“The trial is this Monday.”
“He’s not going anywhere, Patrick.”
“But if we find something, we can use it—his insanity plea won’t stand a chance.”
“Most insanity pleas don’t stand a chance anyway.” Dr. Bogan flipped another page of endless signatures. “Your father-in-law was a popular man.”
Patrick felt a twinge of irritation at Dr. Bogan’s diversion; he wanted to stay on topic. “I know, but listen, if we call now—”
Dr. Bogan said: “Stop.”
Patrick thought Dr. Bogan was somehow reprimanding him for his incessant questioning. Yet the doctor’s eyes remained on the guest book, his index finger marking something.
Dr. Bogan’s expression rarely changed; it was always calm and assured. Pleasant was the closest he came to excitement, and anger did not exist. His expression now was different, something Patrick had yet to see in the man. It crackled with intensity and focus. Dr. Bogan handed Patrick the open guest book and pointed to a name:
A. Fannelli.
Patrick lifted his eyes off the page and locked them with Bogan’s. Patrick got it now, the doctor’s new expression: Holmes had found his improbable truth.
Patrick said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
• • •
Amy was pleased to see Dr. Bogan’s car still in their driveway when she came home. She hoped the doctor’s long stay was a sign that things were going well, that he was helping Patrick in ways she felt she couldn’t.
Amy pulled into the garage and hit the automatic door. It hummed shut behind her. She entered the mudroom and only had time to remove one shoe before Patrick rushed forward and shoved the guest book into her face.
• • •
“I knew it,” Patrick said. “I fucking knew it. Same thing at Crescent Lake, Amy. Same exact thing.”
Patrick and Amy were on the sofa. Dr. Bogan was back in his chair.
“All this bad luck—it was impossible,” Patrick added.
Amy kept her eyes on the signature in the guest book. “I don’t get it. How?”
“We think it’s a fan. Someone Arthur Fannelli is manipulating on the outside,” Dr. Bogan said.
“But how?” Amy asked again.
“Well, that’s the mystery,” Dr. Bogan said.
“But that signature in the guest book proves that someone was at your dad’s funeral,” Patrick said.
Amy considered everything. “Maybe it was a sick joke. Someone with a very bad sense of humor.”
“Come on, Amy. It was your father’s funeral. I don’t care how messed-up your sense of humor is, nobody’s gonna do something like that. Whoever wrote that knew what they were doing. Even more unsettling—knew exactly where we’d be that day.”
“So then why didn’t he do anything?” Amy said. “If he knew where we were, why didn’t he try and hurt us after the funeral?”
“Because it’s all a fucking game!” Patrick yelled. “Why didn’t they kill us straight away at Crescent Lake? You know how that son of a bitch works!”
Amy’s pulse quickened. “So is this signature a sign of more to come? Do we have to worry about someone else now?”
Dr. Bogan looked at Patrick. “I think we should call Allegheny County. Ask about fan mail. See if anything out of the ordinary has stood out.”
“Don’t you think they would have contacted us?” Amy asked.
“Not necessarily,” Dr. Bogan said.
Patrick said, “I’m calling right now.”
• • •
Patrick snapped his phone shut, reentered the den shaking his head. “They said nothing out of the ordinary, all things considered. Said the only thing that had them scratching their heads was a sympathy card.”
“A what?”
“A sympathy card addressed to Arty. No return address. Consideration for the passing of Mae’s father.”
Amy fell momentarily silent.
Patrick reiterated: “The jail said that was the only item that stood apart from the rest of the sick fan-mail he gets.”
Dr. Bogan suddenly stood. The Holmes expression was back. “I wonder if the smug bastard had the audacity to spell it with a y.”
Patrick said, “Huh?”
Amy locked eyes with Dr. Bogan, became his Watson. “I’m May.”
