Читать книгу The Dark Tide - Andrew Gross, Andrew Gross - Страница 14

A few days later—Friday, Saturday, Karen had lost track—a police detective came by the house.

Not from the city. People from the police in New York and the FBI had been by a few times trying to trace Charlie’s movements that day. This one was local. He called ahead and asked if he could talk with Karen for just a few moments on a matter unrelated to the bombing. She said sure. Anything that helped take her mind off things for a few moments was a godsend to her now.

She was in the kitchen arranging flowers that had come in from one of the outfits that Charlie cleared through when he stopped by.

Karen knew she looked a mess. She wasn’t exactly keeping up appearances right now. Her dad, Sid, who was up from Atlanta and who was being very protective of her, brought him in.

“I’m Lieutenant Hauck,” he said. He was nicely dressed, for a cop, in a tweed sport jacket and slacks and a tasteful tie. “I saw you at the meeting in town Monday night. I’ll only take a few moments of your time. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Karen nodded and pushed her hair back as they sat down in the sunroom, trying to shift the mood with an appreciative smile.

“My daughter’s not feeling so well,” her father cut in, “so maybe, whatever it is you have to go over …”

“Dad, I’m fine.” She smiled. She rolled her eyes affectionately, then caught the lieutenant’s gaze. “It’s okay. Let me talk to the policeman.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’m out here. If you need me …” He went back into the TV room and shut the door.

“He doesn’t know what to do,” Karen said with a deep sigh. “No one does. It’s tough for everyone right now.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” the detective said. “I won’t take long.” He sat across from her and took something out of his pocket. “I don’t know if you heard, but there was another incident in town on Monday. A hit-and-run accident, down on the Post Road. A young man was killed.”

“No, I didn’t,” Karen said, surprised.

“His name was Raymond. Abel John Raymond.” The lieutenant handed her a photo of a smiling, well-built young man with red dreadlocks, standing next to a surfboard on the beach. “AJ, he was called. He worked in a custom-car shop here in town. He was crossing West Street when he was run over at a high speed by an SUV making a right turn. Whoever it was didn’t even bother to stop. The guy dragged him about fifty feet, then took off.”

“That’s horrible,” Karen said, staring at the face again, feeling a stab of sorrow. Whatever had happened to her, it was still a small town. It could have been anybody. Anybody’s son. The same day she’d lost Charlie.

She looked back at him. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Any chance you’ve seen this person before?”

Karen looked again. A handsome face, full of life. The long red locks would’ve made it hard to forget. “I don’t think so. No.”

“You never heard the name Abel Raymond or maybe AJ Raymond?”

Karen stared at the photo once again and shook her head. “I don’t think so, Lieutenant. Why?”

The detective seemed disappointed. He reached back into his jacket again, this time removing a yellow slip of paper, a wrinkled Post-it note contained in a plastic bag. “We found this in the victim’s work uniform, at the crime scene.”

As Karen looked, she felt her insides tighten and her eyes grow wide.

“That is your husband’s name, isn’t it? Charles Friedman. And his cell number?”

Karen looked up, completely mystified, and nodded. “Yes. It is.”

“And you’re sure you never heard your husband mention his name? Raymond? He did tinting and custom painting at a car shop in town.”

“Tinting?” Karen shook her head and smiled with her eyes. “Unless he was gearing up for some kind of midlife crisis he didn’t tell me about.”

Hauck smiled back at her. But Karen could see he was disappointed.

“I wish I could help you, Lieutenant. Are you thinking this was intentional, this hit-and-run?”

“Just being thorough.” He took back the photo and the slip of paper with Charlie’s name. He was handsome, Karen thought. In a rugged sort of way. Serious blue eyes. But something caring in them. It must have been hard for him to come here today. It was clear he wanted to do right by this boy.

She shrugged. “It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? Charlie’s name on that paper. In that boy’s pocket. The same day … you having to come here like this.”

“A bad one”—he nodded, forcing a tight smile—“yes. I’ll be out of your way.” They both stood up. “If you think of anything, you’ll let me know. I’ll leave a card.”

