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I said, “Patrick, I gotta go. Let me know about the Volvo.”
“Okay, but don’t wait on Maya. I’m telling you, this girl’s gonnago.”
I hung up, my chest tight. I couldn’t think about another woman, my heart was full of Carrie. I could still remember the moment I fell in love with her, in IKEA of all places. We’d drive to the Plymouth Meeting store to see what was on sale and take Emily to lunch at its cafeteria, where we’d have Swedish meatballs and crackers like hardtack, proof that Swedes have better teeth or better dental insurance.
One time we needed a chest of drawers and we passed a display furnished with a puffy couch in off-white fabric. Emily ran into the fake family room, and I went after her and sat down on the couch, sinking in.
Wow, Carrie, this feels great. Sit down a sec, honey.
Carrie eyed the laminated price tag.Backsälen.It’s too expensive.
They don’t charge you to sit. Come on.
Carrie flopped down on the other side of Emily.Why is everything so expensive?
Because the world doesn’t pay teachers enough. How great is this couch?
I can’t afford it.
You can if we split it.
Carrie cocked her head, her ponytail flopping over.You want to buy a couch with me? You’re playing house.
No, I said, realizing something.I’m not playing.
•••
I drove to Lemaire’s house listening to news radio, but there was no mention of him. His driveway was still empty, and the house looked still. I didn’t park because it was too risky in the daytime. I assumed he hadn’t been home and that he hadn’t gone to work today, unless I’d missed him. I thought of his ginger cat and hoped it had food and water.
I drove back to the quarry, parked, and got out of the car. I wanted to make sure Lemaire’s body wasn’t dumped there. I could see the service road and its surroundings better now, and the entire area was deserted. I trudged through the underbrush to the spot where John had hit Lemaire. Dried blood had soaked into the dirt. Still no sign of the gun or the rock. I thought about taking some pictures but didn’t want them on my phone.
I left the spot and walked to the left, where I’d looked around last night. I found theno trespassingsign and continued beyond to the edge of the quarry, which seemed a likely place to dump a dead body.
I looked all the way down, and it was quite a drop, maybe three hundred feet to the water. The sun shone on its surface, which wasn’t as choppy as last night. Its color was a murky green, and I scanned the water in quadrants. I didn’t see a body.
I turned away and walked back, trying to imagine where another car, or a person, could have hidden. I didn’t have any more answers than last night.
I went back to the car and drove around looking for the Volvo, in case it had been abandoned nearby. No luck. I kept the radio on, but still no news of Lemaire. It occurred to me that the co-conspirators, if they existed, would want to get out of town. If they had driven, Icouldn’t track them, but they could have flown. They could have gone to the airport and abandoned his car there.
I headed toward Route 252 to the airport.
•••
I approached the Philadelphia International Airport, which sprawled southwest of the city, surrounded by its oil refineries and trucking terminals. Traffic was congested on I-95, with trucks and cars heading to Delaware and Jersey. An orange haze hung in the sky, and carcinogens made my nose twitch.
I reached the airport, where its massive terminals sat in a curved line, designated A through F. Each had a dedicated parking lot situated on one side of a street that ran through the airport, with the ticketing and airplane gates on the other. All I needed today was the parking lots.
I started with the Terminal A lot, taking a ticket at the turnstile at short-term parking, then drove around looking for the maroon Volvo. I drove past car after car, but no luck, then went to long-term parking. By the third level, I’d seen every type of vehicle in existence, but only a few Volvos, none maroon.
I was on the fifth level of Terminal C when my phone rang. I answered it without checking the screen, assuming it was John. “Yes?”
“TJ?” said a woman. “My uncle Patrick gave me your number.”
Chapter Nine
I braked in the aisle. “Uh—”
“It’s Maya Vitelli. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
