CHAPTER 63 - Rita

CHAPTER 63RitaAFTER THE CHIEF RETURNS, HE CALLS EVERYONE TOGETHER AND runs through a strategy for finding Mrs. Bradley. Lauren and even Detective Schmitt are involved. They’ve been tasked with organizing the search, dividing the area around the gas station into quadrants and assigning teams.Joe and I head out to question Mrs. Bradley’s friends. They might have been the last people to see her at the party yesterday, and four of them are murder suspects besides.Mr. Ferris answers the door, looking bleary-eyed, dark hair disheveled.“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He smiles grimly at me and Joe.“We’d like to ask you a few questions if you have a minute,” I say.He looks back over his shoulder as if seeking permission from someone inside. He doesn’t saying anything, just opens the door wider and walks away. We follow him into the living room, where he flops on the couch.“What can I do for you, Detectives? Or is it Agents?”“Either’s fine,” Joe says, keeping his voice even despite Mr. Ferris’s obnoxious tone. “We need to know where you were yesterday.”Mr. Ferris sits up and squeezes his eyes under his glasses. “Yesterday? Why?”“Just run through it for us,” I say.He blows out a breath. “Okay. I hung around the house all morning. Went to Kim Pearson’s birthday party in the afternoon.”The house seems eerily quiet. “Where’s your wife?” I ask.“She’s not here.” Mr. Ferris rubs his chin like he can’t quite figure out what happened to her. But then his eyes meet mine. “She’s visiting her parents on the Cape. The boys wanted to see their grandparents.”“Huh. They go to the Pearsons’ party before they left?”“No. They left Friday night.”“You went alone?”“Yes.” He looks worn out, and his voice and body language tell me there might be trouble between him and the Mrs.“Lots of January birthdays in your little group,” I say.“Just the two.”“Was Mrs. Bradley at the party?”“Yes. She was there.”“What time did you leave?”He lets go a deep breath. “I don’t know. Five maybe? A little after? Why? What’s this all about?”“You go straight home after you left the Pearsons’ house?” Joe asks, his low-timbred voice stern.“Yes.”“Then what did you do?”He shrugs. “Watched TV. ESPN. Had a beer and a snack. Went to bed around eleven.” He tosses his glasses on the coffee table. “Why?”“Mrs. Bradley is missing,” I say, watching his expression closely.His gaze settles on the floor between his feet. “Seriously? Like no one knows where she is?”“That appears to be the case. You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?”“No. Did you check with her sister? She’s probably with her.”“Been there. Done that, Mr. Ferris.” I sketch his glasses in my notebook. “Can anybody verify you were home all night?”He spreads out his hands as though he’s showing us they’re empty, nothing here. “No. I was home watching TV.”“No phone calls?”He shakes his head.“Didn’t call your wife to say good night?”His jaw tightens. “No.”* * *The Pearsons’ place is next on our list, and Joe and I drive the ten minutes in silence, both of us locked in on the task at hand.Mrs. Pearson answers the door, a smile on her pixie face. “Yes?” Her mouth turns down quickly when she realizes who’s standing on her porch. “Has something happened?”“You might say that,” I reply. Joe gives me a sideways glance. “May we come in?”We stand in the kitchen, where kids’ toys are scattered around the floor. Straggly dolls rest in a heap by the back door. Some colorful plastic items of unknown purpose are under the table. There’s half a cake sitting on the counter, with pink frosting smeared on the white cabinet below. Outside the French doors, Mr. Pearson and a little girl are building a snowman.“Mrs. Pearson, when was the last time you saw or spoke to Mrs. Bradley?” Joe asks.Her delicate hand reaches for her throat. “What happened?”“We don’t know,” Joe says. “No one has seen her or spoken to her since yesterday evening.”“Maybe she went out of town again, but she didn’t say anything to me.” Mrs. Pearson’s eyes glisten with tears. “Corrine doesn’t know where she is?”I shake my head.“Do you think something . . . happened to her?”“We don’t know,” Joe reiterates. “What was the last contact you had with her?”Mrs. Pearson paces by the counter. “She was here yesterday at my party. She was fine.”“What time did she leave?”“I’m not sure. She had to walk her dog. She needed to get home.”“That was the last you heard from her?”“Yes.” Mrs. Pearson stands still as a pointer. “Oh my God. You don’t think whoever killed Jay . . .”“We don’t have any reason to think that,” I say. “She might’ve just needed to get away, like you said.” There’s no sense in scaring the bejesus out of Mrs. Pearson. That won’t help anyone. “Did you leave the house yesterday after your party?”“No. We stayed right here. We cleaned up, and I gave Willow her bath.”“What about your husband? He go anywhere last night?” I ask.She looks out the back door, where Mr. Pearson is holding his little girl up so she can place an old baseball cap on the snowman’s head. “Just to take my parents home. My dad likes to have a few drinks, and we don’t like them driving.”“What time was that?”She glances at a decorative clock on the wall above the table. “I’m not sure. Five-thirty?”“Where do they live?”“About a fifteen-minute drive, not far.”“He come right back?”Mrs. Pearson hesitates, one hand gripping the back of a chair. “No. He said he might run some errands while he was out.”“What time did he return?”“I’m really not sure. It was a busy day. Chaotic. Lots of kids over running around. You know how that is.”“Uh huh.”She puts her hands on the sides of her forehead momentarily, as though she needs to organize her thoughts. “I was bathing Willow. Then I put her to bed.”