Far From True

by Linwood Barclay

  David shrugged. “It’s already out there now.”

  “Has he asked the chief about this before blabbing it in front of the cameras?”

  David shook his head. “I’m guessing she’ll be hearing about it, though.”

  “And where’s our current mayor, Amanda Croydon, through all this?” Finley was saying. “Where’s the oversight? Does anyone know what’s going on? Does our current mayor have even the slightest notion? I’d like to think maybe she’s not paying attention to how the police department is being run because she’s so busy bringing new jobs to Promise Falls.” He grinned. “If only.”

  Finley waited a beat, took a breath.

  “That’s why I’m coming back. That’s why, today, I am declaring that I am a candidate for mayor of Promise Falls. I want to run this town again and return it to its former glory. I want to save Promise Falls.”

  He paused again, as though expecting applause, perhaps forgetting that members of the media did not typically clap their hands for politicians.

  He offered up an awkward grin and said, “I’m guessing there must be a few questions.”

  A woman from one of the TV stations asked, “How do you come back from what happened when you were mayor?”

  “I’m here today to answer questions about the current state of Promise Falls and why I want to be its mayor again,” Finley said. “Voters won’t find anyone more qualified. I know this town from top to bottom. I know every inch of its infrastructure. I know Promise Falls like the back of my hand.” He held up his right palm, actually studied the back of his hand.

  No no no, David thought.

  Finley continued. “I’d be happy to take a question along those lines.”

  The woman pressed on. “When you were mayor before, during your campaign for a higher office, you admitted having sex with an underage prostitute. A young girl. Do you really expect voters to go for someone with that kind of character? Do you think the citizens of Promise Falls have forgotten about that?”

  “I thought she was older,” Finley blurted.

  David briefly put a hand over his eyes.

  “Would that have made it okay?” asked the Times Union reporter.

  “Look,” said Finley, “nobody cares about that anymore. That’s water under the bridge. It was years ago. What people are concerned about are the issues, not some minor indiscretions I may or may not have made in the past.”

  “Do you know what happened to that girl?” the same TV reporter asked.

  “I always said I hoped she got the support she needed to turn her life around.”

  “She died,” the woman said. “Didn’t you know that? That she had died?”

  Finley’s face was starting to flush. “I believe I did hear that, but it was totally unrelated to—”

  “But it wasn’t. She died from a life of living on the street. She—”

  “The question you need to be asking,” Finley said, “is how the chief of police could let something like this fall between the cracks. The connection between two grisly murders. And why nothing’s being done about a possible serial killer in this town. And what connection may exist between those events and the other things that have been happening here.”

  “Were there other underage prostitutes?” asked the reporter from the radio station.

  Drops of sweat were sprouting up on Finley’s forehead.

  “This is turning into the Hindenburg,” David Harwood said to himself, but Duckworth heard it.

  “Oh, the humanity,” Detective Duckworth said.

  “You don’t see it as exploitative, to hold your announcement here where Olivia Fisher was murdered?” the Times Union reporter said.

  “That’s the whole point!” Finley said. “Don’t you get it? How fucking stupid are you people?”

  “Jesus,” David said.

  “I don’t think even he could help you now,” Duckworth said.

  “I think that’s all for today,” Finley said. “My campaign manager, Mr. Harwood, is available for any further questions.”

  He broke through the small gathering and started heading for his car, but the reporters were moving with him.

  “How old did you think she was?” someone shouted.

  “What does your wife think about you running again?” asked another.

  “For fuck’s sake!” Finley said, moving forward, head down. “It’s all ancient history!”

  David was in pursuit, as was Duckworth, who managed to come up alongside the former mayor and say, “Where’d you get that, you son of a bitch?”

  Finley glanced at him and, in the midst of the disaster his announcement had turned into, managed a smile.

  “Best to your boy,” he said, reaching his car. He hit the unlock button on his remote and scrambled into the front seat, locking the doors immediately.

  David banged on the passenger window. “Hey!” he shouted. “Let me in!”

  But Finley threw the car into drive and took off down the street, leaving the reporters, and David, standing there.

  Duckworth needed a few seconds to catch his breath, then asked David, “How’s the new gig working out?”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  ED Noble parked the car close to the back of the Laundromat so he could make a quick getaway once he’d put a bullet in Samantha Worthington’s head. He left the car unlocked. What he would’ve really liked to do was leave the keys in, with the engine running. Pull the trigger, run out the back door, hop in the car, and away he’d go.

  But that’d be just stupid. There was always the possibility someone—a kid, more than likely—might stroll by and be unable to resist the temptation to take the car for a joyride.

  Ed Noble wasn’t sure this was a nice enough neighborhood to take the chance. Didn’t matter where you were—you just couldn’t trust people. He was no fool.

