She's Not There Read Free

glory of Block Island, he’d told me there was no crime. “No skunks, no snakes, no fences, no banks, no lawyers, and, best of all, no crime.” The elderly constable had volunteered to enforce town statutes, that’s all.
    Tommy got out of the truck and stood next to the body. I walked toward him. He put his hands on his knees and bent down to have a closer look. Then he became aware of me. He stood straight again. He said, “You the one found her, miss?”
    â€œYes.”
    He squatted all the way down. It wasn’t easy for him. He stared at the dead girl. He pushed a strand of hair off her face. Her mouth was open as far as human jaws allowed. She’d died screaming. What drug could do that?
    The constable pulled himself back up to his feet. “Thought I should confirm the death. By the look of her, no need bothering to feel for a pulse. She’s gone.”
    â€œI think you should call the state trooper.”
    He was staring into my face intently. He knew he should, too. He sighed. “I’ll have to stay with the body. I don’t have one of those car phones. You drive a standard?”
    I could, but more damage to the scene wouldn’t help.
    â€œTommy, why don’t I have Aggie call him?”
    He squinted. “Trooper don’t answer his phone much before noon anyway.”
    â€œIsn’t there another trooper with him?”
    â€œOfficer Fitzgerald takes the phone off the hook.”
    â€œI’ll go. I’ll ride my bike.”
    â€œAll right, then. Best you do that. And miss?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œNotice anything strange around here? Seen anything before Aggie called me?”
    â€œNo.”
    He looked up at the gulls and then back at me. “Been dead long enough to put off the birds, I’d say.”
    I didn’t tell him I agreed. Since I arrived, I’d kept mum about what I do for a living. I don’t enjoy being a conversation piece. Now Tommy had nothing more to do or say. He was not a policeman, he was the equivalent of a meter maid. He knew he had to wash his hands of whatever had happened to the girl and leave things to the police, even if the police consisted of a man, the likes of Officer Fitzgerald. Francis X. Fitzgerald of the Rhode Island State Police. Fitzy, Joe had called him. Plus there was a rookie supposedly learning the ropes.
    The constable lived at the intersection down where Center crossed Old Town Road, halfway to the harbor. I reached it in minutes and slowed at his house, which had a little addition attached to its left side. Literally attached—a shack was nailed up against the house that seemed as though it were pulling away. Jake lived in the tacked-on shack. He was standing on the sandy untrimmed lawn, which was littered with electrical equipment, fiddling with a pair of BX cables. Jake was a savant. Joe told me at Christmastime he wired the whole island. Tourists returned over a period of a month to see his decorated tree at the harborside made entirely of piled-up driftwood and so bright with lighting you could make out the glow from the mainland, his display of singing angels strung above the town hall, and Santa and his sleigh plus all the reindeer led by Rudolph arched across the nearest rise of cliff.
    Jake watched me, his eyes directed at the front bike tire. I called out to him. “Everything will be all right. Tommy will be back soon.”
    I got a response. “Would not take…” and he touched his chest. Jake didn’t use names or pronouns, according to Joe. Then he turned away and looked down at his cables, twisting them again.
    â€œHe’ll be back soon.”
    I raced down Old Town Road to the harbor and turned into a little side street Joe had taken the day before. A sign in front of a small cottage read RHODE ISLAND STATE POLICE SEASONAL . It was not a conventional police station, just a temporary trooper’s residence, a ramshackle wood-frame house that