Far From True

by Linwood Barclay

  Duckworth took one last sip of the coffee. “If you come across anything, or remember anything, that might connect your daughter to Dr. Sturgess, would you let me know?”

  He placed a business card on the table. Walden drew it toward him, glanced at it.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “And I’ll keep you posted of any developments.”

  “I’m worried about Victor,” Walden blurted.

  “Victor?”

  “Victor Rooney. He was going out with Olivia back then. When it happened. He’s never really got over it.”

  “How do you mean?” Duckworth said as he was pushing back his chair.

  “It’s been three years and he’s never really moved on. He drinks too much. Has a hard time holding down a job. Blames everyone in Promise Falls for what happened.” He looked into Duckworth’s face. “He’s harboring a lot of guilt.”

  “What kind of guilt? Do you think he had something to do with Olivia’s death?”

  That caught him up short. “Jesus, not directly. I mean, I don’t think so. He was with a friend when it happened. A drinking buddy. He had an alibi. He was supposed to be meeting Olivia but got held up. Unless . . .”

  Walden’s voice trailed off.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless he got someone to lie for him.” Walden Fisher gazed through the window into his backyard. “And all this stuff he’s going through lately, this show of grief, this not being able to move on, is some kind of act.” He shook his head dismissively. “No, there’s no way. Victor’s not perfect, but he’d never be capable of that.”

  Duckworth stood and was walking down the hall toward the front of the house when, as he was passing an open door to a small bathroom, something occurred to him.

  “Let me ask you about someone else,” he said. “Did you or Olivia ever know a Bill Gaynor?”

  “Bill Gaynor?” Walden Fisher said. “Same name as that woman that was murdered?”

  “Rosemary was his wife.”

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. “They were married? Bill was our insurance guy.”

  NINETEEN

  RANDALL Finley and Frank Mancini had arranged to meet for lunch at the Clover, an upscale—at least by Promise Falls standards—restaurant on the town’s outskirts. Finley was more at home at a place like Casey’s, a bar over on Charlton, but when he had an important business meeting, the Clover, with its white linen tablecloths, fine china, and waitstaff who were less inclined to tell you to fuck off, was always his first choice.

  Finley had reserved his favorite booth, with high-backed seats and a divider that offered some privacy from the next table over. There was always the possibility he’d say something he didn’t want anyone but his luncheon guest to hear.

  He was already seated when Mancini came into the room. He was short and stocky but not fat, a walking fire hydrant. A well-dressed one, too. While the man had spent his life in construction, he didn’t go around wearing a hard hat. He was in a dark blue suit—Armani, Finley guessed—with a crisp white shirt and a red tie.

  “Don’t get up,” Mancini said as Finley started struggling to get out of the booth.

  Finley stayed seated, shook hands, waited for Mancini to get settled in across from him.

  “What can I get you?” Finley asked.

  “Scotch.”

  Finley waved over the waitress, whose name tag read KIMMY.

  “Are you new, Kimmy?” the former mayor asked as she handed them menus.

  The young woman smiled. “This is my first week.”

  Finley smiled and shook his head admiringly. “Just when you think the Clover can’t hire waitresses any prettier, they bring in someone like you. Isn’t she a peach, Frank?”

  Mancini smiled.

  Kimmy accepted the praise with an awkward smile. “What can I get you gentlemen?”

  Finley ordered two scotches. Once the waitress had slipped away, Mancini said, “Shouldn’t a guy who once got caught with an underage hooker cool it when it comes to the young ones?”

  “I was paying her a compliment. And that other business was years ago.”

  “It cost you your job.”

  “A job I’m going to get back. Voters have a great capacity for forgiveness, especially the kind of bumpkins we have in this town. Nobody cares about that kind of stuff these days. Look at Clinton. Fools around with an intern, he’s the most popular former president these days.”

  Mancini sighed. “See yourself as Clintonesque, do you?”

  Finley chuckled. “Okay, so maybe I’m not quite as popular as good ol’ Bill. But the people in this town can’t remember what they had for breakfast, let alone something I did years ago.”

  “Keep insulting them like that. Jesus, Randy, you’ll never get reelected if the voters know you think they’re a bunch of idiots.”

  “I never said that. They’re good people.” Finley smiled. “And I have to be who I am. You want me to be somebody I’m not?”

  “Randy, I’d like you to be almost anybody else. I’d rather be sitting here with fucking Al Capone. I’d feel safer.”

  Finley laughed. Mancini, not so much.

  “You love fuckin’ with me,” Finley said. He lowered his voice. “So tell me, what the hell was that at the drive-in?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? You kidding me? The fucking explosion? The screen coming down? Four people dead?”

  “It was a tragedy—that’s what it was,” Mancini said.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. We’re all broken up about it. But just between us, was that you?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Mancini said, loud enough to be heard by nearby diners.

  “Jesus, keep your voice down,” Finley said. “So you’re saying you had nothing to do with it?”

  “Why the hell would I do that? It had to be the demolition people. They screwed up.”

  “Not what I’m hearing,” Finley said. “I’m hearing they hadn’t even started yet.”

