Dead Wrong (26 page)

“No. She’s alone.”

“Well, sure, what the hell. Why not? Where’s she live?”

“At 2232 Oak Avenue.”

“Oak? That’s just about three blocks down from here, over a block . . .” Mulholland began to think about the logistics. “Well, hell, I could walk over there, do this little favor for you, be back here on this stool by midnight.”

“With another shot lined up waiting for you and a hundred dollars in your pocket.”

“She turn in early?”

“It’s going on eleven. She’s been in bed for about an hour already.”

“What if someone sees me?”

“There’s an alley that runs behind the houses. You can go right through the backyard.”

“How do I know you’ll be here when I get back?” Mulholland paused to consider this possibility.

“How do I know you won’t just be going home from here?” Channing’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled. “Here, you want the hundred now?”

“Nah, we’re buddies. Payment on delivery, as my old man used to say.” Mulholland leaned over and said in a low voice, “And don’t you worry. I’ll give the old lady a scare she’ll never forget.”

“I’m counting on it, Tommy.” Channing slapped him on the back. “I’m counting on it.”

Less than three minutes after Tommy Mulholland left the bar by the front door, Curtis Channing slipped out the back. He drove slowly, taking side streets, watching for Mulholland. One block away from Oak, Channing spotted him. He pulled over to one side of the road and watched his new best friend disappear into the poorly lit alley where he would, undoubtedly, walk right into the arms of the police. Satisfied that within less than fifteen minutes, most of the Lyndon Police Department would be converging on the home of M. T. Douglas—Martha Teresa Douglas, he’d learned in his surveillence—he smiled and took off in the direction of Hillcrest.

Leaving his car near the entrance to the college, Channing walked down Bellevue, the street that ran directly behind Hillcrest. He counted the houses until he found the one that, earlier in the day, he’d figured out backed up to Mrs. West’s. Keeping to the shadows, he sought the silhouette of the grape arbor and, finding it, crawled through a row of hedges until he reached Mrs. West’s garage. He studied the house and was relieved to find that no lights were on. He’d have hated it if the old woman had heard him and come outside to investigate. He really would not want to hurt her.

But he’d been lucky so far.

He lay flat on his stomach and watched the house next door. One police officer sat in his car on the opposite side of the street. Two others stood near the back gate, talking softly.

He wondered how long before they’d get the call that there’d been an attempted break-in at the home of an M. Douglas across town. He glanced at his watch. Given the fact that the house on Oak was still under police watch, it shouldn’t be more than another few minutes before his good buddy Tommy Mulholland would be facedown in the dirt, a gun to his head and his wrists neatly cuffed.

There. Here we go. . . .

The door of the patrol car across the street swung open suddenly, and the young officer ran toward the house.

“Rhodes! Walker! We got a break-in at one of the other houses. All units respond.”

“But I thought this one was the—” The officer nearest the gate pointed to the Douglas house.

“Apparently our perp hasn’t figured that out. Let’s go.”

“Shouldn’t one of us stay?”

“Why? The guy’s already made his move. They’re calling in all units.”

The officer closest to the gate muttered something under his breath as he hurried to his patrol car. Within seconds, all three patrol cars were speeding down Hillcrest.

Channing crouched in the dark, watching the taillights of the last of the cars disappear down the street.

And knew immediately that she wasn’t there.

This may be the right house, his M. Douglas’s house, but if she had actually been inside, they’d have left at least one officer there with her.

Might as well make the most of the opportunity to get to know her a little better. Who knew when he’d have a chance like this again, or how long it would take for Mulholland to convince the police that he’d been set up?

Keeping to the darkened area around the garage, Channing made his way to the house and through the unlatched gate. The lock on the French doors was new, but it was still easy pickings for someone with his skill. He slipped on thin rubber gloves, went to work, then opened the door and stepped quickly inside. He stood for a moment to get his bearings before proceeding deeper into the house. A hallway, a laundry room. Den. Living room. Dining room into the kitchen that was, unexpectedly, at the front of the house.

He moved quietly, just in case he’d been wrong and someone was here. Maybe not her, but someone else. He’d learned the hard way the perils of taking anything for granted. It would be stupid for the police to have left the house unguarded if anyone was there, but on the other hand, it had been pretty stupid for them to have three cars parked in plain sight here, when all the others had only one.

He crept up the stairs to the second floor, fingering the handle of the knife that hung from the scabbard at his waist, his breath coming a little faster with each step forward. There were four doors, and he peeked into the first as he passed. A room with a double bed, a chair, a dresser. Didn’t look occupied, like maybe it was the spare room.

He ducked into the room across the hall.

A child’s room.

Channing frowned. He hadn’t thought about there being a child, didn’t like it that there was.

He did not do children.

He stared at the bed, with its pink spread and mound of stuffed animals on the pillow. Curious, he stepped closer.

Where was the child?

Anywhere but here, apparently. The bed was empty.

He left the room and proceeded straight to the room at the end of the hall. That would have to be the room. The only other being the bathroom, and he’d just passed that.

