The Half Moon: a Novel, page 25
“Gail’s staying with Artie Sheridan?” Jess asked. “That’s interesting.”
“Is it?”
“You don’t think so? Come to think of it I stopped by there once and he was in the kitchen heating soup. She was upstairs and he called up to tell her I was there and that the soup was ready.” Jess looked at the sky. “I never thought about that until right now.”
“When was that?”
“Two or three years ago I guess.”
“They’re friends. Good friends.”
“He’s attractive for a man his age.”
“Aren’t they kind of old for that?”
“Gail in her old bras that make her boobs pointy. Her big underwear.”
“Please.”
“I can see it. I’m being serious right now, I really can. I’m happy for her.”
“But she’s been so forgetful. Have you noticed? The other day she said something as if she expected my dad home soon.”
“I’ve noticed. Here and there. But, I don’t know. Last week I spent five minutes looking for my phone and it was in my hand the whole time.”
“I think this is different and Artie Sheridan isn’t going to sign on for that,” Malcolm said. “Why would he?”
“Maybe he loves her. Maybe he’s loved her for a long time and we never knew.”
Was it possible? Malcolm wondered. The way he looked over at her and her crazy hair that she could never make lie flat the way the other mothers managed to do. Her button-down shirts that she bought in the men’s section at Costco. The way he shook his head to signal Malcolm that he knew better, her chimney had not malfunctioned, but it was okay because he was there to set things right.
After an hour or so the driveway was mostly clear. In the distance came the sound of steady beeping, growing louder as it moved toward them.
“It’s just the plow,” Malcolm said, as he looked down the street.
But behind the big town plow with its flashing orange lights was a police car. And following the police car was an unmarked SUV.
“Oh,” Jess said, suddenly pale. They left an ember behind without realizing. The place had lit up despite their change of heart. It was astonishingly dumb. One look at their financials and anyone with a brain would be suspicious. Malcolm immediately saw how guilty he would look, a fire just after they discovered Tripp was staying upstairs.
The cars stopped at the end of their driveway. The plow stopped, too, and Jess was soothed by the sheer racket of it combined with the roar of the Colemans’ generator. It felt like a physical barrier, like the drivers of these vehicles would actually have to press their hands to their ears to see her and Malcolm clearly.
“How you doin?” Malcolm called over, when it was clear theirs was the house they were aiming for.
Jess recognized the female officer from around. The other two were trailing behind her, one of whom looked young enough to be in college. Malcolm shouted something to the driver of the plow, and next thing the beeping stopped. Immediately, Jess felt exposed. As the men in the SUV approached, she heard the female officer tell Malcolm that they were federal agents.
“This is my wife,” Malcolm told the group as Jess came up beside him. He glanced at her quickly as if to say if there was a different word for what she was to him, then he didn’t know it.
They had questions about Charles Waggoner, who still had not turned up, and Jess felt relief wash over her. “Who’s that?” she asked, but Malcolm said he’d fill her in later.
“Did you ever confirm he was on that second flight?” Malcolm asked. “To Panama?” The agents ignored the question, and the local cops looked a bit sheepish, like maybe they shouldn’t have told him so much. The two Feds asked how often Tripp came to the bar, whom he spoke with, his drinking habits, topics he went to, if he met friends there, if he ever talked about his job, if he ever talked about financial trouble, if he ever talked about a particular stress he was under or a decision he had to make.
“Sorry, but no,” Malcolm said. “I already told them”—Malcolm nodded at the three local cops collectively—“that he talked about how much he hated living around here, the routine of work eat sleep repeat, you know, who doesn’t feel like that? And that he seemed to have a dream of living in Peru. But specifics about work? No, nothing.”
They looked at him as if he might say more. Eventually, the shorter of the two offered a detail. “His partner was arrested this morning.”
“Okay.”
“If you were in touch with Charles—”
“I’m not in touch with him. He drinks at my bar sometimes. He was there on Friday. That’s it.”
