Linwood Barclay - Far From True

“You seem to be suggesting a policy of openness and transparency. That be right, David?”

“Always better to get ahead of bad news,” David said. “That way you’re able to handle it when it breaks. So, yeah, openness might be one of your five. How you want to run an open and aboveboard city hall.”

Finley nodded slowly. “So, is that the policy you’ve adopted with your boy? Ethan, right?”

“What?”

“So you’ve told him, then?”

David wondered what the hell his nine-year-old son had to do with any of this. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve told Ethan about his mother. About Jan.”

“What about Jan?”

“That she wasn’t all she claimed to be. A lot of her story never became public. But you hear things. It was a tragic story, no doubt about it. But some might say Jan brought that on herself. Killed by the man whose hand she cut off. Came here to live a normal life, married a regular guy like you. But she was hiding out, wasn’t she? Thing is, the past has a way of catching up with you. Oh, yes, the story got around. I heard bits and pieces. I have to say, her exploits make me look like an amateur.”

“You’re a piece of work.”

“I’m just trying to make a point that we all keep some facts back. Maybe it was all for the good that Ethan’s mother met a sudden end. That way there were never charges, no trial. A couple of stories, and then it all went away.”

“My son was four years old when his mother died,” David said. “ Of course I didn’t tell him the whole story then.”

“And since? What is he now? Nine, ten years old?”

“Eventually, I’ll fill him in.”

Finley leaned toward David. “If it would help in any way, I could tell him.”

“Don’t go there, Randy.”

“It’d be my way of lessening the burden for you.” He opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. “It’s what I do.”

David felt his face warming with rage.

“You know, I like this,” Finley said. “We have a good back-and-forth, a nice rapport. We can get things out in the open. You can say what’s on your mind, and I can say what’s on my mind. I think that bodes well for moving forward. Anyway, here’s number five: Cut the bullshit. That’s what I’m about. I want to cut the bullshit. I think the voters will like that.”

Finley got up and headed back into the office, leaving David to dig his fingernails into the top of the picnic table.

After his meeting with Olivia Fisher’s father, Barry Duckworth stopped at a Burger King to grab some lunch.

He went in telling himself he would order one of their salads. They had a straight garden salad, then a couple with chicken in them. Plus some wraps with lots of lettuce, and more chicken, stuffed into them. Any of those would be better than his usual order: a Whopper with a side order of fries.

He needed to curb that kind of eating. Change his habits. Get some of that fat off his belly. Didn’t the doctors say that was the worst kind of fat? That stuff that gathered at your waist? But then, what the hell other kind of fat was there? Did you see people walking around with big fat thighs and thick arms and washboard stomachs?

Duckworth could have done the drive-through, but he didn’t want to eat in the car. He’d end up with ketchup and mustard on his shirt. So he parked the unmarked cruiser, went inside, approached the counter, and said, “I’ll have a Whopper and a small order of fries.” Paused. “With a Diet Coke.”

“Cheese on the Whopper?” the girl behind the counter asked.

“Sure,” he said.

Once he had his tray, sat down, and unwrapped his burger, he got out his phone and entered a number.

Six rings, then: “You’ve reached Chief Rhonda Finderman. Please leave a message at the beep.”

“It’s Barry. There’s something I think we need to go public about, but I gotta bounce it off you first. Call me when you get a chance.”

He set the phone down and shoved four french fries into his mouth before attacking the burger. He felt a small measure of guilt with every bite. When he was done, he felt something more than that.

A slight pain in his side. He stood up, kept one hand on the table to steady himself. He figured it was indigestion, or maybe it was something muscular. Sitting all the time, either in the car or at his desk, even here at Burger King.

Duckworth took a few deep breaths.

“You okay?”

A young woman clearing off tables was looking at him with concern.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m good. Thank you.”

And he was pretty sure he was. The pain was receding. He saw that he had missed one last fry, snatched it up, and tossed it into his mouth before heading out to his car.

At the station, he ran down the plate Lionel Grayson had written on a scrap of paper. It was from the Honda van belonging to the man who’d complained angrily about a drive-in movie he’d deemed inappropriate for his children.

Did it make sense that someone unhappy about a film’s content would blow up a drive-in? Not really, Duckworth thought. And yet, someone had a reason. Duckworth knew that whatever the bomber’s motive was, it wasn’t going to be rational. So Angry Dad was as good a place to start as any.

The van was registered to Harvey Coughlin, of 32 Riverside Drive. When Duckworth Googled the name, a LinkedIn business listing popped up. Harvey Coughlin, assuming it was the same man who owned the Honda, was the manager of PF Lumber and Building Supplies. Duckworth knew the place. A few years ago, when he’d attempted to build a deck onto the back of his house, he’d bought all his wood and hardware at PF Lumber. And the contractor who’d come in to dismantle and redo everything Duckworth had done had also gotten what he’d needed at PF.

Duckworth figured there was a better chance of finding Coughlin at work than at home.

Once he’d talked to him, he had one more person he wanted to drop in on.

“I think Harvey’s out in the yard somewhere,” said the woman at the checkout.

Duckworth noticed a microphone on the counter in front of her that he guessed she could use to page the store manager. “Can you get him on this?” he asked.

The woman glanced at the microphone. “I could.”

“Would you, please?”

The woman sighed. She picked up the mike, and through the store her voice rang out. “Harv. Front counter. Harv to the front.” She looked at Duckworth and said, “He should be around in a minute or so.”

It took three. A short, heavyset man in a plaid shirt and jeans with a HARVEY name tag strode up. Duckworth was watching for him and said, “Mr. Coughlin?”

“Yeah?” he said, with more cheer in his voice than the woman who’d paged him.

“I’m Barry Duckworth,” he said, adding quietly, “Promise Falls police.”

Harvey’s eyes widened. “Oh, hi. Good to meet you.” He offered a hand and Duckworth took it. “This about the thefts?”

Duckworth suggested they move away from the cashier so they could talk more privately.

“You’ve had trouble here?”

“Yeah. Twice in the last three months. Guys coming in sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning. Making off with stacks of plywood. Not easy to do that without attracting some attention. You caught somebody?”

“Sorry. That’s not why I’m here.”

“What is it?”

“A few weeks ago, you took the family to the Constellation.”

“The drive-in?”

“That’s right. You heard about what happened last night.”

“Heard? It’s all anybody’s talking about. But like you say, I was there a few weeks ago, but not last night. I can ask around, see if anybody here went last night, if it’s witnesses you’re looking for.”