“What was that?”
“Monica felt that there was one person who could love her forever.”
I knew the answer here. “Tara.”
“Yes. She trapped you, Marc. You probably realize that. It wasn’t an accident. She wanted to get pregnant.”
Sadly, I was not surprised. Again I tried, as in surgery, to put the pieces together. “So Monica believed that I no longer loved her. She was afraid I wanted a divorce. She was troubled. She was crying at night.” I paused. I was saying this as much for my benefit as Dina’s. I didn’t want to keep following this train of thought, but there was no way to stop me. “She’s fragile. Her mind is frayed. And then she hears that phone message from Rachel.”
“That’s your ex-girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“You still keep her picture in your desk drawer. Monica knew about that too. You keep mementos of her.”
I closed my eyes, remembering the Steely Dan CD in Monica’s car. College music. Music I had listened to with Rachel. I said, “So she hired a private detective to see if I was having an affair. He took those photographs.”
Dina nodded.
“So now she has proof. I’m going to leave her for another woman. I’m going to claim she’s unstable. I’ll say she’s an unfit mother. I’m a well-respected doctor, and Rachel has connections with law enforcement. We’d end up with custody of the only thing that really mattered to Monica. Tara.”
Dina rose from the table. She washed out a glass in the sink and then filled it with water. I thought again about what had happened that morning. Why hadn’t I heard the window break? Why hadn’t I heard the doorbell ring? Why hadn’t I heard the intruder enter?
Simple. Because there was no intruder.
Tears filled my eyes. “So what did she do, Dina?”
“You know, Marc.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“I didn’t think she’d really do it,” Dina said. “I thought she was just acting out, you know? Monica was so despondent. When she asked me if I knew how to get a gun, I thought she wanted to kill herself. I never thought . . .”
“She would shoot me?”
The air was suddenly heavy. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I was too tired to cry anymore. But there was still more to unearth here. “You said she asked you to help her get a gun?”
Dina wiped her eyes and nodded.
“Did you?”
“No. I wouldn’t know how to get one. She said you had a gun at home, but she didn’t want something that could trace back. So she went to the only person she knew with seedy enough contacts to help.”
I saw it now. “My sister.”
“Yes.”
“Did Stacy get her a gun?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The morning you were both shot, Stacy came to see me. See, Monica and I had come up with the idea of going to Stacy together. So Monica mentioned me to her. She came and asked what Monica needed a gun for. I didn’t tell her because, well, I really wasn’t all that sure. Stacy ran out. I was in a panic. I wanted to ask Dr. Radio what to do, but my next session was that afternoon. I figured it could wait.”
“And then?”
“I still don’t know what happened, Marc. That’s the truth. But I know Monica shot you.”
“How?”
“I got scared. So I called your house. Monica answered. She was crying. She told me you were dead. She kept saying, ‘What have I done, what have I done?’ And then suddenly she hung up. I called back. But no one answered. I really didn’t know what to do. Then the TV had the story. When they said your daughter was missing . . . I didn’t understand. I thought they’d find her right away. But they never did. And I never heard anything about those pictures either. I hoped, I don’t know, I hoped leading you to those photographs might shed some light on what really happened. Not so much for the two of you. But for your daughter.”
“Why did you wait so long?”
Her eyes closed and for a moment, I thought that she might be praying. “I had a bad spell, Marc. Two weeks after you were shot, I was hospitalized with a breakdown. The truth is, I was so far gone I forgot about it. Or maybe I wanted to forget, I don’t know.”
My cell phone rang. It was Lenny. I picked it up.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“With Dina Levinsky.”
“Get over to Newark Airport. Terminal C. Now.”
“What’s going on?”
“I think,” Lenny said. Then he slowed down, caught his breath. “I think I may know where we can find Tara.”
Chapter 44
By the timeI arrived at Terminal C, Lenny was already standing by the Continental check-in desk. It was six o’clock at night now. The airport was jammed with the weary. He handed me the anonymous note that had been found in his office. It read:
Abe and Lorraine Tansmore
26 Marsh Lane
Hanley Hills, MO
That was it. Just the name and address. Nothing else.
“It’s a suburb near St. Louis,” Lenny explained. “I did some research already.”
I just kept staring down at the name and address.
“Marc?”
I looked up at him.
“The Tansmores adopted a daughter eighteen months ago. She was six months old when they got her.”
Behind him, a Continental service rep said, “Next please.” A woman pushed past me. She might have said, “Excuse me,” but I’m not sure.
“I have us booked on the next flight to St. Louis. We’re leaving in an hour.”
When we reached the departure gate, I told him about my meeting with Dina Levinsky. We sat, as we often do, next to each other, facing out. When I finished, he said, “You have a theory now.”
“I do.”
We watched a plane take off. An old couple sitting across from us shared a tin of Pringles. “I’m a cynic. I know that. I hold no illusions about drug addicts. If anything, I overestimate their depravity. And that, I think, is what I did here.”
“How do you figure?”
“Stacy wouldn’t shoot me. And she would never hurt her niece. She was an addict. But she still loved me.”
“I think,” Lenny said, “that you’re right.”
“I look back. I was so wrapped up in my own world that I never saw . . .” I shook my head. Now was not the time for this. “Monica was desperate,” I said. “She couldn’t get a gun and maybe, she decided, she didn’t have to.”