The Twenty-Three 3 (Promise Falls) (32 page)

“Yeah, okay, I think I have it here. This would have been on April twenty-two. Does that sound about right?”

“It does. Read me every single detail off that ticket.”

Harrigan obliged.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “That’s good. Thank you.”

I hung up the phone, trying to get my head around what I’d just learned. Wondering if it meant anything. Wondering if it was just a coincidence.

The phone rang.

“We’re on,” Rhonda Finderman said.

“You’re on your own,” I told her.

FIFTY-SIX

“I
need more stuff,” Crystal said to Cal about an hour after he and Dwayne got back to the house. Cal had made a quick visit to the police station, and now was sitting on the porch of his sister and brother-in-law’s place.

“What stuff?” Cal asked.

“I need more paper and pencils and my homework and more clothes,” she said. “They’re all in my house. I need to go to the house and get all that stuff. Is my mom still there?”

“No,” Cal said. “She’s not.”

“Did the funeral people take her away?”

“More or less,” he said. “I can check into that for you.”

Crystal appeared to be thinking. “Did they do anything with what happened in the house when they took my mom away?”

Cal guessed what Crystal was referring to. Her mother had been violently ill in the kitchen and the bathroom. “They didn’t,” he said. “But it’s been taken care of.”

What Cal had not told Crystal was that, on his way back with Dwayne, he’d called the morgue to confirm that Lucy’s body had been
removed from the house. Then he’d told Dwayne there was a way he could pay him back for getting him out of his arrangement with Harry.

“You name it,” Dwayne had said.

“It won’t be fun.”

They went to Lucy’s house and cleaned up. “Jesus,” Dwayne had said when he saw what they had to do.

“I’ll find cleaning supplies,” Cal had said.

It took them the better part of an hour to get the job done. Cal opened most of the windows to let fresh air blow through.

Anyone who came into the house now, Cal believed, wouldn’t know what had happened.

Except for Crystal, of course.

“So all the throw-up is gone?” Crystal asked.

Cal nodded.

The girl did some more thinking. “I want to go back over.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“I have to get things. And you won’t know where everything is.”

“Still, I think—”

She looked up into his face. “I can do it.”

Cal put his palm to her cheek. “Okay. Do you want to go now?”

Cal tipped his head in the direction of his car, parked at the curb.

“I guess,” she said.

“I’ll let Celeste know.”

Cal went into the house and found his sister upstairs, sitting alone in her bedroom.

“Heading out for a while,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

“I feel like I can’t say it enough. You really got Dwayne out of a mess.”

Cal nodded. “I won’t save him again,” he said.

“It won’t happen again,” Celeste said. “He’s not a bad man.”

Cal looked her in the eye. “Maybe not. But he’s a stupid one. And that can be just as dangerous.”

“You think I should leave him.”

“The risks he takes ultimately become your risks. When he enters into business with bad people, he’s taking you along for the ride. He does something like this again, it won’t be the other guy I take it out on.”

On the way over in the car, Crystal asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?” She was looking down at her clipboard, sketching something, not watching the world go by as they drove to her house.

He glanced over at her. “No,” he said. “Why?”

“Will my mom’s ghost be in the house?”

Cal shook his head. “No. But your memories of her will be. And that’s okay.”

“I don’t want to live there all by myself.”

Cal tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “You won’t be doing that. It’s against the law for someone your age to live by herself. You have to be eighteen to live on your own.”

“Eighteen?”

“That’s when the law considers you an adult,” Cal told her.

“Oh.” She drew some more lines, then turned the pencil at a sharp angle and moved it back and forth furiously. Shading.

“My mom owned the house, right?”

“I would imagine so. Unless she was renting it from someone.”

“She used to talk about a mortgage.”

“Okay,” Cal said. “Then she owned it. She paid money each month for you to live there. That was the mortgage.”

“How much did she pay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would it be like a million dollars?”

“No, it wouldn’t be that much. It would be something she could afford, based on what she made at her job at the school.”

They pulled into the driveway. Crystal got out quickly, leaving
her artwork on the floor in front of her seat. She got to the door first and waited until Cal got there with the key.

