Broken Promise: A Thriller

by Linwood Barclay

  No answer.

  Then Arlene went to the top of the stairs that led down to the basement. “Don? You there?”

  When she didn’t get a reply, she figured there was only one place left to check. She went out the back door and limped across the yard to their garage. The main door was closed, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. She tried the side entrance, found it unlocked, and entered.

  And there was Don. Standing in front of his workbench, clutching a bottle of beer. There were two empties standing in front of him.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said.

  “I was right here,” he said.

  “Well, I had to look in all the other places first before I found that out, didn’t I? Me with a bad leg and all.”

  “You should have looked here first.”

  “What are you doing drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon?” she asked. “In the middle of the summer, maybe, but now?”

  “Is that why you were looking for me? To find out if I was having a beer?”

  “I didn’t know you were having a beer until I found you.”

  “Then what the hell do you want?”

  She did not answer him. She crossed her arms and looked sternly at him. “What’s going on with you?”

  He grunted. “There’s nothing going on with me.”

  “How many years have I been married to you? Whatever the number is, double it, and that’s what it feels like,” Arlene said. “I can tell when something’s eating at you. You started acting funny yesterday.”

  “I told you, I’m fine. What did you want?”

  “I wanted to ask you . . .” She stopped herself. “Damn it.”

  “What?”

  “What the hell did I want to ask you?” She shook her head. “This is driving me crazy.”

  “Where were you when you decided you just had to find me?” Don asked. “They say if you think where you were when—”

  “Rice or potatoes?” she asked him.

  “What?”

  “With pork chops. Rice or potatoes, or sweet potatoes? Oh, and I’ve got a box of that Stove Top stuffing that Ethan likes.”

  “I don’t care,” Don said. “Make whatever you want.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Talk to me.”

  He pressed his lips together, as though keeping the words he wanted to say from escaping. He shook his head.

  “Is it David? And Ethan? Is it getting you down, having them here? He just needs time to get his life back together. It would have been better if he’d just stayed in Boston, hadn’t quit that job at—”

  “It’s not that,” Don said. “I . . . I like having them around. I like having my grandson here.”

  The corner of her mouth went up. “Me, too.” She paused, then said, “You’d better spill what it is that’s on your mind fast, because I need to head upstairs and lie down with some ice on this goddamn leg. Talk.”

  Don opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. The fourth time he tried, words came out.

  “I have regrets,” he said.

  Arlene nodded. “Sure. We all do.” She hesitated. “I hope I’m not one of them.”

  He shook his head, put a hand on her shoulder. “No.”

  “Well, that’s something, I guess,” she said.

  “There are times when I could have been a better man.”

  “Better for whom?” she asked.

  “Just . . . better.”

  Arlene had always thought, even with all his faults—and there was no question Don had a few—he was as good a man as any woman could hope to find. It was difficult for her to imagine that this was a man who harbored deep secrets, that there could be anything he’d done that would make her think less of him.

  She’d never had any reason to believe he’d been unfaithful to her, even though there would be the occasional fleeting thought. But that had more to do with her own insecurities than with suspicions about Don’s behavior.

  “There’s times,” he said, “when you wish you acted differently, but you can’t go back and do things again. The moment is gone; there’s nothing you can do. And the thing is, even if you tried to do the right thing, there’s no guarantee you might have been able to make a difference. But it haunts you just the same. You feel like less of a person.”

  “Okay,” Arlene said slowly.

  “Like, for instance,” he said, “you remember that time you were backing into that spot at the Walmart, and you—”

  “Oh, please don’t bring that up.”

  “You dinged that car, and you got out and had a look, and it was a little dent, and you thought about leaving a note, but finally you decided to get back in the car and drive off and go shop somewhere else instead that day?”

  Now she was annoyed. “Why would you bring that up? That was years ago. I felt so guilty about that. I never should have told you. To this day I feel bad I didn’t leave a note. You remember two years ago I was using that machine at the drugstore where you can check your blood pressure? And I thought I broke it? And I told them about it and offered to pay? And lucky for me, they said it had broken down before and it wasn’t my fault, but it could have been. I was prepared to do the right thing, so why you’d dredge up that other matter I don’t—”

  “I only mention it because it was nothing,” Don said. “It was nothing compared to what I did—or didn’t do.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Those lips were pressed together again. Arlene sensed he was getting to the hardest part. He said nothing for more than a minute, but finally said, “I was one of them.”

  “One of what?”

  “One of the people who did nothing,” Don Harwood said.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  ANGUS Carlson phoned his wife, Gale, at the dental clinic where she worked as a hygienist. She was with a patient, doing a cleaning, but Carlson told the woman at the desk that it was an emergency.