“He still wasn’t home?” Joe asks, an eyebrow raised. He walks the length of the kitchen, stops to peer out the back door.“It wasn’t that late,” she says. “Willow was worn out. Parties are tough on her.” She clasps her hand over her mouth, mumbles, “You don’t think my husband . . .”Joe steps aside, and Mr. Pearson and his daughter come through the back door, red-cheeked and smiling until they see us.“Mr. Pearson,” I say, “your wife was telling us that you ran your in-laws home after the party yesterday.”“Yeah.” He stands still while the little girl starts peeling off her coat and mittens, dropping them on the floor. “Why?”“You come straight home?”He glances at his wife. “No. I had some running around to do.” His gaze shifts between me and Joe, not settling on either of us.“Where did you go?” Joe asks, folding his arms and leaning against the counter.Pearson walks over to his wife, stands beside her. “What’s this all about?”“Molly’s missing,” she says, her voice catching in her throat.“What? Really?”“So,” I say, “where did you go after your wife’s party?”He drops down on a kitchen chair and pulls off his gloves, chucks them in the middle of the table. “I didn’t see Molly, if that’s what you want to know.” His obnoxious tone is in full force.“So where were you?”“Walmart.” He smiles. “But they didn’t have what I was looking for, so I went to Lowe’s.”“What were you looking for?” I tap my pencil against my notebook. This guy is lying through his teeth.“Tools.” His gaze shifts to his wife.“Okay. What time did you get home?”He rubs his hand over his mouth. “I don’t know, Detective.”“You buy anything?” Joe asks.“They didn’t have what I wanted.”“So you don’t have a receipt?”“ No.”“Which stores did you go to, Mr. Pearson?” I ask. “We’ll take a look at their security footage.”He slams his chair back and jumps up. “I don’t give a good goddamn if you believe me or not. If Molly’s missing, I didn’t have anything to do with it. She’s probably just out of town again. Jesus.” He stomps out of the room. Mrs. Pearson’s little girl has buried her face against her mother’s stomach.* * *No one is home at the Westmores’ place, so I call Dr. Westmore as we sit in her driveway, looking up at her grand house.“Detective? What can I do for you?”“We’re looking into a new development here. Where were you and your husband yesterday?”“Yesterday? We were at Kim Pearson’s house in the afternoon. Then home. Why?”“You go straight home after the party? Stay in all night?”“Yes, Detective. What’s this about?”“Mrs. Bradley is missing.” I hear her breath catch.“Her sister doesn’t know where she is?”“ No.”Dr. Westmore’s voice wavers. “Oh my God.”“Do you know something that might help us locate her?”“No. No, I don’t. Do you think something’s happened to her?”“We don’t know. Can you and your husband meet us at the police station? We’d like to talk to you.”“Yes. Of course, but I’m a couple hours away at my sister’s house. And Scott, he was called out on a job. One of his client’s had an emergency. A retaining wall collapsed or something. I’ll call him and let him know.”“This is urgent, Doctor.”“I’m on my way.”I end the call, and Joe backs down the long driveway.That just leaves Hayes Branch on our list of suspects in the Robb murder. Maybe Mrs. Bradley’s disappearance is unrelated, but we need to make sure. Something tells me, though, that all of this mess is connected.Joe and I drive out of Graybridge and take the highway two exits west of town. The Branches own multiple properties in the Boston metro area, but Hayes and his daughter live in the old family estate. His illustrious mother prefers a Manhattan apartment most of the year.Mr. Branch greets us at the door. His face is pale, and his hair is a tangled nest, as though he tossed and turned all night and didn’t bother with a comb this morning. He’s wearing a faded gray Harvard sweatshirt and well-worn jeans. He escorts us to a fancy living room with soaring ceilings and large oil paintings on the walls. Embers glow in a huge fireplace that sits at one end of the room.We ask him the same questions we’ve asked the others, and he says nothing that helps, other than he doesn’t have an alibi. He says that, after the party, he dropped Alice off at a friend’s house for a sleepover, then came home. He was home by himself the rest of the night.He drops his head in his hands. “Do you think she’s all right?” His voice is tight and teary.“We hope so.”* * *Media trucks are lined up like soldiers in formation in front of the police station when we return. Joe and I drive around the building and go in through the back entrance. The place is buzzing like a hive, alive with anxiety and the smell of bad coffee. Bob stands in his office doorway, phone clenched between his jaw and shoulder. He motions us inside, closes the door, and throws his phone on his desk.“Find anything?” he asks, settling in his chair.“We can’t eliminate Pearson, Ferris, or Branch. We’ve still got to talk to Mr. Westmore,” I say. “But the wife says they were home last night. He’s out on a job now.” My eyes meet Joe’s. “She’s calling him, and hopefully he’ll be here soon so we can question him.”Bob’s face falls as though he was hoping, praying maybe, that we’d be back with the answers we need to find Mrs. Bradley.I shake my head. “After the Pearson party, none of them has a solid alibi for last night.”Joe leans forward. “They all had opportunity.”“For Chrissake,” Bob says. “You guys sure that one of those men abducted Mrs. Bradley?”I sigh. “We’re not sure of anything, Chief.”He rubs his face with his hand while his landline phone rings.“Anything here?” I ask. “Any developments.”“Not a damn thing.” Bob stands, his breath coming in deep, worrisome gasps. “Okay, just keep at it.” We leave as he answers his phone.