GRAVEWORM Read online

  But Tara wouldn’t lie.

  Christ, she was a good kid. Raising her sister up right, working two jobs, she was true blue. And that’s what he was having trouble with. He knew that Margaret had gone over there but Tara denied the same. If you ruled out abduction, then Marge had gone over there and that meant… that meant Tara was lying.

  But why?

  Why?

  Think, old man. You were a cop, so act like one. Okay.

  He went over what Tara had said to him. The way she had said it. He looked for anything in her voice that might clue him in that she was lying. She sounded a little funny… but it was late at night and he woke her up. Yet… yet, for a groggy person, she had her story down pat. That gave Bud a moment’s uneasiness. You woke most people up out of a dead sleep and they were confused. They made little sense. But Tara had seemed quite alert.

  Now you’re jumping to conclusions. You know Tara. For chrissake you watched her grow up. You bought Girl Scout cookies from her. You gave her candy on Halloween. You watched her go from being a shy, brainy kid in rollerskates to becoming homecoming queen.

  Yet… in his belly, there was a slick of grease when he contemplated the sound of her voice… too quick, too easy, too practiced. In the old days he used to get that feeling from perps.

  But Tara?

  He picked up the phone, dialed the Coombes’ house. It was picked up on the third ring.

  “Tara?” he said. “Tara? You there? This is Bud Stapleton from down the block.”

  Nothing.

  No… not nothing, there was something there all right—a heavy, distant breathing that made a chill run down the middle of his back.

  “Tara?”

  More breathing.

  Then the phone was hung up.

  What the hell?

  There was only one possible solution and he knew what that was so he went and paid Tara a visit. He had to see her. He had to dispel the crazy things he was thinking. Not five minutes after he’d stepped off his porch he was stepping up onto hers.

  He knocked on the door and to his surprise, it was answered. Immediately. Almost as if she had been standing there waiting for someone to knock. And as soon as it swung open, he found himself looking at Tara Coombes, something sinking inside him.

  “Bud,” she said.

  This wasn’t Tara, was it? Sure the eyes were the same, the hair, the features… yet, something was altered, shifted. She wore her face like a kid wore a trick-or-treat mask, and Bud was certain there was something hiding behind it, something crouching and feral.

  Or was that his imagination?

  “Tara… you haven’t remembered anything Marge might have said to you?”

  “Marge never came over.”

  “But…”

  “But what? I told you she never came over and she didn’t.” A smile now. She offered him a smile that was pale, tight, stiff as rubber and one that made him feel almost feverish with fear. “She never came over.”

  “But, Tara,” he said then, knowing he had to say something as floodwaters of unease washed over him, “if she didn’t come here, where do you suppose she might have gone?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Bud. If you want to come inside and look, feel free.”

  What was that… a challenge? He was half tempted to take her up on it and at the same time, terrified of the idea. He didn’t really think Marge’s body was in there or anything, but behind Tara, the inside of the house was like some alien territory, barren and cold with moving shadows. And he did not believe that morose atmosphere was the house so much as the woman standing in its doorway.

  “No, no, that’s not necessary,” Bud told her, trying to keep the apprehension out of his voice that was running hot in him like poisoned blood. “I’m just canvassing the neighborhood, talking to people.”

  “The police have already done that.”

  “Yeah, and I’m doing it again.”

  “Okay, Bud.” That smile again and that unknown something hiding just behind her eyes that was gloating and satisfied.

  She’s hiding something and you damn well know it.

  He stood there for some time long after she had closed the door, his mind filled with things he dared not think.

  56

  Wilkes had been through this so many times it made his heart sick. Interrogating hardcore criminals was one thing, but when you had to haul in ordinary people and put them through the business, that’s when something inside you just simply wilted brown. It took the guts right out of you and made you wonder why you kept at it, sticking your nose in everyone’s dirty business. And looking at Tara Coombes sitting alone in the interrogation room, watching her through the glass, it was all he could do not to walk down the hallway to the head and throw up.

  It had to be done, though.

  But he wished to God Fingerman were here to do it.

  By this point, Wilkes knew about all there was to know about the woman. What she had been through. Her kid sister. The struggle of their lives. Now Bud Stapleton was saying he was sure that his wife had gone over to the Coombes’ house and that in combination with the fact that they were unable to locate the kid sister, Lisa, in Milwaukee where she was supposedly staying with an uncle and an aunt, had brought Tara Coombes to the State Patrol barracks and into this tiny room.

  Wilkes would have been the first to admit that there were a few funny things concerning her—mainly the fact that her sister still could not be contacted—but she hardly fit the type. People kill each other, he knew. They do it for the stupidest reasons imaginable. But there’s always a reason, something that makes perfect sense to the perp… but as far as Tara Coombes was concerned, there was simply nothing. Margaret Stapleton was a family friend. She watched the kid sister while Tara was at work. By all accounts, there was no bad blood between them. There wasn’t scratch.

  Only the bit with her sister.

  And Bud Stapleton’s assurance that Margaret had gone over there—at first he wasn’t quite sure, now he was dead positive, go figure—and that Tara Coombes was acting more than a little unusual. All in all, it wasn’t much but with her sister being unaccounted for, it was enough to cast some dispersion in her direction.

