kept my voice to a whisper so Danny wouldn’t hear me. “I can’t sleep, Ray. I need you.”
He massaged my breast. “Mmmm.” He nuzzled my neck and started to move downwards.
I shoved his shoulder again. “Ray, I need to talk to you about Danny.”
He lifted his head. “What’s he done now?”
“Nothing.”
Ray dropped back onto his pillow. “Then why wake me up? I’m tired.”
By the time I finished whispering to him, he wasn’t tired anymore. In fact, he jumped out of bed, showered, and pulled on his uniform.
“I’m going to have another talk with Danny’s father and the bartender at The Cat’s Meow.”
“It’s only five a.m., Ray. I’m sure the bartender’s not there. He just went home a few hours ago.”
“I’ve got his home address.”
I’m sure the guy would be thrilled to have Ray wake him minutes into his R.E.M. sleep.
Then I started to worry Danny’s information sharing would make his father angry with him. “Can you keep Danny out of it? I don’t want his father to feel betrayed.”
Ray pressed his lips to mine. “Don’t worry. One thing I’m sure about with this case is Danny’s father loves him. I doubt anything can change that.”
“What else are you sure about?”
“That we have a dismembered dead woman floating around somewhere.”
Ray worked the next three days, interviewing everyone connected to The Cat’s Meow, the car dealership, and Danny’s father, of course, who exercised his right to remain silent. In conjunction with the State Police and the next county, Ray’s department combed the area surrounding The Cat’s Meow and Josie Montalvo’s apartment, looking for her body. They found nothing.
The bartender at The Cat’s Meow, however, did confirm that Danny’s father had spoken at length to Josie Montalvo Saturday night, the last night she reported to work. His impression was the conversation had been intense, but not violent, although he had no idea what they talked about.
In the meantime, Ray left Danny at home with me and the instruction not to watch television. He hid the stolen Nintendo DS.
I felt like I was the one being punished. I didn’t know what to do with a twelve-year-old. After two days of washing windows, cupboards, baseboards, and anything else I could think of as well as sorting out old clothes and accumulated magazines and mail, all the easy jobs were done in our tiny two-bedroom bungalow. I couldn’t bear the thought of stripping and waxing the wood floor even though it needed TLC.
We played Monopoly. Danny won twice. We played Scrabble. I won, by a landslide. Danny refused to play again. We played crazy eights. The game lasted two hours. Then I needed to get out of the house.
So I took advantage of the library’s Sunday hours and let Danny roam the stacks.
Fifteen minutes later, he asked if he could check out some movies. I knew the movies wouldn’t go over with Ray.
“Didn’t you find any books that interest you?”
“No.”
“What about this?” I pulled a Hardy Boys book off the shelf.
He curled his lip.
I took offense. I’d loved the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew as a child. I tried not to snarl at him. “What are you interested in?”
“Cars.”
Couldn’t fault him for that.
I asked the librarian for books about cars. She led us to the non-fiction area. Danny agreed to read books about racing and race car drivers. I breathed a sigh of relief and took him home.
While Danny read, I hid in the closet we called an office and surfed the Internet for more Caterhams as well as individuals interested in purchasing a Ferrari. I felt certain the Ferrari would sell someday, but to someone who hadn’t heard of its history. Since our town loved to gossip, only an out-of-towner might not hear. I say “might” because those gossip vine tendrils can grow for miles.
The phone rang around five o’clock.
“The butterflies are so pretty.”
“Erica? Where are you?”
“See the blue one?”
Panic clamped onto my heart and gave it a painful squeeze. “Erica, answer me. Where are you?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice sounded hoarse. “Mom, where are we?”
I gripped the phone tighter. Erica had never addressed our mother within my hearing, not since Mom died, of course. “Erica, are you home?”
“No-o-o-o.”
“Are you in a house?”
“It’s dark.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Lying.”
“On a bed?”
“Cold. Where are my clothes?”
My hand shook. The phone struck my temple. She hadn’t gotten her medication fast enough. She was either hallucinating or talking in her sleep. She’d been known at times to walk, talk, and chew gum while asleep. No one could say she wasn’t