he had another life here in Raleigh.”
“What do you mean, in Raleigh?” I asked. “I know his law firm has an office there.”
“He also had a residence here. Shared it with his wife and sons.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You sure we’re talking about the same guy? Our vic lived in Hollyville with his wife and—” I was going to add
daughter
, but my mind had finally gotten itself around what Captain Mercy was telling me. The brain can be slow sometimes, even dense. A wise friend of mine, my teacher and mentor at the police academy in Detroit where I got my training, once said that there are three worlds: the world we know, the world we are yet to know, and the world we don’t even know exists. He said a good cop is always looking for that third world.
“Same guy,” Captain Mercy said. “Wife reported him missing two days ago. Looks like he did a good job of covering his tracks. Condo deed and mortgage are in the wife’s name alone. Same with electric and gas bills. Not many photos. Wife, name’s Julie by the way, says he was camera shy. Only thing I could find in his name is a BMW 7 Series, but we haven’t been able to locate the actual vehicle.”
“I think I know where it might be,” I said.
“Thought that might be the case,” Mercy said. “How’s the weather over there?”
“Hot,” I said.
“Here too. But at least you’ve got the ocean. My wife’s been after me to take her to the Outer Banks for a few weeks now. I apologize. I must admit I hadn’t heard of Cooper’s Island until this all happened.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Nobody has. Let me know if you make it over here. I’ll buy you a cold beer.”
“You take care now,” Mercy said. “And let me know if you’ve got any questions after you read the report.”
“Will do,” I said. “And thanks.”
“No problem. Happy to be of service.”
“Change of plans,” I said to Mack after I hung up the phone. I caught him up on my conversation with Captain Mercy while I downloaded the police report, which included Julie Lane’s statement and a few photos of our vic. “We need to split our resources. I want to get to the second Mrs. Lane as soon as possible. You good with interviewing her alone?”
“Sure thing,” Mack said. “Anything specific you want me to ask her?”
“Just get a sense of her. Too bad they already told her about her husband’s other life. Would’ve been helpful to see her initial reaction.”
Picasso
Daddy’s funeral was at Saint Paul’s Episcopal Church, the same church where I’d seen the blue convertible in the parking lot four months earlier. Even though at least twenty big fans were blowing, it still felt just as hot inside as it was outside; everybody was talking about the heat. On the way in, I’d overheard this conversation.
First lady: “It’s like Dante’s
Inferno
in here.”
Second lady: “Well, you know what they say.”
First lady: “What’s that?”
Second lady: “Hell hath no—”
I couldn’t hear the rest.
Mama had asked that Daddy’s casket be closed, which I remember thinking was a good choice. Daddy wouldn’t have liked people seeing him wear makeup. Mrs. Cleary played Pachelbel’s Canon on the piano as pretty much the whole town filed in. Pastor Mike gave Daddy a nice eulogy, even though he hardly knew him, while folks fanned themselves with the remembrance pamphlets Mama had somebody make. Then Polly Anderson, Ryan Anderson’s mom, sang a solo, some hymn about dying and being welcomed into heaven’s gates that I didn’t recognize, but our family was never much on church. I spent most of the service looking around for Ryan, but as it turned out, he wasn’t there, which wasprobably good. The black dress Mama had bought for me looked like something a kid would wear, what with its white Peter Pan collar and empire waist. If it were up to Mama, I’d be stuck in preadolescence forever. When the funeral service was over, we got in a big black
“What do you mean, in Raleigh?” I asked. “I know his law firm has an office there.”
“He also had a residence here. Shared it with his wife and sons.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You sure we’re talking about the same guy? Our vic lived in Hollyville with his wife and—” I was going to add
daughter
, but my mind had finally gotten itself around what Captain Mercy was telling me. The brain can be slow sometimes, even dense. A wise friend of mine, my teacher and mentor at the police academy in Detroit where I got my training, once said that there are three worlds: the world we know, the world we are yet to know, and the world we don’t even know exists. He said a good cop is always looking for that third world.
“Same guy,” Captain Mercy said. “Wife reported him missing two days ago. Looks like he did a good job of covering his tracks. Condo deed and mortgage are in the wife’s name alone. Same with electric and gas bills. Not many photos. Wife, name’s Julie by the way, says he was camera shy. Only thing I could find in his name is a BMW 7 Series, but we haven’t been able to locate the actual vehicle.”
“I think I know where it might be,” I said.
“Thought that might be the case,” Mercy said. “How’s the weather over there?”
“Hot,” I said.
“Here too. But at least you’ve got the ocean. My wife’s been after me to take her to the Outer Banks for a few weeks now. I apologize. I must admit I hadn’t heard of Cooper’s Island until this all happened.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Nobody has. Let me know if you make it over here. I’ll buy you a cold beer.”
“You take care now,” Mercy said. “And let me know if you’ve got any questions after you read the report.”
“Will do,” I said. “And thanks.”
“No problem. Happy to be of service.”
“Change of plans,” I said to Mack after I hung up the phone. I caught him up on my conversation with Captain Mercy while I downloaded the police report, which included Julie Lane’s statement and a few photos of our vic. “We need to split our resources. I want to get to the second Mrs. Lane as soon as possible. You good with interviewing her alone?”
“Sure thing,” Mack said. “Anything specific you want me to ask her?”
“Just get a sense of her. Too bad they already told her about her husband’s other life. Would’ve been helpful to see her initial reaction.”
Picasso
Daddy’s funeral was at Saint Paul’s Episcopal Church, the same church where I’d seen the blue convertible in the parking lot four months earlier. Even though at least twenty big fans were blowing, it still felt just as hot inside as it was outside; everybody was talking about the heat. On the way in, I’d overheard this conversation.
First lady: “It’s like Dante’s
Inferno
in here.”
Second lady: “Well, you know what they say.”
First lady: “What’s that?”
Second lady: “Hell hath no—”
I couldn’t hear the rest.
Mama had asked that Daddy’s casket be closed, which I remember thinking was a good choice. Daddy wouldn’t have liked people seeing him wear makeup. Mrs. Cleary played Pachelbel’s Canon on the piano as pretty much the whole town filed in. Pastor Mike gave Daddy a nice eulogy, even though he hardly knew him, while folks fanned themselves with the remembrance pamphlets Mama had somebody make. Then Polly Anderson, Ryan Anderson’s mom, sang a solo, some hymn about dying and being welcomed into heaven’s gates that I didn’t recognize, but our family was never much on church. I spent most of the service looking around for Ryan, but as it turned out, he wasn’t there, which wasprobably good. The black dress Mama had bought for me looked like something a kid would wear, what with its white Peter Pan collar and empire waist. If it were up to Mama, I’d be stuck in preadolescence forever. When the funeral service was over, we got in a big black
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