Far From True (32 page)

Briefly saw stars.

Blackmore jumped into his car, turned the ignition.

“Stop!” Duckworth said, rising to a sitting position. “Goddamn it, stop!”

The professor threw the car into drive and took off.

Cal

THE
first thing Sam did was call the school and tell the office to get Carl out of class, keep him in the office, and not let him out of their sight for one second.

A pair of uniformed cops arrived before anyone else. Turned out they were already on their way even before I’d made a call. People passing by the Laundromat had heard shots and someone had dialed 911.

When I called in, I made clear that the gunfire was over, but I also knew that when the police arrived, they’d be on high alert, so I made sure neither Sam nor I was waving a gun around when they came through the front door. But we were both standing over Ed Noble, ready to pounce on him if he tried to get away.

Once the cops had a look at Noble, sprawled on the floor, whimpering as blood streamed from his nose, they put in a call for the paramedics. Before they arrived, a detective by the name of Angus Carlson arrived.

I explained, as quickly as I could, what had gone down, although a survey of the Laundromat offered more than a few clues. Bullet holes in the ceiling and a washer, a shattered dryer window, blood on the floor. I still had several washers chugging away, dealing with my smoky clothes.

I managed to work in, during my initial chat with Carlson, that I was a former Promise Falls cop, and that if he needed to check me out, he could call Barry Duckworth.

“That’s my partner,” Carlson said. “Or my supervisor. Kind of.”

“He says he was put up to it,” I told Carlson, pulling him to one side. “Ms. Worthington’s former in-laws want custody of her son. Sounds like the mother of her ex-husband—he’s in jail right now—figured the best way to achieve that was to kill Ms. Worthington.”

“Some mothers are just pure evil,” Carlson said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think she’s still in town somewhere.”

The paramedics arrived, but Carlson held up a hand to them. He wanted a few words with Noble before they took him to the hospital.

“Mr. Noble,” he said.

“That fucking bitch broke my nose!” he wept. “That’s the second time in two days.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I wish I’d done it
both
times.”

Carlson turned around, raised a finger to her.

“I’ll be quiet,” she said.

“Mr. Noble, you’re being placed under arrest. You have—”

“I can give you somebody!” he said. “I can give you who put me up to this!”

“The mother of this woman’s ex?”

“Yeah! Yolanda. It’s all her, man. I’ll testify against her. I will. You cut me a deal, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Like where she is right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Which is where?”

“The Walcott.”

Ed Noble clearly hadn’t figured out that you try to get your deal before you divulge information.

Carlson stood back up, conferred with the uniforms. I could hear him telling them to get to the Walcott and grab Yolanda and her husband. Then he assigned another officer to ride with Noble to the hospital, keep him under guard.

“We’re not losing this guy,” he said.

Once Noble had been moved out, he proceeded to take statements, separately, from Sam and me. As absurd as it sounded, I asked Carlson whether I, while he was interviewing Sam, could continue doing my laundry. Fortunately, a bullet had not pierced any of the machines I’d engaged.

Carlson said no, I wasn’t to touch a thing. This Laundromat was, after all, a crime scene, and everything within it was potential evidence.

Nuts.

I noticed Crystal’s graphic novel was still on the floor in front of the machine I could not get going, and I made an executive decision that it would not be covered by Carlson’s edict on evidence. I was pleased it hadn’t been damaged in any way. No blood, no broken glass, no water from a bullet-riddled washer.

It had fallen open somewhere in the middle. The cartoon Crystal had evidently, at some point, left her bedroom and wandered into an alley of some dark, dangerous Gotham-like city, lured in by the voice of her grandfather. Clutched in her arm was a teddy bear with one missing arm.

The bubble above the girl’s head said: “I’ll find you! I’ll find you!”

But it was something else, something other than what Crystal had drawn, that caught my eye as I leaned over to pick up the book.

The back of the preceding page was a handwritten letter.

The handwriting was small, meticulous, easily decipherable, and filled most of the page. There was no date at the top.

It began
Dear Lucy
.

It concluded with
All my love, your father
.

I set the letter on top of the washer and read it from beginning to end.

And then I said, “Holy shit.”

DUCKWORTH
struggled to his feet, watched as Peter Blackmore’s car disappeared up the street.