  Still, it was thin as a razor. Wilkes was not comfortable with it but Bud Stapleton was pushing hard and he still had a few friends, so it had to happen.

  Now, your average citizen had a healthy distrust of the police. When you brought them in they almost always asked to speak to a lawyer. Something any cop could not deny them but at the same time discouraged. Not in words, but in attitude, body language, so the perp would get the message plain and simple: Lawyer? Why the hell you want to do that? I thought we were friends. Lot of cops played that heavy but Wilkes wasn’t interested in headgames and bullshit melodrama. He just wanted to hear what Tara had to say. He wanted her to do the talking. He wanted her version of events.

  Okay. Christ. Here we go.

  Tara Coombes did not ask for a lawyer.

  She seemed unconcerned.

  Wilkes sat across from her and she just stared at him, wordlessly, a very attractive woman dressed in jeans and a camel-brown leather blazer, russet hair that was straight and shiny swept down one shoulder, neck long and elegant and begging for a gold chain. She was a stunning woman just as he remembered, her skin an almost flawless olive, cheekbones high and lips full, eyes a deep and stormy sea blue slanted in the corners like rising wings. They were the centerpiece of her face, so bright they were nearly blinding and so intense they made your knees weak.

  “Okay, Miss Coombes… you know why you were brought in. It’s this whole business with Margaret Stapleton. It simply doesn’t wash and I think you know why.”

  “All I know is that I told you several days ago what happened and you’re still asking the same stupid questions and I still have the same stupid answers. I don’t know where Margaret went. I told you what I knew, so I really wish you’d quit wasting my time.”

  She spoke clearly with great
control. No stumbling over words. If she was lying, she was damn good at it. No hesitation, no shifting eyes. Good God, she never even blinked.

  “The thing is, Miss Coombes, we don’t think we are wasting time.”

  “Hmm. We’ll agree to disagree.”

  Yes, she certainly had her ire up. That was understandable. She was very cooperative the other day, but apparently she had reached her limit now. Not that Wilkes was surprised. Most people were cooperative but that cooperation only went so far.

  “All we need to do is get in touch with your sister.”

  “Is she being charged with something?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then leave her alone.”

  “We need to talk to her. That’s all.”

  “And as I told the officers who picked me up, when she gets back from Milwaukee I’ll get in touch with you.”

  “Just a few words with her would clear this up.”

  “Clear what up, Detective?” Her eyes speared into him, nearly drawing blood. “What exactly is there to clear up? Margaret Stapleton did not come over that night. My sister did not see her and neither did I. And I assure you we didn’t kill her or steal her away into the night.”

  She was impossibly cold. She did not look nervous, yet her left hand was shaking so badly she balled it into a fist. Her right was calm as stone, however. She looked tensed, ready to spring. But from all he’d heard she was a little hyper, an extreme sort of person. That and her alleged illness could account for the nerves. But that chill coming off her… it was nearly palpable like the breath from a freezer.

  Wilkes could feel it along the backs of his arms.

  “The thing is…”

  “The thing is you’re wasting my time. I haven’t been feeling good lately and I really don’t have the strength for this nonsense.” She was staring beyond him now. Looking at the mirrored glass. No, she was glaring at it. “I’m pretty sure that Bud Stapleton put you up to this. In fact, I’ll bet he’s standing right behind that glass. If I was you, I might look into Mr. Stapleton a little closer. Maybe he knows more than he’s telling. Or is that something you can’t do because he was a cop once?”

  Boy, she was pouring it on strong now. She was smart, intuitive. She knew Stapleton was back there and she was challenging him to show himself.

  “We just want to talk to your sister. If you have a cell number or—”

  “Unless she’s being charged with something, her whereabouts are none of your damn business.”

  “I can make it my business.”

  “Then do so. And if you want to charge me something, get to it already. Otherwise, this little talk is at an end.”

  “Miss Coombes—”

  “If you persist, I’ll file harassment charges.”

  She had him and he knew it. They had nothing on her and they sure as hell didn’t have the right to recall her sister from Milwaukee just because an old cop thought there was something funny going on. They tried something like that, the DA would have their asses in a wicker basket. This was a waste of time. Tara Coombes was absolutely right. But Wilkes decided he’d try a different tact.

  “Your sister… what is her name?”

  “Lisa,” Tara said, a slight tic in the corner of her lips. Her eyes widened when she said the name as if something in her had weakened. It was barely there for a second but it was there. Those eyes widened, then narrowed, then went blank as blue glass again. Funny.

  She’s got eyes like a goddamn mannequin… crystal blue, unblinking, forever staring.

  “Detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “I said I would like to leave now. That is, unless Mr. Stapleton has the balls to confront me.” She stared at the glass. “But I rather doubt it.”

  Wilkes watched her and she watched him. In the end, his heart pounding and a dampness at the back of his neck, it was he who looked away.

  57

  “Try around the back?” Frank Duvall said.

