Tom Wallace - Gnosis

“An image like that can stay with a person forever,” Laurie agreed.

“Oh, my dear, you have no idea,” Louise said, crying into the phone. “She had horrible nightmares for years. We took her to a psychologist, paid a lot of money, but that quack didn’t help her at all. That was money wasted. I think Angie’s life was altered that night. She was never the same person.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Laurie said.

“Is it your intention to ask Angie about that terrible night?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my, my, my. Is it absolutely necessary? Can’t you get your information from some other source?”

“I’m afraid it is necessary,” Laurie said. “But I promise to make it as easy for her as possible. You know, I won’t ask her about certain specific details. Just general information.”

“I would be most grateful if you would do that. Angie needs to forget, not remember.”

“What can you tell me about the young man she was with? Greg Spurlock?”

Louise snorted. “Huh, I thought he was a bum. A jerk. I had no use for him at all.”

“Why did you have such negative feelings toward him?”

“Because he treated Angie like crap, that’s why. He would take her to a movie and make her pay for her ticket. Sit out in the car and honk rather than come to the door and pick her up like a real gentleman would. Things like that. Angie never would say it, but I suspected he did some heavy drinking. Probably did drugs, too.”

“Did you have evidence he used drugs?”

“No. Just a feeling, that’s all.”

“How long were they together?” Laurie said.

“They were never together. They only had four or five dates. I don’t think they went out again after that night.”

“The night when they found the bodies?”

“Yes, that horrible night,” Louise said, more angry now than upset. “He never called again, which was fine by me. And I think by then Angie had come to see what a loser he was. She was happy to be rid of him.”

“He’s a doctor now, you know?”

“So I heard. Well, all I can say is, I hope he treats his patients better than he treated my daughter.”

Laurie had to endure another ten minutes listening to Louise berate Greg Spurlock before she was finally able to get Angie’s home address and phone number. Laurie thanked Louise for her help, promised once again to be gentle with Angie, and closed her cell phone. She was exhausted by the conversation, which felt like it had lasted a week.

Laurie wondered if perhaps the shrink had seen the wrong Iler woman.

Nicole Claybrooke was as concise and together as her grandmother was scattered and talkative. In a matter of seconds, she let Laurie know that her mother was a real estate agent with Rector-Hayden, she was showing a house in McMeekin Place, she should be finished at any moment, and, by the way, here’s her cell phone number.

Laurie thanked her and hung up. She thought about grabbing a bite of lunch, but decided to go ahead and call Angie. With any luck she might catch her between showings. Angie answered on the second ring.

“This is Angie Claybrooke.”

“Miss Claybrooke, this is Detective Laurie Dunn, with Lexington Homicide. I-”

“Homicide? I give my word that I haven’t murdered anyone lately. Not that the thought hasn’t occasionally crossed my mind.”

“That’s good to know. The reason I’m calling is to see if you have some free time this afternoon. If you do, I would like to get with you. Ask you a few questions about that night in nineteen eighty-two.”

Laurie immediately regretted the way she had broached the subject with Angie. It was clumsy and insensitive. She cringed, unsure how Angie was going to respond.

“No prob,” Angie said, cheerfully. “I’ve just finished showing a house, and my next showing isn’t for another two hours. If you like, we can meet here. It’s a terrific house. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it enough to buy it.”

“In McMeekin Place? On my salary? I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

“As Don Corleone so famously said, ‘I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.’”

“Yes, and as Sam Spade so famously said, ‘it’s the stuff that dreams are made of.’”

Both women laughed.

“When you turn into McMeekin Place, it will be the third house on the right,” Angie said. “You’ll see the ‘For Sale’ sign out front. You can park behind my black Volvo.”

“I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes.”

Angie Claybrooke was standing next to her Volvo, a hammer in one hand and a thick folder tucked under her arm. She wore a blue pants suit, white turtleneck, and black Michael Kors loafers. The ensemble was tailored to accentuate a still-impressive figure. Her auburn hair was long and pulled back into a ponytail, which gave her a youthful look. She wore no noticeable make-up, and the only visible jewelry was a gold chain necklace. Chic and professional without being pretentious was Laurie’s assessment.

Upon seeing Laurie drive up, Angie tossed the hammer and folder into the front seat, moved away from the car, and waved.

“Sam Spade-it’s nice to meet you,” she said, once Laurie got out of her car.

“Same here, Don Corleone.” Laurie motioned toward the house Angie was showing. “Nice spread. And you really thought I could buy it?”

“I had to give it a shot,” Angie said. “It’s how I make a buck.”

“I couldn’t afford this crib if I earned twice what I’m making now. This place is a palace.”

“And for a million-two this palace can be yours.”

Laurie whistled. “Knock off the million and we’ll talk.”

“I’m afraid that in my line of work, another movie line always comes into play-‘show me the money.’” Angie pointed at the house. “Let’s talk inside. There’s a marvelous antique table in the kitchen. We’ll sit there and pretend we’re wealthy.”

“I feel like a criminal just entering this mansion,” Laurie said.

She followed Angie up the walkway and around to the side of the house. Angie walked quickly, almost aggressively, as if she was striding toward a neighborhood donnybrook and wanted to be among the first to arrive. There was real purpose in every step she took. She moved with great intent, and with the grace of a superb athlete.

Laurie was struck by the fact that in no way did this Angie resemble the Angie portrayed by her mother. This Angie was a strikingly beautiful woman, tall, with a trim figure and a confident demeanor. There was nothing about her that said victim. No outward signs of a shattered or tormented psyche. Of course, Laurie knew, the exterior oftentimes lies in order to protect an individual by hiding the pain and hurt within. She wouldn’t know that until she spoke with Angie. But simply based on a first impression, Angie was a far cry from the pathetic woman described by her mother.

The sliding glass door opened to the kitchen, which was bare except for the antique oak table and six chairs. A stack of papers and several of Angie’s business cards lay scattered on the table. Angie gathered them up, paper-clipped them together, and put them on the counter.

“Have a seat,” Angie said, pulling a chair away from the table. “Make yourself at home. At the very least, pretend this is your kitchen.”

“This kitchen is half as big as my entire apartment. I’m not sure I would want a kitchen this big. Too much cleaning involved.”

“I can assure you the people who purchase this house will never pick up a dust rag. They’ll pay someone to do the cleaning.”

Laurie laughed. “Well, there’s one thing I have in common with the rich. I would hire someone to do my cleaning if I could afford it. But I can’t, so-”