Linwood Barclay - Broken Promise - A Thriller

“What?”

“Name it. Name the school.”

“Clinton Street Elementary,” I said.

“What’s the teacher’s name?”

I had to think. “Ms. Moffat,” I said.

The shotgun began to lower. If she shot me now, it’d be my chest that got blown away and not my head. A slight improvement, perhaps.

“Did I pass the test?” I asked. Because that was certainly what it felt like.

“Maybe,” she said.

From inside the house, someone shouted, “Who is it, Mom?” A boy. Carl, presumably.

Sam whirled her head around, no more than a second. “Stay in the kitchen!” she said. There wasn’t another peep out of Carl.

“Brandon’s folks didn’t send you?” Sam asked me.

“I don’t know a Brandon,” I said.

She studied me another five seconds, breathing through her nose. Finally she lowered the shotgun all the way, pointing it at the floor. I let my arms go limp, but I didn’t move any closer to the door.

“What is it you want?” she asked.

“Right now, a change of shorts,” I said. I looked for any hint of a smile and did not find one. “My son gave your boy an antique watch. It was a mistake. It wasn’t his to give. It belongs to his grandfather. Actually, it was his father’s. It’s kind of a family memento.”

“A watch?”

“A pocket watch.” I made a circle with my thumb and forefinger. “A little bigger than an Oreo.”

“Just a minute,” she said. “Stay right there.” She closed the door. I heard a chain slide into place.

So I cooled my heels out front. Put my hands into my pockets. Smiled as an elderly woman wheeled past with a small grocery cart. She ignored me.

Here it was, only midafternoon. I’d found a body, been interrogated by the police, and now had been threatened with a shotgun. I was afraid to wonder what the rest of the day would bring.

My phone rang.

I dug the cell out of my pocket and looked at the number. It was not one I recognized. Maybe it was Detective Duckworth with more questions. I accepted the call and put the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Is this David Harwood?” It was a man’s voice. Gruff, and louder than it needed to be.

“Who’s calling?” I asked.

“Randall Finley. You know who I am?”

It would have been hard not to, particularly in my line of work. The former mayor, whose bid for higher office crashed and burned when it got out that he had used the services of an underage prostitute.

“Yeah, I know who you are,” I said.

“I used to read your stuff in the Standard . You were a good reporter. Think you interviewed me more than once in the past.”

“Yes,” I said.

“So anyway, why I’m calling. I hear you got hired back by the paper just as it went down the toilet.”

I said nothing.

“That had to be a hell of a thing. You’d gone to Boston, am I right?”

“That’s right,” I said slowly.

“And then came back. Raising a boy on your own, that’s what I hear. After that business with your wife a few years ago.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Finley?”

“I don’t know if you know what I’m up to these days.”

“Not really.”

“Since I got out of serving the people I started up a business. Bottling springwater. Pure, delicious, chemical-free water,” Finley said. “It’s a thriving business.”

“Great.”

“But I’m also thinking of getting back into public service. Going to take another try running Promise Falls.”

What a thought.

“Well,” I said. “That’s something. But the thing is, I’m not a reporter these days. The Standard is gone. I’m not freelancing for anyone, either. Freelance has totally dried up. If you want publicity for your plans, if you’re putting out a release or something, you’re probably best contacting media in Albany. They still cover stories up this way if they’re interesting enough, and I think I can say a comeback bid by you would get their attention.”

“No, no, you’re way off,” Finley said. “I’m offering you a position. A job.”

I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“You there?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m here.”

“You sound pretty excited,” he said.

“I don’t think I’m your guy,” I said.

“I haven’t even told you what the job entails. Thing is, I can’t manage everything. I can’t manage this company, run a campaign, do PR, answer phone calls, field media inquiries, get the word out, all that shit, without my fucking head blowing up. You know what I’m saying?”

“Sure.”

“I need an administrative assistant, I guess you would call it. Handle the media, do publicity, put shit up on Facebook and Twitter, which I totally fucking don’t understand, but I get that these days you have to use everything that’s out there. Am I right?”

“Like I said, I don’t think I’m your guy.”

“Why?” Finley asked. “Because I’m an asshole?”

He caught me again at a loss for words.

“Because that’s what I am. Ask around. Hell, you don’t need to ask around. You worked for the paper. You know what I’m like. I’m an asshole. So what? Do you know how many people would have jobs if they refused to work for assholes? The whole fucking country would be unemployed. So what if I’m an asshole? I’m an asshole willing to pay you a thousand bucks a week. How does that sound?”

The door opened. Sam was back.

“I have to go,” I said, raising an index finger at Sam.

“You’d start right away if you’re interested,” Finley said. “Tell you what. Think on it overnight and let me know tomorrow. You’re not the only guy from the Standard who’s out of work, you know. But from asking around, sounded like you might be the best. A grand a week. Think about it. It’ll be fun. We’ll be stirring up some major shit.”

Randall Finley ended the call.

Dumbfounded, I put the phone back into my jacket and looked apologetically at Samantha Worthington.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“My kid doesn’t have that watch,” she said, and closed the door.

Barry Duckworth didn’t have enough on Marla Pickens to hold her. He had no choice but to let her leave with Natalie Bondurant. But he didn’t think it would be long before he had her back in that interrogation room. The techs were at her house, looking for evidence. He’d already heard they’d found blood by the front door, and on the handle of the stroller. A DNA analysis wouldn’t be coming overnight, but if that blood matched Rosemary Gaynor’s, Marla Pickens was going down. And with any luck, Duckworth thought, he’d have something on her even before that.

The fact that she had Rosemary’s baby — Jesus, it just hit him that he’d stumbled into a horror movie — was not in itself proof that Marla had killed the woman. Damning, yes, but not proof. Her story about an angel coming to the door and handing over Matthew was pure and utter bullshit, with no supporting evidence, so it didn’t worry him much. It wasn’t that he had to disprove that story. He just had to prove Marla was at that house on Breckonwood Drive.

And he had to find the nanny.

Sarita.

Bill Gaynor had been no help there, but they had found his wife’s cell phone in her purse, which was sitting in plain view on the kitchen counter. If Rosemary Gaynor’s killer had taken anything from it, and there was nothing to suggest he had, he’d apparently had no interest in her cash or credit cards.

He? Duckworth thought. More likely she.

When Duckworth was finished with Marla Pickens, he checked his own phone, which he’d felt vibrate during the interrogation. An e-mail from one of the officers on the scene informed him that there was a contact listing for “Sarita” in the Gaynor woman’s phone.