Far From True by Linwood Barclay

“What have you been doing since I saw you last night?”

  “Just . . . you know. Thinking about Georgina. What happened.”

  “You haven’t come in and made an official identification.”

  “I . . . I’ve just been too upset. I’ll come in today.”

  “Why did you go to your office?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I was driving around all night, thinking. . . .”

  “Driving around where?”

  “Just around.”

  “Did you drive over to the Chalmers house?”

  The professor looked puzzled. “What?”

  “Did you drive over to the Chalmerses’?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To see Miriam,” Duckworth suggested. “You were shocked to find out she wasn’t killed in the accident, that it was Georgina in that car with Adam. Maybe you had to prove it to yourself, that Miriam was really alive, before you could face going to identify your wife’s body.”

  “I . . . I can see why you might think that. But the truth is, I couldn’t bear to find out, for sure. I couldn’t face having it confirmed. I didn’t want to see Miriam, and I didn’t want to go identify Georgina. I know . . . I know I have to face this. I just haven’t been ready.”

  “Maybe,” Duckworth said, “it would help if we went out now, together, to see Miriam. Maybe that would be a helpful first step before the identification.”

  The professor looked at Duckworth, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He shook his head slowly. “She’ll . . . she’ll blame me, won’t she? My wife, with her husband? Maybe she’ll wonder whether I knew about it. Why I didn’t stop Georgina from seeing him.”

  “Couldn’t it work just as easily the other way around? Don’t you have reason to be angry with her? Your wife would be alive if she hadn’t been with Adam. If Miriam hadn’t taken off for a couple of days, it could have been her in that car at the drive-in instead of Georgina.”

  Blackmore looked confused. “I just don’t know. I don’t know what to think of any of this.” He looked down at the pavement.

  “Maybe you were angry with Miriam about that. Maybe you’ve been troubled about this whole arrangement you’ve had with the Chalmerses.” Duckworth waited a beat. “And Clive Duncomb and his wife.”

  Blackmore lifted his head to look the detective in the eye. “I’m sorry?”

  “Is ‘arrangement’ the right word? I’m not quite up to speed on how all this works. Trading spouses. That kind of thing.”

  The professor appeared to wither before Duckworth’s eyes. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re asking, exactly.”

  “Wasn’t it at the Chalmers house where it all took place? In that special room in the basement? If it was me, and I had a spare room downstairs that size, I think I’d put in a pool table. But then again, look at me. I need to lose eighty pounds. There aren’t a lot of women in our social circle who want to have a roll in the hay with a fat bastard like me. I’m not what they call a hunk. Although, I have to say, and don’t take this the wrong way, because you’re good-looking enough, but you’re not exactly Ryan Gosling, either. Clive, he’s got that air of authority, the chiseled jaw, so I can see the women going for him, and I’m guessing Adam Chalmers was quite the ladies’ man, too. Tell me how it worked. When you swapped partners, did you have sex with Clive’s wife one night, and then Adam’s wife another? Or both in the same night? Or did everyone just jump in and go at it together? Or, and forgive me if this is too personal, but would the wives also have sex with the wives and the husbands with the husbands? Are you okay, Professor Blackmore? You don’t look okay.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Maybe you should walk around to the back of the car here.” Duckworth put a hand gently on the man’s shoulder, moved him back to the trunk. “Just in case you get sick, there’s a good spot. Now, I want to be clear. I’m not asking all these questions out of some prurient nature. It just struck me that if these were the kinds of activities you all were engaged in, there might be things on those tapes you made that you’d be worried might fall into the wrong hands. Well, not tapes, exactly. DVDs. Discs.”

  Blackmore’s lower lip trembled. “How do you know—”

  “It just seemed odd to me, last night, at a time when you might be expected to be looking for your wife, you and Mr. Duncomb appeared to be having a movie fest. I thought, what could be more important than looking for your wife? Why would those videos be your priority at such a time? Then, when I found that little playroom in the Chalmers house, it started to come together for me. Especially when I saw the video equipment under the bed. You were making movies. Filming your sessions. You were going through the discs and—”

  Blackmore threw up.

  He took a step toward the curb, leaned over, and vomited. “Oh God,” he said. “Oh God.”

  Duckworth pressed on.

  “Like I was saying, you were going through those discs, looking for something that worried you. Something that worried you so much, it was more important than looking for Georgina. And then, you found out Miriam was actually still alive. That changed things somehow, didn’t it? That’s the part I’m having some trouble with, where I’m wondering if you can help me out.”

  Blackmore wiped his mouth on the back of his sport jacket sleeve, came back to a standing position. “No . . . it wasn’t like that.”

  “I figure there’s blackmail involved in here somewhere, but who was blackmailing who?”

  “Not like that.”

  “Was Miriam holding something over you and Duncomb?” Duckworth asked. He stepped in close to the professor, ignoring the disgusting smells coming off him. “Is that why you went over to her house last night and killed her?”

