“I was hoping to hire Bill to do some investigating for me,” he said, “but possibly you could take it on. He really did speak highly of you.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Pelley, but I doubt if I’m the right person. Mostly what we do at Finders Keepers is chase bail-jumpers and trace missing persons.” She paused, then added, “There is also the fact that we are quite a distance from you, unless you’re calling from somewhere in the northeast.”
“I’m not, but my interest happens to be in Ohio, and it would be inconvenient for me to fly up myself—there are things going on here that I need to stick with. How far are you from Dayton?”
“One moment,” she said, and then, almost immediately: “Two hundred and thirty-two miles, according to MapQuest. Which is a very good program. What is it you need investigated, Mr. Pelley? And before you answer, I need to tell you that if it involves any possibility of violence, I really would have to pass on the case. I abhor violence.”
“No violence,” he said. “There was violence—the murder of a child—but it happened down here, and the man who was arrested for the crime is dead. The question is whether or not he was the doer, and answering that involves back-checking a trip he made to Dayton with his family in April.”
“I see, and who would be paying for the company’s services? You?”
“No, an attorney named Howard Gold.”
“To your knowledge, does Attorney Gold pay more promptly than Dwight Cramm?”
Alec grinned at that. “Absolutely.”
And although the retainer would come from Howie, the entire Finders Keepers fee—assuming Ms. Holly Gibney agreed to take on the Dayton investigation—would in the end come from Marcy Maitland, who would be able to afford it. The insurance company wouldn’t like paying out on an accused murderer, but since Terry had never been convicted of anything, they would have no recourse. There was also the wrongful death suit against Flint City that Howie would be lodging on Marcy’s behalf; he had told Alec that the city would probably settle for an amount in the low seven figures. A fat bank account wouldn’t bring her husband back, but it could pay for an investigation, and a home relocation if Marcy decided that was best, and the college educations of two girls when the time came. Money was no cure for sorrow, Alec reflected, but it did allow one to grieve in relative comfort.
“Tell me about this case, Mr. Pelley, and I’ll tell you if I can take it on.”
“Doing that will take some time. I can call tomorrow, during office hours, if that would be better for you.”
“Tonight is fine. Just give me a moment to turn off the movie I was watching.”
“I’m interrupting your evening.”
“Not really. I’ve seen Paths of Glory at least a dozen times. It’s one of Mr. Kubrick’s finest. Much better than The Shining and Barry Lyndon, in my opinion, but of course he was much younger when he made it. Young artists are much more likely to be risk-takers, in my opinion.”
“I’m not much of a movie buff,” Alec replied, remembering what Hodges had said: eccentric and a little obsessive-compulsive.
“They brighten the world, that’s what I think. Just one second…” In the background, the sound of faint movie music ceased. Then she was back. “Tell me what you need done in Dayton, Mr. Pelley.”
“It’s not just a very long story, it’s a strange one. Let me warn you of that in advance.”
She laughed, a sound much richer than her usual careful speech. It made her sound younger. “Yours won’t be the first strange story I’ve heard, believe me. When I was with Bill… well, never mind that. But if we’re going to be talking for awhile, you might as well call me Holly. I’m going to put you on speaker to free up my hands. Wait… okay, now tell me everything.”
Thus encouraged, Alec began to talk. Instead of movie music in the background, he heard the steady clitter-clitter-clitter of her keyboard as she took notes. And before the conversation was finished, he was glad he hadn’t hung up. She asked good questions, sharp questions. The oddities of the case didn’t seem to faze her in the slightest. It was a goddam shame that Bill Hodges was dead, but Alec thought he might have found a perfectly adequate replacement.
When he was finally done, he asked, “Are you intrigued?”
“Yes. Mr. Pelley—”
“Alec. You’re Holly and I’m Alec.”
“All right, Alec. Finders Keepers will take this case. I will send you regular reports either by phone, email, or FaceTime, which I find is far superior to Skype. When I have gotten everything I can, I will send you a complete summary.”
“Thank you. That sounds very—”
“Yes. Now let me give you an account number, so you can transfer the retainer fee to our bank in the amount we discussed.”
HOLLY
July 22nd–July 24th
1
She put back the office phone (which she always brought home with her, although Pete kidded her about it) on its stand next to her home phone, and sat quiet in front of her computer for perhaps thirty seconds. Then she pushed the button on her Fitbit to check her pulse. Seventy-five, eight to ten beats faster than normal. She wasn’t surprised. Pelley’s story of the Maitland affair had excited and engaged her in a way no case had since finishing with the late (and very horrible) Brady Hartsfield.
Except that wasn’t exactly right. The truth was she hadn’t been really excited about anything since Bill had died. Pete Huntley was fine, but he was—here in the silence of her nice apartment, she could admit it—a bit of a plodder. He was happy to chase the deadbeats, bail-jumpers, stolen cars, lost pets, and daddies delinquent on child support. And while Holly had told Alec Pelley nothing but the truth—she really did abhor violence, except in movies; it made her tummy hurt—chasing after Hartsfield had made her feel alive in a way nothing had since. That was also true of Morris Bellamy, a crazy literature buff who had killed his favorite writer.
There would be no Brady Hartsfield or Morris Bellamy waiting for her in Dayton, which was good, because Pete was on vacation in Minnesota, and her young friend Jerome was on vacation with his family in Ireland.
“I’ll kiss the Blarney Stone for ye, darlin,” he had said at the airport, employing an Irish brogue every bit as awful as his Amos ’n Andy accent, which he still put on occasionally, mostly to offend her.
“You better not,” she’d said. “Think of the germs on that thing. Oough.”
Alec Pelley thought I’d be put off by the strangeness, she thought, smiling a little. He thought I’d just say, “This is impossible, people can’t be in two places at the same time, and people can’t disappear from archived news footage. It’s either a practical joke, or a hoax.” Only what Alec Pelley doesn’t know—and I won’t tell him—is that people can be in two places at the same time. Brady Hartsfield did it, and when Brady finally died, he was in another man’s body.
“Anything is possible,” she said to the empty room. “Anything at all. The world is full of strange nooks and crannies.”
She booted up Firefox and found the address of the Tommy and Tuppence Pub. The closest lodging was the Fairview Hotel, on Northwoods Boulevard. Was it the same hotel the Maitland family had stayed in? She would ask Alec Pelley via email, but it seemed likely, bearing in mind what the older Maitland daughter had said. Holly checked Trivago and saw she could get an acceptable room for ninety-two dollars per night. She considered upgrading to a small suite, but only for a moment. That would be padding the expense account, a shoddy business practice and a slippery slope.