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I was smiling to myself when the phone rang.
“What’s this crap I hear about you opening a can of worms in the Mary Claire Fitzhugh case? I can’t believe you’d have the gall to meddle in police business…”
The guy was yelling so loud it took me a minute to figure out who it was. “Lieutenant Dolan?”
My relationship with Lieutenant Dolan had spa
“Who the hell else?”
“What can of worms are you talking about?”
“You know damn well. You’re off on some tangent, stirring up talk.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Not from Mrs. Fitzhugh’s perspective. She’s had enough wackos making claims about the child over the years.”
“Could you just tell me what you’ve heard and who you heard it from?”
“Cheney Phillips. He says he talked to some kid who thinks he saw Mary Claire’s body being buried. Phillips sends the guy to you and you get the cops all in a lather, thinking there’s been a break. Turns out it’s all bullshit and you’re responsible.”
“You want to hear my side of it?”
“No, I do not! How come I’m calling you when you’re the one who should be calling me? You should have told me about this on day one.”
“Why would I tell you?”
“Because it was my case,” he snapped. And then, grudgingly, “At least until the FBI stepped in.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“Because everybody knew.”
“I was in high school. We didn’t meet until years later.”
“Didn’t Cheney mention my name when he sent the Sutton kid your way?”
“No. If I’d known you were involved, I’d have been on your doorstep, begging for information. I’ve been working out here on my lonesome and I could have used the help.”
“You didn’t know I was the lead detective?”
“Cheney never said a word. This is the first I’ve heard.”
“Are you blind? It’s right there in the files.”
“The files are sealed. And even if they weren’t, the police aren’t going to invite me down for a cozy chat about the case.”
“Well.”
“Yeah, well,” I said.
“Maybe I spoke in haste.”
“You certainly did. You owe me an apology.”
“Consider it done.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
I could hear him take a puff on his cigarette. “Okay, then. I’m sorry. Is that good enough?”
“Not quite, but I’ll give you the opportunity to atone.”
“How so?”
“Invite me over for a drink. You and Stacey and I can sit down and talk about old times while I pick your brain.”
A pause while he took another puff. “What have you come up with so far?”
“I’m not telling you without an invitation.”
Dead silence.
“Be here at three,” he said, and hung up.
23
Con Dolan’s house was on a narrow side street on the east side of town. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might have information to share. Cheney Phillips hadn’t mentioned him, and since Dolan was retired, I had no idea he had a hand in the case. I parked in front of a large brown clapboard bungalow with long horizontal lines, open porches, mullioned windows, and widely overhung eaves. Dolan came to the door, cigarette in hand, wearing bedroom slippers, baggy chinos, and a T-shirt under a fla
“Sorry I went off on you,” he murmured.
“Think nothing of it. I didn’t,” I said, netting a smile.
Dolan’s housemate, Stacey Oliphant, sat in the living room with a small battery-operated fan that he directed at Dolan’s burning cigarette. This place couldn’t have been more different from Stacey’s rented apartment, which I’d visited when he was being treated for cancer. He’d been told he was dying and he was in the process of vacating the premises. I’d found him disposing of the bulk of his possessions and packing up the rest for delivery to the Salvation Army. I walked in on him shredding family photographs, which made me shriek. It seemed sacrilegious to destroy the images of his kinfolk and I’d begged him to give the pictures to me. I didn’t know most of my relatives anyway so his would serve. I adopted them as my own, the odd assortment of unknown faces from times gone by.
Once he’d rid himself of all the paraphernalia, his intention was to kill himself before the cancer put him in a position where he had no choice. Con Dolan was vigorously opposed to the plan, in part because his wife, Grace, had taken a similar route before the disease had a chance to mow her down. But Stacey had been given a reprieve, which took the subject off the agenda for the foreseeable future. In the meantime, he and Dolan ended up sharing a place, which suited them both, even with the occasional snit.
The year before, they’d invited me to work a cold case with them since both were limited by physical ills. At the time, I’d introduced Stacey to junk food, which he’d never eaten in his life. Thereafter, I tagged along with him as he went from McDonald’s to Wendy’s to Arby’s to Jack in the Box. My crowning achievement was introducing him to the In-N-Out burger. His appetite increased, he regained some of the weight he’d lost during his cancer treatment, and his enthusiasm for life returned. Doctors were still scratching their heads.
Dolan took my blazer and hung it on a hat rack, which was already decked out with a number of Victorian bo
The glimpse I had of the kitchen showed a 1920s stove and a kitchen window filled with a display of Depression glass on clear glass shelves. The measuring cups, vases, candlesticks, bowls, and pitchers cast a soft green light onto the linoleum floor. Headless ma
I set my shoulder bag on the floor and sat down. “Water’s fine. A beer will put me to sleep.”
Dolan went into the kitchen and came back with a coffee cup of tap water that he set on the arm of my chair, which was wide enough to serve as a desk.
I glanced from one to the other. “Don’t you two get dressed anymore?” Stacey smiled. “Sure, sometimes. You know, if we’re going out and like that. We don’t get gussied up for company. We’re too old.”
“Quit that,” I said, waving the idea aside. “I take it you’re doing okay? You look good.”
“I’m better than I have any reason to hope. I figure my days are numbered, but so far, so good. We’ve been taking a lot of trips. We drove all the way up the coast and fished every chance we got.”