John Connolly - The Killing Kind

“Guess so,” I said. “Was there anything in the car?”

“I don't understand, sir.”

“Purse, suitcase, that kind of thing?”

“There was a bag with a change of clothes and a small purse with make-up, a wallet, keys.”

“Nothing else?”

Something clicked in Voisine's throat before he spoke.

“No.”

I thanked him and he finished off his cigarette, then tossed the butt on the ground, stamping it out beneath his heel. Just as he was about to get back into his car I called to him.

“Just one more thing, Trooper,” I said.

I walked down to join him. He paused, half in and half out of the car, and stared at me.

“How did you find her?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how did you see the car from the road? I can't see my car from here and it's parked in pretty much the same spot. I'm just wondering how you came to find her, seeing as how she was hidden by the trees.”

He said nothing for a time. The smile was gone now, and I wasn't sure what had replaced it. Trooper Voisine was a difficult man to read.

“We get a lot of speeding on this road,” he said at last. “I sometimes pull in here to wait. That's how I found her.”

“Ah,” I said. “That explains it. Thanks for your time.”

“Sure,” he replied. He closed the door and started the engine, then turned onto the road and headed north. I followed him out and made sure that I stayed in his mirror until he was gone from my sight.

There was little traffic on the road from Ellsworth to Bar Harbor as I drove through the gathering dusk of the early evening. The season had not yet begun, which meant that the locals still had the place pretty much to themselves. The streets were quiet, most of the restaurants were closed, and there was digging equipment on the site of the town's park, piles of earth now standing where there used to be green grass. Sherman's bookstore was still open on Main Street, and it was the first time that I had ever seen Ben amp; Bill's Chocolate Emporium empty. Ben amp; Bill's was even offering 50 percent off all candies. If they tried that after Memorial Day, people would be killed in the stampede.

The Acadia Pines Motel was situated by the junction of Main and Park. It was a pretty standard tourist place, probably operating at the lower end of the market. It consisted of a single two-story, L-shaped block painted yellow and white, numbering about forty rooms in total. When I pulled into the lot there were only two other cars parked and there seemed to be a kind of desperation about the ferocity with which the VACANCIES sign glowed and hummed. I stepped from the car and noticed that the pain in my side had faded to a dull ache, although when I examined my body in the dashboard light I could still see the imprint of Lutz's knuckles on my skin.

Inside the motel office, a woman in a pale blue dress sat behind the desk, the television tuned to a news show and a copy of TV Guide lying open beside her. She sipped from a Grateful Dead mug decorated with lines of dancing teddy bears, chipped red nail polish showing on her fingers. Her hair was dyed a kind of purple black and shined like a new bruise. Her face was wrinkled and her hands looked old, but she was probably no more than fifty-five, if that. She tried to smile as I entered, but it made her look as if someone had inserted a pair of fishhooks into the corners of her mouth and pulled gently.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you looking for a room?”

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I'm looking for Marcy Becker.”

There was a pause that spoke volumes. The office stayed silent but I could still hear her screaming in her head. I watched her as she ran through the various lying options open to her. You have the wrong place. I don't know any Marcy Becker. She's not here and I don't know where she is. In the end, she settled for a variation on the third choice.

“Marcy isn't here. She doesn't live here anymore.”

“I see,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Becker?”

That pause came again, then she nodded.

I reached into my pocket and showed her my ID. “My name is Charlie Parker, Mrs. Becker. I'm a private investigator. I've been hired to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of a woman named Grace Peltier. I believe Marcy was a friend of Grace's, is that correct?”

Pause. Nod.

“Mrs. Becker, when was the last time you saw Grace?”

“I don't recall,” she said. Her voice was dry and cracked, so she coughed and repeated her answer with only marginally more assurance. “I don't recall.” She took a sip of coffee from her mug.

“Was it when she came to collect Marcy, Mrs. Becker? That would have been a couple of weeks ago.”

“She never came to collect Marcy,” said Mrs. Becker quickly. “Marcy hasn't seen her in… I don't know how long.”

“Your daughter didn't attend Grace's funeral. Don't you think that's strange?”

“I don't know,” she said. I watched her fingers slide beneath the counter and saw her arm tense as she pressed the panic button.

“Are you worried about Marcy, Mrs. Becker?”

This time, the pause went on for what seemed like a very long time. When she spoke, her mouth answered no but her eyes whispered yes.

Behind me, I heard the door of the office open. When I turned, a short, bald man in a golf sweater and blue polyester pants stood before me. He had a golf club in his hand.

“Did I interrupt your round?” I asked.

He shifted the club in his hand. It looked like a nine iron. “Can I help you, mister?”

“I hope so, or maybe I can help you,” I said.

“He was asking about Marcy, Hal,” said Mrs. Becker.

“I can handle this, Francine,” her husband assured her, although even he didn't look convinced.

“I don't think so, Mr. Becker, not if all you've got is a cheap golf club.”

A rivulet of panic sweat trickled down from his brow and into his eyes. He blinked it away, then raised the club to shoulder height in a two-armed grip. “Get out,” he said.

My ID was still open in my right hand. With my left, I took one of my business cards from my pocket and laid it on the counter. “Okay, Mr. Becker, have it your way. But before I go, let me tell you something. I think someone may have killed Grace Peltier. Maybe you're telling me the truth, but if you're not, then I think your daughter has some idea who that person might be. If I could figure that out, then so can whoever killed her friend. And if that person comes asking questions, then he probably won't be as nice about it as I am. You bear that in mind after I'm gone.”

The club moved forward an inch or two. “I'm telling you for the last time,” he said, “get out of this office.”

I flipped my wallet closed, slipped it into my jacket pocket, then walked to the door, Hal Becker circling me with his golf club to keep some swinging distance between us. “I have a feeling you'll be calling me,” I said as I opened the door and stepped into the lot.

“Don't you bet on it,” replied Becker. As I started my car and drove away, he remained standing at the door, the golf club still raised, like a frustrated amateur with a huge handicap stuck in the biggest, deepest bunker in the world.

On the drive back to Scarborough I ran through what I had learned, which wasn't much. I knew that Carter Paragon was being kept under wraps by Ms. Torrance and that Lutz seemed to have more than a professional interest in keeping him that way. I knew that something about Voisine's discovery of Grace's body made me uneasy, and Lutz's involvement in that discovery made me uneasier still. And I knew that Hal and Francine Becker were scared. There were a lot of reasons why people might not want a private detective questioning their child. Maybe Marcy Becker was a porn star, or sold drugs to high school kids. Or maybe their daughter had told them to keep quiet about her whereabouts until whatever she was worried about had blown over. I still had Ali Wynn, Grace's Boston friend, to talk to, but already Marcy Becker was looking like a woman worth pursuing.