Too Close to Home

We rode along in silence for a moment. I was heading back to the ramp where she’d first spotted me.

She said, “You really despise him, don’t you? You think he’s a fraud?”

I thought about that as I steered the car over to the curb. “I think he’s worse than a fraud,” I said. “I think he’s a killer.”

Elizabeth Hunt blinked. She had nothing to say. We were back where we’d started from. She unbuckled her seatbelt and got out.

“He doesn’t talk much,” Derek said over a dinner of baked chicken and rice. “I mean, Drew’s a good guy and all, and he’s a really good worker, like, I could hardly keep up with him, but he doesn’t have a whole lot to say.”

“I’ve noticed,” I said. “I don’t think he’s a very happy guy.”

“I thought we’d have lots in common,” Derek said, “because we’ve both done time.”

“Derek!” Ellen said. “You have not done time.”

“I was in jail,” he said. “Not for as long as Drew, but I was there.”

“You were never convicted of anything,” Ellen told him. “Drew was. That’s a big difference. He did something wrong. You didn’t.”

“Yes I did,” Derek said. “I did plenty wrong.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Ellen said. I couldn’t have agreed more.

“I asked him about what it was like, killing that guy, the one who scared you the other night,” Derek said.

“Jesus, Derek,” I said. “Don’t ask him stuff like that. He’s probably having a hard time dealing with it.”

We were all quiet for a moment, until Ellen asked, “What did he say?”

“He didn’t really say anything,” Derek said. “He just asked me a question instead, what it was like, being in the Langley house when they all got killed.”

If Derek could ask difficult questions, I suppose Drew was entitled to do the same.

“And what did you say?” Ellen asked.

“I said I’d probably have nightmares about it for the rest of my life.”

Ellen reached out and grabbed Derek’s arm and squeezed. I was about to do the same, but the phone had started ringing.

We’d been pretty much ignoring the home phone the last few days, not eager to talk to reporters, or endure abusive comments from the nutbars of Promise Falls who knew how to block their caller ID. But now that all the charges against Derek had been dropped, and that fact was becoming increasingly known, we weren’t quite so anxious every time we picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” I said.

“It’s Barry.”

“Hi,” I said. I didn’t want to say his name out loud, expecting it would spark angry scowls from Ellen, if not Derek as well.

“You and Ellen busy?” he asked.

“Just finishing up dinner,” I said.

“I need you to come into the station. Got somebody for you to have a look at in a lineup.”

“Who?”

“Maybe the partner of that guy who ended up dead in your shed. How’s an hour?”

“We’ll be there,” I said.

I hung up and told Ellen. She went white. The idea of being anywhere near the other man involved in the attack on us, even if there was a sheet of one-way glass separating us from him, filled her with dread.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” she said.

“It’ll be okay. It’ll be like on TV. He won’t be able to see us. We’ll just be able to see him.”

“He wore that mask the whole time,” she said.

“But they can get him to say a few words,” I said. “We heard him talk plenty. And there was the tattoo on his arm.”

Ellen nodded. I leaned in, kissed her on the neck. “It’ll be okay. I’m gonna jump into the shower, put on some fresh clothes.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll clean up here.”

As I was about to step into the shower, I heard the phone again, but someone grabbed it after the first ring, so I got in and let the water rain down on me for a good five minutes. When I got out, the bathroom was filled with steam, the mirror clouded over. I used a towel to make a clear spot on the glass and took a look at myself. My face was still bruised from my run-in with the late Lance, there were bags under my eyes, and my cheekbones seemed more prominent than they had two weeks ago.

“You,” I said, “need a vacation.”

On the way to the station, I said to Ellen, “Who phoned?”

“Fucking telemarketer,” she said. “Windows.”

Barry met us at the station entrance, led us down a hallway, up some stairs, talking the whole way.

“Cops in New York picked him up for us, shipped him back up here for you to have a look at.”

“Who is it?” Ellen asked. “What’s his name?”

“I’d rather not say anything at this point,” Barry said. “I’d like you to view the lineup cold.”

Barry had already told me that they were interested in a partner of Mortie’s by the name of Lester Tiffin, believed to be related to Conrad’s wife, Illeana Tiff. I had not, as yet, shared this information with Ellen. I was worried that throwing this kind of unsubstantiated detail into the conversation might be like tossing a stick of dynamite into a campfire.

We were taken into a room that really was like the one in the movies, one wall a sheet of glass that looked out on a mini-stage wide enough to hold half a dozen people. Barry was in the room, as well as another, unidentified man in a well-tailored suit. A lawyer, I was betting.