Vincent Zandri - The remains

I spoke up as we approached State Street and asked Michael to make a pit-stop at the school of art on the way to the police. In light of Robyn’s condition and Whalen’s unexpected homecoming, I wanted to leave a note on the front door explaining that the place would be closed for the rest of the week due to a personal emergency. I also wanted to change the answering service message to reflect the same message.

When it was done, I got back in the truck and Michael pulled out onto the main road, heading further into the city. When we arrived at the APD, I carried the new ‘Smell’ canvas in with me. We learned that Detective Harris wasn’t in, but that same gray-haired watch commander was at the counter to greet us. He said that if we wanted to wait, Harris would be back within the half-hour. I knew then that I should have called the detective, let him know we were coming. But it was too late now.

The precinct smelled bad. Not altogether different from that sewer-like smell I recalled from the house in the woods. The watch commander must have noticed our sour faces because he pinched his own nostrils together, said, “Plumber’s on his way. Old cast iron pipes in this building just can’t keep up with the flow anymore… If you know what I mean.”

I nodded.

“Tell you what. Jack’s Diner is just across the street. Excellent home cooking, real good coffee. Why don’t you wait for Harris there? When he comes back, I’ll have him give you a call right away.” The big man smiled.

“Sounds good, Sergeant,” Michael said.

“Course it is,” the gray-haired cop said, waving his hand rapidly in front of his face, as if it were possible to wave away the stench. “Stay here much longer you’ll lose your cookies.”

I asked the watch commander if I could leave the painting behind.

“Sure thing,” he answered. “We could use a little culturing around here.” Then he said, “Hey John Grisham, you got a new book comin’ out?”

“Workin’ on it,” Michael said, not without a grin.

We departed the APD, headed across the street to the diner where we sat ourselves in a corner booth that overlooked South Pearl Street and the red brick police station. Michael ordered us coffee and toasted hard rolls with butter. I managed to drink the coffee, but only picked at the hard roll.

We sat and waited for Harris’s call.

And waited.

When my cell phone chimed, it nearly made me jump out of the booth.

Taking charge Michael picked up the phone, answered. While he listened, he laser-beamed his eyes into mine.

“Right away, Detective,” he said, hanging up.

Sliding out of the booth, he stood, slid a five and two ones from his pocket, tossed them onto the table.

“What did Harris say?” I asked.

“He wants to see us now. He’s got news.”

I felt my pulse race.

Whalen.

“This time we tell him about the texts. Agreed?”

“That’s why we’re here.”

Just like yesterday when we first met with him inside his private office, Harris politely asked us to sit. Only this time, instead of seating himself behind his desk, he perched himself on the desk’s edge, one foot hanging off, the other planted firmly on the floor. Today he was wearing a tan blazer over a white button-down, no tie. The bulge under the left breast pocket told me he stored a pair of reading glasses inside the interior pocket. He crossed arms over chest. Over his right shoulder I could see that the previous calendar day had been neatly X’d off in blue ballpoint. The precinct still stunk like a sewer. But no one mentioned a word about it.

“The paintings,” he began to explain. “Thus far the Albany labs see nothing to indicate Whalen had any kind of contact with them whatsoever. My guess is that the only people to lay hands on them-besides present company of course-is your student, Francis, perhaps his mother, maybe your partner, Robyn. But no Whalen.”

When he said the name Robyn, I felt a tug in my stomach. I wondered if he was aware of the overnight attack on her at the Cocoa Motel. I wanted to ask him about it. But not yet.

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “Although I am somewhat relieved.”

Harris raised his eyebrows.

“You suggesting Francis could have somehow been working with Whalen?”

I shot a glance up at Michael where he stood beside my chair. His eyebrows were raised just like the detective’s.

I shook my head.

“Not a chance,” I insisted. “Franny would never do anything to hurt anyone. He also knows right from wrong and Whalen is definitely wrong.”

“Francis having direct contact with Whalen would certainly answer the question of how the artist is able to paint your memories.”

The tug in my stomach intensified. I felt like all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out through the vents, leaving only the foul odor.

“What about Whalen?” Michael pressed. “Did you make contact with his parole officer?”

The detective looked up.

“I did,” he confirmed. “Whalen’s been employed at the Hollywood Carwash on Central in the west end. He lives in a half-way house on Clinton not a block away from work. Fully registered with sex offenders, as you well know. Shows up for the early and evening meals per state regs, where’s a monitoring bracelet around his right ankle. It’s house-arrest from that point on until work starts the next morning. Lights out at ten. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Whalen is a model parolee; a system success story.”

“So what you’re trying to say detective?” Michael posed. “That there’s no reason to suggest Whalen has been acting in anyway suspicious? You don’t see him as a threat?”

Harris shook his head.

“Not an immediate threat,” he stressed. But then raising his right hand, pointing an extended index finger at the painting I’d brought into the office with me. “I remain however, more than a little curious about Franny the artist.”

The Hollywood Carwash…

“Wait a minute,” I broke in. “I had my car washed on Tuesday morning.”

Michael and Harris immediately turned their attention to me as if an alarm had just gone off.

“I had my car washed and an older man dried it. The Hollywood Carwash on Central. A small white-bearded man with a head full of white hair. He smiled at me, spoke to me. I gave him a five dollar tip because I felt sorry for him, for having to work in a car wash.”

Harris looked at Michael. Michael looked at me. Both their faces looked pale.

“I can only assume that’s him,” Harris said, standing up straight. “Did he give you any reason to suggest he knew you? Did he use your name?”

My head was spinning.

“No,” I said. “The man didn’t say much of anything.”

“What made you go to the car wash in the first place?”

“I get Molly’s car washed every Tuesday morning, whether it needs it or not. It’s what Molly always did. Every Tuesday, rain or shine or snow. It was her ritual.”

“Dollars to donuts,” Harris said, “if that was in fact, Whalen, he knew you were coming. He would have planned it that way.”

“I’d never seen him there before.”

“That’s because you weren’t aware of him until recently.”

An explosion came from outside precinct walls. Thunder. Loud enough to cause all three of us to glance at the far wall, as if there was a window to see out of.

“Tell him about the texts,” Michael insisted.

I looked up at my ex-husband, then shifted to Harris.

“Someone unknown has been sending me texts over the period of a few months.”

Harris raised his eyebrows.

“What did the messages say?”

I told him. “Just my name at first. Then later on, rebecca. My name in the lower case.”