Shattered Shell (23 page)

I looked over at Felix and said, "For this one, why don't you stay behind?"

"Why's that?"

I gathered up my reporter's notebook. "Two people might be too intimidating, and while that might work on the next go around I want to try to be quiet here."

"Hmph," Felix said. "Well, leave the car keys so I can at least listen to the radio."

"Sure," and when that was done, I went outside.

A short walk up the brick walkway I came to a polished black door, and set under the brass knocker was a little brass plaque that said MILES, I rang the doorbell, heard a loud gong echo from inside.

I stamped my feet. It was damn cold.

The door opened and a slim, older man with a glowing tan answered. He wore black slacks and a lime-green sweater, and his thin white hair was perfectly combed. In one hand he had a leatherbound book, and in the other a pair of reading glasses.

"Mr. Miles?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"My name is Lewis Cole," I said. I passed over my business card.  “l'm a writer for a magazine called
Shoreline
, and I'd just like to take a minute or two of your time to talk about your daughter, Kara."

"Well ... " he said, peering at my card, and before he could say anything else I walked in, saying, "Thank you, this won't take long.”

From the entranceway we went to the right, to a sitting room, where a fire was crackling along in the fireplace. There were bookshelves with glass doors, a marble mantelpiece over the fireplace, and paintings and wood paneling and oriental rugs and soft classical music playing from hidden speakers.

A woman came into the room, carrying a half-filled cocktail glass in her hand. She was about the same age as the man -- - sixties --- and wore tartan slacks (Black Watch tartan, it looked like) and a dark blue sweater with a single strand of pearls. Her hair was dark brown and coiffed in something that looked like Jackie Kennedy Onassis was trying in the late sixties, and she got right to the point: "Henry, who is this?"

"A Mr. Cole, Louise," he said, his voice wavering. He held up my card, like he was trying to ward off something. "He's a magazine writer and wants to talk about Kara."

She looked right at me, eyes flashing. "What makes you think we have anything to say? And what do you mean by barging in here without even the courtesy of calling first?"

I had my coat off, hanging on my arm. When conducting an interview in hostile territory, you play some little tricks to stay in and do your business. One is to assume that you'll be invited in and act as if you were, walking by before an objection is raised. Another is to take off your coat. With your coat on, it's easier for someone to toss you out. Useful tricks, ones they never teach you in journalism class.

"I apologize, Mrs. Miles," I said. "I should have called earlier, but I was in the area and hoped that I'd be able to impose for just a few moments. I'm also hoping that I can just ask a few quick questions, and then I'll leave."

"Why are you even here?" she demanded. "What are you up to?"

"I'm doing an article about violent crime in tourist communities," I said, the lie once again coming easily to me. "Along with the general nature of the story, I'm also doing what we call a sideline piece, an article on what happened to Kara, as an example of the types of crime that take place --- "

Her skin seemed to pale, as if the valves inside her blood vessels had suddenly clicked shut. She slapped the cocktail glass down on a nearby table and said, her chin quavering, "Do you mean to say that our name is going to be in your magazine, in a despicable story about what happened to Kara? Henry, did you hear that? Our name, in his magazine, for everyone to read about our daughter."

"Now, look here," Henry Miles began, his tone getting livelier, and I interrupted, saying, "Excuse me, no, the story was going to use a fictional name. No one would know. It would just be ---"

"But of course they'll know!" Louise Miles protested, her tone furious. "How many crimes like that happen in Newburyport each winter, do you think? My God, Henry, think of the scandal if the neighbors found out. Especially if that rag mentions....”

She paused and Henry took a step forward and said, "I think you should leave. We have nothing to say to you. Nothing."

"Yes," his wife said, "and Henry, get Ross Tremblay on the phone. Within the hour, Mr. Cole, our lawyers will be contacting you, and if anything --- anything at all --- appears in your magazine, you can bet you'll be on the receiving end of a hefty lawsuit."

I started to slowly put on my coat, trying to salvage whatever I could. "It wasn't going to be a part of the story, but you sound more upset about Kara's private life than about what happened to her."

Henry Miles's lips tightened and his wife repeated, "Within the hour, Mr. Cole, within the hour."

"Fair enough," I said, coat fully on. "But when he does call, it'll be a short conversation. I'll just mention a certain amendment that begins with the words, 'Congress shall make no law’, and then I'll hang up. And just so there are no more surprises, Mrs. Miles, I also intend to talk to Kara's brother."

"Good luck finding him," she snapped. "I haven't seen him in years, and I have no idea where he is. Now. Head for that door or our first call will be to the police."

The door sounded pleasant enough, shutting behind me, and I walked out, pausing to look back at the house. Everything seemed wrong, out of kilter. I was trying to reconcile the Kara Miles I knew --- the laughing woman with odd taste in jewelry, the outdoors adventurer who rock-climbed, and the woman who was also deeply in love with my best friend --- with what I had just seen, and it didn't make sense. There are enough stereotypes about the type of woman Kara is to fill a CD-ROM disk, and I hadn't been too sure what to expect about the kind of family she came from. But it was nothing like the expensive North Shore home and twin Audis and wealthy parents I encountered, who were more concerned about scandal than their daughter.

I got to the Rover and opened the door. Felix looked over at me, arms crossed. "Must've had a lot of fun in there, time passing by as quickly as it did."

"Not really."

"What did you learn?"

I turned the key, started up the engine. "Not a hell of a lot." We went down the driveway and at the stone gate I stopped and looked over.

