It's a Crime (21 page)

CHAPTER
27

M
y friend Sydney was on TV for raising hundreds of dollars selling cookies and lemonade after 9/11,” said Ruby.

“That’s good.”

“But you know what? All those cookies were bought by her mom for like a hundred dollars apiece.”

They were crossing the bridge into Rumson. Ruby’s breathing was shallow, and she kept checking to make sure she hadn’t forgotten her gloves (supposedly important because of fingerprints, though there was no way he was going to let her near the house). At a rest stop Will had checked to make sure his father was really out. Now Ruby was filling in the silence he’d left, and she was certainly equal to the task. Will had never before met anyone so determined, so grandiose, so anxious.

“Do you think we’ll be on TV?” she said.

“I hope not.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t want anyone to know about this.”

When Will had first moved in with Lemuel, he’d hoped to get some mileage out of being related to him. But because his old friends weren’t around, there was no one to get mileage
for.
Too bad, because Lemuel had let him take the Mustang the first morning. The top was down. It was a clear July day. When Will came to a deep, slow slope, he left the car in second, pulled himself up onto the headrest, and began to steer with his toes. To be above roof level was to soar, unconstrained by wall or windshield, connected only by the curious sensation of cool plastic wheel tucked against the instep of one foot, and between the first few toes of the other. The air hummed. He raised his hands into the sky as if he could touch the dark leafy greenery around him. He felt as if he could. He felt as if he could do anything.

That sense of buoyant power came back to him as Ruby said, “I think someone should make a movie about us. I wonder if you ever get to play yourself.”

There was no moon that night. The lights of the town provided only the dimmest illumination, which was probably good. Will had to leave the car at the side of the road a ways down from the Culp driveway. There was no point in advertising their presence. He cut the engine, put his finger to his lips. What he was listening for, he couldn’t have said. The engine ticked as the crickets resumed. Ruby refused to stay put. Will started to argue with her and considered driving off, but he finally figured she might be safer with him. He took a last look at Lemuel and told her she could come as long as she stayed out of sight at the edge of the woods. “Don’t say a word,” he said.

It was so dark, though, that he had to tell her to be careful once they got to the driveway.

“How come you can talk, and I can’t,” she said.

The Foy house back in Hart Ridge was so big—and so close to the driveway and the road—that it looked as if it could fall over and crush you. Here the Culp estate, which was lit up in vertical bands like an alien spaceship, looked as if it would always be far in the distance, no matter how much you traveled toward it. Will slowly inched along, partly because he didn’t want to be heard and partly because it would be easy to stray off the asphalt; they could trip or fall or run smack into a branch or tree. But they were doing okay. This quiet creeping around was exhilarating. He shivered in the cool, damp air.

“Stay here,” whispered Will, heading around to the front of the house, where the river lay in wait. He would be okay as long as he stayed close to the building. That way he couldn’t fall in. The grass was spiky with a mix of old and new shoots, but its pile was deep and soft; no one could hear him. He followed the edge of the lawn, fearing that the ground would give way beneath him at any moment, because of Pat’s landscapers. Who knew what holes they had dug or what equipment they’d left out. But he reached the other side of the house without incident only to sense the vast, troubling emptiness beyond. He could hear some hungry lapping. That would be the tide, reaching into the river, stirring it up.

He crept to the window beside the French doors, careful to stay to one side, away from the light. Inside he could see a huge, white, airy living room. Leaning haphazardly against the walls were several wavery pastel paintings as big as panel trucks. Stacked opposite them were similarly sized sheets of plywood: shipping material.

The next room was half a dozen windows farther down. In it was an old man, bald, sitting in a brown leather recliner that was tipped back about halfway so that he could watch a huge box of a television. Neil Culp. He was wearing a burgundy wool robe over a pair of gray slacks and matching burgundy slippers.

The room was large and somehow recessive, notably lacking in bad-guy equipment. There was no levitating swivel chair, no capped pipe for noxious gas, no secret panel behind which lurked Culp’s zombie minions. This room was very much just a room—like a department store display you’d walked by dozens of times and never could remember.

Will looked again at the man, who did not have lizard skin, fly eyes, or slit nostrils. Not close. But he wasn’t constructed of simple shapes like squares or circles, either. He was riddled with pointy curves. His slope-shouldered body was dome-like. His fingers were slightly convex. The edge of his sash was puckered. The flaps of his robe hung down in pointy V’s. His slacks were slightly belled. His slippers were the leather sort that crossed at the arch.

The table lamp next to the old man shed so much light on his face that his features were whited out. There seemed to be a slight uptick in the right side of his upper lip—a sort of sneer—but it was hard to be sure. His nose was waxy. And his eyes—they were closed.
He was asleep.

A blow to Will’s head sent him forward; he was on his knees. For a moment the invisible river seemed to have vomited up some violently sharp rocks through the damp night air. But no, there was a boot, definitely a boot, and a river had no need for boots. Another kick jerked his head up as it sent his body sideways. Then his elbow exploded in electrical sparks. His chest was pierced, and a thin grunt was released. Was this a fight? He had seen no one. He heard a grim voice: “You little shit.”

