Chapter 9
“Just to be clear,” I add, “I’m not convinced Ruck was telling the truth. But I want Halligan to know I’m now seriously considering that possibility—and I want to see what he does about it besides talking to some kind of profiler.”
Logan starts to say something, then swivels around in his chair, obviously checking to confirm that we still have the room to ourselves. And we do.
“I’m totally in line with you,” he says, turning back around but lowering his voice.
“Meaning you think the killer could still be out there?”
“Yeah, possibly. And what’s the worst that could happen if we press for a new investigation? The cops either do enough digging to prove that Ruck really was guilty, or they learn it was someone else.”
I bet Logan’s been thinking this way since we left police headquarters but was tiptoeing around with me, trying to sense where my head was at.
“Since you’ve had most of the contact with Halligan, can you let him know where we stand?” I ask.
“Yup, first thing tomorrow.”
Fatigue is starting to creep up on me again, but there’s a question I need to ask so that it won’t be throbbing in my head all night like a toothache.
“Do you think we should have pushed harder years ago?” My voice catches as I say it. “And not been so quick to believe it was Ruck once we heard about him?”
Logan shakes his head. “Honestly, no. The MO was the same as the two Plattsburgh cases, and he’d been right here in town when Mel died.”
“But it could all be a coincidence, right? A killer who just happened to operate the way Ruck did?”
“If it turns out he didn’t do it, then coincidence would be the first explanation . . . Or maybe what you suggested when I was in Uruguay—a copycat. I don’t think it’s likely, but it might be time to consider that, too.”
He clearly misunderstood me last week.
“I brought up the word copycat because I wondered if you were thinking that way, not because I was. I’m still not. As you said, only Sailor was dead by the time Mel was killed, and no one was talking about that case yet. How would a killer have known what to copy?”
“Right, of course. It’s too far-fetched.”
I’ve been letting my gaze bounce around a bit, but now I look directly into Logan’s eyes. Though his expression gives nothing away, I’m sure he’s just jumped to the same thought I have.
“Do you think it was someone Mel knew?” I ask.
He steeples his hands and presses them against his lips, taps a few times, then drops them into his lap.
“You mean like Jack?” he says.
I nod. It makes sense for Jack Lawler’s name to cross our minds right now.
He was Melanie’s boyfriend at the time, or rather, her ex because, as she’d told us without explanation, they’d split soon after the start of the school year.
The police talked to him more than once, and he soon became grist for the fast-churning campus rumor mill.
Logan and I felt torn about him at the time.
We knew that, statistically, male exes kill their former girlfriends and wives in not-small numbers, but that’s mostly when they’re enraged over being dumped, and Jack made it clear to us and others that he was the one who’d broken things off.
Plus, he had a decent—though not airtight—alibi for the night of the murder.
He’d been on campus, he said, and someone confirmed seeing him fairly close to the window of time when Mel must have been killed.
And then, of course, it all became a moot point when Ruck was arrested in Plattsburgh several weeks later. Jack receded into the background for us, not much more than a blip in Mel’s short life.
“Yes, Jack,” I say. “His name is bound to surface again, right?”
“I would assume so, though if they reopen this thing, they’re also going to be looking at guys with records around here. Sexual predators, Peeping Toms . . .”
In other words, more compelling suspects. Besides his apparent lack of motive, Jack, the self-possessed, slightly broody aspiring actor, hadn’t seemed up to such a brutal act of violence.
Though how can you ever be sure of what someone is capable of? Perhaps Jack had suddenly wanted Mel back, but she refused to take him.
Or there’d been someone else with a hatred for our enchanting daughter. We should have asked more questions then.
“I wonder what happened to Jack,” I say.
“He’s in New York, waiting tables and still trying to make it as an actor.”
I pull back in surprise. “How do you—?”
“I spoke to him. He heard about the reception somehow and decided to come.”
“What?” I exclaim, not only taken aback but annoyed as well. “You’re only telling me this now, as I’m bringing up his name?”
“All my focus has been on the meeting today, and he only confirmed late last night. I told him the event was really something for the press and college faculty and staff, not friends and former classmates, but he pushed, so I agreed. I mean, the guy had a few tough weeks back then, everyone whispering behind his back before the cops zeroed in on Ruck.”
