Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fallen

She led Decker into the kitchen, continuing to steady herself with a hand against the wall as she went.

The house, Decker estimated, had been built in the fifties, so the kitchen was small but functional. There were little frilly curtains around the window over the sink and a wooden table with two ladder-back chairs. On the wall was a landline phone, with a long flex cord dangling from it. Next to it were phone numbers written in pencil on the wall, some with names next to them.

Martin glanced at where he was looking and smiled. “I don’t have one of those smartphones, and I’ve no memory for numbers, so I write my important numbers down there. I call it my phone number wall.”

“Good system.”

“Do you have a memory for numbers?”

“Apparently not as much as I used to.”

Martin put the kettle on the stove and lit the gas with a long match. Then she took cups and saucers from a pine cabinet with a sheen of lacquer finish over it.

She opened a plastic storage container and said, “Would you like some cookies? They’re oatmeal raisin. I made them myself.”

“That sounds great, thanks.”

“So you’re with the FBI. That is so exciting. But don’t FBI agents wear suits? They do on TV.” She put a hand to her mouth as she looked over Decker’s rumpled appearance. “Or are you undercover? You look like you could be an undercover agent.”

Decker took all this in and said, “I did some of that. But now I’m here helping the local police with what happened at the house down the street.”

“Yes, it was awful.” Martin shivered again. “I mean, I know the town has hit bad times, but we’ve never had a murder on our street before.”

She set out the plate of cookies along with paper napkins. “Do you take milk and sugar in your tea, like the British? Not that you’re British. Are you British? You don’t sound British, but I always like to ask.”

“I’m from Ohio. And, no, just tea, thanks.”

“It’s peppermint. Very good for your throat and sinuses.”

“I’m sure.”

“I had a friend from Ohio. Toledo. Have you ever been there?”

“Yes.”

“I liked my visit. But that was in, oh, 1965. Has it changed much?”

“I expect so, yes.”

“Most places change, don’t they?”

“Like Baronville?” asked Decker.

She gazed at him, and this time the look was far less like a scatterbrained old lady.

“I’ve lived here all my life,” she said. “Back when times were booming, there were certain elements that were not all that... nice.”

“Care to elaborate on that?”

She looked up at him over her cup of tea. “Water under the bridge. Now, what can I do to help you with your case?”

“We’re looking for anyone who might have seen something strange at the house in question.”

“Have you talked to anyone else on the street?”

“Just one. Fred Ross.”

At the sound of the man’s name, Martin’s face screwed up.

“That man,” she said derisively.

“You two don’t get along?”

“My husband loathed him until the day he died. Fred is very hard to get along with. Hateful, prejudiced, manipulative.”

“The first two I understand, having met the man. But manipulative?”

Martin didn’t answer until the water had boiled and she had poured out the tea. She handed him his cup and sat down opposite him.

“Fred’s wife died, oh, it’s been twenty years ago now or more, about the time my Harry passed. She was a nice lady but he never gave her a moment’s peace. If his dinner wasn’t ready and to his liking, or she’d gone over her grocery budget, or the house wasn’t spick-and-span, he would just abuse that woman no end. It was awful.”

“Did she ever call the police?”

Martin took a sip of her tea and set the cup down before answering.

“Now that’s where we get to the manipulative part. He would never raise his hand against her. Never scream or threaten.”

“What did he do, then?”

“He would just keep picking away at her, little by little. How she looked, how she dressed. How she should be ashamed she couldn’t be a good wife and mother like the other ladies on the street. He just played all these mind games with the poor woman, convinced her that everything was her fault. He was quite good at it, the sick bastard. And Fred was cruel to his son too. I think that’s why they don’t have much of a relationship.”

Decker drank some tea and nodded. “I could see how Ross would be like that. Always handy with some reply. Turning things against you. He did that with me.”

Martin pointed at him. “Exactly. Exactly right. Turning everything, even your own words, against you.”

They fell silent for a few moments.

Martin said, “But you wanted to ask me about that night?”

“Have Detectives Lassiter and Green been by to see you?”

“A Detective Green did come by to talk to me. And then, earlier today, Donna came by. Not in her official capacity, she said. Just to visit and see how I was doing. I hadn’t seen her in years. I was surprised she was with the police. I thought she would go on to be a doctor or something. Always very bright and, well, gung-ho. Nothing would stop her.”

“Well, you have to be pretty tough to be a cop and homicide detective,” noted Decker.

“Oh, of course, and I’m very proud of her. She’s come a long way and overcome a lot of obstacles.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I suppose you know about her father?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything.”

“I wish you would. It could be helpful.”

“Well, that’s really why I was surprised Donna went on to become a police officer.”

“Why is that?”

“Because her father was convicted of a crime.”

“What crime?” asked Decker.

“Of killing someone.”

“Who?”

“A banker here in town.”

Decker tried to keep his features calm. “When was this?”

“Oh, decades ago. Donna was just a little girl.”

“Why did he kill the banker?”

“Because the bank foreclosed on his house. Donna’s father worked at the last textile mill in town. It closed down and left Rich Lassiter high and dry along with about a hundred others. He lost his house, he lost everything. He apparently got drunk one night, went to the man’s home, and set fire to it. The banker, I forget his name, lived alone. Anyway, he died in the fire. Rich, I guess, was horrified at what happened. But he admitted to setting the fire. He went to prison. And he died there about two years later. Maybe from guilt, I don’t know.”

“So Lassiter would have still been a little girl?”

“She was a very sad little girl after what happened to her father. I think she turned to religion to help her through the tough times. Her mother committed suicide from a drug overdose after Donna came back here when she finished college.”

“That’s pretty tragic all the way around,” said Decker. “Getting back to the present, what did you tell Detective Green about the night the men’s bodies were discovered?”

“That I didn’t see anything. I had a headache and went to bed early.”

“What time was that?”

“ Jeopardy! had finished up, and I was puttering around for a bit, so it was certainly after eight.”

“Did you hear or see anything before you went to bed? Even if it wasn’t connected to the house?”

Martin thought about that. “I remember the storm starting to come in.”

“Do you remember hearing some sounds right before the rain started?”

“What sort of sounds?”

Decker thought back, pulling the frames up in his head.

Good question, what sort of sounds?