“Goddamn it,” he said, rubbing the back of his head where it had hit the curb. Felt blood. He looked at his hand, reached into his pocket with his other hand for a tissue to wipe it off.

He got out his phone.

“Yeah, it’s Duckworth. I need to put out an APB.”

He gave the dispatcher complete details about Blackmore’s car, including the plate number. Duckworth also provided a description of the driver.

“Officers should approach with caution, but I do not believe this man to be armed. But he is wanted for questioning in more than one homicide. I also need someone to go to Thackeray, find the head of security, a guy named Clive Duncomb—yeah, that’s right, the one who shot that kid—and stick with him until they hear from me. Where’s Carlson?”

The dispatcher said the new detective was taking statements about a shooting in a Laundromat.

“Jesus,” Duckworth said, and hung up.

The phone was back in his pocket for only five seconds when it started to ring.

“Yeah?” he said, expecting more questions from the dispatcher.

“Barry?”

A woman’s voice.

Rhonda Finderman.

“Yeah, Chief, hi.”

“Have you heard what that son of a bitch Finley is saying about me?”

“This isn’t a good time,” he said.

“I’ll just bet it isn’t,” she said. “Where would he get something like that? That I’d taken my eye off the ball, that I’m at fault for not seeing a connection between the Fisher and Gaynor homicides? Far as I know, you’re the only person who’s come to me suggesting there
is
a connection. So where the hell else might he get an idea like that?”

“Chief, I’ll tell you—”

“You already told me Finley was sniffing around. Trying to dig up dirt on me, to use it against me for his comeback. If he didn’t get this from you, who’d he get it from? Carlson? Was it Angus Carlson? If it is, I swear, I’ll have him writing parking tickets for the rest of his natural life. I knew I’d made a mistake, moving him up to detective.”

“Not Carlson,” Duckworth said.

“Jesus, Barry, you gotta be kidding—”

“Chief—Rhonda—I’m in pursuit of a suspect. I have to—”

“No, hang on. You told that bastard—”

Duckworth ended the call, put the phone back into his pocket. He got into his car and took off after Blackmore.

•   •   •

Professor Peter Blackmore struggled to get out his own phone as he drove randomly through the streets of Promise Falls. Glancing back and forth between the road and his phone, he called up a number and entered it.

He had the phone to his ear. One ring, two rings. Then:

“What is it, Peter?”

“Clive, she’s dead!”

“What?” Duncomb said.

“Miriam’s dead!”

“You’re out of your mind,” the security chief said. “Peter, you need to accept what happened. Georgina was killed at the drive-in. Miriam wasn’t. I spoke to her. You were there. I spoke to her and she’s fine.”

“After!” he shouted into the phone. “She was killed after!”

“What the hell are you saying? Where are you?”

“Someone went to the house after you talked to her. That’s when it happened.”

“Where are you getting this from? Who told you this?”

“Duckworth! I just saw him!”

Duncomb was quiet on the other end of the line.

“Clive?”

“I’m here.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Peter said.

“What?”

“You killed her.”

“Why the hell would I kill Miriam?”

“Maybe she had something on you. Something more than a video with Olivia Fisher on it. Something about you and Liz, that’d be my bet. Maybe something from when you were in Boston. Was it something like that?”

“You’ve lost it, Peter. You want to lay this on me, but you’re the one who was out all night. The one who shows up this morning with blood on him. What was
your
reason? Why’d
you
kill her?
Because it wasn’t her in that car with Adam? Because she was the one who should have died anyway, and not Georgina?”

“No! That’s not what happened!”

“What did you tell him?” Clive asked.

“What?”

“What’d you tell Duckworth?”

Blackmore didn’t speak for several seconds. Finally, “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Duncomb said. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. I didn’t tell him a thing,” the professor lied, struggling to compose himself. “But he had questions about you.”

“Like what?”

“This isn’t something I should talk about on the phone.”

“Jesus, you accuse me of killing Miriam, but suddenly you can’t discuss stuff on the phone.”

“It’s complicated,” Blackmore said. “Where are you?”

“I went to the bank. I’m downtown, on Claymore. I can meet you.”

“Just stay there. Be out front. I’ll pick you up.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m five minutes away, if that. I’ll tell you everything when I see you.” Blackmore ended the call, tossed the phone onto the seat next to him, cranked the wheel hard, and pulled a U-turn, nearly cutting off a Finley Springs truck.