“Wasn’t he staying at your bar? Upstairs?”
“Well, we found some stuff.” Malcolm looked at Jackie to help him out, but she gave him a look that said she couldn’t. “But I don’t know if it was his. I never go up there, which I guess someone knew.
“And also, I’m sorry,” Malcolm said. “But he just didn’t seem savvy enough to disappear. I always had the impression that he was pretty good at his job, which might seem crazy given that you’re probably here to arrest him. And he was a know-it-all about some things, yes. But this stuff about checking in remotely and taking a flight north to go south, I just don’t buy it. There was this one time, he was complaining about his phone’s battery life and I told him to try closing all his windows and apps. He asked me how to do that. When I took his phone, there were like two zillion windows open. He said he’d never closed one, not once, ever.”
Malcolm paused. “Some guys would be sort of defensive because no one likes feeling dumb or out of date or whatever. Especially a guy like him who was heading up a big company. Most guys like that would be like, ‘Oh, I kept those windows open on purpose, I love having a bazillion pages open on my phone.’ ”
Jackie laughed.
“But Tripp just said technology wasn’t his thing and thanked me for figuring it out. And trust me, if I know more about phones than he did, that’s saying a lot.”
“He had help,” the agent said. “For sure he had help. Which is why we’re here.”
The agent walked to his car to get something and while they were distracted, Jackie whispered to Malcolm, “He looked into renting an apartment in Panama City. A company ran a credit check on him. He also looked into opening a Panamanian bank account.”
When the agent returned, he held out a driver’s license. “Do you recognize this man? We think he and Charles probably connected at the bar.”
Malcolm took the license from him, brought it close. An instinct kicked in and he made his face a blank, the face that drove Jess crazy.
“The photo is pretty small.” He could feel Jess at his side, also looking. The name on the license said Mark Duro. Tripp’s insurance beneficiary. An address about an hour upstate from Gillam.
“Duro has a bunch of social media accounts. When you search his name you see references to past employment, a charity 5k he ran. But no photos. His profile pic on most accounts is some famous temple in Japan. The interesting thing is that one of the accounts—the Facebook page—liked a post about the Half Moon a few months ago. A Halloween party.”
“Really,” Malcolm said. He brought the license closer still, as if he could communicate to the face in the photograph, as if he could speak to him in his mind. Roddy. His hair slicked back. A dress shirt. Glasses. But it was Roddy. His heart was hammering. Jess was leaning on him hard. He handed her the license.
“If it’s fake it’s a very good one,” one of the agents said. “It was in a drop box he rented at UPS.”
“Do you recognize the man on the driver’s license?” Jackie asked, looking back and forth between him and Jess. “Would you remember seeing him on Halloween?”
“I don’t think so,” Malcolm said. He thought quickly. If they found out it was Roddy and that he worked at the Half Moon, then Malcolm would ask how they could expect him to identify a face when he was worried about the bar, and when his estranged wife was standing beside him, a fact that anyone would confirm. He had bigger things on his mind. And the Roddy he knew didn’t look anything like the one in that photo. He made a mistake.
“You sure?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Sorry.”
“How about you?” she asked Jess.
She shook her head. “No, me neither. But I’m not at the bar much.”
Malcolm didn’t dare look at her.
He thought of Roddy clutching his phone, posting the Halloween party on five different social media platforms in under ten seconds. He was always looking at the thing, ordering this or that, figuring out new apps. He wasn’t dumb, his uncle had emphasized. He just didn’t seem to know how to apply himself. He remembered Roddy on Friday night, walking off into the storm in his ratty running sneakers, declining a lift because he preferred to walk.
Mrs. Tyrell from a few houses down came outside in her bathrobe and snow boots to yell at the driver of the plow, to ask if he was aware that he had taken out her mailbox on the last go-around, said the town should reimburse people for that, what a pain in the ass, her husband had sunk the post in concrete and now it was splinters, he’d have to dig the whole thing up.
