Linwood Barclay - Trust Your Eyes

“No, but it doesn’t make any sense for someone who makes his living doing silly drawings to show up at a murder scene with that printout in hand. Did he stumble upon the image online and then come investigating, or did he already have an inkling of what had happened at that address before he went looking for the image? Either scenario is troubling, but the latter particularly so. No illustrator would be doing that. A private detective might be. An FBI agent might be.” Howard paused, as though steeling himself for his next thought. “As might someone from the CIA.”

“Howard, I’ve told you what I know. When you’ve got the son of a bitch in front of you, you can ask him whatever you want. I’m gonna fly up, rent a van there.”

“Keep me informed,” Howard said, concluding the conversation.

Howard had always known the Goldsmith matter might still come back and bite them in the ass, even though the man was dead. But did it really make sense that the CIA might be sniffing around Orchard Street? There had to be people at Langley who already knew everything. For God’s sake, the plan had originated there. It wasn’t as if this whole thing had been Morris’s idea from the outset.

Was it possible that those left behind after Goldsmith’s death were covering their asses by finding a way to lay off more of their troubles on Morris? But even then, how had they connected Morris to Orchard Street? Had they also been keeping tabs on Bridget? Learned of her link to Allison Fitch? Which could have led them to the Web, and the image, and-

It did seem far-fetched.

And yet, some facts were not in dispute. This man Ray Kilbride had shown up at Allison Fitch’s apartment, presumably led there by an online image of Bridget Sawchuck’s murder.

Howard felt he needed to talk to Sawchuck. To sound him out on a few things, without actually telling him about Fitch, or Kilbride, or what had happened at Orchard Street, because Morris still had no idea how his wife had actually died.

That she had not killed herself. That she had been murdered as a direct result of an action taken by Morris’s best friend.

Morris picked up on the third ring. “Just on my way to lunch with the mayor,” he said. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, Morris. About how you think it’s time. I know you think I’m not listening to you, but I am. I know what you’re feeling.”

“Funny you should mention it, Howard. I’ve been wondering who you are lately. I’ve been wondering what happened to the Howard I used to know. The one who liked to takes chances and stir up some shit.”

“I don’t mind stirring up shit, but I don’t want you stepping in it,” Howard said. “Which is why I’ve been stepping very carefully of late. You’re my friend, Morris. Any advice I give you, you need to know that I’m giving it to you as a friend first.”

Morris waited a moment before responding. “Okay.”

“I’ve been thinking about how you want to move forward, and I think the only thing that’s holding us back is our uncertainty with regard to the Goldsmith matter.”

“Right.”

“I need a certain comfort level, Morris, that we’re done with that.”

“I concur. The fact is, Howard, ever since Goldsmith-poor Barton, God bless his soul-took his own life, I’ve felt that the risks have been minimized. The scandal of it all, being branded as some kind of traitor to his own government, it was more than he could bear, and totally unfair. His number one concern was always for Americans, for their safety.”

Howard paused, then said, “Morris, do you think it’s conceivable that people within the agency would have any reason to be monitoring you in the wake of all this?”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Let’s imagine a hypothetical. Let’s suppose the CIA had people watching you. Just suppose. What would their motives be?”

“The only one I can think of is, those who were close to Goldsmith, those who know what he was doing, who were complicit in what he was doing, would be worried I might come forward. But they’d also know that such an action on my part would be political suicide.”

Howard concurred. “Do you think, in the early stages of this, before Barton took his own life, he might have had people watching you and, I don’t know, maybe even Bridget?”

“Why the hell would they be watching me or Bridget? Is something going on I don’t know about?”

“Of course not. You know I tell you everything.”

“That’s never been true, Howard. You tell me everything I need to know, and don’t tell me the things it’s better I not know.”

Howard had to agree with that, too. “All I’m saying is, before you get back in the game, we have to imagine certain scenarios, as unlikely as they may be, and develop strategies for dealing with them.”

“Agreed, but this is crazy talk. Look, forget about the business with Goldsmith. It’s going to be okay. And the thing is, while we sit around waiting to be sure the problem’s gone away, we’re wasting valuable time. We need to sit down now and plot out our next move. We need to decide on key people, who we’re going to use. We need to start studying our opponents’ weaknesses. Jesus, Howard, I hardly need to be telling you this. You wrote the playbook.”

“I know.”

“Let’s get together tonight.”

Howard knew what that meant. It had been their routine, over the years, to get together after midnight and work through till dawn, drawing up battle plans. It was when they got their best work done, when there was no fear of interruptions.

“Yes,” Howard said. “That’s what we’ll do.”

“Good. Talk to you later, my friend. Lace up those boxing gloves.”

Morris hung up.

Maybe, before tonight’s meeting, Howard hoped, there’d be some answers from Ray Kilbride.

LEWIS was about to board his short-haul flight north when his cell rang.

“Hello,” he said.

“I understand you’ve been trying to reach me,” a man said.

“Victor,” Lewis said. “Thank you for calling.”

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s about a former employee of yours.”

“Living or dead?”

“Living.”

That narrowed it down for Victor. Very few people left his employ. “Okay,” he said.

“I engaged her services, and she made a very big mistake.”

“Really.”

“It’s reflected badly on me. She’s rectifying the problem she created, but when the matter is resolved, I have to make this right. For my own reputation.”

“I understand.”

“But I felt I owed you the courtesy of letting you know about the course of action I want to pursue. If you object, I won’t do it.”

“I should have done the same thing myself, but I was weak,” Victor said. “I took her in, treated her like a daughter. How does she thank me? She leaves. You won’t get any trouble from me on this.”

“Thank you. How are things in Vegas?”

“Too many people are bringing their children.”

Lewis said good-bye, put his phone away, and got on the plane.

Back at the house, I said to Julie, “Let’s take a walk.”

We headed out the back of the house and down the hill, to the creek.

“I’ve got some calls in to the cops in Tampa,” Julie said, tapping the cell phone bulge in the front pocket of her jeans. “See what else I can find out about Fitch.”

I nodded.

“You’re kind of quiet,” she said.

“I’m thinking about some things Harry said. About Thomas.” I told her about his speculation, that Thomas might be making some of this stuff up. Doctoring the image online, making up his chat with the landlord.

“You think that’s what he’s doing?” she asked.