"Are many of them as attractive as Grace Brookstein?"
"No, sir. Not many."
"Or as good in the sack?"
"No, sir!" Tommy Burns grinned. "She was something else."
It was a full five seconds before he realized his mistake. The smile wilted. "Hey now, don't you go putting words in my mouth! I didn't...I mean...I'm the victim here," he stammered. "I'm the goddamn victim!"
IT WAS LATE BY THE TIME Mitch got home that night. If you could call the shitty two-bedroom rental that was all he could afford since Helen left him "home." Helen got everything when they split: Celeste, the house, even the dog, Snoopy. My dog. Mitch could understand the things that drove men to hate women. Men like Tommy Burns. It would be easy to slip down that path. He had to guard against it himself sometimes.
It had been quite a day. The press conference, a phone call from Grace Brookstein herself, and finally Tommy Burns. Burns was Mitch's first, real, concrete lead. Mitch knew he ought to feel elated. Instead he felt uneasy.
After Tommy Burns's slip of the tongue this afternoon, they'd come to an understanding: Mitch would look no further into a possible sexual assault of Grace Brookstein. In return, Tommy would forget about the $200,000 reward and would tell Mitch everything he could remember from that night: Grace's clothing, her demeanor, anything at all she might have said or done that could shed light on her plans. Tommy's van had been sent to forensics. When Mitch spoke to them a few hours ago, they'd been hopeful. It should provide a treasure trove of new evidence.
So why do I feel like crap?
Mitch had walked into that hospital this afternoon full of righteous rage and loathing. Grace Brookstein was a criminal, a heartless thief and would-be killer who had violently attacked an innocent family man. Except that if Tommy Burns was an innocent family man, Mitch Connors was Big Bird. The e-mail finally came through after midnight. Mitch had run a check on Tommy Burns's record. Sure enough, he had a string of sexual-assault convictions stretching back almost twenty years. Two rape charges had been thrown out for lack of evidence. So much for the Good Samaritan.
Something had happened in that van. Burns was a sexual predator and Grace had defended herself. In this case, at least, that made her the victim. Mitch suddenly realized, I don't want her to be the victim. I want her to be the bad guy. Usually he was unequivocal about his cases and the people he brought to justice. To Mitch, they were all paler versions of whoever had killed his father: bad men, men who deserved to be brought down. But already, this case felt different. Part of him hated Grace for her crimes. Her greed and lack of remorse were well documented. But another part of him pitied her. Pitied her for having to deal with the likes of Tommy Burns. Pitied her for having that pair of heartless vultures for sisters.
Mitch closed his eyes and tried to imagine how Grace Brookstein must have felt in Burns's van. Alone, on the run, already desperate, and the first man she trusted turned out to be a psychotic pervert. Burns wasn't a big guy but he was strong, and presumably determined. Grace must have shown great courage to fight him off like that.
What would her next move have been?
She wouldn't hitch another ride. Not if Burns had just raped her. She'd take off on foot. Which means she couldn't have gotten far that night. A couple of miles maybe. Five tops.
Pulling out a map, Mitch pinpointed the spot where Burns's van was abandoned. With a red Sharpie, he drew a circle around the van at a five-mile radius.
There was only one town inside the circle.
THE OLD MAN WAVED HIS FRAIL arms excitedly. Mitch Connors fought back the urge to laugh. He looks like Yoda having a seizure...
"I told 'em! I told 'em she wuz here, but they jus' pooh-poohed me. Reckon an old man like me don't know what he saw. Dead of night she shows up, dead of night. No suitcase! I told 'em. I said, she din' have no case. That ain't right. But did anybody listen to me? No, sir."
It turned out Richardsville only had the one motel. When Mitch called and mentioned Grace Brookstein's name, the proprietor of the Up All Night had gone ballistic. Yes, Grace had been there. He'd already told the police. Didn't those bozos speak to each other?
"I hope you gonna fire that officer. McInley. Arrogant little piece of S-H-I-T, 'scuse my language, Detective. But I told 'em."
Mitch turned to the technician sweeping the room for prints. The technician shook his head. "Clean as a whistle, boss. Sorry. If she was here, she did a good job covering her tracks."
The old man looked like his grizzled head might explode. "What do you mean 'if she wuz here'? Ain't no if. She wuz here! How many more times do I gotta tell you people? Grace. Brookstein. Wuz. Here."
"I'm sure she was, sir," said Mitch. But she's not here now. Another dead end.
"How's about my reward? Man on the TV said two hundred thousan' dollars."
"We'll be in touch."
THERE WERE MESSAGES WAITING FOR MITCH back at the station.
"Your wife called," the sergeant on the desk told him.
"Ex-wife," Mitch corrected her.
"Whatever. She was yelling something about your kid's school play. She wasn't a happy camper."
Mitch groaned. Damn it. Celeste's play. Was that today? Mitch had sworn up and down he'd be there, but with all the excitement of the last forty-eight hours, he'd totally forgotten. I'm the worst father in the world and the worst cop. Someone should give me a medal. Guiltily he began punching his old home number into his cell when the desk sergeant interrupted him.
"One more thing, sir. A guy was here earlier. He said he had information about Grace Brookstein; said he knew her. He wanted to talk to you but he wouldn't wait."
"Well, did you get his details?"
She shook her head. "He wouldn't tell me anything. He said he'd wait for you in this bar until six." She handed Mitch a dirty piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.
Mitch sighed. It was probably another crank. On the other hand the bar was only a couple blocks away. And anything was preferable to facing Helen's wrath, or hearing the disappointment in Celeste's voice.
The clock on the wall said ten of six.
AT SIX O'CLOCK EXACTLY, MITCH WALKED into the bar just as a good-looking, dark-haired man with a hawklike nose was walking out. When Mitch saw there were no other customers, he ran back onto the street and caught up with him.
"Hey. Was it you who wanted to see me? I'm Detective Connors."
The dark-haired man looked at his watch. "You're late."
Mitch was irritated. Who does this dickhead think he is? "Look, buddy, I don't have time for games, okay? Do you have information for me or don't you?"
"You know, you might want to be a little more polite to me. Your ass is on the line, Connors, and I can save it. For a price, of course. I know where Grace Brookstein's going to be at noon tomorrow. If you're nice to me - real nice - I'll take you to her."
CELESTE CONNORS CRIED HERSELF TO SLEEP that night.
Her daddy never called.