“I’ve got news,” he says. “But we need to talk quickly.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
“More cops have arrived,” he says, taking two steps into the room. “And Nowak’s on the way. They’ll want to interview us separately.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Yes. Not someone from New York. It’s Frank Wargo.”
“Omigod.”
“I didn’t recognize him when they pulled the mask off, but they took out his wallet, and it’s him.”
“So he’s been in the area after all.” I press my hands to my head, my thoughts racing. “He wanted me dead—which means he must be the one who killed Jaycee. And he found out I’d gone to the police.”
“It looks that way. Of course, he might also have been protecting the mother.”
“Has he come to yet?”
“He stirred a bit when they were loading him into the ambulance. I suspect he has a concussion from the blow to his head.”
“God, how did he know I’d talked to the cops? And that I was here tonight?”
His face darkens further. He shakes his head, but I sense there’s something he’s not saying.
“Do you know, Rog?” I ask, my voice almost hoarse.
“No, no. I’m just wondering if he saw you that day in town, going into the police station.”
“Maybe.” I bite my thumb, trying to think if I’d noticed anyone who might have recognized me, but the town had seemed pretty empty that day. “Or someone told him. And it definitely might have been Wargo who shoved me into the street in the city. . . . But he can’t be the one who killed Mulroney. What would the motive be? And how would he have even known I’d hired him?”
Before we can hash it out anymore, a uniformed female officer appears in the doorway next to Roger.
“Ms. Linden?” she says. “I’m Officer Bruin and I’d like to take your statement now.”
“Of course.”
But she’s barely gotten the words out when Chief Nowak, wearing a hip-length leather coat, comes up behind her and my brother. He greets both of us and then turns to the officer.
“Luanne, why don’t I take Ms. Linden’s statement. You can handle Mr. Linden’s. Roger, is there another room I can use?”
He suggests the dining room and the two of them trot off, my brother looking utterly weary.
“You’ve had a pretty harrowing evening,” Nowak says, his voice warm. The sympathetic tone is wasted on me because I saw how little good it did me the other day.
“It was pretty scary, yes.”
“Your brother said you don’t want medical treatment, but I’ll have to have my deputy photograph your injuries before we leave tonight. For now, can you take me through everything that happened, right from the beginning?”
I do my best. It was all so fast, it takes only a few minutes to recount. I also mention the incident in the city and pose the idea that it might be related to the attack here. As I wrap up, I allow myself a moment of perverse satisfaction, thinking that if tonight was clearly an attempt to silence me because of what I know about Jaycee’s death, at least Corbet will stop eyeing me suspiciously.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through all this,” Nowak says. “I take it you’ve heard that your assailant appears to be Frank Wargo.”
I nod.
“Any idea how he might have found out you’d come to us with new information?”
“None whatsoever.” I take a moment to choose both the words and tone I’m going to use next. “What about from your end? Any thoughts on how he gained access to what was in my statement?”
“Both Detective Corbet and I have been very discreet, so no, I don’t know. But I’m going to make it my business to find out.”
As he’s tucking his notebook back into his coat pocket, I briefly deliberate telling him about Mulroney’s death but decide against it. As I’d pointed out to Roger, there doesn’t seem to be a connection. Nowak summons the female officer from the other room and she takes shots of my face with her smartphone camera.
By the time all the police have departed, daylight is seeping through the trees beyond the house. My feet still sting, my head aches from having my hair yanked hard, and though I’ve been keeping my face iced, it’s practically pulsing with pain now, as if it has its own heartbeat.
Roger and I take turns recapping our interviews, and I find that my anxiety has started to subside a little now that we finally have the house to ourselves.
“Are you going to call Marion and let her know what happened?” I ask.
“Yes, I don’t want her to hear it first from someone else, but I thought I’d wait until at least eight. Are you thinking of going back to bed?”
I massage my temples, considering. “Yeah, if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll sleep for an hour or two.”
“Me, too. Feel free to knock on my door if you need anything.”
“Yup. And thank you again, Roger. With all my heart.”
I hobble upstairs, close the drapes in my room, and collapse onto the bed. Unanswerable questions drift across my mind and then, before I can give them any attention, they drift away. Finally, I feel sleep overtake me.
When I awake, sunlight is creeping into the room from the edges of the drapes. Almost instantly the events of last night stampede into my consciousness: the frigid river water rushing up my nose, my lungs ready to burst, the fear that I had only seconds more to live. Both my head and face are throbbing.
I close my eyes again. Erling’s warnings about stress echo in my mind. I can’t let last night overwhelm me. I force myself to breathe deeply and then roll out of bed.
The clock says ten thirty, I discover to my shock. I dress quickly, grabbing jeans and a fresh sweater, and then steel myself for a glimpse in the bathroom mirror. My face looks even worse. The swelling hasn’t subsided, there’s now purple bruising on my left cheek, and I’m sporting half a black eye.
After brushing my teeth and popping three ibuprofen tablets, I head downstairs, where welcoming scents waft from the kitchen. As I enter, I discover Roger setting a platter of french toast on the table.
“Morning, Button. I heard you moving around so I figured it was time for food. How are you feeling?”
“Achy, exhausted, but I’ll live.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to see someone about your face?”
“Thanks, but I think it’s all about icing it and trying not to laugh, which fortunately won’t be hard this week.”
“Help yourself to breakfast.”
I plop into a chair and take in the spread on the table: slices of melon, a bowl of raspberries, a jug of orange juice. “How is it that even in a crisis, you can still cook up a storm? It’s very reassuring.”
“Some might call it fiddling while Rome burns.”
Though I don’t have much appetite, I help myself to a slice of the toast and a spoonful of berries. Roger takes a seat across from me and pours us each a cup of coffee from a French press.
“Did you reach Marion yet?” I ask.
“Yes, she managed to snag a reservation on a two o’clock flight to Newark.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he chokes back a sob.