Rivers said, “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Like hell! You can’t expect me to believe it’s just coincidence that the reporter who has been calling me day and night and showed up at my mom’s house because she was investigating Megan’s disappearance is dead. Murdered.Is that what you want me to think?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Neither do I. Charity was all over Megan’s disappearance. Now she’s dead? Murdered? There has to be a link.”
“We’re working on it, but haven’t discovered a connection yet,” Rivers said.
“Well, find out.” Her eyes sparked, and she sent Mendoza a scathing glance. “Can’t you do something?”
“We’re working—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re ‘working on it, the investigation is ongoing. ’ I heard. Well, do something more, will you?” Lips tight, she spun back to face Rivers. “This smells, Detective, and let me tell you, it smells rotten.”
With that, she turned on her heel and was out the door.
* * *
From his chair at his desk, James asked, “You heard anything about Gus?”
Bobby stood and stretched, his back popping loudly. “A little.”
They’d had a short meeting about delivery of the houses under construction. The consensus had been that not one of the three could be delivered before Christmas due to (a) delays in the delivery of everything from cabinets to special-ordered plumbing fixtures and lights and (b) the changing work schedules as the holiday approached.
“Bruce called him this morning. Surgery went okay, I guess,” Bobby said as he squared his Mariners cap on his head. “They were able to stitch him up, and the nerve damage seemed minimal, at least that’s what Porter got out of it, but it’s hard to tell. Gus was probably still doped up on painkillers when they talked, and it’ll take time to see what kind of range of motion Gus has with his fingers.”
“How long will he be in the hospital?”
Bobby shrugged. “Bruce didn’t say. Don’t know if Gus knows for sure.” He eyed James. “You know he’s a loose cannon.”
“Jardine?” He rolled the plans for the container house and snapped a rubber band around them. “Yeah.”
Bobby looked about to say more, then held his tongue as he reached for the door.
“What?”
“Well . . . this is just hearsay, y’know, but one of the guys in the shop—Lloyd—he was workin’ near Gus, and he thinks . . . God, this is crazy . . . but he thinks it looked like Gus shoved his hand right into the saw.”
“What?”
“I know, I told you it was crazy. Who would do such a thing?” He scrabbled in a breast pocket of his work shirt for a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
“Why would he want to injure himself?” James asked, thinking of Leon Palleja’s earlier comments along the same lines.
“Who knows? It’s just what I heard.”
“From who?”
“Oscar Aaronsen,” Bobby admitted with a scowl. “He, Oscar, I mean, was working the skill saw, not far from where Gus was cuttin’ tile, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gus adjust a tile, obviously at the wrong angle, and then what does he do? Close his eyes and ram the tile at the wrong angle so that the blade goes right between his fingers and he starts screamin’ and cussin’ and . . . oh, well, like I said, it’s freakin’ nuts. Just a rumor.”
Was it?
“Forget I said anything. It’s gossip. That’s all,” Bobby said, and he took off, but James wondered. He felt as if he were at the vortex of some strange whirlpool where nothing was as it seemed and reality was blurred.
He stared through the windows to the shop, where work went on as usual: Carpenters, electricians, and plumbers milled around the houses being constructed; saws screamed; and rock music thudded. It all appeared the same, but it was different. Vastly so. Now beneath the calm exterior of a normal workday lurked the presence of something darker, something where people went missing or worse, or men risked life and limb to intentionally mutilate themselves.
Why?
Of course, no answer came to him. He switched on the small television mounted over a file cabinet, the volume just loud enough to mute some of the noise from the shop, and turned to the stack of invoices on his desk.
The invoices swam in front of his eyes, however, and he found concentration impossible. He rubbed his jaw, felt the tracks of the claw marks on his cheek beneath his beard, and wondered about Megan. Guilt tore at him. His actions, taking up with Sophia, had been the spark for her anger, the reason she’d attacked him, the impetus for her driving out of Riggs Crossing to who-knew-where. He hadn’t physically assaulted her, but his actions had propelled her out of his door and into the night. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened. Was there something more?
And now Rebecca was in his life again.
No—that was wrong. She’d made that pretty clear. The damned thing of it was, he wanted to see her again—despite all the mess of their lives, of . . . and that’s when he heard her voice.
For a second, he thought he was imagining it. He glanced up sharply and focused on the small television screen, and there she was, standing on the steps of the sheriff ’s office and asking for help in finding Megan, even offering up a reward. Snatching up the remote, he increased the volume, then kicked back his chair and rounded his desk to plant himself in front of the small screen. His chest constricted at the sight of her in a long coat and boots, wind pulling at her hair as she spoke, flanked by cops.
For a second, he lost his concentration—the boots, the hair at her nape, the . . . and then whatever wayward thought had pulled his attention away disappeared, and he was caught up in watching Rebecca, chin angled, eyes direct, pleading for the safety of Megan. His heart twisted