“Of course.” Karen took it and stared at it: CHIEF OF DETECTIVES. VIOLENT CRIMES. GREENWICH POLICE DEPARTMENT.

“I’m very sorry about your husband,” the lieutenant repeated.

His eyes seemed to drift to a photo she kept on the shelf. She and Charlie, dressed up formal. At her cousin Meredith’s wedding. Karen always loved the way the two of them looked in that picture.

She smiled wistfully. “Eighteen years together, I don’t even get to kiss him good-bye.”

For a second they just stood there, she wishing she hadn’t said that, he shifting on the balls of his feet, seemingly contemplating something and a little strained. Then he said, “On 9/11, I was working in the city at the NYPD’s Office of Information. It was my job to try and track down people who were missing. You know, presumed to be inside the buildings, lost. It was tough. I saw a lot of families”—he wet his lips—“in this same situation. I guess all I’m trying to say is, I have a rough idea of what you’re going through….”

Karen felt a sting at the back of her eyes. She looked up and tried to smile, not knowing what else to say.

“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do.” He took a step to the door. “I still keep a few friends down there.”

“I appreciate that, Lieutenant.” She walked him through the kitchen to the back door in order to avoid the crowd in front. “It’s awful. I wish you luck with finding this guy. I wish I could be more help.”

“You have your own things to be thinking about,” he said, opening the door.

Karen looked at him. A tone of hopefulness rose in her voice. “So did anyone ever turn up? When you were looking?”

“Two.” He shrugged. “One at St. Vincent’s Hospital. She had been struck by debris. The other, he never even made it in to work that morning. He witnessed what happened and just couldn’t go home for a few days.”

“Not the best odds.” Karen smiled, looking at him as if she knew what he must be thinking. “It would just be good, you know, to have something….”

“My best to you and your family, Mrs. Friedman.” The lieutenant opened the door. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Outside, Hauck stood a moment on the walkway.

He had hoped the name and number in AJ Raymond’s pocket would prove more promising. It was pretty much all he had left.

A check of the phone records where the victim worked hadn’t panned out at all. The call that he’d received—Marty something, the manager had said—was designated a private caller. From a cell phone. Totally untraceable now.

Nor had the girlfriend’s ex. The guy turned out to be a lowlife, maybe a wife beater, but his alibi checked. He’d been at a conference at his kid’s school at the time of the accident, and anyway he drove a navy Toyota Corolla, not an SUV. Hauck had double-checked.

Now all he was left with were the conflicting reports from the two eyewitnesses and his APB on the white SUVs.

Next to nothing.

It burned in him. Like AJ Raymond’s red hair.

Someone out there was getting away with murder. He just couldn’t prove it.

Karen Friedman was attractive, nice. He wished he could help in some way. It hurt a little, seeing the strain and uncertainty in her eyes. Knowing exactly what she would be going through. What she was going to face.

The heaviness in his heart, he knew it wasn’t tied quite as closely to 9/11 victims as he’d said. But to something deeper, something never very far away.

Norah. She’d be eight now, right?

The thought of her came back to him with a stab, as it always did. A child in a powder blue sweatshirt and braces, playing with her sister on the pavement. A Tugboat Annie toy.

He could still hear the trill of her sweet voice. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily …

He could still see her red, braided hair.

A car door slammed at the curb, rocketing him back. Hauck looked up and saw a nicely dressed couple holding flowers walking up to Karen Friedman’s front door.

Something caught his eye.

One of the garage doors had been opened in the time since he’d arrived. A housekeeper was lugging out a bag of trash.

There was a copper-colored Mustang parked in one of the bays—’65 or ’66, he guessed. A convertible. A red heart decal on the rear fender and a white racing stripe running down the side.

The license plate read CHRLYS BABY.

Hauck went over and knelt, running his hand along the smooth chrome trim.

Son of a bitch …

That’s what AJ Raymond did! He restored old cars. For a second it almost made Hauck laugh out loud. He wasn’t sure how it made him feel, disappointed or relieved, the last of his leads slipping away.

Still, he decided, heading back across the driveway to his car, at least he now knew what the guy was doing with Charles Friedman’s number.