His excitement building, he pushed open the door, no longer taking pains to be quiet. He went straight to the bed, his hands moving right to where her head would be on the pillow.

Nothing.

He searched the house from top to bottom, just in case, but found that his instincts had been correct. She wasn’t here.

Well. He was here, in her house, he told himself. He might as well take advantage of the opportunity.

Let’s see what we can find out about Ms. Douglas . . .

She drinks a lot of bottled water,
he realized as he stared into her refrigerator,
and eats a lot of yogurt.

Not a lot of food, though. He frowned.
She either expects to be out of town for a while, or else she doesn’t eat many meals at home.

In one of the drawers, he found a stack of menus from local restaurants, but he found nothing else of interest there.

In the living room, next to the sofa, he found a chewed-up tennis ball and a chew bone.

He hadn’t known there’d be a dog, either. She must have taken the child and the dog someplace. He hoped she left them there. He didn’t want to deal with a child. Or a dog.

He did have his standards.

From the living room he went into the den near the back of the house. He drew the blinds tightly and switched on the small lamp on the desk. A stack of bills stood in a gray metal holder, and he thumbed through them. Department store credit card, American Express, the electric bill, the phone bill.

All addressed to Mara Douglas.

I’ll be a son of bitch.
He shook his head.
Mara. Not Mary, but Mara.

He could’ve sworn that Giordano had said Mary, but hey, the names were that close.

A drawer on the left side of the desk held files, and he scanned the headers. Insurance. Bank statements. Car. Property taxes. Mountain cabin.

Mountain cabin?

Hel-lo . . .

Channing pulled out the file and studied the contents. Mostly tax receipts for a property in a place called Little Falls, Pennsylvania. He folded one and put it into his pocket.

A car door slammed somewhere outside, and he peered out through the blinds. A neighbor’s kid coming home from a late night with his buddies. He watched the young man stumble from his car to the front walk.

He turned off the light, headed back out the way he’d come in, and closed the door behind him. He eased through the gate and along Mrs. West’s backyard, following the path he’d taken earlier. Within minutes, he was in his car and on his way home, though of course he had to swing as close to Oak as he could get, which wasn’t too close at all, since a mass of police cars had blocked off the alley as well as the street. He tried to feel sorry for what had befallen Tommy Mulholland but couldn’t feel badly about the outcome.

Channing smiled and began to whistle a happy tune. On his way back to his room, he’d stop at that convenience store on the corner and buy a map of Pennsylvania, see if he could figure out where Little Falls was. He figured that by the time the police realized they’d been had, he’d be halfway there.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

“W
ELL, LOOKS LIKE WE’LL HAVE A LITTLE TIME TO
kill,” Aidan said as they left Chief Lanigan’s office. “Want to grab a bite while we wait? That salad hasn’t stayed with me.”

“I think you’re optimistic if you think we’ll hear back from him any time soon.” Mara followed him down the hallway to the back door that led to the parking lot behind the police station. “I expect it will take a while to check foster records going back thirty years.”

“Well, the county social worker told Lanigan all those records are on microfiche. If we’re lucky enough to find the name of the Gibbons boy’s foster family—”

“And if they’re still alive and still living in the area,” she added.

“Right. All that.” Aidan unlocked the car doors.

“It’s a long shot, you know.”

“I know,” he said as he slid behind the wheel, moving Spike out of the way as he did so. He handed the dog to Mara. “John Mancini said if the county couldn’t come up with the name of the foster parents, he’d send someone down to give them a hand.”

“Can he do that?”

“He can find a way to do pretty much anything. He agrees that we’re on to something here. We don’t know exactly what it is yet, but there’s something here, all right.”

Mara watched his face as he backed out the car. He looked pleased: pleased with the developments, pleased with himself. She said so.

“I am pleased with myself, I have to admit.” He nodded. “It feels damned good to be involved again. To be doing something useful again. It’s been a long time, since . . .”

He hesitated, long enough for her to see the shadow move across his face. She wanted to reach out and push it away.

“Aidan, there’s a deli across the street.” She touched his arm. “Let’s get a bite there and take it out to that park we were at this morning.”

He looked up at the sky, where dark clouds had begun to gather. “It looks like it’s going to rain.”

“There was a pavilion there, remember? Maybe there are picnic tables. I’ll walk over and pick up something for us to eat if you’ll stay here with Spike. I think he’s starting to feel abandoned.”

“Okay,” he said, and drove back into the parking space he’d just left.

“Any requests?”

“I could really go for a roast beef on rye with horseradish, maybe some chips. Anything cold to drink.”

“My treat this time.” She hopped out of the car. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

Angelo’s Delicatessen was all but empty when she walked in, the lunch hour long past. She ordered sandwiches from a grandfatherly type who’d been sitting at a small table reading a newspaper. She surveyed the drinks in the cooler before moving to the counter with an iced tea in each hand, then sorted through the selection of chips and wondered which Aidan preferred. Sour cream and onion? Barbecue? Old Bay? Salt and vinegar?

Way too many choices.

She grabbed a bag of plain chips and placed them on the counter next to the drinks.