Later he opened his eyes and saw a hank of dark, dense, dead grass. His cheek was pressed against a couple of cold stones. He heard footsteps retreating, a string of curses. Then, a chilly, lonely silence. Shouts and shrieks existed, but they were trapped within him. He lifted his eyes to the edge of the woods and thought dreamily, those trees are going to fall on me.

Instead an image rose before him. It was Pat Foy, fluttering and chattering, or maybe the sound was the sweet high sort a brain in pain emitted as a natural narcotic. The sound organized itself into a wail. It was a siren, he realized foggily, and this person was not Pat, but Ruby; hers was the face that was taking shape in the near darkness. As she bent over him, he could smell tropical fruit.

“What are you doing?” she cried, her flat black eyes gleaming with fierce panicked excitement. “I’ve already been in the house. I got it. He wrote it down.
It’s a crime.
”

The sirens were suddenly close upon them. Will pulled himself to his knees, then staggered and fell forward again as Ruby screamed.

CHAPTER
28

T
he police car paused in front of a row of floodlit Victorian houses decked out in convivial towers and porches. Then it turned into the small parking lot for the station, which was across the street. In contrast to its neighbors it looked modest and domestic. This is the sort of home you get, Will told himself bitterly. Isn’t it nice? You’re
lucky
to find a home at a police station.

The next thing he knew, he was slumped in a gray chair next to a gray desk, one of many in the unpartitioned room. His hands were cuffed in front, his shirt was bloody, his black pants were torn. He was having trouble catching his breath. Ruby was huddled over by the window. She was not cuffed, but she looked all knotted up.

“What’s your name?”

The cop questioning Will was not the one who’d put the handcuffs on him; he’d done the driving. He had a soft, pained, creaky voice. Despite the uniform, he did not look like a policeman. He was young and dark-haired, clearly strong, the sort who, if you didn’t watch, might pick you up and set you aside, as if you were an inconvenient traffic cone.

“Is Ruby…okay?” said Will. He managed to raise his voice enough to say “Ruby!” then coughed weakly. The cop did not lift his eyes from the paper in front of him.

Will should have been terrified. There was plenty of reason to be: the cuffs, the cops, the guns, the nightsticks. But he seemed to have crossed the line into a realm of suffering where none of that mattered anymore.

“You better. Call. Her mother,” said Will. He knew that rich people did not stay in police stations long. He was just hoping that this magic would extend to him. “Her name is. Pat Foy. Get the number. From Ruby. They live in Hart Ridge. In a big house. Really big. Believe me.” He was panting, and he smelled like the creepy air freshener in the police car that had transported him and Ruby here.

“Where are
your
parents?”

Will’s mind took a quick zigzag. “My father. Is on. A cruise,” he lied.

This did not have the effect he had hoped. The cop merely nodded. His face was too white, as if he’d grown up in a basement. His ears were the smallest Will had ever seen. When the cop lifted his eyes from his paperwork, Will could see the pity in them. Will’s chest grew cold. He had always thought of himself as one sort of person, but the cop seemed to have recognized him as a different type altogether.

“A mystery cruise,” Will elaborated, trying to conceal his breathlessness, that sign of nerves.

Ruby still hadn’t moved. Her upper arms were pressed to her sides, and her forearms were crossed at a weird angle. Will wondered if she’d been injured, but didn’t think there’d been time. Her braids were coming loose. Elbows of hair stuck out here and there, and one hank in the back had pulled entirely free. It made her look as if she’d been in a fight—wounded, maybe, but also tough and hard.

He tried again: “Ruby.” This time he’d found enough breath to catch her attention.

“I’ve still got it,” she mouthed, without relaxing her odd slanted posture. Will realized then that she was protecting the paper she’d found at the Culps’ house.

“Got what?” said her cop sharply. She was older than Will’s cop, and sturdier somehow, despite being female. Her face was covered with freckles. On her the uniform looked like a park ranger’s. She should have been out searching for lost children, not persecuting them.

Where was Pat Foy, with all her energy, her sense of entitlement, her weirdness?

Instead a girl appeared. For a brief moment Will in his confusion thought that she was the nurse from Lemuel’s hospital, the youngest one, who’d been on the night shift and who’d found him the foldout chair. She’d also told him there was a cafeteria on the third floor without implying he was too much of an idiot to know that hospitals had cafeterias. (Which he was.) This girl had the same exhausted confidence, and her bangs fluffed out over her eyes the same way, as if she’d blown on them from her bottom lip, and her hair was trapped in the same clip in the back. For a moment Will wondered if the world was full of competent young women ready to parachute in during crises.

“What’s going on here?” asked the girl. “Ruby! Are you all right?” She looked small among all the desks. She was wearing a white jacket that sort of fluttered out at the hip and made you want to rest your hand there. “I hope you realize she’s only thirteen years old.” Her tone was severe. She herself must have been Will’s age, but that wasn’t stopping her. She had a natural imperiousness.

