Barbara Cromwell at 12 Claremont Road. The name meant nothing to him. There's a rental car
place down the street, Myron said. You go back. Talk to Hester Crimstein. See what you can
learn.
And you?
I'm going to check out Barbara Cromwell of Twelve Claremont Road.
Sounds like a plan, Win said.
A good one?
I didn't say that.
Chapter 34
Massachusetts, like Myron's home state of New Jersey, can quickly turn from big city to fullfledged town to hicksville. That was the case here. Twelve Claremont Road why the numbers reached twelve when the whole road had only three buildings on it Myron could not say was an old farmhouse. At least it looked old. The color, probably once a deep red, had faded to a barely visible, watery pastel. The top of the structure curled forward as though suffering from osteoporosis. The front roof overhang had split down the middle, the right lip dipping forward like the mouth of a stroke victim. There were loose boards and major cracks and the grass was tall enough to go on the adult rides at a Six Hags.
He stopped in front of Barbara Cromwell's house and debated his approach. He hit the redial button and Big Cyndi answered.
Got anything yet?
Not very much, Mr. Bolitar. Barbara Cromwell is thirty-one years old. She was divorced four years ago from a Lawrence Cromwell.
Children?
That's all I have right now, Mr. Bolitar. I'm terribly sorry.
He thanked her and said to keep trying. He looked back at the house. There was a dull, steady thudding in his chest. Thirty-one years old. He reached into his pocket and took out the computer rendering of the aged Lucy Mayor. He stared at it. How old would Lucy be if she were still alive? Twenty-nine, maybe thirty. Close in age, but who cares? He shook the thought away, but it didn't go easy.
Now what?
He turned off the engine. A curtain jumped in an upstairs window. Spotted. No choice now. He opened the door and walked up the drive. It had been paved at one time, but the grass now laid claim to all but a few patches of tar. The side yard had one of those plastic Fisher-Price tree houses with a slide and rope ladder; the loud yellow, blue, and red of the play set shone through the brown grass like gems against black velvet. He reached the door. No bell, so he knocked and waited.
He could hear house sounds, someone running, someone whispering. A child called out, Mom! Someone hushed him.
Myron heard footsteps, and then a woman said, Yes?
Ms. Cromwell?
What do you want?
Ms. Cromwell, my name is Myron Bolitar. I'd like to talk to you a moment.
I don't want to buy anything.
No, ma'am, I'm not selling
And I don't accept door-to-door solicitations. You want a donation, you ask by mail.
I'm not here for any of that.
Brief silence.
Then what do you want? she said.
Ms. Cromwell he'd clipped on his most reassuring voice now would you mind opening
your door?
I'm calling the police.
No, no, please, just wait a second.
What do you want?
I want to ask you about Clu Haid.
There was a long pause. The little boy started talking again. The woman hushed him. I don't
know anybody by that name.
Please open the door, Ms. Cromwell. We need to talk.
Look, mister, I'm friendly with all the cops around here. I say the word, they'll lock you up for
trespassing.
I understand your concerns, Myron said. How about if we talk by phone?
Just go away.
The little boy started crying.
Go away, she repeated. Or I'll call the police.
More crying.
Okay, Myron said. I'm leaving. Then, figuring what the hey, he shouted, Does the name
Lucy Mayor mean anything to you?
The child's crying was the only reply.
Myron let loose a sigh and started back to the car. Now what? He hadn't even been able to see
her. Maybe he could poke around the house, try to peek in a window. Oh, that was a great idea.
Get arrested for peeping. Or worse, scare a little kid. And she'd call the cops for sure
Hold the phone. Barbara Cromwell said that she was friendly with the police in town. But so was Myron. In a way. Wilston was the town where Clu had been nabbed on that first drunk driving charge when he was in the minors. Myron had gotten him off with the help of two cops. He scanned the memory banks for names. It didn't take him long. The arresting officer was named Kobler.
Myron didn't remember his first name. The sheriff was a guy named Ron Lem-mon. Lemmon was in his fifties then. He might have retired. But odds were pretty good one of them would still be on the force. They might know something about the mysterious Barbara Cromwell.
Worth a shot anyway.
Chapter 35
One might expect the Wilston police station to be in a dinky little building. Not so. It was in the basement of a tall, fortresslike structure of dark, old brick. The steps down had one of those old bomb shelter signs, the black and yellow triangles still bright in the ominous circle. The image brought back memories of Burnet Hill Elementary School and the old bombing drills, a somewhat intense activity in which children were taught that crouching in a corridor was a suitable defense against a Soviet nuclear blitzkrieg.
Myron had never been to the station house before. After Clu's accident he'd met with the two cops in the back booth of a diner on Route 9. The whole episode took less than ten minutes. No one wanted to hurt the up- and-coming superstar. No one wanted to ruin Clu's promising young career. Dollars changed hands some for the arresting officer, some for the sheriff in charge. Donations, they'd called it with a chuckle. Everyone smiled.
The desk sergeant looked up at Myron when he came in. He was around thirty and, like so many cops nowadays, built as if he spent more time in the weight room than the doughnut shop. His nametag read Hobert. May I help you?
Does Sheriff Lemmon still work here?
No, sorry to say. Ron died, oh, gotta be a year now. Retired about two years before that.
I'm sony to hear that.
Yeah, cancer. Ate through him like a hungry rat. Hobert shrugged as if to say, What can you
do?
How about a guy named Kobler? I think he was a deputy about ten years ago.
Hobert's voice was suddenly tight. Eddie's not on the force anymore.
Does he still live in the area?
No. I think he lives in Wyoming. May I ask your name, sir?
Myron Bolitar.
Your name sounds familiar.