“You’re sure it’s okay?” she asked.

“I think so,” Cal said.

He inserted the key and pushed open the door. Crystal tentatively stepped inside. She stopped, raised her head, reminding Cal of an animal stopping to pick up any dangerous scents.

Slowly, she walked deeper into the house, and stopped again at the base of the stairs. Her eyes went up to the second floor, but she didn’t move. Cal stood patiently behind her and, after a few seconds, rested his fingers on her shoulders.

He felt Crystal’s muscles twitch in the millisecond before she made the decision to go up. She got to the bathroom door, which Cal had deliberately left wide open when he and Dwayne had finished cleaning. She stood outside looking in for about ten seconds, then went to check the other rooms upstairs. She popped her head into her own room, then entered her mother’s.

“You okay?” Cal asked.

She said, “This could be your room.”

“Crystal.”

“Does everything my mom owned go to me?”

Cal had no idea what arrangements Lucy had made with her ex-husband, but he said, “More or less.”

“So if this is my house, can I give it to you? Because you don’t have one. So you could have this room, and I’ll sleep where I always have. Because I don’t want to stay with your sister and Dwayne.”

Cal said, “Why don’t you start grabbing the things you need?”

“Why can’t I just stay here now? Why do I have to go back? I don’t like Dwayne. He did bad things to you.”

Cal started considering options. He didn’t think it was appropriate for him to stay in this house, just the two of them. Not even for a night.

Even though he couldn’t think of anything he’d like more.

“I don’t know about that, Crystal. You see—”

“Hello?”

A voice from downstairs. A man’s voice.

“Anyone home?”

Crystal looked at Cal for half a second and, without saying a word, scooted down the stairs to the front door.

Cal heard the man say, “Crystal!”

And he heard Crystal say, “Daddy!”

“Oh, sweetheart, I got here as fast as I could.”

Cal reached the bottom of the stairs and found the man on his knees, arms around his daughter. As soon as he saw Cal, he got to his feet.

“Gerald Brighton?” Cal asked.

“That’s right.”

Cal extended a hand. “Cal Weaver. We spoke on the phone.”

Gerald Brighton nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“It’s good that you’re here.”

“Hit up everybody I knew for money for the flight. Didn’t know I had that many friends.” He smiled as he looked at his daughter. “Got a ticket for you to come back with me.”

“Well,” Cal said. “Mr. Brighton, I’m sorry for your loss.”

The man gave Crystal another hug, kissed the top of her head. “Everything’s going to be okay. Daddy’s here. I’m going to get everything sorted out. You’re going to live with me now. You’ll really like San Francisco.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice muffled, her face pressed into his chest.

“She has some things at my sister’s place,” Cal said.

“We’ll come by later, pick them up,” Gerald Brighton said. “I’ll give you a call to let you know we’re coming.”

“Of course,” Cal said.

“Thank you for all your help.”

“Don’t mention it.” He smiled. “She’s a great kid. A real lifesaver. Good-bye, Crystal.”

“Good-bye,” she said, still clinging to her father.

Cal walked out, got into his car, and saw that Crystal had forgotten her clipboard and drawing paper. He reached down into the passenger footwell and grabbed it.

Crystal had drawn a house, complete with driveway, windows, smoke coming out of the chimney.

She’d drawn faces in two of the windows, and attached labels to them. One read “Crystal” and the other said “Cal.”

He drove back to his sister’s place. Gerald and Crystal could pick up the drawing and the clipboard when they came for the rest of her things.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Duckworth

I
didn’t give Rhonda Finderman an opportunity to object to my bailing on the press conference. I put down the receiver and started heading for the door. Once I was in my car, I got out my phone and made a call to Angus Carlson’s cell phone.

The phone rang several times before it went to voice mail.

“You’ve reached Angus Carlson. I can’t take your call right now, so why not leave a message at the tone?”

After the beep, I said, “Hey, Angus, it’s Barry again. I know I shouldn’t be bothering you with shit right now, but there’s something I’d really like to bounce off you. It’s urgent.”