  So he got out of the car, pocketed his keys, untucked his shirt so it hung over the small gun he had tucked into the waistband of his pants. It occurred to him, just then, that this gun Yolanda had given him didn’t have a silencer on it. It was going to make a big bang when it went off. All the more reason to have the car close. By the time anyone came to check out what the noise was, he’d be gone.

  He was feeling a little bit jazzed about all this. And, if he was honest with himself, scared, too.

  Ed had never actually killed anyone before. Hurt, sure. There was that one time he and Brandon—before Brandon held up that bank and got sent up—one night in the North End they beat up this guy good who’d looked at Ed’s girlfriend—well, former girlfriend—the wrong way. Dragged him out the back door when the guy went to take a piss, punched him in the head until he’d lost consciousness, then tried this thing they’d seen in a movie, where they laid the guy out on the street, put his open mouth on the edge of the curb, like he was trying to take a bite out of it, then stomped on the back of his head.

  Fuck, the noise. Like you were snapping a two-by-four over your knee.

  That was probably the worst thing Ed had ever done. Until he’d tried to kidnap that kid yesterday. But even that was pretty much nothing compared to what he was about to do now. It was like adding to your résumé. When people found out what you could do, you’d get better and better jobs. He knew this would all get back to Brandon, and the guys he knew on the inside. There might be things they’d need done out in the real world, things Ed could help them with.

  Word of mouth was everything.

  Noble didn’t head straight for the back door. He moved quickly for the wall. Then he inched along it, heading for the door, touching the gun beneath his shirt, making sure it was there, even though he could feel it digging into his side. There was a grimy, dust-covered window between him and the door. He leaned into it, putting one eye on the inside of the Laundromat.

  The window looked in on the office at the back. It afforded a
view of a desk jammed into one corner, cleaning supplies, a worktable with a coin-sorting machine sitting on it, mini-boxes of soap and other supplies, a calendar on the wall from a local appliance firm that probably serviced the machines. There was a door on the opposite wall that led into the main area. It was open, and Noble could see a sliver of what was going on in there.

  He could see the woman, talking to someone. The door wasn’t open wide enough to make out who.

  That wasn’t good.

  He was hoping there’d be no one there, but of course she was running a business, and there was always the possibility there’d be customers. But if Noble could get Sam when she was in the office, and the door was closed, if someone heard a gunshot, he figured he’d have time to get away without being spotted.

  He moved quickly to the other side of the window, gripped the doorknob, and slowly turned it. He pulled the door open half an inch per second until it was just wide enough to allow him to slip inside. Once he was in, he shut the door noiselessly behind him.

  He could hear Sam and some man talking. About a fire, about clothes that smelled all smoky.

  Noble thought the voice sounded familiar.

  Can’t be, he thought.

  He could swear the guy she was talking to was the same one who’d been there the morning before, who’d thrown soap in his eyes. If Noble ended up having to shoot a witness, was there a better witness to shoot?

  Noble stepped quietly to the other side of the room, positioned himself by the door.

  Waited.

  He heard the man say something about leaving his car unlocked. Noble’s heart was pounding as he took the gun into his right hand.

  Footsteps headed this way.

  Just in case there was someone else out there washing clothes, he wanted the door shut and locked before he pulled the trigger.

  Needed to buy himself those extra few seconds.

  She came into the room, right past him.

  He rushed her from behind, using his gun hand to reach around her, his left to cover her mouth. She managed a millisecond of scream.

  “Not a fucking sound,” he whispered into her ear.

  She squirmed in his arms, fought hard until he brought up the gun so she could see it.

  Sam went still.

  “That’s smart,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid and you’ll be just fine.”

  Yeah, right.

  “We’re just going to move together over to the door.”

  He pulled her backward, one hand still over her mouth, his other hand now pressing the gun to her temple. Once they were close enough to the door, Noble shut it with his foot.

  There was a dead bolt.

  “Don’t you make a sound now,” he said, taking his hand off her mouth long enough to throw the bolt.

  He was pleased she hadn’t screamed. The gun, clearly, had scared her into keeping her mouth shut. He felt he could release his grip on her. She turned around, her eyes wide, her face full of fear.

  It was kind of a turn-on, seeing how scared she looked.

  “What now?” she asked. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Who was that you were talking to?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Out there. Is that the same asshole from yesterday?”

  She had her eyes on the gun. “Just tell me what you want, Ed.”

  “It’s what Yolanda wants,” he told her.

  Just do it. Don’t stall. Don’t draw it out.

  “Carl’s not here,” she said. “He’s at school. And they’re not letting him out of their sight. You can’t pull the kind of stunt you pulled yesterday.”

  “That’s not what Yolanda wants,” he told her. “I mean, yeah, she still wants Carl, but she’s thought of another way to go about it.”

  Sam’s chin trembled as the realization set in. “Come on, Ed. You gotta be kidding me. Not even Yolanda would do that.”

  Ed Noble grinned nervously. “She’s something else, you gotta admit.” He raised the gun. “It’s nothing personal. I mean, with me.”

