Linwood Barclay - Far From True

I didn’t know whether that was a good idea, but said, “If he took them, and he took them to protect his own reputation, it strikes me as unlikely that he’s going to post them online, if you know what I mean.” I glanced up the stairs. “I’d say the chances of Crystal stumbling onto videos starring her grandfather are pretty unlikely.”

“Oh, God, the very thought.”

I ate another cracker with cheese, poured myself some coffee from the carafe.

“Oh, I should have done that,” Lucy said apologetically.

I took a sip, told her it was good. “You have to decide whether you want me to pursue this any further. I want to have one more look around your father’s house — you’ve hired my services for the whole day — and see if I come across anything else of interest, maybe take a closer look at his e-mails, but I don’t know how much further I can take this.”

Lucy considered. “Maybe another day or two?” She made it sound like she was asking for another sliver of cake. I sensed that she wanted a reason for me to come back here tomorrow, and the day after that.

“Why don’t I see what I learn tonight, and then we can make a decision?” I said.

“That sounds good. I can’t leave Crystal, so you’ll have to go to the house by yourself. I can give you one of my spare keys for the house, and the code is two-six-six-nine. Do you want me to write it down?”

“I can remember.”

We both stood, almost uncomfortably close. A kind of electricity seemed to be passing between us.

The phone rang.

“Just a second,” she said, detouring back into the kitchen.

“Hello?” I heard her say. “Oh, Martin. Martin, I’m so sorry.”

I poked my head into the kitchen.

“Hang on just one second,” she said. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked my way. “It’s Miriam’s brother. Martin Kilmer. He’s driving up from Providence.”

I raised my hand, a mini-wave. “I’ll be in touch,” I said softly, let myself out.

As I got into the car, I noticed something on the passenger seat. Several pieces of paper, stapled together.

I kept the door open to keep the dome light on and picked up the document. The cover page featured a drawing of a little girl walking through a forest at night. It was titled “Noises in the Night by Crystal Brighton.”

There was a yellow sticker attached that read: “NOT a comic book.”

I looked back at the house, to a second-floor window, presumably Crystal’s bedroom. She was silhouetted against the light, watching me.

Randall Finley pulled his Lincoln into his home driveway, up next to a red Kia, killed the engine. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, listened to the ticking of the engine as it began its cooldown, then got out. He walked wearily to the front door, but did not get out his key. He expected the door would be unlocked, which it was.

He heard stirring in the kitchen.

“Mr. Finley?” a woman called out.

“Hey, Lindsay,” he said, walking down the hall, loosening his tie on the way to the kitchen.

“You look tired,” said Lindsay. She was in her late sixties, her thinning hair pinned tightly to her head. Her thin, ropy arms were busy wiping down one of the countertops. “Long day?”

“I should have called,” he told her. “Sorry to keep you here so long.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Did you eat? There’s something in the fridge. Some ham, and some potato salad.”

“That’d be nice, actually,” he said. “I could use a drink first.”

He went to the cupboard, brought down a bottle of scotch and a glass. Then he turned on the small television that was mounted below a cupboard, turned it to the news channel.

There was Duckworth, saying something about squirrels.

Squirrels? So maybe Duckworth was finally taking seriously those dead rodents he’d alerted him to. Finley turned up the volume.

“—you count them, you’ll notice there are twenty-three animals here. Now, let me put this second photo up... Okay, this is the Ferris wheel at Five Mountains. That ride—”

The detective was talking about several incidents linked by the number twenty-three.

“Well,” said Finley. “You hear about this, Lindsay?”

“Hear about what?”

“This guy doing all these things around town, he’s got this sort of signature? A number?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “You know me. I never put on the TV news. I don’t listen to the radio. All the news is depressing. I don’t need that. I just listen to my music.” She pointed to the iPod and earbuds on the kitchen table. Finley had asked her not to wear them when she was in the house, looking after Jane, but Lindsay swore she kept the volume low.

As if anticipating his next question, Lindsay said, “She had a good day. She slept a lot, but she had a good day.”

She took the ham and potato salad from the fridge. One entire shelf was lined with bottles of Finley Springs Water.

“She drank a whole pitcher of lemonade!” Lindsay said as she made up a plate for Finley. “She just loves the frozen concentrate. Sometimes, before I mix in the water, she likes to have a little of the frozen stuff on a spoon.” Lindsay chuckled. “She’s such a character. She makes me laugh. All that lemonade, I had to help her to the bathroom a few times.”

Finley downed his scotch, his eyes still on the Duckworth news conference. When it ended, he turned off the TV. “What was that?”

“The lemonade. She loves it.”

“She needs the fluids,” Finley said. “I’ll bring home some more cases of water.”

“I just use tap water when I mix up the lemonade. I let it run until it gets cold.”

Finely shook his head. “Use my water. It’s so much better.”

“It just takes longer. I have to uncap so many bottles and—”

“I’ll bring home one of those big jugs, make it easier.”

“Sure, okay,” Lindsay said.

“I don’t know what we would do without you.”

Lindsay put the plate on the kitchen table. “There you go,” she said.

“I’m going to go up and see Jane first,” the former mayor said. “You go home. I’ll take it from here.”

“Okay.”

“Got a busy day tomorrow, though.”

“I’ll be here by seven,” Lindsay said.

“You’re worth a million dollars.”

Lindsay smiled. “You can give me a raise if you want.”

Finley walked over and gave the woman a kiss on the forehead. “Has she had her pills?” he asked her.

“She’s good to go. All you have to do is tuck her in for the night and she should be good till the morning. Unless she has to go to the bathroom or something, you’ll—”

“I can help her with that,” Finley said. “Go, go on, get out of here. You’ve done enough.”

Lindsay gave the man a hug, grabbed a jacket and purse that were hanging off the back of a kitchen chair, and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

“Bye, love,” he said. He poured himself a second scotch and knocked it back.

He went upstairs.

Were there more stairs today than yesterday? he wondered. Climbing up the flight seemed to take more energy every day. But he needed his strength. He hadn’t even declared officially yet. There was so much hard work ahead.

Interesting development on the news. He could use that.

Finley passed by the guest bedroom, stepped in, took off his watch, and rested it on the bedside table. Removed his tie and threw it on the bed. He sat on the end and took off his shoes, scrunched his toes into the carpet.

“That feels better,” he said to himself.

He stood, went a few more feet down the hall. The door to Jane Finley’s room was open an inch, and he slowly pushed it open.