Page 25 of Sharp Force
The L-shaped desk is crowded with video displays and disconnected cables, a router, a pair of Meta goggles and other gaming equipment. Near the ergonomic chair is a large gunmetal-gray safe with a keypad. Indentations in the carpet are from two computer towers no longer here.
Backup batteries and surge protectors are still plugged in. A blank whiteboard leans against a wall, and I don’t see files or paperwork of any kind. There’s none of the usual clutter I’d expect in a place where someone runs a business. Unless it’s a fraudulent one.
“When were the police here?” I ask Reba.
“The day after he disappeared,” she replies. “A couple of officersand a detective came by and said they’d found Rowdy’s phone on the pier. Also his gun, and that it had been fired twice.”
“Was his office searched? Or any other areas of your home?”
“Yes, the detective looked around the house, the basement,” Reba says. “But what they were most interested in were his computers.”
“Did the police give you a reason?”
“Maybe there would be something on them that showed he was having a problem with someone,” Reba explains. “I was asked permission. The detective was very polite. Nice, actually, and gentle with the boys. I didn’t see any reason not to let the police look at whatever they wanted.”
“Who’s the detective?”
“Blaise Fruge.”
“I know her well,” I reply. “She’s a good investigator.”
“She asked a lot of questions, that’s for sure. Wanting to know if Rowdy might have disappeared on purpose, maybe because he was involved in something illegal,” Reba explains. “And I told her I wouldn’t think so. He was a lot of things. But I’ve never known him to be dishonest.”
“Did Investigator Fruge want you to open the safe?” I continue taking notes.
“Yes. But I don’t have the combination,” Reba says. “That’s where Rowdy kept important documents. And his backup drives, things related to his programming and software design. As best I know.”
I’ve paused in front of a bookcase filled with technical volumes relating to software development, video games, artificial intelligence, the metaverse. There are works by John Mack, Richard Dolan and Avi Loeb. It would seem Rowdy was interested in UFOs and alien abductions.
I check dates on copyright pages, most going back to around the time Rowdy was hit by a car. He has books on health, wellness, exercise, most of all running. Reba watches me perusing.
“He was serious about his marathons, what he ate and how much sleep he got, fanatical, really, before the accident,” she says. “After he was hit by the car, he had to have both knees replaced.”
“Yes, I know that from his x-rays,” I reply. “And I could see he had significant arthritic changes in his hips and other joints. He must have been in chronic pain.”
“He was,” she says. “The only real joy in life he had left were the boys. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise, but things were strained between us. He was so unhappy and paranoid.”
I begin walking around her dead husband’s office, looking at photographs of him crossing the finish line in various marathons. Before he was the victim of the hit-and-run, he was wiry, strong, with thick red hair and a big smile. It doesn’t seem possible he’s the same man I had on my table a few hours ago.
His body bloated by the gases of decomposition, his froglike face flash in my thoughts. I envision the damage marine life did to his ears and lips. His eyes were gone, and I push away the images.
“Most of all, Rowdy was angry,” Reba says. “He was so angry, always saying there’s no justice. There just isn’t.”
“I suspect I’d feel the same way.” I continue looking around.
The shadowbox of medals from races he won. The framed newspaper stories and a magazine article about him inRunner’s World. I stop in front of a hotel-size refrigerator, and microwave oven. On a Formica side table are salt and pepper, hot sauce, a coffeemaker, a toaster oven and a cutting board.
Against the wall is a sofa bed, and behind the desk a bathroom. A large-screen TV is on the wall between the two windows.
“Did your husband ever sleep in here?” I ask. “It looks like the sofa pulls out into a bed?”
“Well, yes.” Reba stares at the corner of a sheet peeking out, bending down to tuck it in. “This was his man cave. He slept in here most of the time.”
“Would you mind if I check what’s in his medicine cabinet?” I ask, and she doesn’t care, shrugging permission. “Did Investigator Fruge look?”
“I think so,” Reba says. “But she didn’t take anything from in there.”
I step inside the office bathroom with its blue tile and brass fixtures, the décor 1990s. An electric toothbrush, a razor and shaving cream are on the back of the blue porcelain sink. I take in the jungle-themed wallpaper, the combined shower and tub. The heated towel rack is turned off, the blinds closed in the window near the blue toilet.
