“The one who stated categorically that Terry was innocent.”
This time what Ralph thought of and didn’t say (there were oceans of unspoken conversation in long marriages, it seemed) was, Uri Geller stated categorically that he could bend spoons by concentrating on them.
“Yes. She’s flying in. Maybe it will turn out that she’s full of shit, but she worked with a decorated ex-cop in that business of hers, and her procedure seemed sound enough, so maybe she really found something in Dayton. God knows she sounded sure of herself.”
Jeannie began to crack eggs. “You’d go on even if I’d come downstairs and found the burglar alarm had been shorted out, the back door was standing open, and his footprints were on the tile. You’d go on even then.”
“Yes.” She deserved the truth, unvarnished.
She turned to him then, the spatula held high, like a weapon. “May I say that I think you’re being sort of a fool?”
“You can say anything you want, but you need to remember two things, honey. Whether Terry was innocent or guilty, I played a part in getting him killed.”
“You—”
“Hush,” he said, pointing at her. “I’m talking, and you need to understand.”
She hushed.
“And if he was innocent, there’s a child-killer out there, running free.”
“I understand that, but you may be opening the door on things far beyond your ability to understand. Or mine.”
“Supernatural things? Is that what you’re talking about? Because I can’t believe that. I will never believe that.”
“Believe what you want,” she said, turning back to the stove, “but that man was here. I saw his face, and I saw the word on his fingers. MUST. He was . . . dreadful. It’s the only word I can think of. Having you not believe me makes me want to cry, or throw this skillet of eggs at your head, or . . . I don’t know.”
He went to her and encircled her waist. “I believe that you believe. That much is true. And here’s a promise: if nothing comes of this meeting tonight, you’ll find me a lot more open to the idea of letting this go. I understand there are limits. Does that work?”
“I guess it has to, at least for now. I know you made a mistake at the ballfield. I know you’re trying to atone for it. But what if you’re making a worse mistake by keeping on?”
“Suppose it had been Derek in Figgis Park?” he countered. “Would you want me to let it go then?”
She resented the question, considered it a low blow, but had no answer for it. Because if it had been Derek, she would have wanted Ralph to pursue the man who’d done it—or the thing—to the ends of the earth. And she would have been right beside him.
“Okay. You win. But one more thing, and it’s non-negotiable.”
“What?”
“When you go to that meeting tonight, I’m going to be with you. And don’t give me any crap about it being police business, because we both know it’s not. Now eat your eggs.”
6
Jeannie sent Ralph to Kroger with a grocery list, because no matter who had been in the house last night—human, ghost, or just a character in an extraordinarily vivid dream—Mr. and Mrs. Anderson still had to eat. And halfway to the supermarket, things came together for Ralph. There was nothing dramatic about it, because the salient facts had been there all along, literally right in front of his face, in a police department interview room. Had he interviewed Frank Peterson’s real killer as a witness, thanked him for his help, and let him walk free? It seemed impossible, given the wealth of evidence tying Terry to the murder, but . . .
He pulled over and called Yune Sablo.
“I’ll be there tonight, don’t worry,” Yune said. “Wouldn’t miss all the news from the Ohio end of this clusterfuck. And I’m already on Heath Holmes. I don’t have much yet, but by the time we get together, I should have a fair amount.”
“Good, but that’s not why I’m calling. Can you pull Claude Bolton’s rap sheet? He’s the bouncer at Gentlemen, Please. What you’re going to find is possession, mostly, maybe one or two busts for possession with intent to sell, pleaded down.”
“He’s the one who prefers to be called security, right?”
“Yes sir, that’s our Claude.”
“What’s up with him?”
“I’ll tell you tonight, if it comes to anything. For now, all I can say is that there seems to be a chain of events that leads from Holmes to Maitland to Bolton. I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am.”
“You’re killin me here, Ralph. Tell!”
“Not yet. Not until I’m sure. And I need something else. Bolton’s a tattoo billboard, and I’m pretty sure he had something on his fingers. I should have noticed, but you know how it is when you’re interviewing, especially if the guy on the other side of the table has a record.”
“You keep your eyes on the face.”
“That’s right. Always on the face. Because when guys like Bolton start lying, they might as well be holding up a sign reading I’m full of shit.”
“You think Bolton was lying when he talked about Maitland coming in to use the phone? Because the taxi driver lady sort of corroborated his story.”
“I didn’t think so at the time, but now I’ve got a little more. See if you can find out what was on his fingers. If anything.”
“What do you think might be on them, ese?”
“Don’t want to say, but if I’m right, it’ll be on his sheet. One other thing. Can you email me a picture?”
“Happy to do it. Give me a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Yune.”
“Any plans to get in touch with Mr. Bolton?”
“Not yet. I don’t want him to know I’m interested in him.”
“And you really are going to explain all this tonight?”
“As much as I can, yes.”
“Will it help?”
“Honest answer? I don’t know. Have you got anything back on the stuff you found on the clothes and hay in that barn?”
“Not yet. Let me see what I can find on Bolton.”
“Thanks.”
“What are you up to right now?”
“Grocery shopping.”
“Hope you remembered your wife’s coupons.”
Ralph smiled and looked at the rubber-banded stack on the seat beside him. “As if she’d let me forget,” he said.
7
He came out of Kroger with three bags of groceries, stowed them in the trunk, then looked at his phone. Two messages from Yune Sablo. He opened the one with the photo attachment first. In his mug shot, Claude Bolton looked much younger than the man Ralph had interviewed prior to the Maitland arrest. He also looked stoned to the gills: thousand-yard stare, scraped cheek, and something on his chin that might have been egg or puke. Ralph remembered Bolton saying he went to Narcotics Anonymous these days, and that he’d been clean for five or six years. Maybe so, maybe not.
The attachment on Yune’s second email was the arrest record. There were plenty of busts, mostly minor, and plenty of identifying marks. They included a scar on his back, one on his left side below the rib cage, one on his right temple, and about two dozen tattoos. There was an eagle, a knife with a bloody tip, a mermaid, a skull with candles in the eyesockets, and a good many others that didn’t interest Ralph. What did were the words on his fingers: CANT on the right hand, MUST on the left.