Dr. Bogan nodded. “Indeed you are.” He looked at Patrick. “May is an anagram for Amy. Either way you spell it—M-a-e, or M-a-y—the message is still very clear. The sympathy card was telling Arthur Fannelli that Amy’s father was dead.”
• • •
Patrick slammed the phone down onto its receiver. He had phoned the Allegheny County Police again, explaining their discoveries, and then phoned the local police explaining the same, demanding protection for his family. The Allegheny County Police assured Patrick that Arthur Fannelli had no outgoing mail. Was even denied internet access. That ruled out any prompting on Arty’s end. The Allegheny County Police surmised that the “fan” had simply heard of Bob Corcoran’s unfortunate accident and reached out to Arty in some ambiguous way to inform him. The local police agreed with the Allegheny County Police, but still agreed to investigate and send a cruiser by periodically to check up on the Lamberts. It could not be ignored that a crazed fan was out there somewhere, and that the Lamberts could be in some type of danger. This held little comfort.
“Fucking bullshit,” Patrick said. He paced throughout the den. “The son of a bitch is in jail and he’s still getting to us. This is a goddamned nightmare.”
“Is it possible?” Amy asked. “Is it possible my father was murdered?”
“Why not?” Patrick said. “Whoever the hell it is out there, they could have made it look like an accident.” He turned to Dr. Bogan. “Right?”
“I suppose,” Dr. Bogan said. “Though it’s likely that what the police said is true: the fan read about the death of Amy’s father and took the initiative to inform Arthur Fannelli in some cryptic way.” Dr. Bogan scratched his bald head then asked: “The police did a thorough investigation of the accident?”
Amy said, “Yes.”
Dr. Bogan nodded slowly, silently digesting her response.
“What about Oscar?” Patrick said. “Maybe this fan messed with my car—cut the hose so the antifreeze would leak all over the driveway.”
“But then comes the daunting task of ensuring the dog consumes the antifreeze,” Dr. Bogan said.
“Except the poor little guy did consume it,” Patrick said. “So whatever trick he had up his sleeve sure as hell worked.”
Dr. Bogan turned to Amy. “At your father’s funeral—did anyone stick out? Was there anyone there you didn’t recognize?”
“There were lots of people there we didn’t recognize,” Amy said. “My dad had a million friends.”
“Did anyone say anything to either of you? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Both Amy and Patrick said no.
The doorbell rang. Patrick left the den to answer. He returned with an officer from the Upper Merion Police Department by his side. The officer stood as Patrick took his spot back on the sofa.
“I’m Detective Knauer,” the detective said. “I’m going to be asking you a few questions, okay?” He took out a small notebook and pen.
• • •
Amy and Patrick recounted everything for Detective Knauer. Dr. Bogan remained silent. The detective asked what Patrick felt were rudimentary, and therefore useless questions:
People following you?
No.
Approached by strangers?
No.
Damage to your property?
No.
Anything at all that may seem out of the ordinary?
It was then that Patrick blurted: “You mean aside from having our dog die, my wife’s father die, and someone slipping porn into my presentation?”
The detective appeared unfazed by Patrick’s frustrated outburst and continued questioning. “How close of a daily routine do you keep?�
� he asked.
Amy asked him to elaborate.
“What I mean is—is your daily routine clockwork? Do you take scheduled walks on specific routes? Visit certain places regularly? Leave for work at precisely the same time each day? Things like that.”
“This is suburbia,” Amy said with a whiff of contempt. “Everyone has a routine.”
Again the detective ignored any passive-aggressive remarks and continued jotting in his notebook. “Neighbors,” he then said. “Have any neighbors mentioned anything to you? Suburbia tends to have an eye out every window. Have any neighbors reported any suspicious characters in the neighborhood?”
“If they did, no one mentioned anything to us,” Patrick said.
“I assume you have a community watch?”
Amy said, “Yes.” She then looked at Patrick and said, “Margaret Connors would call 911 if she saw a deer roaming the neighborhood.”
