“So you’re not going to tell me.”
“I don’t want to raise things that might turn out to be nothing.”
Walden Fisher nodded slowly. “What if it is this doctor? What if he’s the one who killed our Olivia?”
“I’m not saying it was him.”
“But if it was, he’ll never pay for it, will he? He won’t be punished.”
“I don’t know how to answer that, Mr. Fisher. I know you would have gone over this a million times with Detective Finderman three years ago.”
“She’s the chief now,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Too busy, I guess, to keep investigating my daughter’s murder.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Just because she’s moved up doesn’t mean the department isn’t actively investigating. But what I wanted to ask is, was there anyone you could think of who might have wanted to hurt Olivia? Any kind of personal problems she might have been having with anyone?”
“No, nothing.”
“How about with the law? Had she ever been in any kind of trouble?”
Walden frowned, offended by the question. “Olivia never got in any kind of trouble. I mean, she’d got a ticket for speeding a while before she died, and you’d have thought she’d robbed a bank — she felt so bad about it. She was worried about her insurance going up, too.”
Walden Fisher’s eyes moistened. He moved his coffee cup to one side and made two fists. “It’s with me every day, you know.”
“Yes.”
“I think, ultimately, it’s what killed Beth.”
“Your wife.”
Walden nodded. “I mean, officially, it was the cancer, but it was the grief that was eating her up inside. That, and no justice.”
Duckworth didn’t say anything.
“Every day, for three years, I’ve been hoping someone would answer for Olivia being taken from us. To find out it was someone already dead, I don’t know how I’d handle that. What do you do? Go piss on a man’s grave? Is that any way to get revenge?”
Duckworth took one last sip of the coffee. “If you come across anything, or remember anything, that might connect your daughter to Dr. Sturgess, would you let me know?”
He placed a business card on the table. Walden drew it toward him, glanced at it.
“Yeah, sure.”
“And I’ll keep you posted of any developments.”
“I’m worried about Victor,” Walden blurted.
“Victor?”
“Victor Rooney. He was going out with Olivia back then. When it happened. He’s never really got over it.”
“How do you mean?” Duckworth said as he was pushing back his chair.
“It’s been three years and he’s never really moved on. He drinks too much. Has a hard time holding down a job. Blames everyone in Promise Falls for what happened.” He looked into Duckworth’s face. “He’s harboring a lot of guilt.”
“What kind of guilt? Do you think he had something to do with Olivia’s death?”
That caught him up short. “Jesus, not directly. I mean, I don’t think so. He was with a friend when it happened. A drinking buddy. He had an alibi. He was supposed to be meeting Olivia but got held up. Unless...”
Walden’s voice trailed off.
“Unless what?”
“Unless he got someone to lie for him.” Walden Fisher gazed through the window into his backyard. “And all this stuff he’s going through lately, this show of grief, this not being able to move on, is some kind of act.” He shook his head dismissively. “No, there’s no way. Victor’s not perfect, but he’d never be capable of that.”
Duckworth stood and was walking down the hall toward the front of the house when, as he was passing an open door to a small bathroom, something occurred to him.
“Let me ask you about someone else,” he said. “Did you or Olivia ever know a Bill Gaynor?”
“Bill Gaynor?” Walden Fisher said. “Same name as that woman that was murdered?”
“Rosemary was his wife.”
“Son of a bitch,” he said. “They were married? Bill was our insurance guy.”
Nineteen
Randall Finley and Frank Mancini had arranged to meet for lunch at the Clover, an upscale — at least by Promise Falls standards — restaurant on the town’s outskirts. Finley was more at home at a place like Casey’s, a bar over on Charlton, but when he had an important business meeting, the Clover, with its white linen tablecloths, fine china, and waitstaff who were less inclined to tell you to fuck off, was always his first choice.
Finley had reserved his favorite booth, with high-backed seats and a divider that offered some privacy from the next table over. There was always the possibility he’d say something he didn’t want anyone but his luncheon guest to hear.
He was already seated when Mancini came into the room. He was short and stocky but not fat, a walking fire hydrant. A well-dressed one, too. While the man had spent his life in construction, he didn’t go around wearing a hard hat. He was in a dark blue suit — Armani, Finley guessed — with a crisp white shirt and a red tie.
“Don’t get up,” Mancini said as Finley started struggling to get out of the booth.
Finley stayed seated, shook hands, waited for Mancini to get settled in across from him.
“What can I get you?” Finley asked.
“Scotch.”
Finley waved over the waitress, whose name tag read KIMMY.
“Are you new, Kimmy?” the former mayor asked as she handed them menus.
The young woman smiled. “This is my first week.”
Finley smiled and shook his head admiringly. “Just when you think the Clover can’t hire waitresses any prettier, they bring in someone like you. Isn’t she a peach, Frank?”
Mancini smiled.
Kimmy accepted the praise with an awkward smile. “What can I get you gentlemen?”
Finley ordered two scotches. Once the waitress had slipped away, Mancini said, “Shouldn’t a guy who once got caught with an underage hooker cool it when it comes to the young ones?”
“I was paying her a compliment. And that other business was years ago.”
“It cost you your job.”
“A job I’m going to get back. Voters have a great capacity for forgiveness, especially the kind of bumpkins we have in this town. Nobody cares about that kind of stuff these days. Look at Clinton. Fools around with an intern, he’s the most popular former president these days.”
Mancini sighed. “See yourself as Clintonesque, do you?”
Finley chuckled. “Okay, so maybe I’m not quite as popular as good ol’ Bill. But the people in this town can’t remember what they had for breakfast, let alone something I did years ago.”
“Keep insulting them like that. Jesus, Randy, you’ll never get reelected if the voters know you think they’re a bunch of idiots.”
“I never said that. They’re good people.” Finley smiled. “And I have to be who I am. You want me to be somebody I’m not?”
“Randy, I’d like you to be almost anybody else. I’d rather be sitting here with fucking Al Capone. I’d feel safer.”
Finley laughed. Mancini, not so much.
“You love fuckin’ with me,” Finley said. He lowered his voice. “So tell me, what the hell was that at the drive-in?”
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about? You kidding me? The fucking explosion? The screen coming down? Four people dead?”
“It was a tragedy — that’s what it was,” Mancini said.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. We’re all broken up about it. But just between us, was that you?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mancini said, loud enough to be heard by nearby diners.
“Jesus, keep your voice down,” Finley said. “So you’re saying you had nothing to do with it?”
“Why the hell would I do that? It had to be the demolition people. They screwed up.”