Lia flicked through the notebook. Most preschoolers had handwriting neater than Forester’s. Nor were his notes particularly informative or complete. An entire page would be devoted to a time—10:30, say — that appeared to be for an appointment, though neither a date nor a place was recorded.
The words “Pine Plains” were written at the top of the last page. At the bottom of the page, were numbers and one word: “84, Parkway, 44, 82.”
“Is this some sort of code?” Lia asked, passing the sheets to Dean.
John Mandarin, the Secret Service special agent in charge of both the McSweeney investigation and the inquiry into Forester’s death, frowned.
“We think those are directions. Interstate 84, Taconic Parkway, U.S. Route 44, and State Route 82. It would be how to get to Pine Plains.”
“But he didn’t go to Pine Plains,” said Dean. “He went to Danbury.”
“Nearest approved hotel,” said Mandarin. “He would’ve gone first thing the next morning. Had an appointment with the police chief there.”
“Is this the last notebook?” asked Lia.
“It’s the only notebook. Far as we know.” Mandarin was the classic Secret Service agent. He was average height, weight, and build. While his last name indicated that there were Chinese ancestors somewhere in his family’s past, his face mixed Asian and Eu ro pe an characteristics so well that it would have been impossible to place him in any ge ne tic pool without a DNA test. He wore a brown suit, a white shirt that appeared to be graying around the collar, black shoes and socks. His accent was as bland as a midwest-ern television announcer’s, and when he spoke he kept his hands perfectly still. In total, Mandarin was a veritable Zelig who could fade into even the most convoluted background.
“Can we see another of Agent Forester’s notebooks?” asked Lia. “Something to compare it to?”
“I have to tell you, we really don’t see much of a connection between Forester’s death and the McSweeney assassination,” said Mandarin. “State police called Forester’s death a suicide. FBI looked at it and they agreed.”
“What do you think?” Dean asked.
“Officially, the matter is still open. But unofficially…” He shook his head.
“Our angle is the e-mails,” said Dean.
“Yeah, I know. Another wild-goose chase.” Something about the way Dean stared at the Secret Service agent reminded Lia she loved him. It was an intrusive, unwelcome thought — a distraction when she should be working — but it was difficult to banish.
Mandarin went to a nearby file cabinet to see what he could find. He returned with two pouchlike folders. Besides typed reports and disks, there were stenographers’ notebooks filled with notes.
Lia checked the pads. If anything, there was even less detail in them.
“Are you positive this is the only notebook he used for this case?” Lia asked, pointing to the one Dean still had in his hand.
“He never did anything in Pine Plains,” said Mandarin.
“Killed himself first. Believe me, we’ve gone through his things. It wasn’t in the room, or at his house. Lousy business,” added the agent. “His wife seemed to be a bitch, but he’s got kids, you know? He wanted custody, and she wouldn’t budge. Probably why he pulled the plug.”
Mandarin pressed his lips together, then looked at the floor. He had the air of a man who would trade half a year’s salary to get another assignment.
“Can we have a copy of the notebook?” Lia asked.
“Yeah, I guess. Take a couple of days. You’ll have to fill out a form and then—”
Lia snatched the notebook from Dean’s hand and started toward the copy machine.
“What are you doing?” asked Mandarin.
“Filling out the paperwork,” she said, pulling up the machine’s cover to begin copying.
20
Amanda Rauci got up from the couch and walked to the kitchen. Her eyes had finally stopped burning, but her head still felt as if it were filled with straw. Her whole body did.
The bottle of Tanqueray had only a finger’s worth of gin left in the bottom.
God, she thought, did I drink all that?
Amanda rubbed her forehead, then poured the last of the gin into her glass. She hadn’t gone out of the apartment since coming back after discovering Forester’s body. She hadn’t even gone to the funeral.
She couldn’t have trusted herself. She was sure his ex-wife had driven him to this.
Amanda drained the glass in a gulp. Then she went to the window in her living room and pushed it open. The air smelled damp, as if it was going to rain soon. A motorcycle revved in the distance. As it passed, she heard the soft chatter of some children walking on the trail that ran behind her condo.
Why would Jerry kill himself?
He wouldn’t. She knew in her gut that he wouldn’t. There was just no way — no possible way — that he would kill himself.
Maybe if he didn’t think he’d see his boys.
But he’d never do this to them. Never.
Or to her.
But what other explanation was there?
A fresh wave of self-pity swept over her. Even though she knew that’s what it was, even though she hated the emotion more than anything, it left her helpless. She stared blankly out the window, eyes unfocused.
“He didn’t kill himself,” she said finally. “He didn’t.” Amanda pushed the window closed. If she’d said those words once, she’d said them a thousand times in the past week and a half.
Amanda’s vacation had a few more days to run; then she’d be back at work. She had to pull herself together before then. She had to stop drinking.
“I’ll try another shower,” she told herself. “And then make a plan.”
21
Lia let Dean ask the questions. Mrs. Forester seemed to respond better to him. She was almost flirting, in fact.
Mrs. Forester readily admitted that she and her husband had been in the pro cess of getting a divorce. Nor did she hide the fact that they hadn’t gotten along for several years.
“Does it make sense to you that he killed himself?” asked Dean. They were all sitting in the small dining room, around a battered, colonial-style dinette set.
She picked a non ex is tent piece of lint from her sweater before answering. “No, Mr. Dean, it doesn’t.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he did kill himself. But honestly, it wouldn’t have been over the divorce. Jerry wasn’t emotional like that. We didn’t get along, and this was the logical next step. Divorce, not suicide.”
“Was he concerned about custody or money?”
“He was always concerned about money. As for custody, he could care less about the boys.”
“When will they be home?” Dean asked.
“I’d prefer if you left them alone,” said Mrs. Forester. “I’d greatly prefer it.”
“All right,” said Dean.
The boys’ impressions — and their mother’s, for that matter — weren’t what he and Lia had come for. Still, she found it interesting that no one thought Special Agent Forester was the sort of man who would take his own
