Chapter VIII

We drove from Colleen Clark's house without incident, apart from a trio of neighbors—one man, two women—who watched us go, their expressions shading from neutral to passing unfriendly. Colleen was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn't tell if she was aware of their scrutiny. I kept an eye on them in the rearview mirror and thought I saw one of the women produce her cell phone and use it to take a photo of my license plate. Only when we were out of their sight did Colleen exhale.

"Do you know them?" I said.

"The Robacks," said Colleen, "and Alison Piucci. She's the blonde."

It was Piucci who had taken the picture. All three were on the list of names Colleen had provided, each marked with the letter X to indicate a potentially hostile status.

"Alison has a daughter Henry's age," said Colleen. "The Robacks have no kids of their own, but they've been trying. They're on the third round of IVF. If this one doesn't work, they may consider adopting, but he doesn't think it'll be the same and blames her for not being able to conceive. Then again, he's an idiot. He once tried to feel me up at a party, and believes only Blacks commit serious crimes—well, Blacks, and now me."

The Clark residence was looking less and less like the kind of place Colleen should be staying, because she was already barely one step above being a prisoner in her own home. The ignorant were writing graffiti on her walls and throwing excrement at her door, and the situation wasn't going to improve after she was arrested.

"Moxie said that he'd spoken to you about moving out temporarily."

"He raised the possibility, but I told him that I can't, not until I know what's happened to Henry." She chewed at a hangnail. "And maybe I don't want to give them the satisfaction. In any case, my picture is already out there, so it's not like I can relocate to a new street and become anonymous. It doesn't matter where I go, I'll still be recognized, so I may as well stay where I am. My mom has offered to move in, so at least I won't be alone there."

"Do you two get along?"

Colleen didn't need to add parental complications to her burdens.

"Sure. I mean, in an ideal world we wouldn't be under the same roof for days or weeks on end, but beggars can't be choosers, right?"

"If you elect to stay," I said, "we may have to put someone outside the house, and possibly inside as well. I have candidates in mind."

The Fulci brothers would be happy to do it and earn money into the bargain. They might have to adjust their new medication to ensure that one was awake while the other slept, the latest thinking on their condition—the current professional tendency was to avoid using the word "psychosis," because it sounded pejorative—being that if they couldn't be cured, they could at least be encouraged to sleep more, as there was only so much trouble they could cause from their beds. Dave Evans, for one, didn't agree. He'd confessed to me that the Fulcis regularly showed up in his dreams. This might have been regarded merely as a sign of stress on Dave's part had Paulie Fulci not remarked, during Dave's waking hours, that he ought to consider repainting his bedroom ceiling because it was starting to flake. Paulie, as far as Dave was aware, had never been inside Dave's home, never mind his bedroom. When Dave asked him how he had come by this opinion, Paulie couldn't remember. The strange thing was, the paint on Dave's bedroom ceiling was flaking. As a result, Dave was now having trouble sleeping in his own bed, or doing very much else there. It might have been one of the reasons why he had quietly indicated his intention of retiring, with the bar being passed on to Mike and Byrd Dickson, and Andy Pillsbury, all of whom had long connections to the Bear. The Fulcis had not yet been informed, no one being quite willing to grasp that particular nettle.

"Now that I think of it," said Colleen, "it might be a good idea to have someone watch the house. Whatever about me, I'd hate to have something bad happen to my mom. How conspicuous will they be, these candidates of yours?"

I thought of the Fulcis' monster truck, and the brothers' undeniable physical presence, reminiscent of a pair of bank safes dressed in casual wear.

"After a while," I assured her, "you'll hardly notice them at all."

THE DINER WAS CALLEDTwitchy's, but I couldn't say I'd ever darkened its door before Moxie revealed his interest in it. I'd passed by occasionally over the years, but never felt the urge to give it a try. Twitchy's looked like the kind of place where only the chef's sandwich was made from scratch, and that was prepared before he left home in the morning, possibly by his wife. Either Moxie was a dreamer, or he was laundering money.

I parked in the lot beside Moxie's Mercedes, and Colleen and I entered through the open back door, once I was sure nobody had followed us there. Moxie was in the kitchen, regarding a clogged grease trap from a safe distance. He nodded at me, and greeted Colleen more formally before directing her to take a seat in a booth away from the windows, while signaling me to stay where I was.

"I bet you think I've lost my mind," he said, "taking a piece of a dump like this."

"Not really," I said. "Having seen the size of your breakfast, I just figured the next step up was to buy a diner of your own."