“Rose,” said Ruby with wonder.

“That’s Rose? Foy?” asked Will.

“I thought you were good friends of theirs.” Will’s cop was disgusted. His creaky voice thinned to nothing. He had to clear his throat to say, “You’re such good friends you don’t know what they look like.”

“Okay,” said the female cop to Ruby. “What exactly have you got there?”

Ruby’s arms tightened.

“You can’t just go around breaking into people’s houses,” said the cop. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you kids. Don’t you have enough stuff already?”

“I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding,” said Rose. “The Culps are friends of my mom and dad’s.”

“Maybe you can tell me how you knew they’d been at the Culps’.”

Gotcha,
implied her tone, but Rose was unmoved. She said, “Ruby text-messaged me.”

“I understand you took something from Mr. Culp,” said the cop.

“I didn’t,” said Ruby.

“Mr. Culp doesn’t know what it is, but he says he won’t press charges if you give it back.”

“No, no,” said Ruby. “I didn’t take anything I shouldn’t have.”

“Why don’t you just give it back,” said the cop impatiently, sounding for the first time like a real person. “It doesn’t make any difference to me,” she said. “But it sure looks like he’s offering you a good deal. Then we can forget the whole thing.”

“Have you called Mom?” asked Rose.

“I don’t suppose you know what your sister has been up to,” said the cop.

“Not exactly.”

“She could wind up behind bars.”

“Can I talk to her alone?”

“Are you twenty-one?”

Rose stared at her, then decided on evasion. “What does that matter?”

The cop stood up. “You’re going to have to hand it over one way or another,” she said to Ruby, who shrank back into her seat.

“No! No!” she cried. “It’s evidence!”

“My father. Is in! The car!” said Will brokenly. “The Mustang. Down the road.”

The cop sitting across from Will started shaking his head again, displaying his tiny ears, but Ruby’s cop was not distracted. She barked, “Tell Conner to get over there.” And, to Ruby, harshly, she said, “Okay, what did you take?”

“You don’t have to give anything back to the Culps, do you?” Rose asked the cop.

“We don’t have to do anything.”

“Neil did it!” said Ruby to Rose excitedly. “Neil did everything, I mean. I can prove it. He’s the one who should be in jail. We can get Daddy out.”

“What did you find?” asked Rose.

Ruby’s eyes flicked to the right and to the left.

“A piece of paper?”

The flicking of the eyes again. But this time, Ruby nodded.

“That’s why you went to the Culps’?”

Another nod.

“What an amazing girl you are. Is it…a letter?”

“With highlights,” said Ruby.

“Highlights?”

“You know, like with a yellow marker.”

“Yellow. Marker,” breathed Will.

Even the cops were interested, puzzled.

“Our Dad worked for Neil Culp at LinkAge,” explained Rose. “I suppose you know what a mess that is.”

“Culp did work for LinkAge,” said Ruby’s cop to Will’s. “What’s your dad’s name?”

“Frank,” said Rose, her mouth closing around the name.

“He’s in jail!” said Ruby.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” said the cop.

Will had never hurt so much in his life.

“Look,” said Rose, her eyes traveling around the room for help. “We’re all witnesses. I am.” She scratched at the air in Will’s direction. “He is.”

“That’s Will,” said Ruby.

“Will? You mean Will Samuel?” said Rose. She immediately shook her head as if to dislodge the information, there being no room for it. “If it’s evidence, you’re going to have to show the police anyway. Show me first, and then I’ll give it to them.” She looked up at the female cop. “Okay?”

The cop shrugged and nodded. The room grew hushed: Everyone was very still so as not to interfere with the transfer. Ruby slowly straightened up, felt around under her arm, and just as slowly drew out a single piece of copy paper, unevenly creased.

Rose carefully unfolded it and smoothed it out. “‘They’re on to us,’” she read. She looked up at her sister with inscrutable intensity. “Is this what you mean?” Her voice was disbelieving, unlovely. The note had flopped back, and she curled it slightly to stiffen it. “‘Clean up your e-mails,’” she read. “‘It’s a crime.’”

“That sounds kind of familiar,” said Ruby’s cop.

“Yeah,” said Rose. “It was on the news.”

“What?” said Ruby.

“Everybody’s already seen this memo. It was quoted in the hearings, and it made headlines.”

“Everybody?”

Rose nodded. “The SEC, the U.S. attorney’s office. Everybody has always known about this.”

The others in the room stared at the paper, silent.

Will was filled with great disappointment. This was it. He had not done what he was supposed to, although he could not remember what that consisted of. Maybe there was no point, no point to anything at all.

There was a crackle nearby, and a rasp. “That was Conner,” Will’s cop announced. “There’s a Mustang parked near the Culp place. But no one’s in it.”

“I. Can’t. Breathe,” said Will, sliding toward the floor.