drew a line from one name to the other.
Connection One.
Perlmutter wrote out Freddy Sykes’s name, bottom left. The victim of a grievous assault. He wrote
But nothing really connected the four cases. Nothing connected the two disappearing men to the work of Odd Job’s offspring. Except perhaps for one thing:
The Ford Windstar.
Jack Lawson had been driving a blue Ford Windstar when he disappeared. Mini Odd Job had been driving a blue Ford Windstar when he left the Sykes residence and shot Swain.
Granted this was a tenuous connection at best. Saying “Ford Windstar” in this suburb was like saying “implant” at a strip club. It wasn’t much to go on, but when you add in the history of this town, the fact that stable fathers do not really just go missing, that this much activity never happens in a town like Kasselton… no, it wasn’t a strong tie, but it wasn’t far off for Perlmutter to draw a conclusion:
All of this was related.
Perlmutter had no idea how this was all related, and he really didn’t want to think about it too much quite yet. Let the techies and lab guys do their jobs first. Let them scour the Sykes residence for fingerprints and hairs. Let the artist finish the sketch. Let Veronique Baltrus, their resident computer weenie and an honest-to-God knockout, sift through the Sykes computer. It was simply too early to make a guess.
“Captain?”
It was Daley.
“What’s up?”
“We found Rocky Conwell’s car.”
“Where?”
“You know the Park-n-Ride on Route 17?”
Perlmutter took off his reading glasses. “The one down the street?”
Daley nodded. “I know. It doesn’t make sense. We know he left the state, right?”
“Who found it?”
“Pepe and Pashaian.”
“Tell them to secure the area,” he said, rising. “We’ll check the vehicle out ourselves.”
chapter 23
Grace threw on a Coldplay CD for the ride, hoping it’d distract her. It did and it didn’t. On one level she understood exactly what was happening to her with no need for interpretation. But the truth, in a sense, was too stark. To face it straight on would paralyze. That was where the surrealism probably derived from-self-preservation, the need to protect and even filter what one saw. Surrealism gave her the strength to go on, to pursue the truth, to find her husband, as opposed to the eye of reality, stark and naked and alone, which made her want to crouch into a small ball or maybe scream until they took her away.
Her cell phone rang. She instinctively glanced at the display before hitting the hands-free. Again, no, not Jack. It was Cora. Grace picked up and said, “Hey.”
“I won’t classify the news as bad or good, so let me put it this way. Do you want the weird news first or the really weird news?”
“Weird.”
“I can’t reach Gus of the small wee-wee. He won’t answer his calls. I keep getting his voice mail.”
Coldplay started singing, appropriately enough, a haunting number entitled “Shiver.” Grace kept both hands on the wheel, perfectly placed at ten and two o’clock. She stayed in the middle lane and drove exactly the speed limit. Cars flew by on both her right and left.
“And the really weird news?”
“Remember how we tried to see the calls from two nights ago? I mean, the ones Jack might have made?”
“Right.”
“Well, I called the cell phone company. I pretended I was you. I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”
“Correct assumption.”
“Right. Anyway, it didn’t matter. The only call Jack’s made in the past three days was to your cell phone yesterday.”
“The call he made when I was at the police station.”
“Right.”
“So what’s weird about that?”
“Nothing. The weird part was on your home phone.”
Silence. She stayed on the Merritt Parkway, her hands on the wheel at ten and two o’clock.
“What about it?”
“You know about the call to his sister’s office?” Cora asked.
“Yeah. I found that one by hitting redial.”
“And his sister-what’s her name again?”
“Sandra Koval.”
“Sandra Koval, right. She told you that she wasn’t there. That they never talked.”
“Yes.”
“The phone call lasted nine minutes.”
A small shudder skipped through Grace. She forced her hands to stay at two and ten. “Ergo she lied.”
“It would seem.”
“So what did Jack say to her?”
“And what did she say back?”
“And why did she lie about it?”
“Sorry to have to tell you,” Cora said.
“No, it’s good.”
“How do you figure?”
“It’s a lead. Before this, Sandra was a dead end. Now we know she’s somehow involved.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” Grace said. “Confront her, I guess.”
They said good-bye and Grace hung up. She drove a little farther, trying to run the scenarios through her head. “Trouble” came on the CD player. She pulled into an Exxon station. New Jersey didn’t have self-serve, so for a moment Grace just sat in her car, not realizing that she had to fill it up herself.
She bought a bottle of cold water at the station’s mini-mart and dropped the change into a charity can. She wanted to think this through some more, this connection to Jack’s sister, but there wasn’t time for finesse here.
Grace remembered the number of the Burton and Crimstein law firm. She took out her phone and pressed in the digits. Two rings later she asked to be connected to Sandra Koval’s line. She was surprised when Sandra herself said, “Hello?”
“You lied to me.”
There was no reply. Grace walked back toward her car.
“The call lasted nine minutes. You talked to Jack.”
More silence.
“What’s going on, Sandra?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did Jack call you?”
“I’m going to hang up now. Please don’t try to contact me again.”
“Sandra?”
“You said he called you already.”
“Yes.”
“My advice is to wait until he calls again.”
“I don’t want your advice, Sandra. I want to know what he said to you.”
“I think you should stop.”
“Stop what?”
“You’re on a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
