Perlmutter smiled. “Okay, let me make sure I have this straight. I’m supposed to tell you everything I know about a murder and missing person investigation, even though your client may very well be involved. You, in turn, are supposed to tell me squat. That about cover it?”
“No, that’s not correct.”
“Well, help me here.”
“This has nothing to do with a client.” Duncan crossed his ankle over his knee. “I have a personal involvement in the Lawson case.”
“Come again?”
“Ms. Lawson showed you the photograph.”
“Right, I remember.”
“The girl with her face crossed out,” he said, “was my sister.”
Perlmutter leaned back and whistled low. “Maybe you should start at the beginning.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’d say I have all day, but that would be a lie.”
As if proving the point, the door flew open. Daley jammed his head in.
“Line two.”
“What is it?”
“Charlaine Swain. She says she just saw Eric Wu at the schoolyard.”
• • •
Carl Vespa stared at the painting.
Grace was the artist. He owned eight of her paintings, though this was the one that moved him most. It was, he suspected, a portrait of Ryan’s last moments. Grace’s memory of that night was hazy. She hated to sound pompous about it, but this vision—this seemingly ordinary painting of a young man somehow on the verge of a nightmare—had come to her in something of an artistic trance. Grace Lawson claimed that she dreamed about that night. That, she said, was the only place that the memories existed.
Vespa wondered.
His home was in Englewood, New Jersey. The block had at one time been old money. Now Eddie Murphy lived at the end of the street. A power forward for the New Jersey Nets was two houses down. Vespa’s property, once owned by a Vanderbilt, was sprawling and secluded. In 1988 Sharon, his then-wife, had torn down the turn-of-the-century stone edifice and built what was then considered modern. It had not aged well. The house looked like a bunch of glass cubes, stacked haphazardly. There were too many windows. The house got ridiculously hot in the summer. It looked and felt like a damn greenhouse.
Sharon was gone now too. She had not wanted the house in the divorce. She really did not want very much at all. Vespa did not try to stop her. Ryan had been their main connection, in his death more than life. That was never a healthy thing.
Vespa checked the security monitor for the driveway. The sedan was pulling up.
He and Sharon had wanted more children, but it was not to be. Vespa’s sperm count was too low. He told no one, of course, subtly implying that the fault lay with Sharon. Awful to say now, but Vespa believed that if they had more children, if Ryan had at least one sibling, it would have made the tragedy, if not easier, at least bearable. The problem with tragedy is that you have to go on. There is no choice. You cannot just pull off the road and wait it out—much as you might want to. If you have other children you understand that right away. Your life may be over, but you get out of bed for others.
Put simply, there was no reason for him to get out of bed anymore.
Vespa headed outside and watched the sedan come to a stop. Cram got out first, a cell phone glued to his ear. Wade Larue followed. Larue did not look frightened. He looked oddly at peace, gazing at the lush surroundings. Cram mumbled something to Larue—Vespa couldn’t hear what he said—and then started up the stairs. Wade Larue wandered away as if he was on retreat.
Cram said, “We got a problem.”
Vespa waited, following Wade Larue with his eyes.
“Richie is not answering his radio.”
“Where was he stationed?”
“In a van near the kids’ school.”
“Where is Grace?”
“We don’t know.”
Vespa looked at Cram.
“It was three o’clock. We knew she’d gone to pick up Emma and Max. Richie was supposed to tail her from there. She got to the school, we know that. Richie radioed that in. Since then, nothing.”
“Did you send someone over?”
“Simon went to check on the van.”
“And?”
“It’s still there. Parked in the same spot. But there are cops in the area now.”
“What about the kids?”
“We don’t know yet. Simon thinks he sees them in the schoolyard. But he doesn’t want to get too close with the cops around.”
Vespa closes his fists. “We have to find Grace.”
Cram said nothing.
“What?”
Cram shrugged. “I think you have it wrong, that’s all.”
Neither one of them said anything after that. They stood and watched Wade Larue. He strolled the grounds, cigarette in tow. From the top of the property there was a magnificent view of the George Washington Bridge and, behind it, the distant skyline of Manhattan. It had been there that Vespa and Cram had watched the smoke billow as if from Hades when the towers fell. Vespa had known Cram for thirty-eight years. Cram was the best with a gun or a knife Vespa had ever seen. He scared people with little more than a glance. The vilest men, the most violent psychotics, begged for mercy before Cram even touched them. But on that day, standing silently in the yard, watching the smoke not dissipate, Vespa had seen even Cram break down and cry.
They looked over at Wade Larue.
“Did you talk to him at all?” Vespa asked.
Cram shook his head. “Not a word.”
“He looks pretty calm.”
Cram said nothing. Vespa started toward Larue. Cram stayed where he was. Larue did not turn around. Vespa stopped about ten feet away and said, “You wanted to see me?”
Larue kept staring out at the bridge. “Beautiful view,” he said.
“You’re not here to admire it.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I can’t.”
Vespa waited. Wade Larue did not turn around. “You confessed.”
“Yes.”
“Did you mean it?” Vespa asked.
“At the time? No.”
“What does that mean, at the time?”
“You want to know if I fired those two shots that night.” Wade Larue finally turned and faced Vespa full. “Why?”
“I want to know if you killed my boy.”
“Either way I didn’t shoot him.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Can I ask you something?”
Vespa waited.