Linwood Barclay - Far From True

Duckworth took one last sip of the coffee. “If you come across anything, or remember anything, that might connect your daughter to Dr. Sturgess, would you let me know?”

He placed a business card on the table. Walden drew it toward him, glanced at it.

“Yeah, sure.”

“And I’ll keep you posted of any developments.”

“I’m worried about Victor,” Walden blurted.

“Victor?”

“Victor Rooney. He was going out with Olivia back then. When it happened. He’s never really got over it.”

“How do you mean?” Duckworth said as he was pushing back his chair.

“It’s been three years and he’s never really moved on. He drinks too much. Has a hard time holding down a job. Blames everyone in Promise Falls for what happened.” He looked into Duckworth’s face. “He’s harboring a lot of guilt.”

“What kind of guilt? Do you think he had something to do with Olivia’s death?”

That caught him up short. “Jesus, not directly. I mean, I don’t think so. He was with a friend when it happened. A drinking buddy. He had an alibi. He was supposed to be meeting Olivia but got held up. Unless...”

Walden’s voice trailed off.

“Unless what?”

“Unless he got someone to lie for him.” Walden Fisher gazed through the window into his backyard. “And all this stuff he’s going through lately, this show of grief, this not being able to move on, is some kind of act.” He shook his head dismissively. “No, there’s no way. Victor’s not perfect, but he’d never be capable of that.”

Duckworth stood and was walking down the hall toward the front of the house when, as he was passing an open door to a small bathroom, something occurred to him.

“Let me ask you about someone else,” he said. “Did you or Olivia ever know a Bill Gaynor?”

“Bill Gaynor?” Walden Fisher said. “Same name as that woman that was murdered?”

“Rosemary was his wife.”

“Son of a bitch,” he said. “They were married? Bill was our insurance guy.”

Randall Finley and Frank Mancini had arranged to meet for lunch at the Clover, an upscale — at least by Promise Falls standards — restaurant on the town’s outskirts. Finley was more at home at a place like Casey’s, a bar over on Charlton, but when he had an important business meeting, the Clover, with its white linen tablecloths, fine china, and waitstaff who were less inclined to tell you to fuck off, was always his first choice.

Finley had reserved his favorite booth, with high-backed seats and a divider that offered some privacy from the next table over. There was always the possibility he’d say something he didn’t want anyone but his luncheon guest to hear.

He was already seated when Mancini came into the room. He was short and stocky but not fat, a walking fire hydrant. A well-dressed one, too. While the man had spent his life in construction, he didn’t go around wearing a hard hat. He was in a dark blue suit — Armani, Finley guessed — with a crisp white shirt and a red tie.

“Don’t get up,” Mancini said as Finley started struggling to get out of the booth.

Finley stayed seated, shook hands, waited for Mancini to get settled in across from him.

“What can I get you?” Finley asked.

“Scotch.”

Finley waved over the waitress, whose name tag read KIMMY.

“Are you new, Kimmy?” the former mayor asked as she handed them menus.

The young woman smiled. “This is my first week.”

Finley smiled and shook his head admiringly. “Just when you think the Clover can’t hire waitresses any prettier, they bring in someone like you. Isn’t she a peach, Frank?”

Mancini smiled.

Kimmy accepted the praise with an awkward smile. “What can I get you gentlemen?”

Finley ordered two scotches. Once the waitress had slipped away, Mancini said, “Shouldn’t a guy who once got caught with an underage hooker cool it when it comes to the young ones?”

“I was paying her a compliment. And that other business was years ago.”

“It cost you your job.”

“A job I’m going to get back. Voters have a great capacity for forgiveness, especially the kind of bumpkins we have in this town. Nobody cares about that kind of stuff these days. Look at Clinton. Fools around with an intern, he’s the most popular former president these days.”

Mancini sighed. “See yourself as Clintonesque, do you?”

Finley chuckled. “Okay, so maybe I’m not quite as popular as good ol’ Bill. But the people in this town can’t remember what they had for breakfast, let alone something I did years ago.”

“Keep insulting them like that. Jesus, Randy, you’ll never get reelected if the voters know you think they’re a bunch of idiots.”

“I never said that. They’re good people.” Finley smiled. “And I have to be who I am. You want me to be somebody I’m not?”

“Randy, I’d like you to be almost anybody else. I’d rather be sitting here with fucking Al Capone. I’d feel safer.”

Finley laughed. Mancini, not so much.

“You love fuckin’ with me,” Finley said. He lowered his voice. “So tell me, what the hell was that at the drive-in?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about? You kidding me? The fucking explosion? The screen coming down? Four people dead?”

“It was a tragedy — that’s what it was,” Mancini said.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. We’re all broken up about it. But just between us, was that you?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mancini said, loud enough to be heard by nearby diners.

“Jesus, keep your voice down,” Finley said. “So you’re saying you had nothing to do with it?”

“Why the hell would I do that? It had to be the demolition people. They screwed up.”

“Not what I’m hearing,” Finley said. “I’m hearing they hadn’t even started yet.”

“What else are they going to say? They’re in cover-your-ass mode.”

“I don’t know. Thing is, guy like you, you’d have all the expertise to do that.”

“Randy, have you completely lost your mind? We’ve bought the land, and the deal requires that Grayson drop the structures before we acquire it. What’ve I got to gain by blowing things up and killing people? What sense does that make?”

Finley was quiet for a moment. “I have to admit, I can’t figure out an angle. Unless this gives you an out on the deal — then Grayson comes back, slashes his price so he can unload the place.”

“There’s no goddamn angle. I had nothing to do with it. It was the demolition company. You can take that to the bank. Let’s move on. Let’s talk about you and what you’re going to do for me.”

“I have to get elected first.”

“You haven’t even officially declared.”

“Imminent.”

“You need to get moving. You need to win this thing. I got no chance with that Amanda Croydon sitting in the mayor’s chair. I gotta get her out of there. She’s an eco-bitch. You’d think she’d be behind me, but anytime anyone else has ever proposed anything similar, there’s noise concerns — everyone’s worried about soil pollution, contamination of the water table, all kinds of shit that never really happens, at least not as bad as they say it does. I’ve made a major investment here, Randy, buying that land. You need to get that woman out of there and start running things again.”

“All in good time,” Finley said. “And come on, you never bought property before without knowing if you’d get all the proper approvals? It’s all part of doing business. And what’s the worst-case scenario? If somehow I don’t get in, if Amanda hangs on, you can always just build houses there. You’re not going to get a fight on that.”