Far From True

by Linwood Barclay

  “Trevor!” Finley said. “How’s it going?”

  Trevor Duckworth turned, saw Finley, offered up half a wave.

  “Have you met Trevor?” Finley asked David. When David shook his head, Finley did introductions. “David, this is Trevor Duckworth. Trevor, this is David Harwood.”

  “Hey,” Trevor said.

  “Duckworth?” David said. “Any relation to Barry, with the Promise Falls police?”

  “My dad,” he said with little enthusiasm.

  “We’ve met,” David said. “Not always under the best circumstances, but we’ve met. He’s a good guy.”

  Trevor said nothing.

  “David’s going to be handling my campaign strategy,” Finley said. To David, he added, “It’s a pretty open secret around here that I’m going back into politics.”

  “I’ve got to do a run,” Trevor said, closing the back doors of the van. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same,” David said.

  “Bit of a sad sack,” Finley said as Trevor Duckworth got behind the wheel of the van. “But I like to help people when they’re down and out.”

  “What do you mean, down and out?”

  “Kid had been looking for work for some time, and I gave him a job. That should be one of the five things. Why I want to be mayor. Because I like to help people out.”

  “Noted,” David said.

  They went down a short flight of concrete steps to the parking area, walked over to a picnic table set under the shade of a large oak. Finley dropped onto the bench and, with some effort, swung his thick legs over it and under the table. David sat opposite.

  “How about a second one?”

  “I want to see Promise Falls move into the future.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It doesn’t have to mean anything, David. It’s a campaign platform. How long did you work in newspapers, anyway?”

  “A third.”

  Finley pondered. “How about this? For me, it’s a way to seek redemption. I’m a flawed man—I made mistakes—but all I ever wanted was an opportunity to serve my fellow citizens. I want another chance at that.”

  David was caught off guard. “That’s actually kind of good.”

  “You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s from the heart, that’s why.”

  At that moment David understood the central appeal of the man sitting across from him. He had the ability to connect. David had his doubts about Finley’s sincerity, but he came across as the real deal. A regular voter would believe him. A regular voter would look at Finley and think, Yeah, he’s an asshole, but who isn’t, really? So what the hell, I’d rather have him than some other guy who thinks he’s better than me.

  “You should be writing these down,” Finley said.

  “I’ll remember. That leaves two more.”

  “Okay. Uh, how about jobs? I want to bring jobs to Promise Falls.”

  “That’s kind of like the first one. Wanting to help people out.”

  “Oh yeah. It is kind of the same. How about Five Mountains?”

  David flinched on the inside. He had bad memories of the amusement park. It was where his wife had gone missing five years ago. Ultimately, she was found, but there was no happy ending.

  “What about Five Mountains?”

  “I want it reopened,” Finley said. “I want to shame the corporate owners into canceling their plans to close it. And failing that, I want someone else to come in and take it over. That drew plenty of dollars to the town. It should stay open.”

  “What do you think the odds are they’ll change their mind?”

  “Oh, zero,” Finley said. “Not a chance. Already tried talking to Gloria Fenwick.” I remembered her. Finley grinned. “Even offered her a small inducement, but she declined.”

  “Jesus, a bribe?”

  Finley sighed. “David, please. Anyway, that should be in my platform.”

  “But if there’s nothing you can do about it, then . . .”

  “Just because it can’t be done doesn’t mean I can’t tell the people I want it to be done,” he said. “You hear Amanda even raising a peep about this?”

  Amanda Croydon, the current mayor, who, based on anything David had heard, was planning to run again.

  “I can nail her for not even trying,” he said.

  “When you’re making a speech, I’d avoid phrases like ‘nail her.’”

  Another grin. “So what’s that leave us? What are we down to? One reason left for why I want to be mayor.” He pursed his lips. He seemed to be struggling with this one.

  “Maybe the real reason is harder to acknowledge publicly,” David said.

  His eyes went to slits. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I’m just saying that maybe some of your motivations for running have less to do with the public good and more to do with personal gain.”

  “What are you getting at, David?”

  David put his palms a few feet apart on the picnic table, as though bracing himself. “What was your meeting with Frank Mancini about?”

  “Why you asking?”

  “Because you wouldn’t tell me. I’m supposed to be working for you, but you keep things from me.”

  “You don’t have to know everything. You only need to know what I want you to know.”

  “Suppose I’m asked? You’ve put me in the role of your spokesperson. If someone wants to know why you’ve been meeting with Mancini, what should I say?”

  “Who’s going to ask?”

  “I am. Right now.”

  “He’s a developer. He’s the kind of guy who brings jobs and money to the table. Of course I’m going to talk to a guy like that.”

  “Whose money and whose table?” David asked.

  Finley’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something you want to get off your chest?”

  “I’m just saying, Mancini’s bought the land where four people died last night. That property, for a whole slew of reasons, is going to be under the microscope for some time. That’s something you need to think about.”

  “You seem to be suggesting a policy of openness and transparency. That be right, David?”

