Perlmutter jangled the keys as he moved closer to the Toyota Celica. Daley, Pepe, and Pashaian hung back. Perlmutter glanced down at the set of keys. Rocky’s wife-he thought that her name was Lorraine but he couldn’t be sure-had a Penn State football helmet key chain. It looked old and scraped up. The Nittany Lion was barely visible. Perlmutter wondered what she thought about when she looked at the key chain, why she still used it.
He stopped at the trunk and sniffed the air. Not a hint. He put the key in the lock and turned. The trunk’s lock popped open, the sound echoing. He began to lift the trunk. The air escaping was almost audible. And now, yes, the smell was unmistakable.
Something large had been squished into the trunk, like an oversize pillow. Without warning it sprang free like a giant jack-in-the-box. Perlmutter jumped back as the head fell out first, smacking the pavement hard.
Didn’t matter, of course. Rocky Conwell was already dead.
chapter 25
Now what?
Grace was starved for one thing. She drove over the George Washington Bridge, took the Jones Road exit, and stopped to grab a bite at a Chinese restaurant called, interestingly enough, Baumgart’s. She ate in silence, feeling as lonely as she had ever felt, and tried to hold herself together. What had happened? The day before yesterday-was it really only then?-she had picked up photographs at Photomat. That was all. Life was good. She had a husband she adored and two wonderful, inquisitive kids. She had time to paint. They all had their health, enough money in the bank. And then she had seen a photograph, an old one, and now…
Grace had almost forgotten about Josh the Fuzz Pellet.
He was the one who developed the roll of film. He was the one who mysteriously left the store not long after she picked up the pictures. He had to be the one, she was sure, who put that damn photograph in the middle of her pack.
She grabbed her cell phone, asked directory assistance for the number of the Photomat in Kasselton, and even paid the extra fee to be directly connected. On the third ring, the phone was picked up.
“Photomat.”
Grace said nothing. No question about it. She would recognize that bored yah-dude slur anywhere. It was Fuzz Pellet Josh. He was back at the store.
She considered just hanging up, but maybe, somehow, that would-she didn’t know-tip him off somehow. Make him run. She changed her voice, added a little extra lilt, and asked what time they closed.
“Like, six,” Fuzz Pellet told her.
She thanked him, but he had hung up. The check was already on the table. She paid and tried not to sprint to her car. Route 4 was wide open. She sped past the plethora of malls and found a parking spot not far from the Photomat. Her cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Carl Vespa.”
“Oh, hi.”
“I’m sorry about yesterday. About springing Jimmy X on you like that.”
She debated telling him about Jimmy’s late night visit, decided now was not the time. “It’s okay.”
“I know you don’t care, but it looks like Wade Larue is going to get released.”
“Maybe it’s the right thing,” she said.
“Maybe.” But Vespa sounded far from convinced. “You sure you don’t need any protection?”
“Positive.”
“If you change your mind…”
“I’ll call.”
There was a funny pause. “Any word from your husband?”
“No.”
“Does he have a sister?”
Grace changed hands. “Yes. Why?”
“Her name Sandra Koval?”
“Yes. What does she have to do with this?”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
He hung up. Grace stared at the phone. What the hell was that all about? She shook her head. It would be useless to call back. She tried to refocus.
Grace grabbed her purse and hurry-limped toward the Photomat. Her leg hurt. Walking was a chore. It felt as though someone were on the ground clinging to her ankle and she had to drag him along. Grace kept moving. She was three stores away when a man in a business suit stepped in her path.
“Ms. Lawson?”
A weird thought struck Grace as she looked at this stranger: His sandy hair was nearly the same color as his suit. It almost looked liked they were both made from the same material.
“May I help you?” she said.
The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph. He held it up to her face so that she could see it. “Did you post this on the Web?”
It was the cropped mystery photograph of the blonde and the redhead.
“Who are you?”
The sandy-haired man said, “My name is Scott Duncan. I’m with the U.S. attorney’s office.” He pointed to the blonde, the one who’d been looking up at Jack, the one with the X across her face.
“And this,” Scott Duncan said, “is a picture of my sister.”
chapter 26
Perlmutter had broken the news to Lorraine Conwell as gently as he could.
He had delivered bad news plenty of times. Usually it involved car accidents on Route 4 or the Garden State Parkway. Lorraine Conwell had exploded into tears when he told her, but now the numb had seeped in and dried her eyes.
The stages of grief: Supposedly the first is denial. That was wrong. The first is just the opposite: Total acceptance. You hear the bad news and you understand exactly what is being said to you. You understand that your loved one-your spouse, your parent, your child-will never come home, that they are gone for good, that their life is over, and that you will never, ever, see them again. You understand that in a flash. Your legs buckle. Your heart gives out.
That was the first step-not just acceptance, not just understanding, but total truth. Human beings are not built to withstand that kind of hurt. That then is when the denial begins. Denial floods in quickly, salving the wounds or at least covering them. But there is still that moment, mercifully quick, the real Stage One, when you hear the news and stare into the abyss, and horrible as it is, you understand everything.
Lorraine Conwell sat ramrod. There was a quiver in her lips. Her eyes were dry. She looked small and alone and it took all Perlmutter had not to put his arms around her and pull her in close.
“Rocky and me,” she said. “We were going to get back together.”
Perlmutter nodded, encouraging.
“It’s my fault, you know. I made Rocky leave. I shouldn’t have.” She looked up at him with those violet eyes. “He was different when we met, you know? He had dreams then. He was so sure of himself. But when he couldn’t play ball anymore, it just ate away at him. I couldn’t live with that.”
Perlmutter nodded again. He wanted to help her out, wanted to stay in her company, but he really did not have time for the unabridged life story. He needed to move this along and get out of here. “Was there anyone who wanted to hurt Rocky? Did he have enemies or anything like that?”
She shook her head. “No. No one.”
“He spent time in prison.”
“Yes. It was stupid. He got into a fight in a bar. It got out of hand.”
Perlmutter looked over at Daley. They knew about the fight. They were already on that, seeing if his victim had sought late revenge. It seemed doubtful.
“Was Rocky working?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In Newark. He worked at the Budweiser plant. The one near the airport.”
“You called our office yesterday,” Perlmutter said.
She nodded, her eyes staring straight ahead.
“You spoke to an Officer DiBartola.”
