Vincent Zandri - The remains

He jotted down some notes in a small notebook he stored in his shirt pocket.

“You saw him in the carwash on Tuesday,” Harris recalled. “Did his face ring any kind of bell whatsoever?”

I felt my stomach drop. Did the face of the nice old man match the face of the rapist in the ViCAP database?

“Not at all,” I said. “Not with all that hair. I guess I might have seen the same white-haired man there a dozen times before over the course of a few months. But only on Tuesday did I feel the need to pay attention to him.”

“The texts,” Harris went on. “What was the number left on your caller ID?”

“That’s just it,” Michael spoke for me. “Unknown Caller.”

Harris transferred himself behind the cluttered desk. He shifted his eyes back to me.

“I’m going to check into the possibility that Whalen could be texting you, Rebecca. If he’s got the money for a cell phone, he’s allowed a cell phone. Simple as that. You save the messages?”

I told him I had.

He asked to see my phone.

I handed it to him from across the desk.

He pulled his reading glasses from inside his jacket pocket, slipped them on. Then he flipped open the phone, thumbed some buttons. Although I couldn’t see exactly what he was getting at, I knew he had to be looking at the messages. I knew he was trying to get something from their accompanying information. Or in this case, non-information.

After a time, he looked up.

“Verizon,” he said, handing the phone back to me.

“You’re not going to confiscate it?”

“I have your number. Cell phone records are easy enough to access.”

“How is it Whalen would be able to block his caller ID?” Michael interjected. It was a question both of us wanted to ask.

“You want to block your ID and number when making a call or a text,” he explained, “you just punch star-6-7 before dialing the desired telephone number. You want to unlock your ID, punch in star-8-2. It’s as simple as that and totally legal.”

Then I remembered something. “There was another woman there at the Hollywood Carwash. A well dressed woman who was driving a Mercedes Benz. She was upset because she had lost her cell phone while her car was being washed.”

Harris bit down on his bottom lip.

“That explains it,” he said, as though a light bulb lit up over his head. “I’m guessing Whalen is stealing cell phones, using them to text you.” He opened a bottom desk drawer, pulled out a phone book and slapped it heavily onto the desktop. “I’m going to call the Hollywood Carwash, find out if they’ve had a rash of lost mobile phones over the past few months.” Looking back at me, he continued, “If that’s everything, I need to get on this right away.”

I stood, a little out of balance.

“Detective,” I said. “I just have one question.”

“What is it?”

“Do you truly suspect that Franny might have something to do with all this? Something other than what’s going on in his mind?”

The detective bit his bottom lip again.

“I’m still having trouble comprehending his apparent accuracy in depicting your memories. On one hand we have a paroled Whalen who might be sending you texts; who might have tried to break into your Brunswick home; who might have left a photograph of you and your sister on the home’s porch floor; who might in fact be stalking you. On the other hand we have an autistic savant who is able to accurately paint your memories and dreams, as though you were dictating them to him.”

“But where do Whalen and Francis connect?” Michael demanded.

“Rebecca has already told me that the black and white photo of she and Molly matches one of Franny’s paintings. That raises the possibility that Whalen and Francis might have had access to the same photograph.”

“Not at the same time,” I said.

“We don’t know that,” Harris said. “Not yet.”

I told him that it’s not unusual for an autistic savant to be able to tap into portions of the brain that normal people can’t even hope for. Franny’s talent might very well include the ability to see inside my head. Or at the very least, to be able to see the future.

“Okay,” Harris uttered, a note of cynicism in his voice. “I’ll take your word for it, for now. But if it turns out Whalen’s and Francis’s prints are on that black and white photograph of you and your sister, it’ll only please me to pay the Scaramuzzis a little visit.”

“Franny has been through enough already,” I explained.

“How so?”

“The other day I got in his face, yelled at him. Like you, I’d started to believe there could be something more to the paintings than just an active imagination. An accurate imagination, that is.”

I started toward the door, until something else hit me.

“I shut down the center for the week. It’ll hurt Franny, but…”

“Why do that?” Harris begged. “Keeping busy might be the best thing for you right now.”

I took hold of Michael’s hand.

“My partner,” I said. “Robyn Painter. Are you aware of the assault on her last night, Detective Harris?”

I felt my heart pound when I said it. Harris was helping me. But I almost felt angry with him for not having mentioned it already. But then, perhaps he didn’t know that Robyn and I were best friends, despite our working together. The look on his face was hard, angry, tight-lipped. I knew then that he knew about what had happened at that motel.

“Wish I could say we had a better lead on the creep who did it. FBI is taking over the investigation. Your friend, Robyn… she’s not the only one.”

“I’m aware of that.” I swallowed.

Michael took my hand, gave it a squeeze.

Harris picked up the phone, held it in his hand.

“Again, I’ll ask you to call me if something else comes up.”

“What about the paintings?” Michael asked.

“I’m going to hang onto them along with the black and white pic of you and your sister, Rebecca. In the meantime I’m going to check into these texts, see if they really do somehow lead directly to Whalen.”

“I have another painting,” I said, nodding toward the canvas where it was leaned up against Michael’s chair.

Harris glanced at it. “That’s the house?” he asked under his breath.

“Yes.”

“I’m so very sorry.”

I turned away from him, made my way out the door, back into the foul smelling air.

We left the city and drove in the direction of my apartment.

Michael set his hand on my leg.

“Let’s skip town,” he said. “Why don’t we pack a quick bag, head down to New York for the night. Just like old times. We can get a room at the Gramercy Park, head out to Les Halles for steak frit, maybe a hit a bar or two. Just like we used to do.”

It sounded very appealing. Getting out of town for a night. God it sounded good.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to leave Robyn?”

“She needs rest, Bec. Not visitors. Besides, she’s got her mother and we’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

Michael was making sense. But there was just one more obstacle.

“What do we use for money?”

He tossed me a grin.

“Got a few bucks put away.”

“You robbed a convenience store and got away with it. Congratulations.”

“I’ve been selling the occasional news piece,” he offered. “Strictly online fluff stuff.”

We pulled into the apartment complex. Michael parked the truck in my designated spot. As we walked around the building to the terrace, I couldn’t help but notice how the sky was blackening, how the clouds were gathering with some speed. There was also a significant wind. Definitely a storm coming.