  “Always better to get ahead of bad news,” David said. “That way you’re able to handle it when it breaks. So, yeah, openness might be one of your five. How you want to run an open and aboveboard city hall.”

  Finley nodded slowly. “So, is that the policy you’ve adopted with your boy? Ethan, right?”

  “What?”

  “So you’ve told him, then?”

  David wondered what the hell his nine-year-old son had to do with any of this. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’ve told Ethan about his mother. About Jan.”

  “What about Jan?”

  “That she wasn’t all she claimed to be. A lot of her story never became public. But you hear things. It was a tragic story, no doubt about it. But some might say Jan brought that on herself. Killed by the man whose hand she cut off. Came here to live a normal life, married a regular guy like you. But she was hiding out, wasn’t she? Thing is, the past has a way of catching up with you. Oh, yes, the story got around. I heard bits and pieces. I have to say, her exploits make me look like an amateur.”

  “You’re a piece of work.”

  “I’m just trying to make a point that we all keep some facts back. Maybe it was all for the good that Ethan’s mother met a sudden end. That way there were never charges, no trial. A couple of stories, and then it all went away.”

  “My son was four years old when his mother died,” David said. “Of course I didn’t tell him the whole story then.”

  “And since? What is he now? Nine, ten years old?”

  “Eventually, I’ll fill him in.”

  Finley leaned toward David. “I
f it would help in any way, I could tell him.”

  “Don’t go there, Randy.”

  “It’d be my way of lessening the burden for you.” He opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. “It’s what I do.”

  David felt his face warming with rage.

  “You know, I like this,” Finley said. “We have a good back-and-forth, a nice rapport. We can get things out in the open. You can say what’s on your mind, and I can say what’s on my mind. I think that bodes well for moving forward. Anyway, here’s number five: Cut the bullshit. That’s what I’m about. I want to cut the bullshit. I think the voters will like that.”

  Finley got up and headed back into the office, leaving David to dig his fingernails into the top of the picnic table.

  TWENTY-SIX

  AFTER his meeting with Olivia Fisher’s father, Barry Duckworth stopped at a Burger King to grab some lunch.

  He went in telling himself he would order one of their salads. They had a straight garden salad, then a couple with chicken in them. Plus some wraps with lots of lettuce, and more chicken, stuffed into them. Any of those would be better than his usual order: a Whopper with a side order of fries.

  He needed to curb that kind of eating. Change his habits. Get some of that fat off his belly. Didn’t the doctors say that was the worst kind of fat? That stuff that gathered at your waist? But then, what the hell other kind of fat was there? Did you see people walking around with big fat thighs and thick arms and washboard stomachs?

  Duckworth could have done the drive-through, but he didn’t want to eat in the car. He’d end up with ketchup and mustard on his shirt. So he parked the unmarked cruiser, went inside, approached the counter, and said, “I’ll have a Whopper and a small order of fries.” Paused. “With a Diet Coke.”

  “Cheese on the Whopper?” the girl behind the counter asked.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Once he had his tray, sat down, and unwrapped his burger, he got out his phone and entered a number.

  Six rings, then: “You’ve reached Chief Rhonda Finderman. Please leave a message at the beep.”

  “It’s Barry. There’s something I think we need to go public about, but I gotta bounce it off you first. Call me when you get a chance.”

  He set the phone down and shoved four french fries into his mouth before attacking the burger. He felt a small measure of guilt with every bite. When he was done, he felt something more than that.

  A slight pain in his side. He stood up, kept one hand on the table to steady himself. He figured it was indigestion, or maybe it was something muscular. Sitting all the time, either in the car or at his desk, even here at Burger King.

  Duckworth took a few deep breaths.

  “You okay?”

  A young woman clearing off tables was looking at him with concern.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m good. Thank you.”

  And he was pretty sure he was. The pain was receding. He saw that he had missed one last fry, snatched it up, and tossed it into his mouth before heading out to his car.

  • • •

  At the station, he ran down the plate Lionel Grayson had written on a scrap of paper. It was from the Honda van belonging to the man who’d complained angrily about a drive-in movie he’d deemed inappropriate for his children.

  Did it make sense that someone unhappy about a film’s content would blow up a drive-in? Not really, Duckworth thought. And yet, someone had a reason. Duckworth knew that whatever the bomber’s motive was, it wasn’t going to be rational. So Angry Dad was as good a place to start as any.

  The van was registered to Harvey Coughlin, of 32 Riverside Drive. When Duckworth Googled the name, a LinkedIn business listing popped up. Harvey Coughlin, assuming it was the same man who owned the Honda, was the manager of PF Lumber and Building Supplies. Duckworth knew the place. A few years ago, when he’d attempted to build a deck onto the back of his house, he’d bought all his wood and hardware at PF Lumber. And the contractor who’d come in to dismantle and redo everything Duckworth had done had also gotten what he’d needed at PF.

  Duckworth figured there was a better chance of finding Coughlin at work than at home.

