Little princess. That’s what Mr. Herrera had called Cheryl.
Sharon takes a seat with Elsie and Margot at the table. “Hank’s a good father.” She says it as if she’s trying to convince herself. “He is—most of the time. It’s just…” Sharon swallows. “He gets this sort of red mist that descends. That’s when we all know to keep out of his way.”
“And you said you’d noticed him being more distant than usual?” asks Beverley, fingers drumming on the tabletop. “Spending more time out of the house?”
“He took on a big job a while back”—Sharon leans to pour the coffee, and it fills the room with a rich caramel scent—“restoring a whole lot of cop cars. The business has been struggling lately, financially, so he was happy to have that gig. They’ve had some thefts, too—equipment, gas. He’s barely here, trying to keep everything afloat.”
Elsie notices Bev glancing at her. She recalls their conversation about pressure-cooker situations, how things such as impending bankruptcy, family rifts and other struggles can put a choke hold on those who are already predisposed to violence.
“So it’s just that he’s not here much?” Margot asks, her tone dubious.
“No. Something’s changed,” Sharon says, slowly but emphatically.
Elsie tenses. She knows what it’s like to feel that something significant has shifted in a person but not be able to identify exactly what that is. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, apologizing for Margot’s brusqueness. “It’s just…we need to be sure.” She turns more pointedly to Sharon. “So, how did Hank know Cheryl Herrera?” she asks.
Sharon pauses, taps the side of her mug with a candy-colored fingernail. “Beverley told me about her, but I’d never heard the namebefore I read it in theSignal. Hank certainly never mentioned it. I can’t imagine how their paths ever would have crossed. Wasn’t she some athlete?”
“What about cleaning?” Elsie continues. “Do you know if Hank uses a cleaning company at the garage? Do you know if he’s ever met a girl called Diane Howard Murray?”
Sharon shakes her head. “I’ve never heard of any of the girls who were in the papers. But Hank does like…” There’s a horrible pause. “He does like younger girls. I mean, don’t all guys like them?”
So Hank likes them young. Is that why Sharon speaks in that childlike voice?
“Do you know if he’s ever visited prostitutes?” Beverley asks. An awkward pause follows. Sharon’s eyes drop to the floor. She sighs. “I think…” She trails off, takes a beat. “I think yes.” Her eyes drop again. “He’s never admitted to it, but I found a stack of receipts in the pocket of his work overalls one day, for this pay-per-hour motel.”
Margot purses her lips.
“He said he likes to use their sauna after work, that it helps relax his muscles.” She puts fingers to her forehead, covers her eyes, embarrassed. “I may not have finished high school, but even I’m notthatstupid.”
“Okay.” Margot takes the reins. “We can go see where he works, right, ladies?”
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Sharon says, reaching to the counter for a flyer for the garage and handing it over. Elsie watches as Beverley takes it from her and frowns.
“One last thing,” Elsie says. “Do you know his license plate number?”
Thirty-Three
Elsie takes thestairs two at a time, passing Mrs. Borowski, the old lady from the apartment below, with just a breathless, hurried greeting. She bursts through her front door and clambers over the piles of books that are stacked up in the living room, sending them spilling into the kitchen.
She feels the vertigo of being close to a revelation, something she’s felt before, and the memory of the crawl space, the day she knew her own husband was a killer, flashes into her mind. She crawled backward on her palms and knees as quickly as she could to get out of there—away from matted hair, from the scraps of clothing, that stench. Albert was out, so she paced the house; then, when she’d paced every inch of it, she pushed open the door and strode out into the street.
She just kept walking—not looking back, not stopping for anything. Her shoes ate up the sidewalk, and soon enough her feet began to sweat and the patent leather began to rub. She did not stop for traffic when crossing the road. She did not stop when an older woman placed a concerned palm on the small of her back, asked if she wasquite all right. Blisters swelled. The skin of her feet grew hot and wet. Never stopping, she walked for another hour before she saw the car. Parked up at the corner of the street. Its distinctive red and blue light.
She glanced down at her feet. The blood was oozing out of the open toes of her shoes. She thought of fresh oranges, of cooking smells. She crossed to the other side of the street and made her way toward the police car.
She had never expected her life to be so filled with bodies. But now, especially since she, Bev and Margot have started investigating these crimes, bodies are all she can think about.
Her father warned her years ago, when Albert’s crimes had come to light, of exactly what was to come. It was the last time they communicated before he died, his words having arrived in a single handwritten page delivered by the mailman. There was no personal message, no preamble, no apology, just a quote from one of his favorite Shakespeare plays.
So shall you hear of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts,
Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters,
Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause.
At the time, Elsie thought it cowardly of her father, after everything he had put his family through, to offer someone else’s words for comfort. Now she can see that it was his way of apologizing. After what he had endured—mud-drenched battles, bayonets, shells and burned flesh—he was dealing with his very own bodies, too.
—