  Blackmore put a hand out, braced himself against the trunk of his car. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Miriam is dead?”

  “You act surprised. But look at you. You’re a mess. There’s blood on your hands. You were in a fight. Did Miriam do that to you before you pushed her down the stairs?”

  “No, no! This—” He pointed to the wounds on his face. “This was Clive! Clive did this to me!”

  “Why? Why would Duncomb do this, Professor?”

  “Because . . . because he doesn’t want me to say anything.”

  “Say anything about what? About killing Miriam?”

  “No! I didn’t do that! I didn’t know she was dead! When did that happen? Clive was talking to her on the phone! Last night! When you were there!”

  “The same time you realized your wife was the one who’d died in the car at the drive-in.”

  “Yes!” He nodded furiously. “How could Miriam be dead?”

  “Why did Clive Duncomb do this to you?”

  Blackmore was trembling, his eyes darting, as though searching for an escape. “He thinks I’ll talk. But not about Miriam.”

  “About what, then?”

  The professor kept shaking his head.

  “Tell me!” Duckworth shouted. “What’s he worried about? What’s on those videos?”

  Blackmore mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “—via,” he said.

  “What did you say?”

  “Olivia,” the professor said.

  Now it was Barry Duckworth’s turn to be stunned into silence. At least for a couple of seconds.

  “Olivia?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Olivia who?”

  “Olivia Fisher,” the professor said. “She was the one who—”

  “I know who she was. What the hell does Olivia Fisher have to do with the rest of this?”

  “Sometimes, Clive . . . Clive invited Thackeray girls out to Ada
m and Miriam’s. There’d be something in their wine—you know, what do you call them—”

  “Roofies,” Duckworth said. “Rohypnol. The date rape drug.”

  Peter Blackmore nodded. “That’s right. And then they’d join in . . . with the fun. Except Olivia. She got into it. She didn’t have to be drugged. But that also meant she’d remember everything that happened.”

  “Everyone went along with this?”

  Blackmore nodded ashamedly. “But it was Clive, and his wife, Liz, who wanted to bring in the girls. We went along.” He shook his head. “All of us.”

  “Georgina, too.”

  He nodded. “She was torn. She didn’t feel right about what we were doing, but at the same time, I think she was infatuated with Adam. I don’t know if the drive-in was the first time she’d been out alone with him. Maybe she thought something like that, that it was innocent enough, especially considering she’d already had sex with him.”

  Duckworth wasn’t interested in that part of the story, at least not right now. “When did you involve Olivia Fisher in your games?”

  “It was a few years ago. I mean, obviously before she was murdered. Maybe a month or so before.”

  “You were trying to find the discs featuring her?”

  He nodded. “When we—when Clive—heard that Adam and Miriam had been killed at the drive-in, he knew someone would be through the house, find those discs. But it turned out we didn’t have to worry. When it turned out Miriam was alive, and Clive was talking to her, he told her we had the discs, that we were trying to find the one with Olivia, and she said it had already been destroyed. Adam got rid of it. He got rid of any of the videos with Thackeray girls. Olivia, Lorraine—”

  “Lorraine?”

  “I don’t remember her last name. It was a huge relief, because Clive was so worried that if someone else had found the discs, eventually, they’d see us, with Olivia, and they’d think . . .”

  “You killed her.”

  “We knew how bad it would look, her being in the videos. That it would link us to her, that someone might think we had something to do with her murder.”

  “Did you?”

  “I didn’t. I swear.”

  “What about Clive?”

  Blackmore met Duckworth’s look. “I don’t know.”

  “You said he threatened you, if you started to talk. Did he kill Olivia because he was afraid she would?”

  Blackmore put his hands on top of his head, as if trying to keep his skull from exploding. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on in that man’s head. Maybe that’s what he’s doing. He’s getting rid of everyone who’s a possible threat. He blew that kid’s head off, you know.”

  “Mason Helt,” Duckworth said.

  “Yeah! Him! I get why he did it, but . . . I think he enjoyed it. You know what I’m saying? He liked shooting that kid. He liked that he was able to do that and get away with it.”

  “Professor Blackmore, I’m gonna need you to come in with me and make a formal statement.”

  “No, I can’t do that.”

  “You need to. You need to do it for yourself. You need to make a clean breast of this. You’ll feel better. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Clive . . . he’ll go nuts.”

  “We can take care of Mr. Duncomb. Don’t worry about that.”

  “He’ll kill me.”

  “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  The professor appeared unconvinced. “I have to deal with this,” he said.

  “You are. By coming in and making a statement.”

  “No,” he said. “Some other way.”

  “And what way would that—”

  Blackmore lunged at him. Hit Duckworth in the chest with both palms, hard, knocking the detective off his feet. Duckworth stumbled backward, landed on the road inches away from Blackmore’s vomit, and hit the back of his head on the edge of the curb.

  Briefly saw stars.

  Blackmore jumped into his car, turned the ignition.

  “Stop!” Duckworth said, rising to a sitting position. “Goddamn it, stop!”