  “What else are they going to say? They’re in cover-your-ass mode.”

  “I don’t know. Thing is, guy like you, you’d have all the expertise to do that.”

  “Randy, have you completely lost your mind? We’ve bought the land, and the deal requires that Grayson drop the structures before we acquire it. What’ve I got to gain by blowing things up and killing people? What sense does that make?”

  Finley was quiet for a moment. “I have to admit, I can’t figure out an angle. Unless this gives you an out on the deal—then Grayson comes back, slashes his price so he can unload the place.”

  “There’s no goddamn angle. I had nothing to do with it. It was the demolition company. You can take that to the bank. Let’s move on. Let’s talk about you and what you’re going to do for me.”

  “I have to get elected first.”

  “You haven’t even officially declared.”

  “Imminent.”

  “You need to get moving. You need to win this thing. I got no chance with that Amanda Croydon sitting in the mayor’s chair. I gotta get her out of there. She’s an eco-bitch. You’d think she’d be behind me, but anytime anyone else has ever proposed anything similar, there’s noise concerns—everyone’s worried about soil pollution, contamination of the water table, all kinds of shit that never really happens, at least not as bad as they say it does. I’ve made a major investment here, Randy, buying that land. You need to get that woman out of there and start running things again.”

  “All in good time,” Finley said. “And come on, you never bought property before without knowing if you’d get all the proper approvals? It’s all part of doing business. And what’s the worst-case scenario? If somehow I don’t get in, if Amanda hangs on, you can always just build houses there. You’re not going to get a fight on that.”
<
br />   “Houses don’t bring in a daily revenue stream,” Mancini said. “You build a house, you sell it, you make your profit, and you move on. But a metal recycling plant, that’s money coming in twenty-four/seven, years into the future. Jobs, too.”

  “Jobs, sure. But like you said, there’s money to be made. Once I’m in, I can use my connections. I know people—I can grease palms—I can get this thing approved. I’m not promising there won’t be a few bumps along the way, but it’ll happen.”

  The drinks arrived.

  “That’s terrific, sweetheart,” Finley said to Kimmy.

  “You ready to order lunch?” she asked.

  “Steak frites, rare,” Finley said. “Frank?”

  “I haven’t even looked at the menu.”

  “Just get the steak.”

  “I don’t know if I feel like steak.”

  “What are you, a homo?” Finley grinned, glanced at Kimmy. “Just joking. I’m totally okay with homos.”

  “Fine, the steak,” Mancini said. “Well-done.”

  Kimmy slipped away.

  “I wonder if she’s seeing anybody,” Finley said.

  “You ever think you may have overestimated your attractiveness?” the builder asked.

  “Women are drawn to power.”

  Mancini laughed. “You used to be the mayor of Promise Falls, not the goddamn secretary of defense.”

  “Still, people know me. They know who I am.”

  “They know what you are,” Mancini said. “That’s what worries me about whether you can actually get yourself elected again.”

  “I feel pretty good about it,” he said. “All I have to do is convince everyone I’m the town’s savior.”

  “What, like Jesus?”

  “But with Florsheims instead of sandals,” Finley said. He leaned in closer. “This town owes me, Frank. This town owes me another chance. I got fucked over here. These people let me down, and I’m going to give them a chance to make it up to me. I was the victim of a smear campaign, plain and simple.”

  “Did the left-wing media force that hooker to blow you?”

  Finley did a backhand flip, waving away Mancini’s concern. “People act like they care about that stuff—they love to read about it—but in their hearts they really don’t give a shit. They know I’m one of them. I’m just a regular guy. I get their concerns. I’m not some elitist asshole talking down to them.”

  “You’re rich, Randy. You got a thriving water-bottling business. You’re one of the one percent.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t come across that way, and that’s what matters. It’s all about perception.”

  Finley told Mancini about how he’d brought someone on to help manage his image, plan a campaign. The guy, Finley said, wasn’t exactly James Carville, but for Promise Falls, he wasn’t bad. Former newspaper guy, worked for the Standard before they pulled the plug on it. Which led to a ten-minute discussion of how it was a lot easier to do what you wanted to do when there was no local paper breathing down your neck.

  “No headlines about kickbacks,” Mancini said.

  Finley frowned. “That’s a very cynical point of view, Frank. What I am is a facilitator. I make things happen. You want to set up a business that will not only profit you, but serve your community. I can help facilitate that. It’s not unreasonable that I should expect some compensation for my efforts. Be they material or political. It’s the system working the way it was designed to work.”

  Kimmy returned with their two orders of steak frites.

  Mancini said, “Could I get another scotch, and a glass of water?”

  “Tap, or bottled?”

  Before he could answer, Finley said, “I wouldn’t go with tap. Never, ever tap. Unless you’re brushing your teeth. Sweetheart, you’ve got Finley Springs, right?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I think we have San Pellegrino in sparkling, and probably Evian in flat.”

  Finley cocked his head. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Uh, I think so.”

  “Maybe you better go check.” Finley’s voice had turned subtly menacing.

  Kimmy withdrew.

