Sunday, but Vaughn had said something the other night about having to work weekends. I listened to his message, then left my phone number.
He called back within a few minutes.
“So what do you do?” I said, trying to joke around. “Do you sit in your office and wait for someone to leave a message and then check it?”
“Hell, yeah,” he said, sounding cranky. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of shit calls we get over here.”
This wasn’t how I wanted things to go. “Hey, I was just calling to say thanks for that ride home. I know you were irritated with me, but I really mean it—I’m grateful.”
He was quiet for a second. “Well, thanks,” he said. “It’s part of my job, you know?”
“Yeah? Well, I was actually calling because I was wondering about another part of your job.”
He made a reluctant grunt for me to continue.
“I know from cross-examining you,” I said, “that you’re a very accomplished detective, who has solved all sorts of crimes.”
“Cut the crap, McNeil.”
“No, really,” I said. “You’ve worked a lot of different cases, including stalking, right?”
“You mean cyber-stalking or the old-fashioned kind?”
I thought about that. “A little of both. I need another favor.”
The phone was silent for a moment. “Is it about the friend who disappeared from the bar?” he asked.
“It is. She was around the next day. I guess you were right—she took a header or whatever you called it. But now she’s gotten this threatening email.” I briefly explained the circumstances, not mentioning any names or the art world.
“You want me to take a look at it?” Vaughn asked. “Forward it. I can look at it now on the phone. If it’s short.”
Vaughn gave me his email address, his personal one, and that felt oddly intimate.
I forwarded the email to him. I listened to his soft breathing as he took a minute to read it.
“My guess is, it’s a woman,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“The whole ‘cut and stretched’ thing. It’s passive.”
“What do you mean?”
“If a guy had written this, he would have said, ‘ I want to stretch you, and I am going to cut you. When men are feeling violent toward someone, particularly a woman, they decide what they would do. But this person is saying someone, maybe someone else, should cut her. They don’t talk about doing the action themselves. So I think it’s a woman.”
“Any other reasons you think this might be authored by a woman?”
“No. That’s all I got.”
“That’s not much,” I said. I immediately regretted it. Vaughn always took things from me so personally it seemed.
But not that time. “Sorry,” he said.
“What do you think I should do from here?” I told him that I was waiting on data analysis of the email without mentioning Mayburn. I let him think this was all for a case I was working on at the law firm.
“You’ve done good. So far,” Vaughn said. He mentioned a few other avenues to try.
I told him I’d call him if we needed him. And I hung up, feeling bleak at the thought that I was pretty sure we would be calling Vaughn again, soon.
25
I ’d promised my mom and Spence that I would come over to their house for a “late Sunday lunch,” which was Spence’s way of labeling an occasion that would invite the opening of wine.
As I was walking up North Avenue toward the lake, I called Mayburn. I asked about his analysis of the email, and he told me that he was “ninety percent sure” that the “cut and stretched” email had been written by the same person as the comments under the Dudlin painting on Madeline’s website.
I told him what Vaughn had said about suspecting the author of the email was a woman.
“Could be.” A pause. “But since when do you ask Vaughn for help?”
I passed by Wells Street, trying not to slip on some of the snow-turned-black-ice. “Do I sense professional jealousy there?”
“No.” Mayburn sounded irritated. “What you sense is that I
He called back within a few minutes.
“So what do you do?” I said, trying to joke around. “Do you sit in your office and wait for someone to leave a message and then check it?”
“Hell, yeah,” he said, sounding cranky. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of shit calls we get over here.”
This wasn’t how I wanted things to go. “Hey, I was just calling to say thanks for that ride home. I know you were irritated with me, but I really mean it—I’m grateful.”
He was quiet for a second. “Well, thanks,” he said. “It’s part of my job, you know?”
“Yeah? Well, I was actually calling because I was wondering about another part of your job.”
He made a reluctant grunt for me to continue.
“I know from cross-examining you,” I said, “that you’re a very accomplished detective, who has solved all sorts of crimes.”
“Cut the crap, McNeil.”
“No, really,” I said. “You’ve worked a lot of different cases, including stalking, right?”
“You mean cyber-stalking or the old-fashioned kind?”
I thought about that. “A little of both. I need another favor.”
The phone was silent for a moment. “Is it about the friend who disappeared from the bar?” he asked.
“It is. She was around the next day. I guess you were right—she took a header or whatever you called it. But now she’s gotten this threatening email.” I briefly explained the circumstances, not mentioning any names or the art world.
“You want me to take a look at it?” Vaughn asked. “Forward it. I can look at it now on the phone. If it’s short.”
Vaughn gave me his email address, his personal one, and that felt oddly intimate.
I forwarded the email to him. I listened to his soft breathing as he took a minute to read it.
“My guess is, it’s a woman,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“The whole ‘cut and stretched’ thing. It’s passive.”
“What do you mean?”
“If a guy had written this, he would have said, ‘ I want to stretch you, and I am going to cut you. When men are feeling violent toward someone, particularly a woman, they decide what they would do. But this person is saying someone, maybe someone else, should cut her. They don’t talk about doing the action themselves. So I think it’s a woman.”
“Any other reasons you think this might be authored by a woman?”
“No. That’s all I got.”
“That’s not much,” I said. I immediately regretted it. Vaughn always took things from me so personally it seemed.
But not that time. “Sorry,” he said.
“What do you think I should do from here?” I told him that I was waiting on data analysis of the email without mentioning Mayburn. I let him think this was all for a case I was working on at the law firm.
“You’ve done good. So far,” Vaughn said. He mentioned a few other avenues to try.
I told him I’d call him if we needed him. And I hung up, feeling bleak at the thought that I was pretty sure we would be calling Vaughn again, soon.
25
I ’d promised my mom and Spence that I would come over to their house for a “late Sunday lunch,” which was Spence’s way of labeling an occasion that would invite the opening of wine.
As I was walking up North Avenue toward the lake, I called Mayburn. I asked about his analysis of the email, and he told me that he was “ninety percent sure” that the “cut and stretched” email had been written by the same person as the comments under the Dudlin painting on Madeline’s website.
I told him what Vaughn had said about suspecting the author of the email was a woman.
“Could be.” A pause. “But since when do you ask Vaughn for help?”
I passed by Wells Street, trying not to slip on some of the snow-turned-black-ice. “Do I sense professional jealousy there?”
“No.” Mayburn sounded irritated. “What you sense is that I
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