  From beyond the door, someone shouted: “Sam!”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  BEST to your boy.

  Randall Finley’s words were ringing in Barry Duckworth’s ears.

  Best to your boy.

  Trevor had been at the house, Barry recalled. He’d dropped by to pick up some CDs and then wandered into the kitchen just after Barry had been telling Maureen his concerns about the chief.

  The last thing Duckworth could have wanted was for his thoughts about Finderman to become public. Okay, so maybe she should have been keeping a closer eye on the Gaynor murder. She’d have seen how similar it was to the Fisher woman’s slaying. It would have steered his investigation in another direction from the get-go. But he was never going to point a finger. Wouldn’t the chief have been within her rights to throw it back in his lap? Why hadn’t he reviewed earlier crimes himself to look for common elements? Why hadn’t he brought himself up to speed on cases that had happened while he was away?

  He’d been venting when he told all this to Maureen. Seeking to place blame elsewhere. Not wanting to have to carry all the weight himself. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, putting any of this on the chief. But now it was out there. If she hadn’t already heard about Randall Finley’s charges, she would any minute now.

  Sitting in his car, he wondered whether he should call her. Get ahead of this. Tell her what Finley had said, and where Duckworth believed he’d gotten his information. Fess up. Fall on his sword.

  Except Duckworth didn’t know for sure.

  So before he called his boss, he had to call his son.

  He got out his cell, called up Trevor’s number from his list of contacts, and tapped on it with his thumb.

  Three rings later, a pickup.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you?” Duckworth asked.

  “Dad?”

  “Where are you, right now?”

  “I’m at work,” Trevor said.

  “You’re at Finley Springs? Or you’re on the road, doing a delivery?”

  “On the road.”

  “Where?”

  “Greenwich,” Trevor said. A small town east of Promise Falls. “I’m just coming into Greenwich. Got about five drop-offs to do here.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “I’m not going to be here all that—”

  “There’s a gas station and a Cumberland Farms on Main Street. You know where—”

  “That’s one of the places where I have to make a stop,” his son said.

  “I’ll meet you. Twenty minutes.”

  “Dad, what’s going on? Has something happened to Mom? Is she—”

  “Be there.” Duckworth ended the call.

  • • •

  Ignoring all speed limits, and turning on the flashing red lights set in the front grille, Duckworth made the trip to Greenwich in fifteen. A quarter of a mile away he spotted the Finley Springs van parked in the Cumberland Farms lot, close to the road.

  Trevor had been watching for him, and was getting out of the van as the unmarked cruiser pulled into the lot and screeched to a halt. He was standing by Duckworth’s door as he got out of the car.

  “What is it?” he asked. “You’re going to make me late for the rest of my run.”

  Duckworth got up close to his son, jabbed a finger at his chest.

  “You’ll never guess what I heard Randy say today.”

  “Huh?”

  “At a press conference. Just now. He had all this stuff to say about my boss. How she missed a connection between two homicides. I’m scratching my head, wondering how he could have come up with something like that.”

  Trevor swallowed hard. “Why are you asking me about this?”

  “I just wo
ndered if you had any idea where he came up with that.”

  Trevor averted his eyes. “Who the hell knows how he comes up with anything? He’s kind of a nutcase. Everyone knows he’s full of shit.”

  “You heard me talking to your mother.”

  Trevor said nothing.

  “You heard me talking about this with your mother. You were standing outside the kitchen and heard it.”

  “You’re always talking about work stuff. How am I supposed to know what’s private and what isn’t?”

  Duckworth placed both palms on his son’s chest and gave him a shove. Trevor stumbled backward, caught himself before tripping onto the asphalt.

  “Goddamn it, you really did do it,” Duckworth said, his cheeks flushed. “I was hoping I was wrong. I was hoping maybe he got it from somebody else. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know!” Trevor shouted.

  “Do you realize what you’ve done? That asshole’s going to turn this into a campaign issue. He’s going after my boss. You think this isn’t going to come back to me? You think it’s not going to bite me in the ass? What am I going to tell her when I get hauled into my office? What?”

  “I’m sorry!” he blurted, starting to tear up.

  “You fucked me over! Way to go! My own son! Is this payback? Is that what it is? Some lifelong grievance you decided to settle by putting my job at risk? You think it’s just me you’re hurting? You think this won’t hurt your mother? Jesus Christ, what were you thinking, blabbing to him about that?”

  “I said I’m sorry! You just don’t know what he’s like.”

  “I know what he’s like more than anyone. What are you talking about?”

  Trevor turned away, head down.

  “Trev,” Duckworth said. “Talk to me.”

  “I owed him,” his son said, back still turned.

  “Owed him what?”

  Trevor turned slowly. “It was about Trish.”

  Duckworth lowered his voice. “What about her?”

  “There was—something happened between us. An accident. A misunderstanding.”

  Duckworth reached out, gently gripped his son’s arm, slowly turned him around. “What kind of accident? When was this?”