cropped close and slicked down.
His manner was upbeat, even after Grace explained that she wanted to talk to him about his murdered son. She looked for some signs of devastation-a wetness in the eye, a tremor in the voice-but Bobby Dodd showed nothing. Okay, yes, Grace was dealing in heavy generalities, but could it be that death and big-time tragedy did not hit the elderly as hard as the rest of us? Grace wondered. The elderly could be easily agitated by the little stuff-traffic delays, lines at airports, poor service. But it was as if the big things never quite reached them. Was there a strange selfishness that came with age? Was there something about being closer to the inevitable-having that perspective-that made one either internalize, block, or brush off the big calamities? Can frailty not handle the big blows, and thus a defense mechanism, a survival instinct, runs interference?
Bobby Dodd wanted to help, but he really didn’t know much. Grace could see that almost right away. His son had visited twice a month. Yes, Bob’s stuff had been packed up and sent to him, but he hadn’t bothered opening it.
“It’s in storage,” Lindsey told Grace.
“Do you mind if I look through it?”
Bobby Dodd patted her leg. “Not at all, child.”
“We’ll need to ship it to you,” Lindsey said. “The storage facility is off site.”
“It’s very important.”
“I can have it overnighted.”
“Thank you.”
Lindsey left them alone.
“Mr. Dodd-”
“Bobby, please.”
“Bobby,” Grace said. “When was the last time your son visited you?”
“Three days before he was killed.”
The words came quickly and without thought. She finally saw a flicker behind the facade, and she wondered about her earlier observations, about old age making tragedy less hurtful-or does it merely make the mask more deft?
“Did he seem different at all?”
“Different?”
“More distracted, anything like that.”
“No.” Then: “Or at least I didn’t notice, if he did.”
“What did you talk about?”
“We never have much to say. Sometimes we talk about his momma. Most of the time we just watch TV. They got cable here, you know.”
“Did Jillian come with him?”
“No.”
He said that too quickly. Something in his face closed down.
“Did she ever come?”
“Sometimes.”
“But not the last time?”
“That’s right.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“That? No,
“What did?”
He looked off and bit his lower lip. “She wasn’t at the funeral.”
Grace thought that she must have heard wrong. Bobby Dodd nodded as if he could read her thoughts.
“That’s right. His own wife.”
“Were they having marital issues?”
“If they were, Bob never said anything to me.”
“Did they have any children?”
“No.” He adjusted the ascot and glanced away for a moment. “Why are you bringing this all up, Mrs. Lawson?”
“Grace, please.”
He did not reply. He looked at her with eyes that spoke of wisdom and sadness. Maybe the answer to elderly coldness is far simpler: Those eyes had seen bad. They didn’t want to see more.
“My own husband is missing,” Grace said. “I think, I don’t know, I think they’re connected.”
“What’s your husband’s name?”
“Jack Lawson.”
He shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. She asked if he had a phone number or any idea how she could contact Jillian Dodd. He shook his head again. They headed to the elevator. Bobby didn’t know the code, so an orderly escorted them down. They rode from floor three to one in silence.
When they reached the door, Grace thanked him for his time.
“Your husband,” he said. “You love him, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
“Hope you’re stronger than me.” Bobby Dodd walked away then. Grace thought of that silver-framed picture in his room, of his Maudie, and then she showed herself out.
chapter 24
Perlmutter realized that they had no legal right to open Rocky Conwell’s car. He pulled Daley over. “Is DiBartola on duty?”
“No.”
“Call Rocky Conwell’s wife. Ask her if she had a set of keys to the car. Tell her we found it and want her permission to go through it.”
“She’s the ex-wife. Does she have any standing?”
“Enough for our purposes,” Perlmutter said.
“Okay.”
It took Daley no time. The wife cooperated. They stopped by the Maple Garden apartments on Maple Street. Daley ran up and retrieved the keys. Five minutes later they pulled into the Park-n-Ride.
There was no reason to be suspicious of foul play. If anything, finding the car here, at this depot, would lead one to the opposite conclusion. People parked here so that they could go elsewhere. One bus whisked the weary to the heart of midtown Manhattan. Another brought you to the northern tip of the famed isle, near the George Washington Bridge. Other buses took you to the three nearby major airports-JFK, LaGuardia, Newark Liberty-and ultimately anywhere in the world. So no, finding Rocky Conwell’s car did not lead one to suspect foul play.
At least, not at first.
Pepe and Pashaian, the two cops who were watching the car, had not seen it. Perlmutter’s eyes slid toward Daley. Nothing on his face either. They all looked complacent, expecting this would lead to a dead end.
Pepe and Pashaian hoisted their belts and sauntered toward Perlmutter. “Hey, Captain.”
Perlmutter kept his eyes on the car.
“You want us to start questioning the ticket agents?” Pepe asked. “Maybe one of them remembers selling Conwell a ticket.”
“I don’t think so,” Perlmutter said.
The three younger men caught something in their superior’s voice. They looked at each other and shrugged. Perlmutter did not explain.
Conwell’s vehicle was a Toyota Celica. A small car, old model. But the size and age didn’t really matter. Neither did the fact that there was rust along the wheel trims, that two hubcaps were gone, that the other two were so dirty you could not tell where metal ended and rubber began. No, none of that bothered Perlmutter.
He stared at the back of the car and thought about those small-town sheriffs in horror movies, you know the ones, where something is very wrong, where townspeople start acting strangely and the body count keeps rising and the sheriff, that good, smart, loyal, out-of-his-league law enforcement officer, is powerless to do anything about it. That was what Perlmutter felt now because the back of the car, the trunk area, was low.
Much too low.
There was only one explanation. Something heavy was in the trunk.
It could be anything, of course. Rocky Conwell had been a football player. He probably lifted weights. Maybe he was transferring a set of dumbbells. The answer could be as simple as that, good old Rocky moving his weights. Maybe he was bringing them back to the garden apartment on Maple Street, the one where his ex lived. She had worried about him. They were reconciling. Maybe Rocky loaded his car-okay, not his whole car, just his trunk, because Perlmutter could see that there was nothing in the backseat-anyway, maybe he loaded it up to move back in with her.
