I take a deep breath as I try to unscramble my thoughts. There is no strategic or commonsense reason for Swanger to tell the police that I know where the body is buried. Period! And the fact that he was so eager to tell me, and then blab it to the cops, makes me doubt him even more. He’s a con, perhaps a serial killer, a psychopath who enjoys playing games and revels in the lying. But whatever he is, and whatever his motives, he has thrown me off a cliff and I’m free-falling.
The door suddenly opens and in walks Roy Kemp, assistant chief of police and father of the missing girl. He closes the door behind him and takes a step toward me. He’s a tough guy, an ex-Marine with a square jaw and a grayish crew cut. His eyes are weary and red, evidence of the toll the last year has taken. His eyes also convey a hatred that makes my skin crawl. My collar is instantly wet.
Reardon gets to his feet, cracks his knuckles as if he’s about to use his fists, and gives me a look that could kill, and probably will.
It’s fatal to show weakness to a cop, or a prosecutor or judge, even a jury, but right now it is impossible to conjure up the slightest trace of confidence, let alone my usual cockiness.
Kemp gets right to the point with “Where is she, Rudd?”
I slowly get to my feet, raise both hands, and say, “I gotta think about this, okay? I’m caught off guard here. You guys had time to plan this ambush. Give me some time, okay?”
Kemp says, “I don’t give a damn about your confidentiality and ethics and all that crap, Rudd. You have no idea what we’re going through. It’s been eleven months and eighteen days of sheer hell. My wife can’t get out of bed. My whole family is falling apart. We’re desperate, Rudd.”
For all of his fearsomeness, Roy Kemp is a man in grievous pain, a father who’s sleepwalking through his worst nightmare. He needs a body, a funeral, a permanent grave where he and his wife can kneel on the grass and properly mourn. The horror and uncertainty must be overwhelming.
He’s blocking my narrow path to the door, and I’m wondering if he’ll actually get physical.
I say, “Look, Chief, you’re assuming that everything Arch Swanger says is the truth, and that could be a bad assumption.”
“Do you know where my daughter is?”
“I know what Arch Swanger said, but I do not know if he’s telling the truth. Frankly, I doubt it.”
“Then tell us anyway. We’ll go look.”
“It’s not that simple. I can’t repeat what he said to me in confidence, you know that.”
Kemp closes his eyes. I glance down and notice both his fists are clenched. Slowly, he relaxes them. I look at Reardon, who’s glaring at me. I look back at Kemp, whose red eyes are open slightly. He’s nodding, as if he’s saying, “Okay, Rudd, we’ll play it your way. But we’ll get you.”
Frankly, I’m on their side. I would love to spill my guts, help get the girl properly laid to rest, help track down Swanger, and watch with satisfaction as a jury nails him for murder. Sadly, though, that is not an option. I take a small step toward the door and say, “I’d like to leave now.”
Kemp doesn’t move, and somehow I manage to brush by him without provoking a fight. As I grab the doorknob I can almost feel a knife in my back, but I survive and make it to the hallway. I’ve never left Central in a bigger hurry.
It’s the third Friday of the month, time to see Judith for our mandatory two-drink meeting. Neither of us wants it, but neither is willing to surrender and quit. To do so would be to confess a weakness, something we both simply cannot do, not to each other anyway. We tell ourselves that we need to keep the lines of communication open because we share a son. That poor child.
This is our first drink since she dragged me into court in her futile effort to terminate all visitation rights. So, with that little brawl still hanging in the air, there will be an even thicker layer of tension. Frankly, I was hoping she would cancel. I could easily be provoked into a tongue-lashing.
I get to the bar early and find a booth. She arrives on time as always, but with a pleasant look on her face. Judith is not a pleasant person and doesn’t smile much. Most lawyers battle stress, but most lawyers don’t work in a firm with nine other women, all known to be ball-squeezing litigators looking for a fight. Her office is a pressure cooker, and I suspect her home life is not that much fun. The older Starcher gets, the more he talks about all the yelling between Judith and Ava. I, of course, pump the kid for all the dirt I can get.
“How was your week?” I ask, the standard opening.
“The same. Looks like you’re on a roll. Another picture in the paper.”
The waiter takes our orders, always the same: chardonnay for her, whiskey sour for me. Whatever pleasant thought she brought into the bar has now vanished.
“A bit premature,” I say. “I don’t represent the guy anymore. He couldn’t handle the fee.”
“Gee, think of all the publicity you’ll miss.”
“I’ll find some more.”
“I have no doubt about that.”
