Time Release Page 18

  Up and down the pages, the computer matched names with products, little snapshots of lifestyles and personalities. Good old American marketing. Why hadn’t he heard of this before? Why hadn’t some shrewd defense attorney subpoenaed this kind of stuff for a rape trial and used the victim’s contraceptive foam purchase history to show what a fuck-bunny she was, show how it was all her fault. Just a matter of time.

  He set September aside and opened the October printout, running his finger along the left edge, looking for Corbetts. He ran his finger past Corbett, Sandra and Ronald, then came back to it. He traced the dotted line across the page to their Ranch Bounty biography. Member since 1985. Downing drew a sharp breath: The card came from a Ranch Bounty store in Pittsburgh’s East End, where the Corbetts lived at the time. The manager was right—advanced supermarket technology had arrived late in Greene County.

  He steadied himself against the edge of the desk. Some­one had used the Corbett family’s card in this store just prior to the latest poisoning. What were the chances the basket case in Ridgeville would drive an hour south to Waynesburg to buy groceries? Sonny did most of her shopping anyway, and there’s no way he’d come down here to do it. Had to be Ron Corbett using an old card issued jointly to him and his wife.

  Downing checked when the card was used that month. One visit: October 26. A week before JoAnn Cuddy died. The list of purchases was short: a box of Tide laundry detergent, Pearl Drops tooth polish, a pint of whole milk, a package of Squeezie Pops. Hardly the comprehensive grocery list of a regular shopper at this store; definitely not enough stuff for someone who only came in once that month. No, this was the shopping list of someone trying to justify his presence, someone planning his next move.

  Downing jumped as the office door swung open.

  “Time,” Dick said.

  Downing checked his watch. “That was five minutes?”

  “To the second. Anything interesting?”

  Downing nodded to the copy machine in the corner. “Not a thing. Mind if I copy a page, though?”

  “Not a chance.”

  He wanted to crush the little prick’s skull. He couldn’t leave without a computer record that apparently placed Ron Corbett in the store the same week of the latest killing. Downing stared Dickie down, then fished another fifty from his pocket. The manager didn’t hesitate this time. He took it and gestured grandly to the copier.

  “One page,” he said. “And you got no idea where it came from.”

  Chapter 24

  “Just roll the dice and get on with it.”

  The voice woke Sonny from a dream about Lake Erie. He was swimming hard and steady, on course and making good time. It was dark, after midnight, and the shore lights were disappearing into the gloom. Suddenly, something was behind him, moving like it was after him. Then his navigator was gone, leaving him alone. He swam harder, hoping to make it to the lake’s northwest shore. Sixty strokes a minute became seventy. Then seventy-five. Eighty. He kicked with his legs instead of using them for balance. Working those large muscles would drain him, but it didn’t matter. In the blackness behind him, something was closing in.

  Again, Hawk’s voice cut through his sleep like a foghorn.

  “Science and nature, for the game. And as always, Mr. Doyle, good luck.”

  Sonny sat up, untangled himself from his sweat-soaked sheets, and rose. He was naked and unsteady. Trivial Pursuit at … what? He glanced at his clock radio. One-thirty in the afternoon. Of course. His roommates were matching wits for dish duty. At twenty-two, he was the same age as both Hawk and Doyle. Why did he feel so much older?

  Sonny pulled on his Western Pennsylvania Swimming Federation sweatshirt and a baggy pair of Quiksilver shorts. He entered the living room just as Doyle was draining a half-finished bottle of Rolling Rock, closing his eyes, and readying himself for the next question. Their Christmas tree had fallen over. No one else seemed to notice.

  “Ah, I see Mr. Corbett has joined us,” Hawk said, waving an iron fireplace poker at Sonny like a sword. “Pleasant sleep after your morning swim? To bring you up to speed, Mr. Doyle needs only to answer this question correctly to avoid that diseased stack of dinnerware in the kitchen. A correct answer will end the game and doom me to an afternoon of drudgery. Do you have any questions?”

