Linwood Barclay - No Time For Goodbye

“Okay, okay. Jesus, I don’t know what to say. Why did she go? Did you guys have a fight or something?”

“Yeah, kind of. I fucked up. And I think everything’s just gotten to her. She wasn’t feeling safe here, she wanted to protect Grace. But this was the wrong way to go about it. Look, if you hear from her, if you see her, let me know, okay?”

“I will,” Rolly said. “And if you find her, call.”

Next, I called Dr. Kinzler’s office. It hadn’t opened yet, so I left a message, said Cynthia was missing, asked her to please call me, left my home and cell numbers.

The only other person I could think to call was Rona Wedmore. I considered it, then decided not to. She wasn’t, as far as I could tell, solidly in our corner.

I think I understood Cynthia’s motivations for disappearing, but I was less sure Wedmore would.

And then a name popped into my head. Someone I’d never met, never spoken to, never even seen across a room. But his name kept coming up.

Maybe it was time to have a chat with Vince Fleming.

If I could have brought myselfto call Detective Wedmore, I could have asked her outright where I might find Vince Fleming and saved myself some time. She’d already said she knew the name. Abagnall had told us he had a record for a variety of offenses. He was even believed to have participated in a revenge killing, after the murder of his father back in the early nineties. There was a pretty good chance that a police detective would know where someone like that might hang out.

But I didn’t want to talk to Wedmore.

I went up to the computer and started doing some searches on Vince Fleming and Milford. There were a couple of news stories from the New Haven paper over the last few years, one that detailed how he had been charged with assault. He’d used someone’s face to open a beer bottle. That one got dismissed when the victim decided to drop charges. I was willing to bet there was more to that story, but the online edition of this newspaper certainly didn’t have it.

There was another story where Vince Fleming got a passing reference, as someone rumored to be behind a rash of auto thefts in southern Connecticut. He owned a body shop in an industrial district somewhere in town, and there was a photo of him, one of those slightly grainy ones taken by a photographer who doesn’t want his subject to know he’s there, going into a bar called Mike’s.

I’d never been in, but I’d driven past Mike’s.

I got out the Yellow Pages, found several pages listing businesses that would fix your dented automobile. From the listings, it wasn’t immediately obvious which one might belong to Vince Fleming-there was no Vince’s Auto Body, no Fleming’s Fender Repair.

I could start phoning every body shop in the Milford area, or I could try asking around for Vince Fleming at Mike’s. Maybe there, I might find someone who could point me in the right direction, at least give me the name of the body shop he owned, and where, if the papers were to be believed, he chopped up the occasional stolen car for parts.

Although not particularly hungry, I felt I needed some food in my stomach and put a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, slathered peanut butter over them, and ate them standing over the sink so I wouldn’t have to clean up the crumbs. I threw on a jacket, made sure I had my cell phone with me, and went to the front door.

When I opened it, Rona Wedmore was standing there.

“Whoa,” she said, her fist suspended in midair, ready to knock.

I jumped back. “Jesus,” I said. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Mr. Archer,” she said, maintaining her composure. Evidently my sudden opening of the door scared me more than it did her.

“Hello,” I said. “I was just on my way out.”

“Is Mrs. Archer here? I don’t see her car.”

“She’s out. Is there something I can help you with? Have you any new information?”

“No,” she said. “When will she be back?”

“I can’t say, exactly. What did you want her for?”

Wedmore ignored my question. “Is she at work?”

“Perhaps.”

“You know what? I’ll just give her a call. I think I made a note here,” she had her notebook out, “of her cell phone number.”

“She’s not answer-” I stopped myself.

“She’s not answering her phone?” Wedmore said. “Let’s see if you’re right about that.” She punched in the number, put the phone to her ear, waited, closed the phone. “You’re right. Does she not like to answer her phone?”

“Sometimes,” I said.

“When did Mrs. Archer leave?” she asked.

“This morning,” I said.

“Because I drove by here around one in the morning, getting off shift late and all, and her car wasn’t here then, either.”

Shit. Cynthia had hit the road with Grace even earlier than I’d imagined.

“Really,” I said. “You should have dropped in and said hello.”

“Where is she, Mr. Archer?”

“I don’t know. Check back in the afternoon. Maybe she’ll be here then.” Part of me wanted to ask Wedmore’s help, but I was afraid of making Cynthia seem guiltier than I feared Wedmore already viewed her.

That tongue was poking around inside her mouth again. It took a break so she could ask, “Has she taken Grace, too?”

I found myself unable to say anything for a moment, then, “I really have things to do.”

“You look worried, Mr. Archer. And you know what? You should be. Your wife has been under one hell of a strain. I want you to get in touch with me the moment she shows up.”

“I don’t know what it is you think she’s done,” I said. “My wife’s the victim here. She’s the one who was robbed of her family. Her parents and brother first, now her aunt.”

Wedmore tapped me on the chest with an index finger. “Call me.” She handed me another one of her business cards before heading back to her car.

Seconds later, I was in mine, driving west on Bridgeport Avenue into the Milford neighborhood of Devon. I’d been past Mike’s a hundred times, a small brick building next to a 7-Eleven, its five-letter neon sign running vertically down the second story, ending above the entrance. The front windows were decorated with signs advertising Schlitz and Coors and Budweiser.

I parked around the corner and walked back, not sure whether Mike’s would even be open in the morning for business, but once inside I realized that for many, it was never too early to drink.

There were about a dozen customers in the dimly lit bar, two perched on stools up at the counter having a conversation, the rest scattered about the tables. I approached the bar just down from the two guys, leaned against it until I had caught the attention of the short, heavyset man in a check shirt working behind it.

“Help ya?” he asked, a damp mug in one hand, a towel in the other. He worked the towel into the mug, twisted it around.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for a guy, I think he comes in here a lot.”

“We get a lot of people,” he said. “Got a name?”

“Vince Fleming.”

The bartender had a pretty good poker face. Didn’t flinch, raise an eyebrow. But he didn’t say anything right away, either.

“Fleming, Fleming,” he said. “Not sure.”

“He’s got a body shop in town here,” I said. “He’s the kind of guy, I think, if he does come in here, you’d know him.”

I became aware that the two guys at the bar were no longer talking. “What sort of business you got with him?” the bartender asked.

I smiled, trying to be polite. “It’s sort of a personal matter,” I said. “But I’d be grateful if you could tell me where I could find him. Wait, hang on.” I dug out my wallet, struggling for a second to get it out of the back pocket of my jeans. It was a clumsy, awkward maneuver. I made Columbo look smooth. I laid a ten on the counter. “It’s a bit early for me for a beer, but I’d be happy to pay you for your trouble.”