Linwood Barclay - Broken Promise - A Thriller

Several seconds later, Gale came on the line. “What is it? What’s happened? Are you okay?”

“It’s not that kind of emergency,” he told her. “It’s something good.”

“Oh, God, you gave me a heart attack. You’re a cop! Someone says it’s an emergency and my mind goes to the worst possible place!”

“Sorry, I didn’t think.”

“I’ve got someone in the chair. What’s happened?”

“I got a promotion.”

“What?” Excited now, no longer annoyed. “What kind of promotion?”

“It’s temporary,” he said. “But if I do a good job, they might make it permanent.”

“Tell me.”

“Detective,” he said. “They’ve got me working as a detective.”

“That’s fantastic! That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you.”

“I just wanted you to know. I wanted you to be the first call.”

“Does this mean you’ll get more money?”

“I’ll probably get a bump up while I’m doing it.”

“Because,” Gale said gently, “if you get a raise, this could be a good time—”

“Only thing I’m a bit worried about is this guy I have to work with. Duckworth. I don’t think he likes me. There was this thing with squirrels, and I was just making a joke and—”

“Squirrels?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to work it out with him. Prove to him I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re not,” Gale said. “You’re going to do great. But what I was going to say was, if you’re going to be making more money, maybe this would be a good time to think about starting a—”

“Please, Gale, don’t go there,” Angus Carlson said.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know what you’re going to say. That’s not why I’m calling you. I don’t want to get into that.”

“I’m sorry,” Gale said. “I just thought—”

“You know how I feel about this.”

“I know, but we’ve had this discussion. I’m not like her. I’d be a good mother. Just because—”

“That reminds me. I’m going to let her know.”

“Let who know?”

“My mother. I’m going to let her know.”

“Angus.”

“I am. She never thought I’d amount to anything. I’m going to tell her.”

“Angus, please,” Gale said. “Don’t say that. Let it go. We left that behind. We came here to get away from all that.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally, his voice somewhat distant: “Okay, okay. You’re right. I don’t have to do that.”

“We should... celebrate,” Gale said, her voice starting to break. A sniff, then: “When you get home.”

“Are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

“You sound like you’re crying. This is a big thing for me, Gale. Don’t ruin it by crying.”

“I said I wasn’t crying. I have to go. I have to get back to Mr. Ormin.”

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll go out. You want to do that?”

“You pick,” Gale said. “I have to go.”

The first thing Sturgess and Gaynor had to do was get rid of Marshall Kemper’s van. The doctor drove; Gaynor followed in the Audi. Sturgess was mindful that he didn’t want to take any route, or leave the van, anyplace where there might be video cameras. He did not want to be showing up on any surveillance video driving a vehicle owned by a man who would soon be on a missing-persons list. That left out the parking lots of major department stores, fast-food outlets, or getting onto a toll road like the New York State Thruway.

Nor did Sturgess want to take a lot of time disposing of the van. He needed to return to Kemper’s place, where he believed Sarita was waiting for the man. And then it hit him — the solution was simple: Leave the van at Kemper’s house.

He phoned Gaynor in the Audi, told him where he was going. The doctor could hear a baby making gurgling noises in the background. “Hang back a block or so,” Sturgess said. “We don’t want anyone seeing your car, noticing your license plate, out front of Kemper’s place.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“You just take care of your kid,” Sturgess said. “I’ll handle this.”

He opened the map program on his smartphone — the van did not have GPS in it — and looked up Kemper’s Groveland Street address. As soon as he saw it on the screen, he realized he knew roughly where it was, and wouldn’t need directions.

He kept glancing in the mirror, saw the large mouth of the Audi grille trailing him right up until he turned onto Groveland, at which point Gaynor hung back. Sturgess pulled into the driveway at 36A and 36B. Kemper’s place was on the left.

He turned off the engine and sat for a moment before getting out. If Sarita was inside, she might have heard the van pull up and, thinking it was her boyfriend, run outside to greet him.

When she didn’t, the doctor got out and went to the door. Knocked. When no one answered, he knocked harder. Finally he tried turning the knob and, finding the door unlocked, stepped inside.

“Hello?” he said. “Sarita, are you here?”

It was a small apartment. He walked to the middle of it, surveyed the unmade bed, the dirty dishes in the sink, an untouched breakfast sandwich, men’s clothes scattered across the floor. The bathroom door was open. He poked his head in, pulled back the bathtub curtain. Not only did he not see Sarita, he saw no signs that a woman was living here. Which meant either Kemper had been lying, or that he’d been telling the truth, and Sarita had skipped.

He had a feeling it was the latter.

But if she had been here, she must have left recently. Kemper, desperate for a second needle that would save his life, had said she was here. Maybe she’d been trying to reach him on his phone, and when she couldn’t, panicked. She had to know he’d been trying to blackmail Bill Gaynor, so she might be thinking the police had picked him up, and this was going to be their next stop.

And then he remembered that when Kemper’s phone had rung, it had shown STEMPLE as the caller.

Sturgess got out his phone again, opened the app for phone numbers and addresses, and typed in “Stemple.”

“Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. The address attached to that name was the apartment next door.

Sturgess walked out, made the short journey to the other apartment, and rapped on the door. He could hear a television. He knocked again, at which point someone hollered, “Hold your horses!”

Finally, an elderly woman opened the door. She looked him up and down, at the doctor’s expensive suit, and said, “I ain’t dead yet.”

“Excuse me?”

“You look like an undertaker.”

“I’m not,” Sturgess said. “You must be Mrs. Stemple?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m looking for Sarita. Is she here?”

“Sarita?” the woman said. “Who the hell is that?”

Sturgess put his palm flat on the door, pushed it wide-open, and walked in.

“Hey,” she said. “You can’t do that.”

The apartment was slightly larger than Kemper’s, with a bedroom attached to the living area. He explored the two rooms, peered into the bathroom.

“I know she was here,” Sturgess said. “She made several calls from your phone. Recently. You going to deny that?”

“Maybe I was sleeping,” Mrs. Stemple said. “Someone could have come in and used the phone while I was having a nap in front of the TV.”

“Where is she?” Sturgess said, keeping his voice level. “If you don’t tell me, half an hour from now you’ll be downtown getting charged with...” He had to think. “Harboring a fugitive. That’s what you’ll be charged with.”

“You another cop?” she said.