I ended the call, kept the phone in my hand, and sat there for several seconds, pondering my next move. Placed another call to the building I was parked behind.

“Dispatch.”

“It’s Detective Duckworth. I need an address and home phone number for Angus Carlson.”

I heard several keystrokes before I was given the information. I scribbled it down on a small notepad, then phoned Carlson’s home. After three rings, a woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Detective Duckworth calling. Who’s this?”

“Hi, Detective. This is Gale. Angus’s wife. How are you?”

“Good, thank you, Gale.”

“Angus has lots of nice things to say about you.”

“Gale, is Angus there?”

“No, I’m afraid he isn’t. Have you tried his cell?”

“I have. He didn’t answer.”

“Oh,” Gale said. “Well, if I hear from him, I can tell him you called.”

“I really need to speak with him. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

Gale didn’t say anything right away. “Well, he just went out a little while ago.”

“Where did he go?”

“I really . . . I don’t want to get him in any trouble.”

The hairs went up on the back of my neck. “What kind of trouble?”

“It’s just—okay, you know about what happened yesterday?”

“At the hospital,” I said. “Yes.”

“And he’s on leave while the shooting is investigated?”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m sure that will go in his favor.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re both hoping. The thing is, he’s sort of working today.”

“What do you mean, working?”

“He kind of had an idea—actually, it was my idea, and I wasn’t even sure there was anything to it—but he had this thing he wanted to check out.”

“About what?”

“About the water being poisoned.”

“What was he checking out?”

“Okay, he’s going to be mad if I tell you this, but I think I should do it anyway.”

“Gale, please.”

“You know that used bookstore? Naman’s?”

“Yes. Someone torched it the other night.”

“That’s the one,” she said. “So, I dropped by there yesterday, and I didn’t even know that had happened, and the owner, Naman—he’s Muslim or something like that, you know—he was cleaning the place up, and I saw a book there that got me thinking.”

“A book.”

“A book all about poisons. How to make them.”

“Really?”

“And I thought, it’s probably nothing. But I told Angus, and he thought it might mean something, so he decided to look into it.”

“He’s gone to the bookstore?”

“That’s what he said. I guess he thought if he found out who poisoned the water, that’d look really good on him when this hearing into the shooting comes up.”

“Thanks, Gale,” I said. “Thanks very much.”

There were plenty of available parking spaces out front of Naman’s Books. I was thinking I’d look for Angus’s car, then realized I didn’t know what he drove. The shop was boarded up with plywood sheets, but I could hear noises inside. I tried the door and found it open.

“Hello?” I said, poking my head in.

“Who is it?” someone called out from the back of the shop.

“Police.”

Footsteps approached. A man with coffee-colored skin opened the door wide.

“Naman?” I said.

He nodded. “Mr. Safar, yes. I am Naman.”

I showed him my ID. “May I come in?”

“What is this about? I am very busy. I’m still trying to clean this place up.”

“Sorry to bother you. May I come in?” I asked again.

He shrugged. It was as close to an invitation as I was going to get. I didn’t know how bad the shop had looked initially, but there was clearly more work to be done. Swollen, water-damaged books remained scattered on the floor, and the smell of smoke was powerful. I could see through to the back of the shop, where light streamed through an open door. The edge of a Dumpster was visible.

A couple of floor lamps had been set up inside the store, powered by extension cords that led out the back door.

“Have you people found out who did this yet?” he asked me as he gathered damaged books into a blue Rubbermaid container.

“I can’t say what progress is being made,” I said. “I haven’t been involved in the investigation. But I can look into it for you.”

“Never mind,” he said.

Halfway down the shop was another open door. I glanced in as I walked by it, saw that it led to a basement.

“Lots of damage down here, too?” I asked.

“Water had to be pumped out,” Naman said. “Now it has to dry. That’ll take weeks.”

Hours earlier, I was fairly certain we had our poisoner. There was still plenty of work to do, but Victor Rooney was looking like our guy. There hadn’t been anything to point to Naman Safar. One damaged book about poison didn’t make him a terrorist. And during my brief call to Angus to ask him about George Lydecker’s habit of breaking into garages, I’d told him we might have our guy.

