Lia decided to take the dispatcher’s advice and walked over to the bakery, which turned out to be a cafe whose ambiance straddled country quaint and urban sophisticate, with a strong whiff of fresh-baked desserts to hold it all together. On her way in, Rockman started giving her an update; Lia pulled out her phone as she sat down.
A security camera at Penn Station in New York City had picked up a woman who looked like Amanda Rauci near the platform where the Rhinecliff train had stopped that morning. She had gone to the ticket counter and bought a ticket to Baltimore.
“Paid cash. No luggage,” added Rockman. “We’re waiting to check the tapes from the Baltimore station. We’ve already alerted the FBI and Secret Service.”
“Why would she go to Baltimore?”
“You tell me.”
“The people around here say that if you’re going to New York, the train from Poughkeepsie is cheaper. It also runs more often.”
“Rauci wasn’t from around there, was she?” said Rockman, who seemed annoyed that Lia was questioning him.
“Was Chief Ball with her in the video?”
“Ball?”
“They’re both gone.” Lia frowned at the approaching waitress. “Ball left before the police dispatcher got in, which means no later than eight a.m. Amanda Rauci’s car was at the Rhinecliff train station early enough to get the best spot in the lot. So maybe they left together.”
“Are you sure he’s gone? Maybe he just took a mental health day?”
“This doesn’t look like a place where you’d need mental health days,” answered Lia. The waitress was standing over her. There were no menus here; customers ordered from the blackboard, or maybe memory. “I’ll get back to you,” Lia told Rockman, pretending to turn off the phone.
Dinner over — the soup and sandwich were good, and the chocolate ganache cake to die for — Lia went over to the chief’s house to see if Rockman was right; maybe Ball was just blowing off the day.
Not that he seemed the type.
If Pine Plains as a whole reminded Lia of the old television series
“I was wondering if Chief Ball was here,” said Lia. “Or when he would be back?”
Mrs. Ball stared at Lia, then shook her head and started back inside, walking as if in a daze. Lia followed her inside to a paisley-covered couch in the living room. The decor was American colonial circa 1976, so out of fashion it looked hip.
“Are you all right?” Lia asked.
“I thought. Oh. I thought you were coming to tell me that the chief had been, had been—”
“Killed?”
Mrs. Ball nodded.
“Where is he?” asked Lia.
“Don’t you know?”
“Why would I know?”
“He said he was on a case. That I couldn’t talk about it.
He told me right after you came last night. I thought he was working with you.”
Lia began drawing out as much as she could from Mrs.
Ball. Being gentle was difficult, not so much because it meant being nice, but because it meant being patient, asking small questions that led to other small ones. Being patient had always been extremely difficult for Lia; her first-grade report card had complained that she always wanted to rush to the next thing.
“Has the chief helped out on big cases before?” Lia asked.
“About a month ago. Otherwise, not in a long, long time.
He’s needed here.”
“Who did he work with?”
“I don’t know. He’s very… tight.” Mrs. Ball shook her head.
“Did he say where he went?”
She shook her head again. Lia came back to the question several times, tacking back and forth. Finally convinced that Mrs. Ball simply didn’t know, Lia changed her tactics.
“Where did he go the last time?” she asked. “Maybe that will help.”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he use credit cards, or take a plane, anything like that? The receipts would tell us.”
Tears puckered in Mrs. Ball’s eyes. “There’s something here you’re not telling me. He’s hurt, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” said Lia. “But I am a little concerned. I
“He said he was working with the
Ball, who was struggling not to show her concern. “That’s what he calls you people. But I thought it was you.”
“Do you know this woman?”
Lia took out her PDA and brought up a photo of Amanda Rauci. Mrs. Ball shook her head.
“How about this man?” asked Lia, showing her a picture of Forester.
“No.”
“This was a Secret Service agent who wanted to talk to your husband about something, but he died first.”
“That’s the man who killed himself?” said Mrs. Ball.
“Yes.”
“What a shame. Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Did your husband have any theories?”
“You’d have to ask him. I’m not a policeman.”
“But maybe he had an idea.”
Mrs. Ball shook her head. “He was surprised, too. He read the story a couple of times, so I know he was surprised.
Usually, he doesn’t even bother with the paper, except to skim it. And for sports.”
“Lia,” said Rubens, popping in on the Desk Three network. “Mention Vietnam. See if he discussed a connection there. It was on the news last night — mention it.” Lia did so, asking Mrs. Ball if she had seen the stories about Vietnam being implicated in a possible attempt on Senator McSweeney. Of course she had, she answered.
And then Mrs. Ball’s face grew pale.
“Are they after my husband?”
“I don’t know,” said Lia.
“He was in Vietnam.”
“Did he serve with Senator McSweeney?”
“No, but he knew who he was.”
“Does your husband know him now?”
“Oh yes. Everyone knows Senator McSweeney.”
“Real well?”
“Well, he likes to pretend he does. But you know. The senator is a senator, and a police chief is just a police chief.” Lia let the matter drop, and went back to trying to find a clue about where the chief might have gone. It took a few more minutes, but Mrs. Ball agreed to let Lia look at the credit card statements.
“Use the camera attachment on the PDA,” said Rockman as Lia followed Mrs. Ball to the spare bedroom they used as a home office. “Get pictures of everything.” No kidding, thought Lia.
“This was my son’s room,” said Mrs. Ball. “We felt terrible redecorating. I did. The chief just said, ‘He’s out of