"All this money, all this privilege, all these expensive homes and toys, and up there are two old and angry people in a lot of empty rooms. Is this what they mean by the good life?"

"I guess upward mobility ain't what it used to be."

"I guess so," and then we left, heading back north.

As I drove back into Newburyport, I made it a point to stay on the back roads. "One thing for sure, the Mileses don't have much of an imagination or much curiosity," I said.

"Why's that?" Felix asked.

"Mrs. Miles said that she had no idea where her son lived. But I do."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Took me all of five minutes this morning, looking in the phone book."

He shrugged. "Some people like to stay lost. Other people prefer not to go looking. Sounds like a fun family."

"Not sure if 'fun' is the word I'd use."

It was getting near four o'clock in the afternoon and already I had the headlights on. The depths of winter in New England have always tugged at the dark parts of my soul. In the summer it can be light until nine o'clock at night, but when the weather turns cold, it can be as dark as midnight before the five o'clock news. Nothing I can do except cope, but sometimes the cold weather saps my coping skills.

We were in the western and rural part of the city, on Deering Road, and only by counting mailboxes and looking at house numbers with the aid of a flashlight where we able to find Doug Miles's home. It was a sagging structure with peeling paint, and it looked like a two-car garage that had earlier been converted into a residence. Snow and ice and frozen dog turds dotted the lawn, and the lights were off. A dog was barking at the house nearby, which was up on a hill, visible through the bare branches of some maple trees. The driveway was hard going. It was dirt and frozen solid with ice and snow.

Felix wasn't impressed.

"Are you sure this is it?" he asked.

"Sure as I can be," I said. "Diane told me that Kara's brother lived in Newburyport, and this is the only Doug Miles in the book."

"Can't believe it," Felix said, shaking his head. "This guy's parents look like they start their fireplace by burning worn-out dollar bills, and he lives in a shack."

"Maybe he's a free spirit who doesn't want to get entangled in this oppressive, capitalist society of ours."

"You believe that?"

"No, but it was a better answer than just grunting." Outside, the wind had picked up some and I held my coat close. I could make out the steady hum of traffic on 1-95, out beyond the woods. Felix came over to me and said, "What do you want to do here?"

"Honestly?" I asked. "Yeah."

"Truth is, I want to fill in all the blanks and go back to Diane and say we've done our best. Cops, neighbors, landlord, co-workers, her family, I want to tell her that we talked to everybody out there."

"Then what?"

"Then maybe she's satisfied that we've done as much as we can. Then maybe you get paid and we all get to stay out of the cold for a while. Come on, let's see if he's home."

There were no lights on inside. There was a shaded window and door to the left, and a closed garage door to the right. Sometime in the past, a dormer had been built on the left side of the residence, and what was probably a bedroom window was also dark. I knocked and there was no answer. Felix had a flashlight and played it over the house.

"Doorbell?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, pointing to a painted-over doorbell. "But I don't think it's going to ring much."

A couple more unanswered knocks and Felix went around to the front window, shining the light inside. "Whatever Doug does for work and however he earns his money, I can tell you that he doesn't spend it on housekeeping."

"That bad?" I asked.

"Pretty foul. Clothes and magazines and shopping bags jumbled up in a mess. Look, I'm hungry and it's getting cold. Are we finished here?"

"That we are," I said, and as I turned, I stopped stock-still.

Felix kept on looking into the house. "So we can leave."

"Nope," I said.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because he might not want us to."

"Who?" Felix said, turning around.

"Him," I said, "and don't ask me his name. We haven't quite been introduced yet."

Before us was a Doberman pinscher, sitting quite attentively, ears cocked forward. Felix lowered his flashlight and the dog growled a greeting.

"Well," Felix said.

"My thoughts exactly."

The wind whipped up and I shivered, and the dog kept its steady gaze on the both of us.

"You wouldn't happen to have a doggy treat with you," I said.

"Nope. The treats I usually have aren't for dogs. You know any dog commands?"

"Like 'run away and leave us alone'? No, I don't. You got any other suggestions?"

"One of us could run at the dog, while the other goes to the Rover."

"Sure," I said. "Was that a suggestion, or an offer to volunteer?"

"Well, what do you think?"

"I've got the keys. So. Ready to run at the dog?"

Felix said, "You could always toss the keys to me, and you could run at the dog."

"I'm a bad thrower. I might miss and the keys would drop ill the snow."

Another growl from the Doberman, and he came forward a few steps, then sat back down on the snow.

"I don't think he likes us talking," Felix said.

"I think you're right. Why don't we wait for a bit, see if his master shows up?"

"Then what?"

"Well, at least we'll be able to talk to someone who can tall back."

Felix clasped his arms around his chest. "That will be an improvement, but if I get any colder, then I will volunteer to take the dog on, understood?

"Understood."

"All right."

The Doberman growled again. "Oh, shut up," Felix said.

Chapter Fifteen

Thankfully, we didn't have to wait long. My toes were starting to tingle with the cold and I was going to ask Felix if he was ready to make that run to the dog when I heard a woman's voice and saw the bobbing light of a flashlight approach. The Doberman's head canted to the side and the woman called out, "Krypton! Krypton, come here, boy!"

The dog ambled over to her, short stub of a tail wagging, and "'olio said, "Jesus, at least I can move." The woman came over, her hooted feet crunching in the snow. She was heavyset, wearing a thick down jacket that was patched at the elbows, and she had long hrown hair that cascaded down the back of the jacket. Her blue jeans were tucked into the leather boots, and I blinked as she played the flashlight around my face and Felix's.