I sigh, letting my irritation dissipate. “But how do you feel now about him coming—in light of what we’ve heard today?”
“I think it’s a good thing. How he reacts will be telling—and I’ll let Halligan know he’ll be in the vicinity.”
“Okay.” I’m not looking forward to setting eyes on Jack again, but Logan’s right. Best to keep possible enemies close.
I drain the last of my wine and set the empty glass down. “I think I’m going to read on my phone down here for a little while. It’s good for us to be talking about all this, but I’m spent on that front right now.”
“Right, right,” Logan says, catching the hint and standing up. “Good night, then.”
“By the way,” I say before he departs, “how did the program for the reception turn out?”
“Very nice. I used all four poems you sent and put the one about birch trees on the front along with Mel’s photo.”
After he exits the parlor, I read for only a short time, then I leave myself, making my way to the room.
While stripping off my clothes, I check the time on the bedside clock.
There’s a call to the West Coast I’ve decided to make, but I’ll wait until tomorrow—when I’ve had a chance to think through what to say.
Before crawling between the covers, I turn the bathroom light on and leave the door slightly ajar so there’s light streaming into the room. Perhaps with me away, Bas will leave our own bathroom light off tonight. Unexpectedly, desire stirs in me and I find myself longing for his touch.
I sleep fitfully, waking every couple of hours.
When the alarm goes off at six thirty, I fight the urge to tap the snooze button and instead force myself out of bed.
I’m exhausted still, with despair creeping around the edges, but mostly I feel stuck in this weird state of limbo.
Waiting for what Halligan will come back with.
Waiting for the reception to happen and then be over. Waiting to fly home.
At least the meeting with Professor Handler will give me something to do.
After dressing, I head down to the dining room for coffee and an omelet.
Though there are guests at several other tables, there’s no sign of my ex, which I guess is to be expected.
Logan, or at least the Logan I once knew, isn’t a big breakfast person.
Which is good because I need some time away from him.
As soon as I’m back in my room, I call Sebastian. He answers on the first ring.
“Ah, there you are,” he says. “I’ve been dying to talk to you.”
“Same here, sweetheart,” I reply. A sense of calm comes over me just from hearing his voice.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
I do a short recap of the meeting with Halligan, sparing him the gory details about stuff like bite marks and crushed brain tissue, and instead focusing on the takeaway: the detective in charge wants us to consider that Ruck wasn’t the killer, and that’s what we’re doing, at least until we know more.
I try not to let my angst color the call.
“Wow, it’s just what you were worried about,” he says. “Are you okay, Bree?”
“Doing my best.”
“When do you expect to hear back from this detective?”
“He didn’t say, but hopefully we’ll learn something more today or tomorrow. How are things there?”
“Quiet. Lonely without you. The guy I talked to about doing a lap pool next spring came by and took some more measurements. And you’ll be happy to hear I’m minding your herb pots with complete devotion. It got chilly last night, so I think it might be time to move the basil indoors.”
“Good idea. Speaking of basil, maybe I’ll try to smuggle in a few balls of buffalo mozzarella on my return flight.”
I’ve yet to locate any in Uruguay, and the kind made from cow’s milk there is really bland.
“I wouldn’t chance it, carino,” Bas says with a laugh. “Those K9 units might be trained to sniff out cheese along with cash and cocaine . . . Oh shoot, Jorge is honking the horn of his truck. We’re headed out to do some errands.”
“No problem.”
“Let’s talk later, though. Love you so much, carino.”
“Love you, too, Bas.”
I hang up thinking how close his voice sounded, and yet he also seems oceans away. If I’m lucky, we’ll soon hear something firm from Halligan, and I really can fly home on Friday.
It’s too early to start out for my meeting with Handler, so I sit for a while, sipping the extra coffee I brought upstairs in a paper cup.
I think suddenly of the way my mother loved to relax with her coffee early each morning, resting the mug on the padded arm of the chair in the corner of our pretty kitchen outside Philadelphia.
She was gathering her thoughts for the day, she used to say, and as a girl I imagined her scooting them together in a pile like I did with my toys.