Part 17 (1/2)

He hesitated a moment, starting the sentence, stopping, and then starting again. ”What do you think, Alison? Is Ray capable of what they . . . of murder?”

I could see his mind working overtime: if Ray did it, then he's a murderer, and he lived next door to us. His property values would plummet. I answered his question with a shrug. Ray was capable of a lot, but murder? It was anyone's guess.

He fixed me a look mixed with pity, sympathy, and sadness. ”I'm sorry, Alison. You deserve a lot better than that.”

And so do you, I thought. I got a little annoyed. I deserve a lot better than a murderer? Yes, most women do. And you don't have a clue about what's going on in your house, buddy, so save the pity for someone else. But instead of saying what I really thought, I stood with a smile plastered on my face. I watched the kid on the tricycle for another second before saying good-bye to Jackson and giving Trixie a pat on the head. Trixie was fast becoming my favorite next-door neighbor.

The street was more deserted farther away from my house. I supposed that most people with kids ate early, and everyone was safely tucked inside, serving chicken nuggets and french fries to hungry young ones. I started down the street, glad that I had grabbed my black-leather blazer out of the front-hall closet; the day, once sunny and bright, had turned dark, windy, and cold. I stopped at the corner at the intersection that united my street and the street down to the station and b.u.t.toned the three b.u.t.tons on my jacket.

A black Mercedes sedan, s.h.i.+ny and with tinted windows, pulled up alongside me. The pa.s.senger-side window disappeared and I looked in at Peter Miceli's round face. ”Hi, Alison!” he said, as if running into me was the most normal thing that could happen. Staten Island was a ninety-minute drive from my house; this wasn't an accident. Or a social call.

I froze in place, a terrified smile on my face. ”Peter, I have a train to catch.”

He stayed in the car but kept talking. ”Where are you going? I'll drive you.”

I backed away from the car. ”The City.” I thought short answers might be better under these circ.u.mstances.

He slowly maneuvered the car so that it was as close to me as it could get without running me down. His tone changed. ”Get in.”

I looked in the window at him and saw a gun on his lap.

”Get in,” he repeated. He reached across the seat and opened the pa.s.senger door.

I got in and pulled the door shut, staying as close to the door as possible. The door locks went down with an ominous ”thunk,” and Peter started driving, away from the train, my street, and the town.

After five minutes of silence, he looked over at me. ”Put your seat belt on.” He waited until I did so before continuing. We were now on the Saw Mill River Parkway, heading south. ”So, I understand you've been spending time with Detective Crawford.”

I stared straight ahead and kept silent. My right leg went up and down, shaking uncontrollably, and I put my hands and my purse on top of it to stop the trembling.

”He's good-looking. Seems like a catch,” he said, as if he approved of my taste in men. He should have met my ex-husband.

”I guess,” I said, morphing into a seventh grader.

”He tell you anything about who slaughtered my Kathy?” Instead of heading toward Manhattan on the Henry Hudson, he merged left and got onto the Major Deegan Expressway going south, which would take us through the Bronx. I felt a sob rise in my throat but kept it there; I'm sure he knew I was scared, but I wasn't going to let him know it by crying.

”We don't talk about the case,” I said, my voice steady and calm.

”What do you talk about?”

I shrugged. ”Nothing much.”

He grinned. ”Oh, it's one of those kinds of relations.h.i.+ps. Not a lot of talking. Before I met Gianna, I had a few of those kinds of relations.h.i.+ps.” He looked over at me. ”Are you scared of me, Alison?”

”A little.”

He put the gun into a leather-lined pocket on his car door. ”I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.” He continued driving on the Deegan, weaving in and out of traffic. ”I heard what happened with you and that idiot, Vince. Did he hurt you?”

”No.”

”Shame about that kid. But that's what happens when you don't have a father growing up,” he said. He clucked sympathetically and looked over at me again. ”Funny thing is, he was just like his father even though he never knew him. Loose cannon.” He switched lanes again. ”You know what they say: the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.”

I didn't say anything and let him talk.

”We weren't crazy about it when Kathy started dating him. She's just like her mother, though. Bad taste in men,” he said, and then caught himself. ”Before she ended up with me, that is.” He let out a throaty laugh. ”Do you remember the guys Gianna used to date before she met me?”

I shook my head.

”Crazy guys. Nuts,” he said, taking his index finger and rotating it around by his head. ”Her parents were so happy when she started dating me. You could say that they had picked me out for her.”

I looked at the speedometer; he was going the speed limit, so there was no chance that we would be stopped for speeding. He turned off an exit that I wasn't familiar with and headed east on a dark road.

He continued with his stream-of-consciousness monologue. ”The only thing I can't figure out-besides who killed Kathy, that is-is why they left her in your car. Why your car, Alison?”

I had asked myself that a thousand times and had come to the same conclusion as Max. ”My car was s.h.i.+tty. It was easy to steal.”

He had a look on his face that told me he had never considered that explanation. ”s.h.i.+tty? In what way?”

”It was old, the locks didn't work, and it's the kind of car most people wouldn't miss.” I looked out the window and tried to figure out where we were, but couldn't. The area became more desolate, with old, dilapidated houses dotting either side of the street but becoming fewer in number the farther east we got. I tightened my grip on my bag and almost gave in to the urge to cry.

”That's a shame. You really should have invested in better transportation.”

Thanks for the advice, a.s.shole, I thought to myself. I'll be dead soon, and the only transportation I'll need is a hea.r.s.e.

He slowed the car down and crept along a side street. ”I want you to do something for me, Alison. I want you to find out everything your detective boyfriend knows about this case. Everything. Got it?”

”He's not my boyfriend, Peter, and he won't tell me anything.” Although I should have agreed with him, I knew it was fruitless to try to pry anything out of Crawford. So, what happened when Peter came back, and I still didn't know anything? I was starting to suspect that the things that I had heard about Peter were true, and that made me fish food any way you looked at it.

”He'll tell you. Just keep asking,” he said, and pulled the car over. I saw a series of large warehouses, but nothing else. ”Maybe you can take another trip to the beach. The long car ride might give you the opportunity to chat a little more.”

I froze. So, he knew about Crawford's beach house and our trip there. I looked out the window of the car to hide the fact that tears were rolling down my cheeks. The street outside was dark and deserted. So, this is where I'll die, I thought.

”Let's just say it would behoove you to find out anything you can and let me know.” He patted my knee.

It would also behoove me to stay alive, but that didn't seem likely, given my driving companion, the gun in the side pocket of the driver's side door, and the location-a dark, deserted area of the southeast Bronx.

”By the way, I understand they had your ex in custody. What's that about? The paper says he's the main suspect,” he said.

I inched closer to the door; I was practically sitting on the door handle. That wouldn't help me if he pulled out the gun and shot me in the head, but it made me feel better. ”They questioned him. Just like they questioned all of Kathy's teachers.”

He turned toward me. ”They didn't bring you into the station house. Or Sister Mary. Why'd they bring Ray in?”

”I don't know, Peter.”

”He did it, didn't he?”

”I don't know, Peter,” I repeated. I was glad that it was dark in the car; I didn't want Peter to see the fear on my face.