“Great, but you didn’t have to deliver the news personally,” I say.
“Oh yes, I did.”
He says that in a somewhat ominous fashion, but I’ll find out what’s going on soon enough. “Come on in.”
When we get inside the house, Laurie is in the den reading. “Laurie, honey, look what I found outside in the street. A pathetic urchin. Do we have any porridge we can spare?”
“Don’t listen to him, Pete,” she says.
“It’s hard not to; he never shuts up.”
“You want a beer?” I ask.
“I’m on duty.”
“You want a Shirley Temple?” When he doesn’t answer, I ask him who the print on the bottle belonged to.
“Guy by the name of Ray Camby. Local muscle, available for hire.”
Camby is the name of the party that the phone was linked to in Montana. “Originally from Montana?” I ask.
“How the hell do I know? And who gives a shit?”
“Anything else you can tell me about him?” I ask. “Without being surly?”
“Well, there is one other thing, sort of a funny coincidence.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, it’s the darnedest thing. Seems they fished Camby’s body out of the Passaic River this morning. You have a beer with him, and then he turns up dead. What are the odds against that?”
“Poor guy,” I say. “Do you know where the services are being held? I feel like I should send something.”
“Boys, boys…” Laurie admonishes.
“How do you live with this pain in the ass?” Pete asks her.
“I stay heavily medicated,” she says.
He nods and turns back to me. “You want to tell me what you know about Camby’s death here, or you want to come to the station and answer the questions?”
“That’s a tough one,” I say. “Go down to the station with you, or stay here with Laurie and Tara. It’s a coin flip, that’s for sure.”
“Playtime’s over. Talk to me.”
I nod. “He took a bullet in the head at the Castle Inn; it’s a motel on Route 4. Room 131 in the back.”
“You were there?” he asks.
“No, but I had inside information, which will remain inside.”
“Did Marcus kill this guy?”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. I would have much preferred Camby remained alive to answer questions. Not as grueling as these, of course. Camby had been following me; Laurie noticed him.”
Laurie nods. “He was killed before Marcus could question him, Pete. That’s the truth.”
Pete nods. For some reason he believes Laurie and thinks I’m full of shit. It wounds me terribly.
“Why was he following you?” Pete asks.
I shrug. “It would have been nice to ask him that. But you can bet it had something to do with the Galloway case.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Good point, Sherlock. It’s just a coincidence. Just like it’s a coincidence that Danny Butler got killed, and that he came forward after all these years to talk to the Feds…”
As I’m saying this, what I couldn’t think of while I was walking with Tara hits me between the eyes. “Pete, why did Butler go to the Feds?”
“He said he had information implicating your boy.”
I shake my head. “But why the Feds? This was a local case; you’d been working on it for years. In fact, the Feds had to drum up the Interstate Commerce thing to even get involved. Why would Butler go to them? Why not you?”
“Good question,” he says, after thinking about it for a few moments.
“Maybe he didn’t think you’d believe him,” Laurie says.
Pete considers this for a while as well; he seems to be pondering something that he is not inclined to share with us.
The silence becomes interminable and I prompt him with, “Pete?”
He finally says, “Maybe.”
“Any idea why that would be?” I ask. “And if you can answer in under twenty minutes, we’d appreciate it.”
He just nods, turns, and leaves the house, leaving Laurie and me staring at each other. “What the hell was that about?” I ask.
“I imagine we’ll find out eventually,” she says. “I’m going to bed. You coming?”
“Is that a serious question?”
It’s the routine that was getting Becky Galloway through the day.
Nothing exciting, just the normal chores in a life that would never again be normal. But she had come to embrace them, to focus on them, and it provided a small sense of security and calm, amid the chaos.
Going to the market, paying the bills, taking Adam to and from school… these were the kinds of things that filled Becky’s day. And every moment she thought about them was a moment she didn’t obsess over Noah’s nightmare situation.
So Becky had learned that in fact life really does go on, and dealing with it could be a welcome distraction. But at night, in the dark with the lights off, well, that was another story.
Becky had decided to plant a wide array of flowers in the garden behind their house. The actual planting wouldn’t take place until spring, but planning it now helped divert Becky’s mind from real life.
So part of this afternoon was spent at the garden supply store on Route 17 in Paramus, trying to decide what plants would go best with each other, and which would thrive in the soil behind the house. She had long consultations with the very knowledgeable store employees, and she agonized over the decision as if it had the slightest consequence on her pain-filled life.
She finally made her choice, spent more than she should have, and only left the comfort and sweet smells of the place because she had to pick up Adam at school.
She went out to the parking lot, and loaded up everything in the trunk. Then she got into the car and looked in the rearview mirror, so that she could back out.
And saw nothing.
The mirror had no reflection, it was somehow empty, and even before Becky realized it had been covered with black tape, she felt the hand on her neck. She screamed and jumped in fright, but could not move, such was the power in the fingers that were holding her down.
“Calm down, Becky,” Loney said. “Calm down and be quiet. You’re going to get through this.” He pressed tighter on the back of her neck, a not-so-subtle message that she was powerless to resist him.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to listen to me, very carefully. It will be quick, and then you can go pick up Adam at nursery school. You should be on time, but if you’re not, Mrs. Dembeck will wait with him.”
Loney’s words sent a chill through her; this man knew where Adam went to school, and who his teacher was. The familiarity was the most frightening thing she had ever experienced.
“Okay? We understand each other?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Your husband is a mass murderer, Becky. Everyone already knows that. All I want is for him to admit it to the world. Plead guilty, reject the travesty of a trial, and live out his life in prison.”
She was not about to argue Noah’s guilt or innocence with this man; she did not want to provoke him. “I’ll talk to Noah about it,” she said. “I will.”
“Don’t lie to me, Becky. Don’t say what you think I want to hear to get rid of me.”
“I swear, I’ll talk to him. I’ll try and convince him.”
“Becky, Becky, Becky…” he said, as if he was disappointed in her. “You haven’t even let me convince you yet.”