  The professor threw the car into drive and took off.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Cal

  THE first thing Sam did was call the school and tell the office to get Carl out of class, keep him in the office, and not let him out of their sight for one second.

  A pair of uniformed cops arrived before anyone else. Turned out they were already on their way even before I’d made a call. People passing by the Laundromat had heard shots and someone had dialed 911.

  When I called in, I made clear that the gunfire was over, but I also knew that when the police arrived, they’d be on high alert, so I made sure neither Sam nor I was waving a gun around when they came through the front door. But we were both standing over Ed Noble, ready to pounce on him if he tried to get away.

  Once the cops had a look at Noble, sprawled on the floor, whimpering as blood streamed from his nose, they put in a call for the paramedics. Before they arrived, a detective by the name of Angus Carlson arrived.

  I explained, as quickly as I could, what had gone down, although a survey of the Laundromat offered more than a few clues. Bullet holes in the ceiling and a washer, a shattered dryer window, blood on the floor. I still had several washers chugging away, dealing with my smoky clothes.

  I managed to work in, during my initial chat with Carlson, that I was a former Promise Falls cop, and that if he needed to check me out, he could call Barry Duckworth.

  “That’s my partner,” Carlson said. “Or my supervisor. Kind of.”

  “He says he was put up to it,” I told Carlson, pulling him to one side. “Ms. Worthington’s former in-laws want custody of her son. Sounds like the mother of her ex-husband—he’s in jail right now—figured the best way to achieve that was to kill Ms. Worthington.”

  “Some mothers are just pure evil,” Carlson said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think she’s still in town somewhere.”

  The paramedics arrived, but Carlson held up a hand to them. He wanted a few words with Noble before they took him to the hospital.

  “Mr. Noble,” he said.

  “That fucking bitch broke my nose!” he wept. “That’s the second time in two days.”

  “Yeah,” said Sam. “I wish I’d done it both times.”

  Carlson turned around, raised a finger to her.

  “I’ll be quiet,” she said.

  “Mr. Noble, you’re being placed under arrest. You have—”

  “I can give you somebody!” he said. “I can give you who put me up to this!”

  “The mother of this woman’s ex?”

  “Yeah! Yolanda. It’s all her, man. I’ll testify against her. I will. You cut me a deal, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Like where she is right now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which is where?”

  “The Walcott.”

  Ed Noble clearly hadn’t figured out that you try to get your deal before you divulge information.

  Carlson stood back up, conferred with the uniforms. I could hear him telling them to get to the Walcott and grab Yolanda and her husband. Then he assigned another officer to ride with Noble to the hospital, keep him under guard.

  “We’re not losing this guy,” he said.

  Once Noble had been moved out, he proceeded to take statements, separately, from Sam and me. As absurd as it sounded, I asked Carlson whether I, while he was interviewing Sam, could continue doing my laundry. Fortunately, a bullet had not pierced any of the machines I’d engaged.

  Carlson said no, I wasn’t to touch a thing. This Laundromat was, after all, a crime scene, and everything within it was potential evidence.

  Nuts.

  I noticed Crystal’s graphic novel
was still on the floor in front of the machine I could not get going, and I made an executive decision that it would not be covered by Carlson’s edict on evidence. I was pleased it hadn’t been damaged in any way. No blood, no broken glass, no water from a bullet-riddled washer.

  It had fallen open somewhere in the middle. The cartoon Crystal had evidently, at some point, left her bedroom and wandered into an alley of some dark, dangerous Gotham-like city, lured in by the voice of her grandfather. Clutched in her arm was a teddy bear with one missing arm.

  The bubble above the girl’s head said: “I’ll find you! I’ll find you!”

  But it was something else, something other than what Crystal had drawn, that caught my eye as I leaned over to pick up the book.

  The back of the preceding page was a handwritten letter.

  The handwriting was small, meticulous, easily decipherable, and filled most of the page. There was no date at the top.

  It began Dear Lucy.

  It concluded with All my love, your father.

  I set the letter on top of the washer and read it from beginning to end.

  And then I said, “Holy shit.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  DUCKWORTH struggled to his feet, watched as Peter Blackmore’s car disappeared up the street.

  “Goddamn it,” he said, rubbing the back of his head where it had hit the curb. Felt blood. He looked at his hand, reached into his pocket with his other hand for a tissue to wipe it off.

  He got out his phone.

  “Yeah, it’s Duckworth. I need to put out an APB.”

  He gave the dispatcher complete details about Blackmore’s car, including the plate number. Duckworth also provided a description of the driver.

  “Officers should approach with caution, but I do not believe this man to be armed. But he is wanted for questioning in more than one homicide. I also need someone to go to Thackeray, find the head of security, a guy named Clive Duncomb—yeah, that’s right, the one who shot that kid—and stick with him until they hear from me. Where’s Carlson?”

  The dispatcher said the new detective was taking statements about a shooting in a Laundromat.

  “Jesus,” Duckworth said, and hung up.