  Sonny rubbed his fingertips across his eyes. “What’s wrong with the kitchen-duty schedule we set up last month?”

  Hawk smiled, shook his head. “Nothing, nothing at all. But you must understand, Doyle and I are men of danger. A three-day duty rotation is functional, but—how shall we say it?—it’s not exactly living on the edge. This,” Hawk said, sweeping an arm toward the game board between him and Doyle, “introduces an element of risk.”

  Doyle finally spoke: “Hit me, assface.”

  Hawk fished into the box and withdrew a card from the center of the stack, then turned it face-up on the wooden cable spool they used as a coffee table. With his free hand, he twirled their fireplace poker like a baton.

  “Hell-o bee-utiful. Ready? ‘What does a hippophobe fear?’ And, as always, good luck, Mr. Doyle.” Hawk was cocky, humming the Jeopardy! theme.

  Doyle took another long drink. Seconds passed. He was taking too long.

  “Tick. Tick. Tick,” Hawk prodded.

  “I think it’s a trick. Hippos.”

  Hawk emitted a loud, buzzerlike sound. “We’re so sorry, Mr. Doyle. That’s incorrect. You’ll get neither the washer-dryer combination nor Carol Merrill, our lovely hostess. May I recommend Ivory liquid? So gentle on your hands. Care to venture a guess, Mr. Corbett?”

  “Horses.”

  Both roommates looked up, Hawk at Sonny, Doyle at Hawk.

  “He right?” Doyle asked.

  “Unfuckingbelievable,” Hawk said. “Of course Flipper’s right.”

  Sonny never lost. His mind was a rich storehouse of useless knowledge, one of the benefits of having lived and worked so close to Carnegie Library since he’d turned eighteen. Trivial Pursuit was the perfect channel for it, but lately the dish-duty challenge bored him as much as his inventory and ordering job in the university’s chemistry department.

  “All right then, Mr. Corbett, let’s see how you are at history, shall we? Double or nothing for the dishes.” Hawk pulled another card from the box. “What war ended with an armistice signed at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month? And, as always—”

  Sonny picked up his breakfast dishes from the dining room table and walked them toward the kitchen. “World War I,” he said over his shoulder. He dropped the dishes onto the crusty mound of silverware in the sink, obliterating his roommate’s reply. “I’m going out for a walk.”

  Hawk was on his feet, waggling the poker at him. “Wait a minute, wiseass. At least help us put this stuff away, or I’ll be forced to beat you to within an inch of your life. What’s the big hurry, anyway?”

  “It’s almost two o’clock. Life goes on”—Sonny gestured toward the kitchen window—“out there. I may stop by Rec Hall to lift. Need more shoulders for the Lake Erie swim. February’s not that far off.”

  “The mighty musclehead.” Hawk feigned awe. “Dollar to squeeze your bicep?”

  “Supposed to exercise my hands, too.”

  “They still going numb?” Doyle asked. He stood, lost his balance for a moment, and sat back down. The Rolling Rock he was holding was obviously not his first of the day.

  “Once in a while. Nothing seems to help.”

  Hawk seemed to consider that, stroking his chin, at first, then grabbing his crotch. “I know a great exercise for lower-arm strength. Three times a day. You’ll notice the difference.”

  “Strength’s not the problem,” Sonny said, folding the game board. He picked up the box of trivia cards and searched the floor for its top. “They just tingle sometimes. It’s
weird. They say there’s nothing really wrong. You seen the lid to this thing?”

  From the apartment’s entryway came the clank of the mail slot and the rustle of falling paper. “I’ll get it,” Hawk said. He pretended to sheathe his poker by thrusting it down through a belt loop of his jeans, then swaggered off toward the sound. Sonny scanned the floor under the couch for the missing box lid. Hawk was back by the time Sonny stood up, still without the box top.

