Linwood Barclay - Broken Promise - A Thriller

“Is that a joke?” Fenwick asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You being in the water business.”

“Oh.” He grinned. “I missed that one.”

“When did you get into this?”

“Three years ago. This has been Finley land for seventy-three years. We always knew there was a natural spring on the property, but I was the one who decided to look into its financial potential. I set up a plant, and now we’re going gangbusters.”

“So what do you care about getting back into politics? You have a good business going here.”

“I like to contribute,” Finley said. “I like to make a difference.”

Fenwick wondered whether the man could keep a straight face. Finley managed it. But it didn’t stop her from pursuing the matter.

“A man like you always has an angle. You don’t want to get back in to help the people. You want to get back in to help yourself. You get in, you do people favors, they pay you back. That’s how it works.”

“A cynical theme-park operator,” Finley said. “It’s like finding out Willy Wonka hated chocolate.” He rubbed his hands together. “Here’s the thing. I’m not asking Five Mountains to reopen. I know that may not be feasible. But if you could find a way to say, after having a meeting with me, that you are at least considering taking another look at reopening, I’d really appreciate that.”

“You mean lie,” she said.

Finley waved a hand in the air. “Call it what you will. But just in this room.”

“What’s in it for Five Mountains?” she asked. “Say I go to my superiors and make your pitch. What’s in it for me?”

“All the free springwater you want?” he said, and grinned.

Gloria took a second look at the clouded bottle. “If it comes with some antibiotics.”

“And,” Finley said, taking a white letter-size envelope from his desk and placing it on top, “this.”

The envelope was a quarter of an inch thick. Fenwick glanced at it, but did not touch it.

“You must be kidding,” she said. “Who are you? Tony Soprano?”

“It’s a consulting fee. I’ve been consulting you about your firm’s plans. Don’t you at least want to see how much it is?”

“No, I don’t,” she said, standing.

Finley slid the envelope off the desk and back into the drawer. “I know you can’t sell the place.” He chortled. “If I was you, I’d tell my bosses to torch the whole operation and collect the insurance. Only way you’ll get a fraction of your money back out of it.”

Fenwick shot him a look. “What the hell made you say that?”

Finley’s smile broadened. “I touch a nerve there?”

“Good-bye, Mr. Finley. I can find my way out.”

Finley didn’t bother getting up as she left the office.

“Bitch,” he said.

He wondered if maybe he could have handled that better. Maybe it was the Penthouse calendar. Maybe he’d never had a chance at winning over Fenwick once she’d seen that woman with her bush hanging out.

The phone rang again. He looked at it and shouted, “Shut up!” He lifted the receiver an inch and slammed it back down. It was only then that he realized, from the call display, that the call had come from his home. Which meant it was his wife, Jane, or Lindsay, who did double duty as housekeeper and care worker.

“Shit,” he said, then picked up the phone and dialed the number.

“Hello?” It was Lindsay.

“Did you call?” he asked.

“It must have been Jane,” she said. “Hang on.” The line was put on hold, then a pickup on an extension.

“Randy?” Jane asked, her voice tired.

“Hello, love. What’s up?”

“Would you have time to go by the bookstore today? I finished the one I was reading.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’d be happy to.”

“Anything else by the same author. His name is, hang on, his name... what is his name?”

“Leave it with me. I’ll see you soon.”

Finley hung up the phone, sighed, cast his eye across his empty office. Thank God he had Lindsay’s help on the home front, but he needed assistance here just as much.

As he’d told Fenwick, he had too much on his plate. He needed help. Someone to keep him organized, manage a campaign, deal with media out of Albany. Talk to local business leaders, get them behind his candidacy.

Finley knew he could sometimes rub people the wrong way.

Trouble was, he’d burned a lot of bridges. People who’d worked for him in the past had sworn they’d never work for him again. Like Jim Cutter, who used to drive him around back when he was the mayor. Fucking Cutter had broken his nose while working for him. Finley, looking back, knew he probably had it coming, and if he thought there was a chance in a million Cutter would work for him again, put the landscaping business on hold, Finley’d have him back in a minute. Cutter was a smart guy. Too smart, Finley realized, to ever work for him again.

So Finley had been asking around, looking for someone he hadn’t already pissed off. Someone with media savvy.

He had a name. Someone who’d gotten turfed when the Standard went tits-up. Guy by the name of David Harwood.

Finley had a number for him.

What the hell? he figured, and picked up the phone.

“What’s happening?” Gill Pickens asked his wife, Agnes, in the police station lobby. “What’s going on?”

“She’s in there being interrogated like some common criminal; that’s what’s going on,” she told him, hands on her hips. “Where the hell were you?”

“Why aren’t you in there with her?”

Agnes rolled her eyes. “They won’t let me. But Natalie Bondurant’s with her. I just hope she knows what the hell she’s doing.”

“Natalie’s good,” Gill said.

“You talking professionally, or is she one you’ve bagged I don’t know about?”

Gill sighed. “Honest to God, Agnes.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said.

“She’s a good lawyer. A very good lawyer. And that’s all I know about her. You know it, too.”

Agnes ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek. “Again, where the hell have you been?”

“I told you. I was with a client. I met with him at the Holiday Inn Express in Amsterdam. He runs an industrial cleaning service, and he’s looking for ways to make it more efficient. Baldry. Emmett Baldry. Call him if you don’t believe me.”

“Why’d you meet at the Holiday Inn?” she asked. “Were you planning on some other business there?”

Gill shook his head as he whispered angrily, “Is this really the time? When we’ve got another crisis with Marla? This is what you want to talk about? I swear, Agnes, you’ve become fixated on this notion that I’m being unfaithful to you, which is complete and utter bullshit. I’m telling you, I had a meeting with Emmett Baldry, and I got here as fast as I could. Could we talk about what really matters? What does Natalie say? Does she think Marla’s in real trouble here?”

“She’s still getting up to speed,” Agnes said, implicitly agreeing to her husband’s request to move on. At least for now. “But this isn’t like what happened before. I could control that. It happened under my roof. This time it’s different.”

“Where did she grab this baby?”

Agnes’s eyes went up, as though heaven would provide an answer. “I don’t know. She’s saying someone came to the door and just handed the kid over.”

“And the mother? The real mother? She’s dead?”

Agnes nodded gravely. “Our girl’s really done it this time.”

“My client has nothing to say,” Natalie Bondurant said.

She was sitting next to Marla Pickens at a metal table in an interrogation room of the Promise Falls Police Department. Across from them sat Detective Barry Duckworth.