The Stranger(74)
Johanna would wake up with cheeks wet from tears.
So lately, to change it up, she had taken Starsky and Hutch for late-night walks. Johanna tried to enjoy the solitude, but the roads were dark and, even with the streetlights, she always feared that she’d hit a patch of uneven sidewalk and fall. Her dad had taken a fall when he was seventy-four and never fully recovered. You hear that a lot. So as she walked, Johanna kept her eyes glued to the ground. Right now, as she hit a particularly dark patch, she took out her smartphone and used the flashlight app.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. At this late hour, it would have to be Ricky. He’d probably woken up and either wondered when she’d be getting back or decided that maybe with all that weight he was gaining, he could use a little exercise and would want to join the dog walk. That was okay by her. She had just started out, so circling back with Starsky and Hutch wouldn’t be a problem.
She put both leashes in her left hand and put the phone to her ear. She didn’t check the caller ID. She simply hit the answer button and said, “Hello?”
“Chief?”
She could tell from the voice that this wasn’t a casual call. She stopped. Both dogs stopped too.
“Is that you, Norbert?”
“Yeah, sorry about the hour, but . . .”
“What’s wrong?”
“I checked on that license plate for you. I had to do some digging, but it looks like it was a car rented to a woman whose real name is Ingrid Prisby.”
Silence.
“And?” she prompted.
“And it’s bad,” Norbert said. “Really, really bad.”
Chapter 39
Adam called Andy Gribbel early in the morning. Gribbel moaned out a “What?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“It’s six in the morning,” Gribbel said.
“Sorry.”
“The band had a gig late last night. Then there were hot groupies at the after-party. You know how it is.”
“Yeah. Listen, do you know anything about Facebook?”
“You kidding? Of course I do. Band has a fan page. We have, like, almost eighty followers.”
“Great. I’m forwarding you a Facebook link. Four people are in it. See if you can get me addresses on any of them and find out anything else you can about the picture—where it was taken, who else is in it, anything.”
“Priority?”
“Top. I need the info yesterday.”
“Got it. Hey, we did a killer version of ‘The Night Chicago Died’ last night. Not a dry eye in the house.”
“You can’t imagine how much this means to me right now,” Adam said.
“Wow, this is that important?”
“More.”
“On it.”
Adam hung up and got out of bed. He woke up the boys at seven and took a long, hot shower. It felt good. He got dressed and checked the time. The boys should be downstairs now.
“Ryan? Thomas?”
It was Thomas who replied. “Yeah, yeah, we’re up.”
Adam’s mobile phone buzzed. It was Gribbel. “Hello?”
“We got lucky.”
“How’s that?”
“That link you sent. It came from the profile page of a woman named Gabrielle Dunbar.”
“Right, what about it?”
“She doesn’t live in Revere anymore. She moved back home.”
“Fair Lawn?”
“You got it.”
Fair Lawn was only a half hour from Cedarfield.
“I just texted you her address.”
“Thanks, Andy.”
“No problem. You going to see her this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Let me know if you need me.”
“Thanks.”
Adam hung up. He started down the corridor when he heard a noise coming from Ryan’s bedroom. Adam moved closer to the shut door and placed his ear against it. Through the wood, he could hear his son’s muffled sobs. The sound was like shattered glass rolling across his heart. Adam rapped his knuckles on the door, braced himself, and turned the knob.
Ryan was sitting up in bed sobbing like a little boy, which, in a sense, he still was. Adam stayed in the doorway. The pain inside him, fueled by helplessness, grew.
“Ryan?”
Tears made everyone look smaller and frailer and so damn young. Ryan’s chest hitched, but he still managed to say, “I miss Mommy.”
“I know you do, pal.”
For a second, a bolt of anger boomed through him—anger at Corinne for running away, for not staying in touch, for faking that damn pregnancy, for stealing the money, for all of it. Forget what she had done to Adam. That wasn’t an issue. But hurting the boys like this . . . that would be far harder to forgive.
“Why isn’t she answering my texts?” Ryan cried. “Why isn’t she home with us?”