  Several seconds later, Gale came on the line. “What is it? What’s happened? Are you okay?”

  “It’s not that kind of emergency,” he told her. “It’s something good.”

  “Oh, God, you gave me a heart attack. You’re a cop! Someone says it’s an emergency and my mind goes to the worst possible place!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t think.”

  “I’ve got someone in the chair. What’s happened?”

  “I got a promotion.”

  “What?” Excited now, no longer annoyed. “What kind of promotion?”

  “It’s temporary,” he said. “But if I do a good job, they might make it permanent.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Detective,” he said. “They’ve got me working as a detective.”

  “That’s fantastic! That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you.”

  “I just wanted you to know. I wanted you to be the first call.”

  “Does this mean you’ll get more money?”

  “I’ll probably get a bump up while I’m doing it.”

  “Because,” Gale said gently, “if you get a raise, this could be a good time—”

  “Only thing I’m a bit worried about is this guy I have to work with. Duckworth. I don’t think he likes me. There was this thing with squirrels, and I was just making a joke and—”

  “Squirrels?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to work it out with him. Prove to him I’m not an idiot.”

  “You’re not,” Gale said. “You’re going to do great. But what I was going to say was, if you’re going to be making more money, maybe this would be a good time to think about starting a—”

  “Please, Gale, don’t go there,” Angus Carlson said.

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “I know what you’re going to say. That’
s not why I’m calling you. I don’t want to get into that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gale said. “I just thought—”

  “You know how I feel about this.”

  “I know, but we’ve had this discussion. I’m not like her. I’d be a good mother. Just because—”

  “That reminds me. I’m going to let her know.”

  “Let who know?”

  “My mother. I’m going to let her know.”

  “Angus.”

  “I am. She never thought I’d amount to anything. I’m going to tell her.”

  “Angus, please,” Gale said. “Don’t say that. Let it go. We left that behind. We came here to get away from all that.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally, his voice somewhat distant: “Okay, okay. You’re right. I don’t have to do that.”

  “We should . . . celebrate,” Gale said, her voice starting to break. A sniff, then: “When you get home.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying.”

  “You sound like you’re crying. This is a big thing for me, Gale. Don’t ruin it by crying.”

  “I said I wasn’t crying. I have to go. I have to get back to Mr. Ormin.”

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ll go out. You want to do that?”

  “You pick,” Gale said. “I have to go.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  THE first thing Sturgess and Gaynor had to do was get rid of Marshall Kemper’s van. The doctor drove; Gaynor followed in the Audi. Sturgess was mindful that he didn’t want to take any route, or leave the van, anyplace where there might be video cameras. He did not want to be showing up on any surveillance video driving a vehicle owned by a man who would soon be on a missing-persons list. That left out the parking lots of major department stores, fast-food outlets, or getting onto a toll road like the New York State Thruway.

  Nor did Sturgess want to take a lot of time disposing of the van. He needed to return to Kemper’s place, where he believed Sarita was waiting for the man. And then it hit him—the solution was simple: Leave the van at Kemper’s house.

  He phoned Gaynor in the Audi, told him where he was going. The doctor could hear a baby making gurgling noises in the background. “Hang back a block or so,” Sturgess said. “We don’t want anyone seeing your car, noticing your license plate, out front of Kemper’s place.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “You just take care of your kid,” Sturgess said. “I’ll handle this.”

  He opened the map program on his smartphone—the van did not have GPS in it—and looked up Kemper’s Groveland Street address. As soon as he saw it on the screen, he realized he knew roughly where it was, and wouldn’t need directions.

  He kept glancing in the mirror, saw the large mouth of the Audi grille trailing him right up until he turned onto Groveland, at which point Gaynor hung back. Sturgess pulled into the driveway at 36A and 36B. Kemper’s place was on the left.

  He turned off the engine and sat for a moment before getting out. If Sarita was inside, she might have heard the van pull up and, thinking it was her boyfriend, run outside to greet him.

  When she didn’t, the doctor got out and went to the door. Knocked. When no one answered, he knocked harder. Finally he tried turning the knob and, finding the door unlocked, stepped inside.

  “Hello?” he said. “Sarita, are you here?”

  It was a small apartment. He walked to the middle of it, surveyed the unmade bed, the dirty dishes in the sink, an untouched breakfast sandwich, men’s clothes scattered across the floor. The bathroom door was open. He poked his head in, pulled back the bathtub curtain. Not only did he not see Sarita, he saw no signs that a woman was living here. Which meant either Kemper had been lying, or that he’d been telling the truth, and Sarita had skipped.

  He had a feeling it was the latter.

