No. Too much was at stake.
“I'm sorry,” Marian said. “But I find this ‘current thinking' absurd. And I haven't heard this theory on the news, or in the papers, or anywhere except from you.”
Surprisingly, Stone's face lit with a satisfied smile. “The police haven't been here yet?”
“No. No, they haven't.”
“They hate it when I do this.”
“Do what?”
“Beat them to an interview. Let's go on before they get here and throw me out. What can you tell me about the death of Jack Molloy?”
“Before they get here?”
“Well, of course they'll want to talk to everyone Harry Randall did. I was just hoping you might be able to point me in a useful direction first. So: Jack Molloy?”
Marian had a sense of rounding a bend in the road into a landscape that had changed without warning, where withering trees stood isolated on hills grown bare and bleak.
“Jack?” Marian spoke calmly but thought quickly, weighing options, making choices. “I went over that with Mr. Randall. I don't know anything about it except what was in the news at the time.”
“You were all friends back then, weren't you? James McCaffery, the Molloy brothers, Mark Keegan, you. You were dating McCaffery. Or is that wrong?”
“No, that's correct,” Marian said. Except that she and Jimmy had not “dated” since they were fourteen. “Going together” was what people said then, and that covered everything from the crisp fall days when Marian wrapped herself in Jimmy's varsity jacket, with its C for Captain, to the evening she arrived at his basement apartment—the month he'd entered the Fire Academy—with a spare toothbrush, a comb, and two brand-new nightgowns to fold into his bureau drawers.
“Why did Mark Keegan kill Jack Molloy?”
Marian considered the young woman. What was this?
And what could it become—be made to be? In this bleak landscape, could Marian plant seeds?
“You think Markie shooting Jack has something to do with Mr. Randall's death?”
“It's the story he was working on.”
Marian sat back. She paused, as though reluctant to go on, and said, “It's the money. The payments to Sally. You think there's something wrong there. Mr. Randall thought so, too.”
“Well, it's clear some people were lying about it, so something's obviously wrong somewhere. What can you tell me about it?”
“Nothing. Just that the payments came. We all thought they were from New York State.”
“Who told you that?”
“Sally. It's what her lawyer told her.”
“Phillip Constantine?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know where the money really came from?”
“He had to, don't you think?” Marian sipped at her coffee. It was bitter; had she forgotten sugar? “Have you talked to him?”
“I will.”
She would; of course she would. “He'll lie to you.”
“Why do you say that?”
Bitter or not, Marian drank. “Because he lied to me.”
“What did he say?”
“That he got the money from Jimmy.”
“How do you know that's not true?”
“Because it's ridiculous.”
“In what way?”
“Every way! Jimmy was a firefighter, where would he get so much money? And why on earth this absurd charade? He was Markie's closest friend. If he had money and wanted to help Sally out, why not just give it to her?” With horror Marian heard her own voice rising. She tried for a look of righteous indignation. “He's hiding something. Phil,” she added, to make sure this reporter, who seemed a little dim, would understand. “He's trying to blame something on Jimmy because Jimmy's dead. And because Jimmy's a hero, so whatever he was up to—Phil—if he can hook it to Jimmy, it won't look so bad.”
Laura Stone asked, “Where do
Enunciating very clearly: “I have no idea.”
“Captain McCaffery didn't tell you?”