  “No, if she was home, she’d hear us. That woman’s got ears like a cat,” Steve said. “She can practically hear a spider spinning a web.”

  “Let’s check the garage then.”

  “Okay.”

  Side by side they walked around the front of the house to the little garage. Her Dodge was still in there as it had been earlier. The mail had not been taken in. All in all, it made that indefinable dread worm deeper in Steve’s stomach. He went back to the front door and Frank followed him. He tried the knob. It was open. This was Bitter Lake. People generally did not lock their doors during the daytime and many didn’t bother at night.

  “We better have a look,” he said.

  But Frank hung back. A big, bristling sort of guy, but he clearly did not like the idea of invading the home of his ex. “I don’t know, Steve. She comes home and we’re here… I don’t know. Be okay for you. But it’ll be a little different with me.”

  “Listen, Frank. She hasn’t been answering her phone. She doesn’t answer the door. Her mail’s piling up. Somebody has to go in there. If you want to stay out here, go ahead, but I’m going in.”

  “Ah, shit,” Frank said, following him.

  First thing they noticed, of course, was that overwhelming odor of pine disinfectants. It was so strong it made them both almost giddy. Steve expected that. He led Frank around the house and Frank looked about as uncomfortable as a man could be, whether that was coming in unannounced or the memories of his time with Tara flooring him… he looked like he wanted to break and run.

  There was nothing unusual.

  No body on the floor or slumped in a chair, Steve thought without even a trace of humor. No suicide notes, nothing hanging from the chandelier. Nothing remotely suspicious.

  True… yet, his skin felt like it was ready to crawl off his bones. There was nothing amiss, but the atmosphere of the place was almost… sterile. Maybe it was the cleaners reaming out his brain or the obsessive neatness, but the house looked like a showpiece. Something out of Better Homes and Gardens. There was no feeling that someone actually lived here. Not a home, but a magazine photographer’s idea of one. So spic and span, so neat, so spotless… it was like nothing living had ever passed through there.

  Frank was nervous about going into the kitchen.

  Sure, Steve understood that. He’d had a relationship with Tara and Tara’s world was her kitchen. Though she was simply too high-strung to eat much herself, she cooked and baked with a frenzy. And that was probably because her mother had and she made sure that her mother’s shoes were filled completely. Lisa would lack nothing.

  The kitchen was just as spotless. The smell of Pine-Sol was even stronger, mixed with stale cigarette smoke into a heady, pungent brew. There was an ashtray by the sink, but it was empty. That was Tara. Two butts in there she’d empty it, wipe it out.

  Steve looked in the garbage.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Frank asked him.

  “I want to see if she’s been eating.”

  “Has she?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing but cigarette butts.”

  He went over to the refrigerator and saw that it was amply stocked with milk and juices and bottled water, fruit and vegetables, but no meat. No leftovers. Everything was meticulously organized in its proper place. The water bottles were in such straight lines you could have set a level against them and the glass shelves themselves were gleaming.

  “Man, she’s even more anal than she used to be,” Frank said.

  “She’s always like that a little bit,” Steve said, though it did not need saying. “But… but this is extreme even for her.”

  “What are you thinking?” Frank asked him.

  “It’s just that…”

  “This place looks like it was stored in a box?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nothing more needed to be said about that. Steve led the way upstairs and, again, Frank hesitated. They were now invading the most private recesses of the house. It was up here, Steve knew, that she a
nd Frank must have—

  No, he wasn’t going to think silly jealous shit like that.

  Frank would not go into Tara’s room, so Steve gave it the once-over himself. Nothing out of place. This was a waste of time. She was just busy as usual, that’s why she wasn’t home. He knew if he told himself that long enough he might even start believing it.

  Lisa’s room.

  Now here was the strange thing: Lisa’s room was what might be called Teenage Girl Modern. The bed was unmade. Clothes overflowing the hamper. CDs and books heaped on a desk, a vanity mirror top cluttered with makeup and nail polish, a few magazines, a couple empty water bottles, hair dryer, a heart-shaped tin overflowing with ponytail rings. The closet was ajar and that was because there were so many shoes in there the door wouldn’t close.

  Frank laughed at the sight of it all. “Well, the kid hasn’t changed any.”

  Steve tried to laugh with him, but it just wouldn’t come. Tara had sterilized the entire house… but left this room untouched? It seemed absolutely inconceivable. Tara was always after Lisa to clean her room. It became a bloodied point of contention between them. Absolute verbal knock-down, drag-outs. And in the end, of course, Lisa won and Tara couldn’t take it so she went in there and cleaned it herself and Lisa had a pissy fit over the whole thing. Drama, drama.

  But now in this latest manic, obsessive-compulsive cleaning barrage, she had left this room untouched?

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Steve said to Frank and told him why.

  “Maybe she got sick of it.”

  Steve just looked at him. “Tara? Conceding defeat?”

  “Yeah, I see your point. She got lazy?”

  Again, Steve gave him the look.

  “Okay, I guess not.”

  This was screaming something dead in Steve’s face but for the life of him he could not hear the words. This meant something. This was no red herring, this was the big clue, only he could not define it.