  But if she had been here, she must have left recently. Kemper, desperate for a second needle that would save his life, had said she was here. Maybe she’d been trying to reach him on his phone, and when she couldn’t, panicked. She had to know he’d been trying to blackmail Bill Gaynor, so she might be thinking the police had picked him up, and this was going to be their next stop.

  And then he remembered that when Kemper’s phone had rung, it had shown STEMPLE as the caller.

  Sturgess got out his phone again, opened the app for phone numbers and addresses, and typed in “Stemple.”

  “Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. The address attached to that name was the apartment next door.

  Sturgess walked out, made the short journey to the other apartment, and rapped on the door. He could hear a television. He knocked again, at which point someone hollered, “Hold your horses!”

  Finally, an elderly woman opened the door. She looked him up and down, at the doctor’s expensive suit, and said, “I ain’t dead yet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You look like an undertaker.”

  “I’m not,” Sturgess said. “You must be Mrs. Stemple?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m looking for Sarita. Is she here?”

  “Sarita?” the woman said. “Who the hell is that?”

  Sturgess put his palm flat on the door, pushed it wide-open, and walked in.

  “Hey,” she said. “You can’t do that.”

  The apartment was slightly larger than Kemper’s, with a bedroom attached to the living area. He explored the two rooms, peered into the bathroom.

  “I know she was here,” Sturgess said. “She made several calls from your phone. Recently. You going to deny that?”

  “Maybe I was sleeping,” Mrs. Stemple said. “Someone could have come in and used the phone while I was having a nap in front of the TV.”

  “Where is she?” Sturgess said, keeping his voice level. “If you don’t tell me, half an hour from now you’ll be downtown getting charged with . . .” He had to think. “Harboring a fugitive. That’s what you’ll be charged with.”

  “You another cop?” she said.

  Sturgess thought, Shit. The police had already been here? Did they already have Sarita?

  “I was sent back here to talk to you again,” Sturgess said, improvising. “We don’t think you were very forthcoming with our other officer.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “I want you to get out of my house. I want to watch my shows.”

  Sturgess looked at the high-tech chair in its elevated position. On the small table next to it, a remote, a book of crossword puzzles, an open box of chocolates, a Danielle Steel novel. That was her whole world there, a command center, sitting in front of the television.

  Sturgess walked over there, found where the TV cord led to a power bar, and yanked it out. The TV went black.

  “Hey!” Mrs. Stemple said.

  The doctor knelt down, started fiddling with the cables.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m going to take your DVR, your cables, all this shit,” he said.

  “What the hell for?”

  “Because you won’t cooperate,” he said.

  “She went to the bus station.”

  He stopped. “What?”

  “Sarita. She took a taxi to the bus station. She’s going to New York. Now turn my TV back on.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  The woman shrugged. “Ten minutes? I don’t know. Hook that back up.”

  Sturgess plugged the TV back in, and the screen came to life. He stood up and said, “There you go.”

  “Now get out,” Mrs. Stemple said.

  “Let me help you into your chair,” he said.

  “My chair helps me get into my chair,” she said, and positioned herself in front of it. She settled in, grabbed the remote, and powered
the chair back down.

  “I’ll let myself out,” Sturgess said.

  “Whatever,” the woman said.

  He exited the apartment, but hesitated before getting out his phone to ask Gaynor to come down the street to pick him up. He stood outside Mrs. Stemple’s door, thinking.

  Sooner or later, after Kemper was reported missing, someone was going to come back here and interview Mrs. Stemple.

  And maybe she’d mention that officer who came to see her, the one who unplugged her TV.

  And the police would realize that someone else had been here to see her. Not a cop. Asking about Sarita Gomez.

  Who, by that time, might be as hard to find as Marshall Kemper.

  He hadn’t given the woman his name, but would she be able to recognize him? If it ever came to that? If the police put enough of this together to place him in a lineup?

  Sturgess felt a pounding in his chest. His mouth was dry.

  Giving Kemper that fatal injection hadn’t been an easy thing to do. But it had been necessary. There were times when you had to do things that were beyond your normal experience.

  It was possible that there were other things he was going to have to do that were necessary.

  But the doctor wanted a second opinion.

  He got out his phone, entered a number, waited for the pickup.

  “Hey,” Sturgess said.

  The doctor explained the situation. That Kemper was dead. That he had a lead on Sarita Gomez. But this old lady presented a possible loose end.

  He was thinking one of the oversize pillows he’d seen in the bedroom would do the trick. Wouldn’t leave a needle mark. Would anyone really consider an old woman who’d stopped breathing all that suspicious?

  “So, what do you think?” Dr. Jack Sturgess asked.

  “Dear God,” Agnes Pickens said. “Do what you have to do.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  AGNES set her phone down on the kitchen island.