  Hawk flipped through the stack of what looked like credit-card offers and thrift-store flyers, then pulled out a plain white envelope. He held it out to Sonny without looking up.

  The only thing on the envelope was Sonny’s typewritten name, no postmark or address. Must have been in the box before the mail arrived, Sonny figured. He juggled the box of trivia cards in one hand and slid the thumb of his other under the flap. It opened clean and Sonny somehow got the envelope’s contents out without dropping them.

  Hawk was still sorting mail when the box of cards suddenly fell onto the floor and scattered trivia like brightly colored confetti. The plain white envelope and the single page it contained fluttered down in its wake. Sonny returned his roommates’ startled glances, then all three looked hard at the hands Sonny suddenly couldn’t feel.

  “What’s the matter?” Hawk asked.

  “I don’t know. My hands.”

  “What about them?”

  “They feel really weird.”

  “They finally match the rest of you!” Hawk was trying hard to keep things light, but stopped after seeing Sonny’s face. “No, really, what do you think it is?”

  Hawk stooped and picked up the envelope and the letter, which had landed face up. All that was on the page was a single typewritten paragraph, and his roommate read it to himself.

  “This a Bible verse, or what?” He held the letter out to Sonny, who tried to grasp it but couldn’t. Sonny pressed his limp hands together with a corner of the page between them, then brought it closer to his face. He stared without speaking.

  Hawk prodded again: “From somebody you know?”

  Chapter 25

  Downing eased the Ford to the curb and checked the mailbox. Ruff Creek Lane, number 29. Not a man­sion, but definitely upper crust in a college town like Waynesburg. He jammed the gearshift into park and turned off the engine, still buzzed by what he’d found at Ranch Bounty.

  Late afternoon. Sun would be down in an hour, and he’d lose its warmth to the cold and dark of rural western Pennsylvania. Which was fine. After this, he was heading for Outcrop again, and this time he was ready. Thermal underwear. Heavy boots. Ski gloves. Wool watchcap. He wanted to watch Corbett long enough to establish his rhythms, to predict his movements. He’d brought his deer rifle, too, a Remington 30.06 with a long scope. He liked to be ready for anything.

  The walkway was icy, almost like someone had hosed it down. Downing stepped off into the grass and limped toward the front door of the Cuddy house, hoping the day’s luck would hold. One more score like this morning’s and he might be able to make a circumstantial case against Corbett even if Christensen struck out with Sonny.

  A young man answered his knock. Downing recognized the kid’s voice from the recording of the 9-1-1 call.

  “You must be Mark,” he said.

  A man appeared behind the boy, opening the front door wide but keeping the storm door locked. He looked like a man who’d recently lost a lot of weight.

  Downing flashed his shield. “Sorry to intrude, Mr. Cuddy. May I come in?”

  A Waynesburg College professor, Downing remembered as he followed Cuddy down a hall lined with overfilled bookshelves and into the kitchen at the rear of the house. The kid disappeared up the carpeted stairs without a word, six weeks into a lifetime of rage. He’ll be a death penalty supporter someday, Downing said to himself, one of the people cheering outside the prison when the state finally seats Ron Corbett in Old Sparky. Maybe the gods will be kind and let them both watch Corbett broil in that decrepit chair from behind the witness window. Maybe then the kid could move on, maybe then he could go to his own grave in peace.

  The kitchen. Downing suddenly realized where he was. He tried to absorb the details, to imagine the scene. The telephone was on the wall near the refrigerator, its long cord tangled into loops and snarls. A cupboard door beneath the sink was missing. The wooden frame where its hinges attached was splintered and cracked, like the door had been torn away. His head echoed with the recorded sound of splitting wood and the solid thump of flesh on floor. Downing tried not to stare too long.

  By all accounts, Charles Cuddy had been lecturing in front of seventy-five Waynesburg College undergrads at the moment his wife died. Took only three days for Ramsey and the local posse to rule him out, the geniuses. They noted in a follow-up report that Cuddy took his wife’s death particularly hard, and that he probably wouldn’t be much help with the investigation.