•   •   •

When he was getting back on his feet, and touching his hand to the back of his head, Duckworth had noticed Blackmore’s car making a right turn before it had disappeared from view.

Once he’d hung up on Rhonda Finderman—a move Duckworth predicted would see him, instead of Carlson, writing parking tickets until the end of time—and dropped in behind the wheel, he took off in the same direction, but there was no sign of Blackmore on the street he’d turned down.

Duckworth’s foot was heavy on the accelerator. At each cross
street, he glanced quickly in both directions. He hoped, now that all Promise Falls cruisers had been alerted, someone would spot the professor’s car.

Where would the man go? Duckworth wondered. Home? Back to the college? Those would be the first two places the police would look for him.

Based on the last comments the man had made, Duckworth had a feeling he was looking for Clive Duncomb. Which meant he was most likely going to the college. Duckworth grabbed his phone again, called dispatch.

“Put me through to Thackeray’s security department,” he said.

It took about fifteen seconds. A man answered.

Duckworth identified himself. “This is an emergency. I need to speak to your boss. Right now.”

“Not here,” the man said. “He went into town.”

“Where?”

“He said he was going to the bank.”

“Which bank? Where?”

The man said he thought it was on Claymore. Before he could say anything else, Duckworth hit the brakes, turned the car around, and went tearing off in the opposite direction.

Red lights flashing, siren on.

Within a minute, he got lucky.

Ahead, he saw Blackmore’s car, coming from the other direction, turning onto Claymore. Duckworth had three cars in front of him, but with the siren wailing, they started shifting over to the right, out of his path. He turned hard onto Claymore, the car’s two right tires nearly losing grip on the pavement.

About a hundred yards ahead, the professor had his right blinker on, was slowing, easing the car toward the curb.

And there was Duncomb, out front of the bank, stepping off the curb, taking three steps out into the street.

It all happened very fast.

Once Blackmore was about ten yards away from Duncomb, he
cranked the wheel hard to the right and floored it. Duncomb had no time to react. The car struck him midthigh, tossing his body onto the hood.

“No!” Duckworth shouted, his hands locked on the steering wheel.

Duncomb’s head came through the windshield as Blackmore’s car jumped the curb and crashed into the stone wall of the bank.

The driver’s air bag deployed like a bomb going off.

Duckworth screeched to a halt, threw open his door, and ran toward the scene. By the time he’d reached Blackmore’s car, the air bag had deflated, putting the professor nearly face-to-face with Clive Duncomb.

At least, what was left of Duncomb’s bloodied and shredded face.

Duckworth, breathless, opened the driver’s door of Blackmore’s car.

Blackmore turned his head slowly toward the detective and smiled. “I got him,” he said. “I got him good.”

DAVID
Harwood caught up with Randall Finley at his water-bottling plant.

“What the hell was that?” Finley shouted as David entered his office. “That was the fucking 9/11 of press conferences! A disaster! You’re an idiot! That’s what you are! An idiot! Why did I ever think you could do this?”

David walked right up to the man’s desk, leaned over it, and pointed his finger angrily.

“I’ll tell you who the fucking idiot is,” he fired back. “It’s a guy who won’t listen. I tried to tell you that this needed to be better planned. It needed to be thought out. We needed to work out a strategy. But no, you wake up this morning, and you go, ‘This is the day! Today we do it! I want a press conference in three hours! Make it happen!’ Well, that’s the way a fucking idiot does it.”

Finley kicked his chair across the room. “They didn’t even care! About the stuff I had on the chief! They didn’t give a shit!”

“They might,” Harwood said. “They probably will. But come on, you really thought they weren’t going to bring up the very thing
that made you leave politics? And you honestly had no idea that this underage hooker was dead?”

“I might have,” Finley said. “It slipped my mind.”

“You used to be mayor of this town. There were, I’m sure, some people who actually liked you. They voted you in. But somewhere along the line, you lost all your political smarts. Because you’ve had your head up your ass, that’s why. You think I’m an idiot? Fine. I quit. Find someone else. But here’s a tip. Do the job interviews at the zoo. Find yourself a trained monkey. That’s what you need. Someone who’ll just do what you want, who’ll never tell you when you’re making a mistake, someone who hasn’t got an original thought in his head. Someone who’ll tell you you’re doing a great job when you’re actually making a horse’s ass of yourself.”