Patrick nodded at his wife then looked at the detective. “A neighbor of ours,” he said. “A retired woman who, like you said, always keeps one eye out the window.”
The detective jotted it down then put his notebook away. “Okay, folks—I’ve got everything I need for now. I’ll be in regular touch with the Allegheny County Police Department, and we’ll be doing periodic checks on your home. Meanwhile I suggest you try and deviate from your regular routine as much as possible.”
“Won’t be a problem,” Patrick scoffed. “I don’t have a job anymore.”
Amy rubbed his leg and whispered, “Yes you do.”
“In the meantime, if you spot any suspicious-looking men or women, please call. Nothing is insignificant.”
Women? Patrick thought. It never occurred to him that the fan could be a woman, that a woman could be capable of such things. Wouldn’t that be perfect though? Who would suspect? Who would—
“Wait.” Patrick stood. “Wait, wait, wait.” He thought of the woman on Lucas’ phone. The woman at the funeral. Their likeness. Her beauty. What was it Amy’s brother Eric had said at the funeral after they’d met the woman?
If I was straight … ?
No, not that. It was Amy who’d said what he was digging for:
No way a girl like that goes to Gilley’s. She’d stick out like a Victoria’s Secret model at a sci-fi convention.
His wife was right. He’d been to Gilley’s—the best looking woman he’d seen all night was a five, tops.
“The woman at the funeral,” Patrick said to Amy. He thought, fuck it, and added, “The hot one. You said it yourself: no way would she go to Gilley’s; she’d stick out like a model at a sci-fi convention, remember?”
Amy nodded. “Yeah. So?”
“I might have seen her again.”
“What?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s—” Patrick rushed into the kitchen and grabbed his cell phone. He dialed Steve Lucas’ number as everyone from the den looked on.
“Hello?”
“Steve! It’s Patrick.”
“Hey, man, what’s—”
“The girl. The bad news girl. You say you met her locally, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What else can you tell me about her?”
“Why?”
“Please, Steve. What else?”
“I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Anything strange about her? Anything unusual?”
There was a pause.
“Steve?”
“I’m thinking … I don’t know, she was kind of aggressive I guess.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she slept with me the first night we met. And she was the one who instigated it. I thought it was a one night stand thing or whatever, but we went out again the next night. She seemed like she wanted to pursue something.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well she dropped by work a few times. Brought me lunch. I figure a girl just looking for a good time wouldn’t—”
“She what? She was at the office? Where was I? Why didn’t I see her?”
“I don’t know. You were always out I think.”
“Son of a bitch. What else?”
“She’s got a monster for a big brother. But I already told you that.”
He had told Patrick that. And Patrick had forgotten. There’s two of them, he thought. Christ, there’s two of them.
“He looked older though,” Steve added.
“What?”
“The guy said he was her big brother, but he looked too old. I mean, not real old, just too old to be her brother. But who knows?”
“Father maybe?”
“I guess.”
“Do you still have that photo of her on your phone?”
“No, I erased it.”
“Fuck.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nevermind. Thanks.” Patrick hung up and returned to the den. He dove right in as though everyone had been listening to his conversation and didn’t need any briefing. Fortunately, he was right.
“This woman was aggressive with Lucas—courted him and slept with him on the first night. She was the one who instigated it. You’ve seen this woman, baby, she’s a knockout. What would you rate Lucas?”
Amy shrugged. “Average at best.”
“Exactly. Why would a knockout like her express such dire interest in someone like Lucas? Immediately seduce him?” The room remained quiet. The detective listened on with the anxious look of a civilian now. “Lucas claims she came by the office several times during that week they were dating.”
“She did?” Amy said. “You didn’t see her?”
Patrick felt an odd surge of delight in relaying the details of the mystery, forgetting for a moment that the whole debacle cost him his account. “No—I was never there. She always showed up when I wasn’t in the office. That means she was watching me.” He looked at the detective with what felt like a kindred stare and added: “Studying my routine.”
