“Why did he hit you?” she asked.
“Because I stole some files from him. I wanted to read the original reports.”
“I thought you weren’t a thief anymore.”
“I’ve backslid a little,” I admitted.
“And?”
“And Collie confessed to all the other murders but not your sister’s.”
“I know that. Of course I know that. That’s why you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“So why didn’t you look into this five years ago?”
“He only just asked me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
She kskiрaskept the.45 low against the side of her leg, the way the pros did when they walked into a place to knock it over. “He’s crazy.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“And you’re crazy for helping him.”
“Probably,” I said. “Tell me about Rebecca.”
“Tell you what? I don’t know what to say.”
“She was seventeen.”
“That’s right.”
“The report I read said she was being tutored in an advanced physics class that evening. That she and several other students were at a teacher’s home. Mrs. Dan-” I couldn’t remember the name. It was Greek.
“Mrs. Denopolis.”
“Who lived near Autauk Park. Your sister didn’t drive?”
“She jogged. She was on the school track team. She ran everywhere.”
“You must live at least eight or nine miles from the park.”
“For Becky that was nothing. She was a long-distance runner. She’d run down Old Autauk Highway.”
I thought I had a good poker face in place but she must’ve read something in my expression.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I just jogged that way yesterday morning.”
“A lot of people do.”
“Right. Did she ever mention Collie? That she knew him? That he was bothering her? Anything like that?”
“No.”
“Did she mention having any trouble with anyone? An ex-boyfriend?”
“No. I was only twelve but we talked a lot and shared secrets. The same way Sharon and I do now.”
It reminded me that I didn’t know her name. I asked and she said, “Cara.”
“Why aren’t you at school?”
It made her scoff. “What are you, a parole officer? I quit and got my GED. I work part-time at Kohl’s. I’m taking night classes at Suffolk Community.”
“Cara, would it be all right if I called you in case I have any other questions about your sister?”
“I’ve told you everything I can. But if you want to come back you can talk to my parents. I think they might listen. But I’m not sure they could help at all.”
“I doubt anyone can. I’m just spinning my wheels.”
“So am I. That’s how it feels. Like I’m wasting time. That’s why I-” She didn’t have to finish. I knew she meant the pills. She was beginning to tap the gun against the side of her leg. Her agitation was growing worse. I could see the fear in her eyes. It had nothing to do with me. The meds were wearing off. She had to be popping ten or twelve a day. The charge of her emotions was overcoming her, and she needed to deaden it.
“Where’d you get the scrips?”
“Like that’s your business? I stole them from my mother’s ob-gyn.”
“You’ve been on the meds for too long. You’re taking sseрem'too many.”
“I need them.”
“But they’re making you sicker now. You know it’s the truth. You’re taking more and more pills and they’re not working as well.”
“Who are you to say that? You don’t know me.”
“I know when someone is an addict. You need to ease off. Slowly.”
“Maybe I will.”
“You can’t do it on your own. Talk to someone.”
“I think I might. Soon. One of these days.”
“Listen, Cara, one final thing. Even if you’re out of the house for a few minutes, even if you’re only walking to the corner. Lock your door.”
She hadn’t softened while we’d talked. A ribbon of hair had fallen across her face and she brushed it away and it fell back again. She raised the gun. I took a step back and a mean titter spilled from her mouth. “You think I was kidding about using this thing? I hope someone does try something. I hope you come back and try something. Next time I won’t chat. And I was lying about shooting you in the leg or the nuts. If I ever pull the trigger, it’ll be a head shot.”
17
Jack “Fingers” Brown worked out of a bowling alley in Huntington Station. He held court on the last lane and never kept any hardware on the premises. If you wanted a clean, untraceable piece, you came to Fingers. Sometimes the serial numbers were filed off and sometimes they weren’t. It didn’t matter. They either were ripped off from a gun shop, had fallen off an army truck, or were police-academy-cadet fresh.
Collie had used a clean S &W.38 on his mad-dog outing. There were a couple of other guys on the island who might’ve been able to supply a piece like that, but I figured Collie would’ve gone to Fingers first. I wanted to know when Collie had decided to pick up a pistol. Had it been right after he’d left the Elbow Room or right before? Or had he nabbed it weeks in advance, preparing for his decline into the underneath?
Fingers was about fifty, with a smarmy leer, a snow tire around his middle, and a mountain of oiled hair that he kept swept to one side so it looked like he might topple over at any second. He’d been a gunrunner for twenty years or more and got picked up at least once a month by the cops, but they could never hold him for more than a day. He was smart and well connected, and word was he’d ace anyone who even looked like they might rat on him. His public persona of a bowling geek wasn’t a persona. Fingers really did spend several hours a day knocking pins down. I looked around at the signs on the front door as I walked in. They’d been there forever. Senior citizens bowled free on Tuesday nights. Fridays the high school kids got in for half price. Special prices for parties of more than twenty. Ask about discounts.
My family had bowled here when I was a kid. Grey was a natural who regularly broke 250. My mother was damn good too. She had a deceptively soft way of throwing the ball. It would drop from her hand and seem to barely have enough power to make it all the way down the lane, but once it got to the pins they practically exploded. Mal couldn’t break 100 to save his life, and I wasn’t much better. Collie had always been competitive but never with himself. Only with me. So lonstice be T g as he beat me by even a pin, he was happy. My old man would just sit and watch the rest of us and laugh while Gramp hung around in the bar and snatched enough pocket change to pay for his beer.
It was twelve-thirty. Fingers never came in before noon. He was working a four-six split in the fifth frame when I stepped up and sat behind his entourage. His right-hand man was an ex-con leg breaker named Higgins who stood six-three, weighed 230 of mostly muscle, and wore sunglasses day and night so you could never tell when he had a bead on you. It wasn’t a bad guess to figure he was always watching. Word was he used a beaver-tail sap. I kept my hands on my knees.
Two young women were chattering, clapping, and urging Fingers on. They might have been twins or were just