  “You’re making a scene,” Mancini said. “So what if they don’t carry your water? There’s lots of brands of bottled water.”

  “I’m thinking, once I get in, this place definitely is getting a visit from the health inspector. Fire, too.”

  “This is what I mean,” Mancini said. “You can’t let yourself get tripped up by the small shit.”

  “Look, she’s talking to the manager,” Finley said.

  Seconds later, a balding, portly man in a black suit approached the table. “Mr. Finley, how nice to see you today.”

  “Carmine. How are you?”

  “Excellent. You’ll have to excuse Kimmy. She’s new, and she was unaware that she was looking after one of our most special customers. She’s getting some Finley Springs Water for your friend here as we speak.”

  “Oh, Carmine, I don’t care, one way or the other. I’m not about to tell you how to run your restaurant.”

  Carmine smiled. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to see me directly.”

  Once he was gone, Finley said, “What do you want to bet someone’s running to 7-Eleven right now?”

  “What’s this going to cost me?” Mancini said.

  “We’ve already sorted out my compensation on this, Frank.”

  “I’m talking incidentals. The greasing of palms.”

  Finley shrugged. “Hard to say. Some people come cheaper than others. Some, if you’ve got the goods on them, it doesn’t cost you a dime. Start-up costs are always unpredictable.”

  Mancini cut a piece off the end of his steak and put it into his mouth. “Did you ever do anything as a politician, back when you were mayor, that you did strictly for the people, because you thought it was the right thing to do?”

  “The welfare of my constituents was and is always my first consideration, Frank, my guiding principle, as it were.”

  “I like how you did that without even smiling.”

  “It’s a gift,” Finley said.

  • • •

  At the next table, which was separated from Finley and Mancini by a crosshatched wood divider, David Harwood had ordered only a house salad. Steak was beyond his budget.

  He knew the spot Randall Finley always asked for at the Clover, and had phoned ahead in a bid for a nearby table. The one they initially showed him to was across the aisle, in full view of where Finley and Mancini would be sitting. So David asked for the table on the other side of the divider.

  He didn’t hear everything the two men said, but he heard enough. He wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t even sure he was horrified. You signed on to work with someone like Finley, well, what did you expect?

  The question was whether he could stomach it.

  Carmine placed the leather folder with the check inside at his elbow.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  David flipped it open, glanced at the total, felt his heart skip a beat. If this was what a salad cost, what would the steak frites have run him?

  He wanted to invite Sam Worthington to dinner, but maybe not at a place as expensive as this.

  If she’d even answer his call.

  TWENTY

  Cal

  BEFORE stumbling upon the secret room, I’d been about ready to give up thinking I could help Lucy Brighton find out who’d been in her father’s house. Up to then, I had no idea why anyone would have broken in, or what they might have been looking for.

  Now I had a pretty good idea what someone wanted.

  Someone knew about that hidden room, knew what was in it. Namely, those discs, which, I was guessing, were homemade porno. It struck me that someone who’d go to all that trouble to get them was probabl
y on them. And if so, knew Adam and Miriam Chalmers.

  Knew them pretty well.

  I asked Lucy to find, for starters, an address book and phone bills, while I went back to Adam’s office, dropped into the chair behind the desk, and started looking at e-mails on his desktop computer.

  I clicked on the stamp icon, and immediately I was asked to enter a password. I decided to try “Lucy.” When that didn’t let me in, I called out: “Lucy!”

  She was in the kitchen. Her father always paid the bills sitting at the kitchen table—he didn’t trust the Internet to pay for things online—and he kept old phone bills in the drawer there.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “It wants a password. And I tried your name.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Lucy said, “Try ‘Crystal.’”

  I tried it. No luck.

  “Nope!” I cried out.

  Another short silence. Then, more quietly: “‘Miriam.’”

  I typed in the letters. Again, no joy.

  “Got any other ideas?” I said.

  “I’m thinking.” I was guessing she was at least pleased that Miriam hadn’t been picked over her or her daughter. “Try ‘Devils’ Chosen.’”

  “What?”

  She repeated it. “That was the name of the motorcycle gang he was with years ago.”

  I gave it a try. The first time, with an s apostrophe, didn’t work. I tried it again without, and still no luck. The third time, I used an uppercase D and C.

  Bingo.

  “I’m in,” I said.

  I scanned the mail program. There were dozens of e-mails in the in-box, the sent file, and the trash. It would take hours to go through all of these, but the answer might be here.

  The most recent—it had come in early this morning and had not been opened—was from a Gilbert Frobisher. He wrote:

  Heard about that crazy drive-in explosion on CNN this morning. Wow. Hope no one you knew was up there. Hell of a way to put Promise Falls on the map. Talked to your old editor at Putnam, who says if you have anything kicking around, any ideas, they’d be willing to talk, but she was not overly optimistic. You haven’t done a book in five years, your name recognition has slipped some, but still, if you had something good, she’d look at it. But she can’t guarantee the kind of advance you had in the past. Not so much money up front, but with the right book you could cash in on the back end. So, start thinking. Talk later.