David turned and walked out the door.

“Good-bye and good riddance!” the former mayor said, looking for something else to kick or throw. He went over, grabbed the chair he’d already tossed to one side of the room, and threw it to the other.

He stood there, steaming, breathing in and out through his nose, sweat bubbling up on his forehead. He did that for the better part of twenty seconds.

Then said, “Shit!”

Finley came around the desk, ran out of the office, heading for the parking lot. He found David getting into his Mazda.

“Hey!” Finley shouted. “Hold up!”

David, one hand on the top of the door, said, “You can’t fire me, you dumb shit. I quit. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“I don’t want to fire you,” he said, catching his breath. “And I don’t want you to quit.”

“What?”

“I said I don’t want you to quit. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Forget it,” David said, dropping into the seat. He started to pull the door shut, but Finley gripped the top of it with both hands.

“No, listen,” he said. “Just listen to me for a second.”

David waited.

“Okay, you’re right.” He grinned. “I shot my wad too soon.”

David didn’t laugh.

“Jesus, what do you want from me? I’m telling you, you were right. I should have taken your advice. I should have known what was coming, that they’d bring up the stuff about the hooker. I was dumb to think they wouldn’t. I’ll listen to you from now on. I will.”

David slowly shook his head.

“I’ll give you another two hundred a week,” Finley said. “Truth is, I don’t know who the hell else I could find. I mean, who’s as smart as you? Who’d work with me.”

David turned his head away, looked at the dashboard.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

That was when Finley knew he had him. “You want me to say I’m sorry? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not listening to you, and I’m sorry for calling you a fucking idiot.”

David looked at him. “I should have had some supporters there.”

“Hm?”

“I should have rounded up some people, put some
Finley for Mayor
signs in their hands. Something for the cameras. Even if it was just friends and family. Half a dozen people. Even that would have helped. But I didn’t think of it. You didn’t give me enough time.”

“Yeah, I get that. Totally.”

“We have to sit down and figure everything out. Stake out your position on all sorts of issues. Work out your responses to the embarrassing questions. Because they’re always going to come out. You know that stuff is coming, so you have to get in front of it, turn it into a positive instead of a negative. You admit it: You’re a man with flaws—you’ve done things you’re not proud of—but that doesn’t mean you don’t care about this town, that you don’t want to do right by the people who live here.”

“I like that,” Finley said. “Will you remember this, or should you be writing this down?”

“You should be able to remember it yourself. You’re a fucking politician. You know everything there is to know about the art of persuasion. You just have to remember to use it.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

David sighed. “Four hundred,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ll stay on, but on two conditions. You take my advice, and you give me another four hundred a week. What’s that, a couple hundred flats of spring water?”

Finley made a hissing noise through his teeth. “I don’t know about four. I was thinking—”

David turned the ignition.

“Okay, four hundred. That’s fine. I can live with that.”

David turned off the ignition.

“There’s one other thing,” David said. “What we talked about just before the press conference.”

“That stuff about your kid,” Finley said, nodding.

“Don’t ever try to blackmail me again.”

Finley raised his hands defensively. “Never.” He smiled. “So you’re back?”

It took David Harwood several seconds to admit it. “Yeah, I’m back.”

“That’s good, that’s good, because I’ve been thinking.”

David closed his eyes wearily.

“No, listen, I’m just spitballin’ here, but what I was thinking was, to make up for the disaster that was today, we need to do something big. Something that will show this town how invaluable I am to them. That even though I can be a bit of an asshole—”

“Oh, stop,” David said.

“Even though I can be a bit of an asshole, I love this town, that I’m there for the people of Promise Falls when they need me.”

“You mean, like when you went up to the drive-in to have your
picture taken helping people? Because that did not play well. It was opportunistic. It was insincere. It’s a good thing Duckworth booted us out of there before you made a total fool of yourself.”

Finley looked hurt. “I did care. I felt terrible for those people. Those little girls, who were so scared when that screen came down? You may not believe it, but my heart went out to them.”

“Sure, it did.”

“But what I’m saying is, something like that, if it was to happen again, I need to get in there, roll my sleeves up, get my hands dirty, show the people I’m right there with them.”

“What are you saying? We keep our fingers crossed for a flood, or a tornado?”

“Well, of course not,” Finley said. “But if something like that does happen, I wanna be in there like a dirty shirt.”