“She did.”
“You talked to her through the day?”
“No, but I was talking to them — to her employers — today, and they say she was there yesterday.”
“But she didn’t come home last night?”
“I don’t exactly know that.”
Carlson cocked his head to one side. “How would you not know that?”
“I didn’t go home last night. I stayed overnight here at the college. In my office.”
“You slept in your office?”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he said. “I was working. It’s a habit of mine. I was preparing a lecture that I’m to give this afternoon on Melville and psychological determinism.”
“Uh-huh.”
“When I’m preparing a lecture, I work through the night. So I didn’t go home. I had a short nap around five this morning.” He started to raise his right arm and bend his head down, like he was going to give himself a sniff, then stopped himself. “I’ll head home and freshen up after I give my lecture.”
“Did you speak to Georgina at any time? On the phone? Did you text back and forth?”
He shook his head. “I don’t text. I don’t know how.”
“You don’t have a cell phone?”
Blackmore dug into his pocket, brought out an old flip phone. Carlson guessed it was at least ten years old. “I do, but I don’t even know if you can text with it. I think maybe it takes pictures, but all I ever use it for is to make and receive calls.”
“So you haven’t spoken to your wife since yesterday morning, and you haven’t tried to call her since then, either?”
Blackmore shook his head. “I tried this morning. After her office phoned me. They have my number. They wanted to know if I knew why Georgina hadn’t come into work.”
“She didn’t come in today.”
“No. They tried her at home, and on her cell. No answer. So I tried her cell, too, and I haven’t been able to get her.” His chin quivered. “I’m starting to get a little worried.”
“Has Georgina ever gone missing before?”
Blackmore glanced away. “Not exactly.”
“That’s a yes-or-no question, Professor.”
“No. She hasn’t gone missing before. She’s gone off by herself for a while, to collect her thoughts.”
Carlson said, “Why don’t you come with me down to the station and I can take down all your wife’s information? A full description, what kind of car she drives, people she might be in touch with, and if you have a picture of her, that would be—”
“No,” the professor said abruptly. “It’s okay. I’m sure everything’s okay. It’s probably what I just said. She just needs some alone time. That’s all.”
“You were discussing this with Clive Duncomb? When I walked in?”
Blackmore nodded. “Yes. Clive’s a good friend. And a good adviser.”
“But he didn’t suggest you call the police.”
“Not... just yet,” Blackmore admitted.
“That seems to be his style.”
Blackmore took a step back, his eyes filled with apprehension since the mention of Duncomb.
“You know what? Forget I even talked to you. I’m sure Georgina’s fine — she might even be home now. I’m just overreacting. And please, don’t mention to Clive that I approached you. He can get quite territorial about these things.”
“And how about the other thing?” Carlson asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“When you were leaving Duncomb’s office. You asked if you were okay on the other thing, and he said it was in hand, not to worry. Did that have to do with your wife, Professor Blackmore? Or was that something else altogether?”
The man paled. “I still have some tweaks to do on my lecture, and I deliver it in an hour, so I better go.”
Blackmore turned and ran off, like a dog that had been yanked away with an invisible leash.
Eighteen
Detective Duckworth found Lionel Grayson in the Constellation Drive-in office, pacing the floor, cell phone to his ear, talking with someone from his insurance company.
“What do you mean, I might not be covered?” Grayson shouted. “What are you talking about? Yes, yes, I was going to bring down the screen anyway, but I’m not talking about that. I don’t care about that! I’m talking about the people who died! On my property! Four people! And all the other people who were injured, and the cars that were damaged! Those people, there’s already talk that I’m going to be sued, that they’re going to take me for everything I’ve got! Yes, yes, I’m going after the demolition company, but they hadn’t even—”
“Mr. Grayson,” Duckworth said.
Grayson raised a finger. “Listen to me. They hadn’t even done anything yet. They didn’t have anything to do with this. Somebody planted some bombs and — what do you mean I may not be covered for terrorism? Who said anything about terrorism? What the hell are you talking about? You think a bunch of al-Qaeda crazies snuck into America to blow up a drive-in in fucking Promise Falls? You think—”
“Mr. Grayson, I need to speak with you,” Duckworth said.
“Hang on, hang on. Listen to me. I’m retiring. I sold this property so I could retire. I can’t lose all that money if all these people sue me! You insurance people are all the same! You’re just out to screw people over and — hello? Hello?”
He stopped pacing and looked at the detective. “The son of a bitch hung up on me.”
“I want to ask you a couple of questions,” the detective said.
“What?”
“Why don’t we sit down?”
“I can’t. I can’t stop moving.”
“Please. Have a seat.”
Reluctantly, Grayson sat down on one of two cheap folding aluminum lawn chairs. Duckworth sat opposite him, planted his elbows on his thighs, and leaned forward.
“You okay?”
“I’m going out of my mind.” He was bobbing one knee up and down like a human sewing machine.
Duckworth nodded. “I get that. It’s a horrible thing. I want to ask you a couple of things, but I need you to calm down first, so you can really think about what I’m asking.”
“Okay,” he said, taking a breath. Then another. “I can’t do it. I’m too wound up. Just ask me what you have to ask me.”
“Okay. Can you think of anyone who’d want to do you harm? To you, or to your business here?”
“Nobody. No. And who’d care about hurting our business? I’m going out of business.”
“Okay, but have you had any problems with suppliers, or maybe an angry customer, someone you had a disagreement with?”
Grayson thought. “I can’t think of anyone. Just the usual things. Nothing very serious. I mean, sometimes you have people unhappy with the movie who want their money back.”
“Do you give it to them?”
The question stunned him. “Of course not! I make no guarantees about the quality of the movie. Let them read the reviews. If they don’t like the movie, let them write a letter to Tom Hanks or Nicole Kidman and ask them for their money back.”
“Have you had an incident like that lately?”
Grayson shrugged. “A couple of weeks ago, a man, he was very upset because the movie had nudity and bad language in it, and his five-year-old daughter was in the car. But it was the last feature. They’re always for a more mature audience. If the people bring their kids, they’re usually asleep by that time. That’s why we show the kid movies first.”
“Did he want his money back?”
“He didn’t even care about that. He said he was going to report me to the authorities.”
“What authorities?”
Grayson laughed. “Who knows? I never heard from anybody. So many people, they’re just assholes. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Did the man give you his name?”