So maybe Angus wasn’t convinced. If Angus thought there was something to what Gale had seen, had he already been here? Had he already talked to Naman?

“Did another Promise Falls detective come to see you today?” I asked.

“What? No. No one. I keep thinking someone will come and tell me what is going on, but you are the first today.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.

Naman looked at me like I was the stupidest member of the Promise Falls police he had ever encountered, and maybe he was right. “I think I would know if a police officer had been here.”

“Of course you would,” I said. “Forgive me.” I peered farther into the doorway to the basement. “Mind if I look down here?”

“What for?”

“Just wanted to see how bad the damage is.”

“I told you. Everything down there is still wet.”

“Let me just have a look. Is there a light?”

“They have still not turned the electric back on.”

“That’s okay,” I said, took out my phone, and turned on the flashlight app. “This isn’t great, but it’ll do.”

Naman stared at me.

I descended a set of open-back wood steps. It wasn’t a deep basement. When I reached the bottom, the ceiling was just brushing the top of my head. I held up the phone, casting light around the room.

I glanced back up the stairs. Naman was silhouetted in the doorway, watching me.

“There was an inch of water down there after the fire,” he said.

The water was gone, but the concrete floor still looked damp, and the air was musty and rank.

The room was pretty much empty, save for a few wooden skids on the floor, and a furnace off in the corner. If I’d been thinking, in the back of my mind, that Angus had been here, and Naman had knocked him out and thrown him down the stairs, then that thinking had been wrong.

Except I’d yet to look behind the furnace.

“What are you doing down there?” Naman asked. “I had to haul boxes and boxes of books from down there and throw them out. It is cleaned out.”

“One second,” I said.

I held the phone with my arm extended as I moved toward the
furnace. That was when I heard steps behind me. I turned, saw Naman was halfway down the stairs.

“Please stay there, sir,” I said.

“What are you looking for?” he said, taking another step down. “Sir, I won’t ask you again. Please stay there.”

Naman stayed.

I reached the furnace, crouched under some ductwork, and looked behind it.

There was nothing—and nobody—there.

I crossed the room and said, “Let’s go back upstairs, Mr. Safar.”

“Fine,” he said, and trudged his way up the steps. Once we were both back in the shop, I said, “What’s upstairs?”

“Apartment,” he said.

I realized I knew that. “Mr. Weaver,” I said.

“That’s right. He had to move out because of the smoke and everything. So now, in addition to everything else, I have lost a tenant.”

I walked through the store, out the back door, and into the light. I peered over the lip of the Dumpster, which was filled with destroyed books and cardboard and other refuse.

I gave the man one of my business cards. “I’m sorry to have troubled you. If a Detective Carlson comes by, please call me.”

He looked scornfully at the card and said, “Whatever.”

I drove to the Carlson house. On the way, I tried Angus’s cell phone once more, but he did not pick up. I was hoping that maybe, in the time I’d gone to the used bookstore, he’d returned home.

Gale came to the door and said, “Detective Duckworth.”

I nodded, extended a hand. “Hello, Gale.”

“Did you find him?”

“No,” I said. “May I come in?”

“Yes, sure. Can I get you something? A coffee?”

“That’s okay.”

“He wasn’t at the bookstore?”

“No. And I don’t think he’d been there, either.”

“That’s weird,” she said. “That’s where he said he was going. After you left, I tried calling him, but he didn’t answer.” Gale, suddenly worried, said, “What do you think’s happened to him?”

“I don’t know that anything has happened to him,” I said. “Can you think of anyplace else he might have gone?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“What about his mother?” I asked. “Does she live around here? Do you think he might have gone to talk to her about what he went through yesterday?”

Gale’s face crumpled. Her lips turned into a jagged line.

“Oh, dear,” she said.

“What?” I said. “What did I say?”

“Angus wouldn’t have gone to see his mother.”

“Why not?”

“She’s dead. She’s been dead for years.”