None of them could hear the driver’s response, but his arm hung limply from the window of the cab, and whatever he said made Mrs. Tyrell even more angry.
“We need you to call us if you remember anything else,” the taller of the two agents said as he handed Malcolm his card. As the group broke up, the local officers made a plan to go eat. They mentioned two diners that were open as of that morning, and Malcolm made note of which one they decided on. Rob begged off, said he had to touch base with his mother and sisters about everything that was going on.
As they made their way to their cars, Mrs. Tyrell called over to Malcolm and Jess. “Am I right? Ridiculous the way they operate these plows. You guys don’t have any damage?” When the Tyrell boys still lived at home, the whole neighborhood used to hear her yelling at them.
Then she shaded her eyes and called over, “Is that you, Jess?” and began making her way up the driveway.
“Dear God,” Jess muttered as Malcolm said, “Christ.”
“How are you, honey? I haven’t seen you in so long!” Her long, bottle-red hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush since the first snowstorm. “Want to come down to my house and sit by the heater? Have a visit? Jimmy has the kitchen snug as a bug. I can make you a cup of coffee? It’s just Nescafé in the saucepan but it’s hot.”
Malcolm waited for Jess to say no, to find an excuse. She looked exhausted, battle worn, pale. He thought of her at the hospital that time, the worst time, her legs in stirrups, the green of the paper gown harsh against her skin. How she looked beyond sad, like she had no life left, no fight. She didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. He saw her notice the tray of tools the physician’s assistant rolled in, saw her glance at them once more when the doctor came in a moment later.
But instead she said, “I’d love that. Give me a minute.”
“Really?” Malcolm said when Mrs. Tyrell was out of earshot.
Jess shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“If I go see about Roddy.” Malcolm tried to think of how best to put it. “Will you be here when I get back?”
“You think that’s smart? Going straight to Roddy? Can you explain all of this to me please? Don’t say it’s nothing.”
“I will. I swear. But not now.”
Backing out of his driveway, he realized she never answered his question.
* * *
He tried to remember where exactly Roddy lived. He knew it was in one of the apartments where the railroad tracks crossed the creek, but which? It was not nice over there. People piled junk on their balconies, and the natural shingle that had probably looked fresh thirty years earlier was now black with weather. A big OxyContin dealer had recently been arrested from there; his name and mug shot went out over the local patch.
Once he got to the parking lot, Malcolm texted Roddy, asked him to come outside if he was home. Three dots came up as if Roddy was typing a reply, but in the meantime Malcolm looked up, saw someone come to the window on the second floor.
You there? Malcolm texted, and the figure stepped back. I’m coming up, he wrote.
Upstairs, the hallway smelled like cats and mildew. He knocked on the door he estimated to be the right one but heard movement in the apartment next door, so he moved down one door and knocked again. He leaned forward and could hear breathing on the other side.
“You might as well open up,” he said.
The locks slid, a chain was drawn aside, the door opened.
“Oh, hey, Malcolm,” Roddy said, his hair the usual mess. He was wearing a long wool coat with a blanket draped around him like a shawl. “You didn’t have to drop them off.”
“Drop what off?”
“My headphones?”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
Roddy stared at him.
“Have you eaten?” Malcolm asked, glimpsing the chaos of Roddy’s apartment. “I heard Slice of Life is open. Let’s go see if they’ll seat us.”
If it occurred to Roddy that he could decline, that Malcolm was not the school principal, not his dad, he showed no sign. He followed Malcolm to his car. They drove to the diner in silence, parked between two utility trucks. There was a coffee station outside for utility workers to refill their travel mugs, and the line extended to the edge of the parking lot. Inside, it was warm. Malcolm greeted Sebastian, the owner, made small talk for a minute, and then asked if he could get a table. Once seated, Sebastian waved over a waitress who was circling with a pot of coffee. They put in their orders so she wouldn’t have to come back. Malcolm waited until the waitress walked away before he spoke.