  “You’re probably sick of answering questions,” Downing said, settling into one of the breakfast table chairs. Cuddy had not spoken since answering the door. “Sure would appreciate you answering a few more.”

  Cuddy arched his eyebrows toward the ceiling. “That’s our son. My son. He was with her, but you probably knew that.”

  “I heard the tape,” Downing said. “He did everything right.”

  “He thinks he could have saved her.”

  “He’s wrong,” Downing said. Cyanide is unforgiving. The dying starts the second you swallow. He thought of Carole, of their last hours together, of her last minutes alive, alone. He’d needed to get home to Trix that night. If he’d stayed, would he have snatched the Primenyl bottle from her hand when she got it out of the car’s glove compartment? Would she still be alive?

  “Is he talking to anybody?”

  Cuddy nodded. “Good people. But it’ll be years—”

  After an uncomfortable silence, Downing cleared his throat. “I won’t take any more of your time than I need, Mr. Cuddy, but I do have one question. And I trust it’ll stay between us, because I’m treading on fairly thin ice here, being that the Pittsburgh PD has no official role in this investigation.”

  The professor leaned against the counter, apparently confused.

  “See, I have a lot of experience in cases like this, and I’m following up on the local investigation, just making sure they’ve covered all the bases. You remember the similar cases in Pittsburgh in 1986, I’m sure.”

  No reaction.

  “Maybe there’s no connection, like Detective Ramsey says. The cyanide wasn’t a chemical twin of the stuff used in Pittsburgh. The methods are different. But with some­thing like this, it pays to be sure. And you can appreciate the delicateness of that situation. I’m just backstopping, but if they know I’m nosing around it’ll come off as second-guessing. You follow?”

  Long silence. Finally: “I’m not particularly pleased with their follow-up.”

  Yes. “Really?”

  “I’ve called twice since the funeral with information. Just random thoughts. My wife—”

  Cuddy peeled the wire-rimmed eyeglasses from his face. A strange smile, less happy than pained. Downing waited.

  “There was a man, several years ago.” Cuddy’s eyes strayed to the family portrait on the wall: father, mother, only son. “It was a difficult time in our marriage. It’s probably irrelevant.”

  Downing kept his eyes fixed on the husband’s. An old investigator’s credo: Nothing is irrelevant until the investigator says so.

  “I don’t know his name, but I know enough about him that somebody with access to records probably could have tracked him down. It was a long shot, but I at least wanted him questioned.”

  Downing knitted his fingers together so he wouldn’t fidget. “Why do you think it isn’t relevant?”

  Cuddy crossed the room and opened a drawer near the stov
e. He removed an envelope and laid it on the counter, but didn’t offer it to Downing.

  “It ended years ago, apparently. Just one of those things, something I should have seen coming but didn’t. I had no idea. But I found one of the letters he wrote to JoAnn after the funeral. She had it tucked in a book.”

  Downing winced, imagining him discovering her betrayal so soon after her death. He stifled his urge to reach for the letter.

  “I thought it should be followed up,” Cuddy said. “There’s no return address, but I know he lives in Colorado. I know he worked a while at the college, so the administrative office may know where he is. Detective Ramsey took the information, but he never came to get the letter. I don’t think he even tried to check it out.”

  This was good. The victim’s husband wasn’t happy with the local investigation.

  “I’d be happy to make some calls on it,” Downing said, reaching for the letter. “In their defense, sometimes investigators working a case like this get so bogged down in the day-to-day they have trouble stepping back, seeing the big picture. But someone should follow up, even if it’s nothing.”

  A Boulder, Colorado, postmark. Downing tucked it into the inside pocket of his sports coat. He would make a call or two, eventually, but at this point he didn’t intend to spend a lot of time chasing down old boyfriends with no grudges who lived two thousand miles away. “Anything else you think we need to know about Mrs. Cuddy’s death?”