Linwood Barclay - Broken Promise - A Thriller

“Like, an anecdote?”

“Yeah, like that. But there isn’t much time.”

“Then get the thecond thyringe!” Christ, it really was fast. His tongue was expanding like a sponge.

“Just as soon as you answer my questions. How did you find out what you know about Gaynor?”

“I justht did, thass all.”

“Was it Sarita?”

Marshall shook his head.

“Clock’s ticking,” the man said.

Marshall nodded. “Yeah.”

“Where is she?”

He tried to shake his head, but it was getting harder and harder to move it. “I’m not delling...”

“Tick-tock.”

“Sheeth at my plathe.”

“Is she there now?”

Another feeble nod.

“Where do you live?”

Marshall tried to form the words, but he was having a hard time getting them out. The man opened the van’s glove box, rooted around until he found the ownership and insurance papers.

“Is this up-to-date?” the man asked. “Groveland Street? Apartment 36A?”

Another nod.

“Good, that’s good. That’s all I wanted to know.”

Struggling with everything he had, Marshall said, “Other thyrinth.”

“There is no other syringe.”

Marshall started to make choking noises, leaned forward, put his head on the top of the steering wheel.

Another man approached the van on the passenger side.

“Did he tell you, Jack?” the second man asked.

“Yeah, he did. I know where Sarita is. How’s the hole coming, Bill?”

Bill Gaynor raised his dirty hands. “I’ve got three fucking blisters.”

Jack Sturgess, tipping his head in Marshall Kemper’s direction, said, “Don’t complain to him.”

Mrs. Selfridge came through for Barry Duckworth. An e-mail, which included phone numbers related to Sarita’s use of Mrs. Selfridge’s landline, dropped into his cell shortly after he left Derek Cutter’s place. He tapped on an already highlighted number, hopeful that whoever picked up would prove to be helpful.

He got lucky.

“Davidson House,” a woman said. “How may I connect you?”

“Sorry, wrong number,” he said, and headed straight there.

Shortly after he arrived, he was introduced to a Mrs. Delaney, who told him that yes, Sarita Gomez had worked for them, and no, she was not in today.

“I told all this to the other gentleman,” she said.

“What other gentleman?”

Mrs. Delaney pondered. “I don’t think he ever told me his name. But he said he was conducting an investigation.”

“What did he look like?”

The man Mrs. Delaney described could be David Harwood. It also could have been a number of other people.

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I told him about Mr. Kemper.”

“Who’s that?”

Mrs. Delaney told him, and provided an address to the detective, just as she had for the other man.

Duckworth left.

He parked out front of the Kemper address and went to the door. Banged on it good and hard.

“Mr. Kemper! Marshall Kemper! This is the police!”

Duckworth peered through the window, saw no life. He went around to the back of the house and looked through a window there, too. Except for maybe the bathroom, he could see into pretty much all of the apartment.

He went to the front door and banged again, just in case he was being ignored. “If there’s anyone inside, you need to open the door! My name’s Barry Duckworth and I’m a detective with the Promise Falls police!”

Nothing.

He marched over to the other door, banged just as loud. About half a minute later, an elderly woman slowly opened it. The moment he saw her, Duckworth was sorry for hitting the door with quite so much force.

“What’s all the racket?” she asked, a television blaring in the background. It was one of those court shows. That lady judge who tore a strip off everybody.

“I’m with the police, ma’am. Sorry for the noise.”

Duckworth took out his identification and displayed it for the woman. Didn’t flash it, gave her plenty of time to look it over.

“Okay,” she said. “You passed the test.”

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Doris Stemple.”

“Are you the landlord, by any chance? Do you rent out the unit next to you here?”

She shook her head. “Landlord’s name is Byron Hinkley. Lives in Albany. Comes by once a week, if I’m lucky, to cut the grass. But if you’ve got a leaky tap or something, don’t hold your breath.”

“I’m looking for Marshall Kemper.”

“Yeah, well, he don’t live here. That’s his place next door.”

“Have you seen him?”

“He in some kind of trouble?”

“I just need to talk to him, Ms. Stemple.”

“Don’t give me that Ms. shit. It’s Mrs. My husband, Arnie Stemple, died fifteen years ago.”

“Mrs. Stemple, have you seen Mr. Kemper lately?”

“Saw him head out early today, I think. At least, I heard his truck take off.”

“Have you seen a woman? Her name would be Sarita. Sarita Gomez. I think she might be with him.”

“The Mexican girl, yeah, I seen her. I think she took off with him.”

“And when was this?”

“Like I said, not long ago. They took off in kind of a hurry.”

“Did they say anything to you?”

“I was only watching from the door here. I doubt they even noticed me.”

“Have you noticed anything unusual next door the last day or so? Odd comings and goings? Strange people dropping by?”

Doris Stemple shook her head. “I won’t lie. I kind of watch what’s going on. But I haven’t seen anything weird lately. There’s a kid up the street, he’s about nine, likes to walk around with his privates hanging out — he’s not right in the head — but other than that, not that much goes on around here.”

Duckworth handed her one of his business cards. “If you see Mr. Kemper, or his girlfriend, would you please call me? And if you see them, don’t tell them I was asking around for them. I’d like them to be here when I get back.”

She waved the card in the air with her bony hands. “Okeydokey,” she said. “I’m gonna go back and watch TV, if that’s all right with you.”

“Sure,” Duckworth said. “Thanks very much for your time.”

He got back behind the wheel of his car and decided to return to the station. He was still waiting to hear back from the hotel in Boston where Bill Gaynor had been staying. He wanted to know whether the man had left for home when he’d said he had.

Doris Stemple closed the door of her apartment, locked the door, and called out in the direction of the bathroom, “You can come out now.”

Sarita Gomez emerged slowly. “He’s gone?”

“He’s gone.”

“He was police?”

“He sure was,” the woman said, backing into an overstuffed chair that was, curiously, in a nearly upright position. She settled herself against the cushioning, gripped a small black remote control that was tethered to the chair with a black cord, touched a button, and the piece of furniture slowly descended into its original position, its motor softly whirring the entire time. When it was finished, her eyes were perfectly level with the television.

“Can I use your phone again?” Sarita asked.

“Still trying to raise that boyfriend of yours?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Just don’t be putting any calls to Mexico on there.”

“I won’t do that.”

She used the landline, entered the same number she’d been trying for the last fifteen minutes. Marshall was not answering. It kept going to message.

“Marshall, when you get this, call Mrs. Stemple. Please .”

Sarita hung up, slowly crossed the room, and sat down in the chair next to the old woman. She reached over and patted the young girl’s hand.