There was silence.
“Steve?”
“Go home. Don’t talk to anyone.”
“Okay.” Denise saw the white Camaro pull up. She frowned. Hadn’t she seen it before?
“Are there any records in your house?” Bacard asked.
“No, of course not.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay, good.”
A woman was getting out of the Camaro. Even from this distance, Denise could see the bandage on the woman’s ear.
“Go home,” Bacard said.
Before the woman could turn around, Denise hung up the phone and slipped into the bathroom.
Steven Bacard had loved the oldBatman TV show as a kid. Every episode, he remembered, started out pretty much the same way. A crime would be committed. They would flash to Commissioner Gordon and Chief O’Hara. The two law-enforcement buffoons would be grim faced. They would discuss the situation and realize that there was only one way out. Commissioner Gordon would then pick up the red Batphone. Batman would answer, promise to save the day, turn to Robin and say, “To the Batpoles!”
He stared at the phone with that creepy feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was no hero he was calling. Just the opposite, in fact. But in the end, survival was what mattered. Pretty words and justification were great during times of peace. In times of war, in times of life and death, it was simpler: Us or Them. He picked up the phone and dialed the number.
Lydia answered sweetly. “Hello, Steven.”
“I need you again.”
“Bad?”
“Very.”
“We’re on our way,” she said.
Chapter 39
“When I gotin there,” Rachel said, “she was in the bathroom. But I have a feeling she made a call first.”
“Why?”
“There was a line in the bathroom. She was only three people ahead of me. She should have been more.”
“Any way of figuring out who she called?”
“Not in the near future, no. Every phone in that place is taken. Even if I had full FBI access, it would take some time.”
“So we keep following.”
“Yes.” She turned behind her. “Do you have an atlas in the car?”
Katarina smiled. “Many. Verne likes maps. World, country, state?”
“State.”
She dug into the pocket behind my seat and handed Rachel the atlas. Rachel uncapped a pen and started marking it up.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.”
The cell phone rang. I picked it up.
“You guys all right?”
“Yeah, Verne, we’re fine.”
“Got my sister to watch the kids for me. I’m in the pickup heading east. What’s your ten-twenty?”
I told him we were heading to Ridgewood. He knew the town.
“I’m about twenty minutes away,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the Ridgewood Coffee Company on Van Neste Park.”
“We may be at this midwife’s house,” I said.
“I’ll wait.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, Marc,” Verne said, “not to get sentimental or anything, but if somebody needs shooting—”
“I’ll let you know.”
The Lexus turned off at Linwood Avenue. We dropped farther back. Rachel kept her head down, alternating between the stylus on the Palm Pilot and the marker on the atlas. We hit the suburbs. Denise Vanech turned left on Waltherly Road.
“She’s definitely heading home,” Rachel said. “Let her go. We need to think this through.”
I couldn’t believe what she was suggesting. “What do you mean, think this through? We need to approach her.”
“Not yet. I’m working on something.”
“What?”
“Just give me a few minutes.”
I slowed my speed and turned down Van Dien, right near Valley Hospital. I looked back at Katarina. She gave me a small smile. Rachel kept working at whatever. I checked the dashboard clock. Time to meet Verne. I took North Maple to Ridgewood Avenue. A parking spot opened in front of a store named Duxiana. I grabbed it. Verne’s pickup truck was parked across the street. It had mag wheels and two bumper stickers, one reading,CHARLTON HESTON FOR PRESIDENT and the other:DO I LOOK LIKE A HEMORRHOID ?THEN GET OFF MY ASS .
Ridgewood’s town center was a blend of turn-of-the-century picture-postcard splendor and modern-day extravagant food-court mall. Most of the old mom-n-pop shops were gone now. Sure, the independent bookstore still thrived. There was an upscale mattress store, a cute place that sold sixties paraphernalia, a smattering of boutiques, beauty parlors, and jewelry stores. And, yes, a few of the chains—Gap, Williams-Sonoma, the prerequisite Starbucks—had gobbled up space. But more than anything, the town center had become a veritable smorgasbord, a potpourri of eateries for too many tastes and budgets. Name a country, they had a bistro here. Throw a stone, even pathetically, in any direction, you would hit three such eateries.
Rachel took the atlas and Palm Pilot with her. She worked as we walked. Verne was already inside the coffee shop, chatting up the burly guy behind the counter. Verne wore a Deere baseball cap with a T-shirt that read:MOOSEHEAD :A GREAT BEER AND A NEW EXPERIENCE FOR A MOOSE .
We grabbed a table.
“So what’s the deal?” Verne said.
I let Katarina fill him in. I was watching Rachel. Every time I started to speak, she held up a finger to silence me. I told Verne that he should take Katarina home. We didn’t need their help anymore. They should be with their children. Verne was reluctant.
The time was sneaking up on 10:00A .M. I wasn’t really tired. Lack of sleep—even for reasons far less adrenaline generating than this—does not bother me. I credit my medical residency and the many nights on call for that.
“Bang,” Rachel said again.
“What?”
With her eyes still on the Palm Pilot, Rachel put out her hand. “Let me use your phone.”
“What is it?”
“Just give it to me, okay?”
I handed her the cell phone. She dialed and moved to the corner of the café. Katarina excused herself to use the bathroom. Verne poked me with his elbow and pointed at Rachel.
“You two in love?”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Only if you’re a dumb-ass.”
I may have shrugged.
“You either love her or you don’t,” Verne said. “The rest? That’s for dumb-asses.”