Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

“‘No Hiding Place,’” recited Julia.

“Right. All that. He was a man who had something wrong with his head.”

She said in a small voice, “Is he the man who killed Barney?”

“We’re not sure, but we think so.”

“Cassie’s dad,” Lucas said. “Andrew Stadler.”

“Right.” Cassie’s dad.

“He was fucked up,” Lucas said.

“Watch your mouth around your sister.”

“I’ve heard that word before, Dad,” said Julia.

“No doubt. I just don’t want either one of you using language like that.”

Lucas, smirking, shook his head with amused contempt.

“So this man, Andrew Stadler, he died a couple of weeks ago,” Nick went on, “and the police think he might have tried to come by our house the night he was killed, on his way to wherever he was going.”

“They think you did it,” Lucas said. A triumphant smile.

Nick’s insides seized. Maybe he had heard, that night when Eddie came over. Or did he just put two and two together?

“Hey!” said Julia, outraged.

“Actually, Luke, what they’re doing here is trying to trace his whereabouts.”

“Then how come they’re gathering evidence? I can see ’em out my window. They dug up some dirt from the lawn and put it in a little container thing, and they keep walking back and forth on the lawn like they’re scoping for something.”

Nick nodded, breathing in and out. They were gathering dirt? What did that mean? Had they found dirt on Stadler’s body? He remembered that Eddie had brushed Stadler’s shoes clean.

Could they have found dirt on Stadler’s body that connected him with the house? Could they even do something like that? This was the awful thing: Nick had no idea of what the police were actually capable of, how advanced their forensic science was, or how backward.

“Luke,” he said calmly, “they’re looking for anything that can tell them whether the guy came by here that night or not.” Nick knew he was treading water here. His kids were too bright. They’d watched too many TV shows and movies. They knew about cops and murders and suspects.

“Why do they care?” asked Julia.

“Simple,” he said. “They need to nail down what he did that night, see if he really was here instead of somewhere else, so they can figure out where he might have gone after that, when he was killed.”

“Wouldn’t that be on the cameras?” Lucas asked.

“Could be,” Nick said. “I don’t remember when the new security system was put in and when exactly the guy was killed.”

“I do,” Lucas said right back. “They put the cameras in the day before Stadler was killed.” How the hell did he know that, remember that?

“Well, if you’re right, then yes, they might find something on the cameras. I have no idea. Anyway, the police want to get your fingerprints while they’re here.”

“Cool,” said Lucas.

“How come? They don’t think we killed the man, right?” said Julia, looking worried.

Nick laughed convincingly. “Don’t worry about that. When they check for fingerprints inside and outside the house, they’re going to find our fingerprints — yours and mine and Marta’s—”

“And probably Emily’s too,” said Julia.

“Right.”

“And probably that guy Digga, right, Luke?”

Luke rolled his eyes, looked away.

“Who’s Digga?” Nick asked.

Lucas didn’t answer, still shaking his head.

“He’s this guy who wears a do-rag just like Luke and plays really loud music when you’re not here and always smells like smoke. He stinks.”

“When does he come over?” said Nick.

“Like once or twice,” Lucas said. “Jesus Christ. This is totally wack. He’s a friend of mine, all right? Am I allowed to have friends, or is this, like, a prison where you’re not allowed to have visitors? You happy, Julia? Fuckin’ tattletale.”

“Hey!” Nick said.

Julia, so unused to being yelled at by her older brother, ran out of the room crying.

“Uh, Mr. Conover?”

Detective Rhimes, standing tentatively at the door to the family room.

“Yes?”

“Could I see you for a minute?”

“We found something on your lawn,” she said.

“Oh?”

She’d taken him out into the hall, far enough away from the kids that they couldn’t hear.

“A mangled piece of metal.”

Nick shrugged, as if to say, So? Is that supposed to mean something to me?

“It may be a bullet fragment, maybe a piece of shell casing.”

“From a gun?” His breath stopped. Outwardly he tried to project an image of nonchalance, but interested, as someone in his position should be. Someone who was innocent, who wanted the cops to find the killer.

“It’s hard to say. I’m no expert.”

“Can I take a look?” he said, and he immediately regretted saying it. Mustn’t betray too much interest. Must get the balance right.

She shook her head. “The techs have it. I just wanted to ask you — it may seem a silly question — but you’ve said you don’t own a gun, right?”

“That’s right.”

“So obviously you’ve never fired a gun on your property, I’m sure. But has anyone you know fired a gun in your yard, to your knowledge?”

He attempted a dismissive laugh, though it sounded hollow. “No target practice allowed here,” he said.

“So, no one’s ever fired a gun outside your house, to your knowledge.”

“Nope. Not as far as I know.”

“Never.”

“Never.” A cool trickle of sweat traced a path along the back of one ear and down his neck, where it was absorbed by the collar of his shirt.

She nodded again, slowly. “Interesting.”

“The techs — are they sure it’s from a bullet or whatever?”

“Well, you know, I doubt I could tell the difference between a bottle cap and a — a Remington Golden Saber .380 cartridge,” she said. Nick couldn’t stop himself from flinching, and he hoped she hadn’t noticed. “But the crime scene techs, they’re awfully good at what they do, and I have to defer to them on that. They tell me it sure looks like a fragment from a projectile.”

“Strange,” Nick said. He tried to look puzzled in a sort of neutral, disinterested way, not letting the way he was really feeling leak out — terrified and trembling and nauseated.

Eddie had assured him he’d collected everything, all the shell casings, and checked for any other trace evidence that might be on the lawn. Then again, he could easily have missed a small piece of lead or brass or whatever it was, a flying piece of metal that had lodged itself into the earth, say. That would be easy to miss.

After all, Nick had noticed the smell of liquor on Eddie’s breath that night. He’d probably been sleeping it off when Nick called. Didn’t have all his faculties about him. Maybe he hadn’t been so thorough.

Detective Rhimes seemed about to say something more when Nick noticed someone walking by, carrying a black rectangular metal object sealed in a clear plastic bag. The fireplug woman, the evidence tech with the wide ass in the new jeans, was holding what Nick recognized at once as the digital video recorder that was hooked up to the security cameras. They must have taken it from the closet where the installer had put the alarm system.

“Hey, what’s that?” Nick called out. The woman, whose nametag on her denim shirt said Trento, stopped, looked at Detective Rhimes.

The detective said, “That’s the recording unit from your security system.”

“I need that,” Nick said.

“I understand. We’ll make sure this is turned around just as quickly as possible.”

Nick shook his head in apparent frustration. He hoped, prayed that the little shimmy of terror moving through his body wasn’t obvious. Eddie had wiped the disk clean, he’d said. Reformatted it. Nothing was there from that night.