’t. The only thing I’ve got to do is keep from smashing your face in.” Empty talk. Posturing. He didn’t feel like taking Lyle apart. He just felt sick and tired and dirty. And it was only eight o’clock in the morning.
“She’s alive. That means you’re going to have to deal with it sooner or later.”
“Her, I forgive. You can take a flying fuck.” He turned toward the marble stairs. Lyle grabbed his arm.
Russ spun around. He had a good five inches and forty pounds on MacAuley, but his deputy chief didn’t give an inch.
“I didn’t know you then,” Lyle said, his voice tight. “She was unhappy and lonely, and the only reason-”
“I don’t want to hear this!”
“The only reason we got together was because she was so pissed off at you for bringing her to Millers Kill.” Lyle glanced away. “I figured that out later.”
“Surprisingly, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Russ, get your head out of your ass. You’ve been so busy telling yourself you’re happily married you never opened up your eyes to see what was really going on. And I don’t mean Linda using me to flip you the bird seven years ago. Okay, I’m a son of a whore and you got the right to rearrange my face. I slept with your wife and then I got to know you and respect you and to like you, and I never had the guts to come clean. I’m sorry. Jesus. I can’t say it any more’n that. I’m sorry. But you gotta face the fact that there’s something wrong with