  Once he’d talked to him, he had one more person he wanted to drop in on.

  • • •

  “I think Harvey’s out in the yard somewhere,” said the woman at the checkout.

  Duckworth noticed a microphone on the counter in front of her that he guessed she could use to page the store manager. “Can you get him on this?” he asked.

  The woman glanced at the microphone. “I could.”

  “Would you, please?”

  The woman sighed. She picked up the mike, and through the store her voice rang out. “Harv. Front counter. Harv to the front.” She looked at Duckworth and said, “He should be around in a minute or so.”

  It took three. A short, heavyset man in a plaid shirt and jeans with a HARVEY name tag strode up. Duckworth was watching for him and said, “Mr. Coughlin?”

  “Yeah?” he said, with more cheer in his voice than the woman who’d paged him.

  “I’m Barry Duckworth,” he said, adding quietly, “Promise Falls police.”

  Harvey’s eyes widened. “Oh, hi. Good to meet you.” He offered a hand and Duckworth took it. “This about the thefts?”

  Duckworth suggested they move away from the cashier so they could talk more privately.

  “You’ve had trouble here?”

  “Yeah. Twice in the last three months. Guys coming in sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning. Making off with stacks of plywood. Not easy to do that without attracting some attention. You caught somebody?”

  “Sorry. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “What is it?”

  “A few weeks ago, you took the family to the Constellation.”

  “The drive-in?”

  “That’s right. You heard about what happened last night.”

  “Heard? It’s all anybody’s talking about. But like you say, I was there a few weeks ago, but not last night. I can ask around, see if anybody here went last night, if it’s witnesses you’re looking for.”

  “Do you know who Lionel Grayson is?”

  Harvey Coughlin looked blank. “No idea.”

  “He’s the manager—or he was the manager—of the Constellation. He says you and he spoke a few weeks ago. When you were unhappy about a film you thought was inappropriate for your kids.”

  His face drained of color. “Jesus, you’re here because of that?”

  “I wanted to ask you about that conversation. Mr. Grayson says you were very upset.”

  “I—I mean, yeah, I was angry. But it wasn’t a big deal or anything. I mean—”

  “Mr. Grayson thought it was a big enough deal to make a note of your license plate.”

  “No way.”

  “Why don’t you tell me your version of what happened?”

  “I—you don’t seriously think I had something to do with what happened up there, do you?”

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  He thought back. “It was nothing. I just—Jesus, I just thought it was wrong to be showing a movie with a whole lot of the f-word after they’d run a kids’ movie. You know? Tiffany, my daughter? We have a hard time getting her to settle down. You think she’s going to fall asleep after the first movie, but she doesn’t, so she’s wide-awake, and everyone is saying ‘fuck’ this and ‘fuck’ that, so we had to leave and I wanted my money back and I looked for the manager on the way out and, you know, let him know I wasn’t happy.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Did you tell him you were going to take your complaint elsewhere? To the town?”

  Harvey shrugged. “I might have.”

  “Were you shouting at him?�
��

  “I might have raised my voice a little. But shouting? I don’t know that I was shouting.”

  “Did you follow it up? Did you make a complaint with anyone?”

  He shrugged. “No. I was just blowing off steam. By the next morning I’d kinda forgotten all about it.”

  “Do you lose your temper like that a lot?”

  “I don’t think I lost my temper. No, I don’t do that.”

  “You sell explosives here?” Duckworth asked.

  “What?”

  “Dynamite? Anything like that?”

  “No, we don’t sell anything like that at all,” Harvey said. “What are you trying to say?”

  “But you’d know how to procure it, I imagine. People always having to bring something down to put up something new.”

  “Listen to me. I would never, ever, ever do anything like that,” Coughlin protested. Duckworth could see fear in the man’s eyes. “People were killed up there. You think I would kill people because I was upset about a movie?”

  “Somebody did it,” Duckworth said. “Maybe it was because their popcorn wasn’t buttered enough.”

  He shouldn’t have said that. All he could think of now was buttered popcorn.

  • • •

  Next stop: the widow of Dr. Jack Sturgess.

  Duckworth wasn’t looking forward to the interview. The woman had been through a lot. Not only had she lost her husband, but she’d had to endure the destruction of her husband’s reputation.

  There was no doubt he’d murdered two people. There was the nursing home employee turned blackmailer, and the old lady who lived next door to him.

  But had he killed Rosemary Gaynor, too? If it turned out he had, then he was Duckworth’s number one suspect in the Fisher murder, too. He’d already been turning this over in his head, however. Killers tended to repeat their methods. Sturgess had used lethal injection in one murder, a pillow in another.

  Gaynor and Fisher had not died so easily.

  There was a For Sale sign on the front lawn when he parked out front of the handsome two-story house. Ten seconds after he rang the bell, Tanya Sturgess opened the door. She was dressed in a pair of gray sweats, graying hair pulled back, several damp strands hanging over her eyes.