“Roddy,” he said, sitting square to the kid. “Do you remember the guy giving us trouble on Friday night?”
“Yeah,” Roddy said, and Malcolm could see caution pass over his face.
Like an animal he felt another animal circling. “Tripp.”
“It’s the craziest thing. No one has seen him since then. I’ve now talked to the police four different times in—” He looked at his wrist. “Five days. Turns out he was in big trouble with the SEC, probably about to be arrested. Do you know why I’m mentioning all of this to you?”
Roddy placed his spoon carefully next to his coffee and pushed the saucer away.
“The cops know someone helped him, and now they have a driver’s license with a photo of that guy,” Malcolm continued.
“They do?”
“Oh yes. They showed it to me not even an hour ago.”
“I should have known you wouldn’t come all the way over just to return my headphones.”
“Where is he? Panama or something? And how much of whatever this is got dreamed up at the Half Moon? Do I need to worry? Because I’m a little worried.”
Roddy looked surprised. “Is that where they think he is? Panama?”
“Yeah. It sounds like he rented an apartment there. He tried to open a bank account, and he used his passport as identification. For a guy who wants to disappear, he’s not that good at it. He used his real name.”
“Wow,” Roddy said. “They know about the bank account already? That’s really good.”
Malcolm had already lied to the cops once. That one could be explained away, but another lie and he could be charged with a crime. He knew it, but it was hard to think that way with Roddy sitting across from him looking as he always did, so helpless, so guileless. When he hired him, Malcolm had promised Roddy’s uncle that he’d look out for him, but he hadn’t, clearly, and now he was in this mess. Tripp had dragged him into something he probably didn’t understand.
“How in the world is that good?”
Roddy hesitated. “First tell me how they found the license. Tripp was supposed to leave that in our spot.”
“Where’s your spot?”
Roddy rubbed his chin.
The waitress appeared at their table with more coffee, told them their food would be out shortly. Once she moved on, Roddy said, “I guess I can tell you since you already saw the license.”
“Yeah I would think so.”
“Don’t be mad. It’s at the Half Moon. Was. Upstairs. Nothing’s there now, don’t worry. No one ever goes up there. Tripp couldn’t have it at home in case his wife found it.”
“Where upstairs?”
“In the bathroom vent. The cover pops right off.”
“You’re joking.”
Roddy shrugged. “Sorry.”
“The cops saw Tripp’s stuff.”
“When? Did they see papers? Or a laptop?”
“No, just a bag. Clothes. Some books.” Malcolm had so many questions it was hard to know which one to begin with. “They found the license in a box he rented at UPS.”
“Ah,” Roddy said.
“What’s the plan here? You really thought you were going to pull this off with a fake license?”
Roddy stared at him for a moment. The waitress came over with their food. Bacon and eggs for Malcolm, chocolate chip pancakes for Roddy. When she walked away, Roddy asked, “You think I’m dumb, don’t you?”
“What? No. Why would you ask that?”
Roddy shrugged. “Did you tell them?”
“Tell them what?”
“That it’s me. The license.”
What was with this kid that made Malcolm so annoyed. Yes I think you’re dumb, he thought, but then he remembered the feeling in his belly when he watched the thin strand of smoke curl up toward the basement ceiling, Jess reaching for a second match.
“No.”
“Are you going to tell them?”
Malcolm hesitated. “No.”
“Why?”
“Trust me, I do not know.”
Roddy dropped his chin and let out a long sigh. “Thank you,” he said.
“So tell me.”
Something sparked in Roddy, a confidence Malcolm had never seen. “Mark Duro has pay stubs, tax returns going back ten years, a lease, his own company, a retirement account, a social security number, a passport. It took forever. Tripp picked up the license from my guy last week. I guess he put it in his box for safekeeping.”
