Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fallen

As he watched, the rear door of the Mitchells’ house opened and Jamison stepped out. Behind her was another tall young woman who was holding Zoe’s hand.

They all sat down around the outdoor table.

While Decker had never met any of Jamison’s sisters other than Amber, he assumed the woman was one of them. She had the same long, lithe build and facial features as her sister. She had obviously traveled in for the funeral of her brother-in-law. A moment later the door opened and Amber stepped out. Even from this distance it seemed to Decker that the woman had aged twenty years. She was not so much walking as shuffling along.

He drew back into the shadows so they wouldn’t be able to see him. He didn’t quite know why he did this. Well, maybe he did.

He didn’t want to have to be with them right now because he wouldn’t know what to say or do. And he didn’t want to blurt out something that would embarrass his partner.

He continued to watch as Zoe curled into her mother’s lap and put her thumb in her mouth.

Decker knew that every time Zoe celebrated her birthday the agony of her father’s death on the same day would be front and center. Every present she opened, every piece of cake she bit into, every candle she blew out would bring the memory of her father’s last day alive. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, and there was also nothing anyone could do about it.

The guilt at times would be simply overpowering, ripping the smile off your face and the laughter from your throat.

Decker knew this, because almost the very same thing had happened to him. And this thought both enraged and energized him, the twin emotions combining to further fuel his desire to discover whether Frank Mitchell had been murdered or not.

The air was cool and the sisters were wearing jeans and thick sweaters, while Zoe had on a long sweatshirt with purple tights. Decker watched as Jamison went back inside and then came out carrying a tray. She poured out cups of tea. There was also a platter of food, and this sight made Decker’s stomach grumble.

It was well past seven and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Yet watching the group of bereaved women, he felt guilty about his hunger.

He looked to the sky. Bogart had given him the name of a contact at the FAA. Decker had called the person and she had checked on flight arrivals and departures on the night in question in the Baronville airspace. She confirmed that there would have been no planes passing that low over Baronville.

The blind man Dan Bond had been right and Decker wrong. A man who could not see had “seen” far more than Decker had. It was a humbling experience, and one he would never forget.

Now, he wasn’t jumping to conclusions and assuming that it was a drone, but he couldn’t really think what else it might have been.

Decker left the house, got back into his truck, and drove off.

His destination was the Mercury Bar. The last time he’d been there he’d seen that they served a full menu of food as well as drinks.

Before he got there his phone buzzed. It was Milligan.

“How’s Alex doing?” he asked.

“As well as can be expected, I guess.”

“Give her my condolences.” Decker heard some paper rustling on Milligan’s end of the line. The FBI agent continued, “Okay, I got some answers for you. Maxus is a publicly traded company. Been in the FC business for about twenty years. Couldn’t find anything unusual about them. They’re big. They service lots of companies. They’re profitable. Their management is all aboveboard. No ties to ISIS or anything like that. They are exactly what they appear to be.”

“Okay, what about Stanley Nottingham?”

“He’s in his eighties, and while he used to live at the address you gave me, he recently moved to a nursing home in New Jersey.”

“What’s his background? Ties to Baronville?”

“None that I could find. He grew up in New York and worked in the fashion industry until he retired.”

“His parents?”

“From New York too. Dad owned a deli in Brooklyn. Mom was a seamstress. Both deceased.”

“Nottingham have any kids?”

“No, never married.”

“How’d he get to the nursing home?”

“I couldn’t find that out.”

“How long had he lived at the address I gave you?”

“Forty years. But here’s the other thing we’ve confirmed. Bradley Costa lived in the same building before moving to Baronville. Which means they were neighbors.”

“That makes sense.”

“But I take it you thought there would be a connection between Baronville and Nottingham?”

“I thought Nottingham was the reason Costa came here.”

“Well, I couldn’t find anything about that.”

“Thanks, Todd. Email me the contact information for the nursing home.”

“Will do. And keep me posted. I can come up if things get hairy. Or hairier.”

Decker clicked off. All the spots on the street had been taken, so he ended up parking in a vacant lot about two blocks from the bar.

He walked in and the place seemed to be hopping.

A small stage had been set up and a three-person band was playing country tunes. The singer’s voice was good and the musicians clearly knew their way around the instruments.

Decker grabbed a two-seater table as far away from the band as he could. He didn’t want music. He wanted food, a beer, and the time to think things through.

A waitress came and took his drink order. After she left he scanned the room for the young idiots who had attacked John Baron, but didn’t see them. Then he looked for Baron, but didn’t see him either. He eyed the bar and saw Cindi Riley juggling about a dozen customers at the same time.

He observed that she mixed, poured, and served myriad drinks with a practiced hand, all the while talking it up with patrons and managing tabs. Decker had basically lived in bars after his family had been murdered. He knew a pro when he saw one.

“You want some company?”

He looked up to see Lassiter standing there with a beer in hand.

Decker didn’t really want company and was about to say that when Lassiter, apparently taking his silence for assent, sat down across from him.

She had on a navy blue skirt, a white blouse, and a matching jacket. He saw her holstered service pistol under the open fold of her coat.

“How’s Jamison holding up?”

“She’s hanging in there. Helping Amber. One of her sisters arrived in town. I think Frank’s family will be in tomorrow.”

“And are you still investigating?”

“It’s what I do.”

“Care to share? You did promise to keep us in the loop.”

The waitress brought Decker’s beer and he ordered some food. He took a few sips before answering Lassiter.

“It’s mostly speculation.”

“I’ll take that. By the way, Marty told me about the trailer. You two were lucky. He also said you thought you might be getting closer.”

“Maybe. Have you made any progress?” asked Decker.

“We’re both working it, but nothing’s shaking loose.”

“Same with me,” said a voice.

They both looked up to see Agent Kate Kemper standing there with a gin and tonic topped with a lime.

Decker said, “So is this the local watering hole for all cops?”

Kemper sat down. “Not that many choices. So why don’t we share info?”

Decker said, “According to both of you, you’ve got nothing to share.”

“I tend toward hyperbole,” said Kemper.

He looked at Lassiter. “And do you tend toward bullshit too?”

“Depends on the situation.”

Decker sat back. “Michael Swanson was staying in John Baron’s potting shed and he knew it. Baron also was sweethearts with Joyce Tanner in high school and he was helping her out financially up until she died. He was also into mythology, which might tie into the Thanatos mark on Costa’s forehead, and Tanner taught Bible school, which might explain the biblical verse on the wall behind where she was killed.”