Detective Knauer nodded back, eyes affirmative and intense.
“Let’s face it,” Patrick said, bringing his attention back to the group. “She already had Lucas. She had him the first night she slept with him. So why bother coming by to drop off lunch or say hello?” He paused a tick, looked at everyone. When no one spoke up, he said: “She was getting the layout of the office.”
“But how would she get in after hours?” Amy asked.
“Lucas blacked out the night of their incident. Says he can’t remember anything. My guess? She drugged him and took his key card.”
“But you told me Lucas still had his key card; it wasn’t missing,” Amy said.
“Then she probably took it and made a quick copy,” Patrick said. “Placed the key back into Lucas’ wallet before he woke up.”
“Can you copy those things?” Amy asked. “It’s not a turn-key.”
“Why not?” Patrick said. “With today’s technology … ?”
The room fell silent for a tick, taking it all in.
Detective Knauer started scribbling in his notebook again. “Can you give me a description of the woman? A name maybe?”
“Lucas said her name was Samantha. I doubt that’s her real name though.”
“Description?” the detective asked again.
Amy and Patrick looked at one another. “I don’t know,” Patrick said. “At the funeral she had dark hair and dark eyes.”
Amy said, “About five-six, I guess. A hundred and twenty-five pounds.”
Patrick nodded in agreement.
“Anything else? Anything distinguishing?” Knauer asked.
“She was beautiful,” Amy said. “Really beautiful. And she had a way about her—like some sultry model or actress or something.”
Patrick chose not to nod on that one.
Knauer jotted more in his notebook.
“However,” Patrick said, “the picture I saw of her on Lucas’ cell phone was different. She had blonde hair and green eyes.”
Dr. Bogan finally spoke. “A di
sguise?”
“Probably,” Patrick said.
Knauer looked suddenly disappointed. “Those are two very different descriptions, Mr. Lambert.”
“It was her,” Patrick said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Does this Steve Lucas still have the picture?” Knauer asked.
Now it was Patrick who looked disappointed. “No—he erased it.”
“So in essence, we don’t really know what she looks like,” Detective Knauer said.
“I’d know her if I saw her,” Patrick said.
“That’s not too helpful,” Knauer said. “We need to get an exact description out for the general public if there’s any merit to this.”
Patrick felt a jab of annoyance at the detective’s sudden skepticism; for a brief moment he believed Detective Knauer was hanging on his every word. “Merit? How else can you explain this? It makes perfect sense to me.”
Knauer nodded. “It does seem plausible, but without a description …”
Amy said, “We gave you a description.”
“A woman that looks like a sultry movie star, who could have either dark hair and dark eyes, or blonde hair and green eyes?” Knauer splayed his hands.
The detective was right. It annoyed Patrick to no end, but the man was right. He then suddenly remembered Lucas’ comment about the big man who punched a hole in his wall.
“There’s something else,” Patrick said. “I think there are two of them. A man is involved too—a big guy, older. Lucas said the guy claimed to be this woman’s big brother, but looked more like her father.”
Knauer flipped back pages in his notes. “The man who confronted Steve Lucas the next morning after he blacked out.”
“Right,” Patrick said. “That could explain Bob’s accident. A slight woman would have trouble staging such a thing alone. But with the help of a big guy?”
“I was reliably informed that your father-in-law’s death was an accident. His blood alcohol level was .29. That’s very drunk.”
Amy said, “Yes—we’re well aware. But my father’s been driving home drunk from that bar for years.”
The logic in Amy’s statement was as empty as the night she’d said the same to Sergeant Bennett in Harrisburg. Detective Knauer’s judgmental expression reflected that empty logic. “It only takes one time, ma’am.”
Patrick spoke up. “You’re right. We’re not condoning anything. But what my wife is alluding to, what our gut is telling us, is that somehow—” He stopped, took a long, necessary breath. “Somehow…”
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 45
