Linwood Barclay - No Safe House

“It’s going to be okay,” Cynthia assured me. “Vince thought it through.”

Three days went by. Then four. Then an entire week.

I was starting to think maybe Cynthia was right.

The evening of the eighth day, an unmarked cruiser pulled into our driveway. I saw it from the window. I’d been sitting by the window a lot lately. Waiting.

“Cyn,” I said.

She and Grace came into the living room. Cynthia said, “Grace, go to your room and don’t make a sound.”

Grace took off. She knew what was at stake.

“It’s Wedmore,” I said. “This is it. They’ve figured it out. They’re going to take me in.”

Cynthia looked at me. “You? I thought the one we were worried about was Grace.”

The doorbell rang.

Cynthia studied me. “There’s more, isn’t there? You haven’t told me everything. I know there’s more.”

I didn’t want to lie, so I said nothing.

The chimes rang a second time.

Cynthia managed to get herself moving and opened the front door. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “Detective Wedmore. I can’t believe it. It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” she said.

I came up alongside Cynthia. “Hello. Nice to see you.”

“You, too.”

It had been years since Cynthia had seen Detective Wedmore, but she had come to visit me at school a year or so before, asking some questions about a case she’d been working at the time about a bogus psychic Cynthia and I had had the misfortune to deal with back when we were having our troubles. Our other troubles.

Wedmore asked to come in and we directed her to the living room, where we all took a seat. Cynthia offered to make coffee, but the detective declined.

“What’s going on?” I asked her. “I’m guessing this is about Vince Fleming.”

Be direct, I thought. Don’t act like you’re trying to hide anything.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Well, we watch the news. We know what happened. And Cynthia and I, we knew him. He helped us, you know. Got shot in the process.”

Cynthia nodded. “I know what kind of person he was — we’re not naive. But even knowing that, what happened, it’s all pretty hard to believe.”

“It is,” Wedmore said. “I wondered if either of you had been in contact with him at all lately?”

Cynthia and I glanced at each other. I said, “We visited him when he was in the hospital, but since then...”

“I sent him a card,” Cynthia said. “A sympathy card after his wife died. I ran into him a few weeks ago and we chatted.”

“That’s all?” Wedmore asked. “Nothing else?”

We both shook our heads. “No,” I said. “Why?”

“Because you’re on a list,” she said.

I felt as though my heart skipped a beat. Before I could respond, Cynthia said, “What list? Terry and I are on whose list? Where?”

“Not you and Terry exactly, but your house,” she said.

“You mean, like, in an address book?” I asked.

“Not exactly. We’re slowly taking a look at the various things Mr. Fleming was involved in, and one of them appears to have been an operation where he would hide things for other criminal operations — cash, drugs, what have you — in the homes of individuals who were not on any police department’s radar. Decent, upstanding folks.” She paused. “Like yourselves.”

“You’re saying he used our house?” I asked. “To hide stuff? You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not,” Wedmore said calmly. “Most likely, in your attic.”

“That’s impossible,” Cynthia said. “We’ve got a security system.”

“Well, seems he may have found ways around that. Do you have a dog?”

“A dog?” I said. “No, we don’t have any pets.”

“That’s one way he got access. You heard of dog walkers? People who come into your house through the day to take your dog for a walk? They have keys, access codes.”

Cynthia took this one. “For a while, I had a place across town, an apartment. Terry and I–I just needed some time to myself, and the man who lived across the hall from me, he did that.”

I wondered what she was doing. But I was betting Wedmore already knew Cynthia had lived, for a short while, across from Nathaniel Braithwaite. She’d have been waiting to see whether Cynthia volunteered this.

“That’s right. That’d be Mr. Braithwaite.”

“Yes,” Cynthia said. “Are you saying he was doing this for Vince? He couldn’t have had our key or access code.”

“One way to be sure would be to check your attic. Would you mind?”

We said we thought she was wasting her time, but I got a ladder and set it up under the access panel upstairs. She climbed up and spent about five minutes rooting around up there before concluding there was nothing to be found.

She was hot and sweaty by the time she came down, and this time she accepted the offer of a cool drink instead of coffee. Back in the living room, Cynthia handed her a bottle of water from the fridge.

“So I guess this means that whatever Vince was up to, it didn’t involve us,” Cynthia said.

Don’t be too eager.

“Maybe not,” Wedmore said slowly, uncapping the bottle and taking a drink.

“Does this have anything to do with all those people who got shot?” I asked.

“It might,” Wedmore said. “The Stockwells — Reggie and Wyatt Stockwell — were acquiring large sums of cash through fake IRS returns. They might have needed someplace to hide it. Maybe Mr. Fleming was hiding it for them and decided to hang on to it, and they didn’t like that. But that’s just one theory.”

Cynthia and I both looked at her expectantly, as if we couldn’t wait for the next tidbit of inside information.

“What’s interesting,” Wedmore said, “is how your names have popped up a couple of times in connection with all this.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“Your house is on a list Mr. Fleming kept of places where he might have hidden proceeds of crime. Your wife happened to live, briefly, across the hall from this Mr. Braithwaite, who may have been helping Mr. Fleming. And you both have a history with Mr. Fleming.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Cynthia said, shaking her head in wonder at these coincidences. She looked at me. “You have any ideas?”

I shook my head, too. “I don’t. But I’m glad no one got into this house.”

“Well,” Wedmore said, standing, “thanks for your time. If you think of anything — anything at all — please call.” She left a card for us on the coffee table.

We showed her to the door. We all said our good-byes and closed the door behind her as she left.

“Dear God,” Cynthia said, falling back against the wall.

I had a hand on my forehead as I caught my breath. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

“When she asked about—”

The doorbell rang again. We looked at each other, terrified. We took five seconds to pull ourselves together, and Cynthia opened the door.

Wedmore said, “Sorry. I meant to ask. What happened to your front yard?”

I’d done my best to repair the lawn where Cynthia had torn it up with the car, but there were still two parallel streaks where the grass was having a hard time growing back.

Wedmore motioned for us to step outside, and reluctantly we did so. “See what I’m talking about?” she asked, pointing to where the grass had been dug up to within a couple of feet of the shrubs under the front window.

Something caught my eye. Something bright. In the soil, at the base of the shrubs.

“Yeah, let me tell you about that,” Cynthia said slowly, clearly struggling to come up with something. While Wedmore focused on her, I stole a quick look down.

It was the extra set of Beemer keys.