"You know, when we open under new management, you won't be allowed to eat here."

"Unless it's being managed by the CDC, I'll swallow my pain. It'll be less risky than swallowing the food."

Moxie pointed out the door, to a vacant lot beyond.

"You see that land? It's zoned R-3, and the planning board is meeting to approve a new development of apartments and condos next week. By the time the first residents move in, you won't recognize this place."

"I'm hoping I won't even remember it. Are you going to keep the name?"

"Nah, Twitchy died."

"Food poisoning?"

"Stroke. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were working for the competition."

It was hard to conceive of Twitchy's having competition, or not for any prize it might want to win. On the other hand, Moxie was wealthier than I was ever going to be, and his instincts were sound. I didn't doubt that, in a year or two, Twitchy's, or whatever its new incarnation was called, would be making a lot of coin.

Moxie had brought along sandwiches, pastries, and beverages from the Big Sky Bread Company. Colleen Clark picked at her tomato, mozzarella, and pesto on rye, and drank a soda. I listened and ate while Moxie went over details of paperwork and formalities before he cut to the chase.

"The police are going to come for you early tomorrow morning," he said. "The media will be informed in advance, since that's how the AG's office wants to play it. You're an electoral tool, Colleen, which means every step taken has to appeal to voters. The more public the arrest, the better, or so the reasoning goes in Augusta, so they'll want you to do the perp walk. Sorry for being so blunt, but that's what it's called."

Colleen pulled a piece of bread from her sandwich and rolled it into a ball between her fingers.

"Perp—for perpetrator, right?"

"Yes."

"So I'm already guilty?"

"It's a question of perception for now, but that's open to manipulation—by both sides."

"What do you mean?"

Moxie gestured for me to step in.

"Some people have prejudged you," I said. "Others will be keeping a more open mind, and they may be troubled by seeing a young mother, worried for her missing child, railroaded on the basis of a single piece of evidence. But if we let the police arrest you at your home, in front of the cameras, we hand the prosecution an advantage. It will confirm the suspicions of those who believe you belong behind bars, and may also sway some of the neutrals in that direction."

"What options do I have?" said Colleen. "Chain myself to my door? Go on the run?"

"Let's call those plans B and C," I said. "Plan A is that you present yourself for arrest."

"Wait," she said, "won't that be like an admission of guilt?"

"Not the way we're going to play it," said Moxie. "Instead of a suspect being arrested, it'll be a mother demanding that the circus leave town before it has a chance to set up its tents. She knows she's innocent, regards the police and prosecutor as being in error, and believes any investigation and proceedings will not only vindicate her but also force the police to follow other lines of inquiry that may currently lie unexamined. She wants to know what happened to her child. If handing herself over to the police will help, she's prepared to make the sacrifice."

Even by Moxie's singular standards, this was an unusual gambit.

"Will that work?" said Colleen.

"It'll work better than letting them lead you from your home in handcuffs, running a gauntlet of cameras and cell phones."

"What then?"

"Maine law prevents a defendant from being held for more than forty-eight hours without arraignment or an initial hearing," said Moxie, "but we'll push for twenty-four on the basis that you presented yourself, thus saving the police time and trouble."

In Maine, a felony case required the accused and their attorney to appear before a judge for an initial hearing to ensure that the former was aware of both their constitutional rights and the nature of the charges against them, and to address the issue of bail. Following that appearance, the prosecutor would seek a grand jury indictment prior to an arraignment, at which the accused would be asked to enter a plea.

"Because we're talking about felony charges involving a child," Moxie continued, "bail will have to be set by a state judge, assuming it's decided that there's probable cause for proceeding. I'll meet with the prosecutor before the hearing to hammer out bail terms acceptable to both of us, just in case we're assigned a judge who's a teeth-grinder, but it's likely you'll have to spend a night at Cumberland County Jail. I'll do my damnedest to ensure it's not two, but I'm not making any promises."

Colleen put her face in her hands.

"But I didn't do this" she said, "and I shouldn't have to go to jail to prove it."

"I don't deny it," said Moxie. "The only consolation I can offer is that we will take care of you, and we will win this."

"How can you be so sure?" she said.

"Because I don't like losing," said Moxie. "It becomes habit-forming."

"And my son?"

She looked to me as she spoke, and I knew what she needed to hear. It would no longer be enough to relegate or abrogate any duty toward her son.

"You can be Moxie's priority," I said. "Henry can be mine."