Holly was afraid Mrs. Anderson would volunteer to go with her, but Jeanette didn’t. Which was good. Holly did have to pee (“spend a penny,” was how her mother always put it), but she had something more important in mind, a matter that could only be attended to in complete private.
In the stall, with her skirt up and her bag between her sensible loafers, she closed her eyes. Mindful that tiled rooms like this were natural amplifiers, she prayed silently.
This is Holly Gibney again, and I need help. You know I’m not good with strangers even one at a time, and tonight I have six of them to deal with. Seven, if Mr. Maitland’s widow is here. I’m not terrified, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was scared. Bill could do things like this, but I’m not him. Just help me to do it the way he would. Help me to understand their natural disbelief and not be afraid of it.
She finished aloud, but in a whisper. “Please God, help me not to frack up.” She paused, then added, “I’m not smoking.”
5
The meeting took place in Howard Gold’s conference room, and while it was smaller than the one on The Good Wife (Holly had watched all seven seasons, and had now moved on to the sequel), it was very nice. Tasteful pictures, polished mahogany table, leather chairs. Mrs. Maitland had indeed come. She was sitting at Mr. Gold’s right as Howie took his place at the head of the table and asked who was watching her girls.
Marcy gave him a wan smile. “Lukesh and Chandra Patel volunteered. Their son was on Terry’s team. In fact, Baibir was on third base when . . .” She looked at Detective Anderson. “When your men arrested him. Baibir was heartbroken. He didn’t understand.”
Anderson crossed his arms and said nothing. His wife put a hand on his shoulder and murmured something no one else was meant to hear. Anderson nodded.
“I’m going to call this meeting to order,” Mr. Gold said. “I have no agenda, but perhaps our visitor would like to begin. This is Holly Gibney, a private detective Alec hired to investigate the Dayton end of this business, assuming the two cases really are connected. That’s one of the things we’re here to determine, if possible.”
“I’m not a private detective,” Holly demurred. “My partner, Peter Huntley, is the one with the private investigator’s license. What our company mostly does is repo work and skip-tracing. We do take on an occasional criminal investigation where we’re unlikely to be scolded by the police. We’ve had good luck with missing pets, for instance.”
That sounded lame, and she felt blood heating her face.
“Ms. Gibney is being a trifle too modest,” Alec said. “I believe you were involved with running a violent fugitive named Morris Bellamy to earth.”
“That was my partner’s case,” Holly said. “My first partner. Bill Hodges. He’s since passed away, Mr. Pelley—Alec—as you know.”
“Yes,” Alec said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The Latino man Detective Anderson had introduced as Yunel Sablo of the State Police now cleared his throat. “I believe,” he said, “that you and Mr. Hodges were also involved in a case of mass vehicular homicide and intended terrorism. A young man named Hartsfield. And that you, Ms. Gibney, were personally responsible for stopping him before he could cause an explosion in a crowded auditorium. One that might have killed thousands of young people.”
A murmur went around the table. Holly felt her face growing hotter. She would have liked to tell them that she had failed, that she had only halted Brady’s homicidal ambitions for awhile, that he had come back to cause yet more deaths before being stopped for good, but this was neither the time nor the place.
Lieutenant Sablo wasn’t finished. “I think you received a commendation from the city?”
“There were actually three of us who got commendations, but all it amounted to was a gold key and a bus pass good for ten years.” She looked around at them, unhappily aware that she was still blushing like a sixteen-year-old. “That was a long time ago. As for this case, I’d rather save my report for last. And my conclusions.”
“Like the final chapter in one of those old British drawing-room mysteries,” Mr. Gold said, smiling. “We all tell what we know, then you stand up and astound us with an explanation of who done it, and how.”
“Good luck with that,” Bill Samuels said. “Just thinking about the Peterson case makes my head hurt.”
“I believe we have most of the pieces,” Holly said, “but I don’t believe they’re all out on the table, even now. What I keep remembering—I’m sure you’ll think it’s silly—is that old saying about how Macy’s doesn’t tell Gimbels. But now Macy’s and Gimbels are both here—”
“Not to mention Saks, Nordstrom’s, and Needless Markup,” Howie said. Then, seeing Holly’s expression: “I’m not joshing you, Ms. Gibney, I’m agreeing with you. Everything on the table. Who starts?”
“Yune should,” Anderson said. “Since I’m on administrative leave.”
Yune put a briefcase on the table and took out his laptop. “Mr. Gold, can you show me how to use the projection gadget?”
Howie obliged, and Holly watched closely, so she would know how to do it herself when her turn came. Once the right cords were connected, Howie dimmed the lights a bit.
“Okay,” Yune said. “Apologies to you, Ms. Gibney, if I’m beating you to some of the stuff you found out while you were in Dayton.”
“Perfectly all right,” Holly said.
“I spoke with Captain Bill Darwin of the Dayton Police Department, and Sergeant George Highsmith of the Trotwood PD. When I told them we had a similar case, possibly connected by a stolen van that had been near both their crime scene and ours, they were willing to help, and thanks to the magic of telecommunication, I should have it all right here. If this gadget works, that is.”
Yune’s desktop appeared on the screen. He clicked on a file marked HOLMES. The first image was that of a man in an orange county jail jumpsuit. He had short-cropped auburn hair and beard stubble on his cheeks. His eyes were slightly squinted, giving him a look that could have been sinister or simply stunned at the sudden turn his life had taken. Holly had seen the mug shot on the front page of the Dayton Daily News, April 30th issue.
“This is Heath James Holmes,” Yune said. “Thirty-four. Arrested for the murders of Amber and Jolene Howard. I have crime scene pictures of the girls, but won’t show them to you. You wouldn’t sleep. The mutilations are the worst I’ve ever seen.”
Silence from the seven people watching. Jeannie was clutching her husband’s arm. Marcy was staring at Holmes’s photo as if mesmerized, with a hand over her mouth.
“Other than a minor juvenile bust for joyriding in a stolen car and a couple of speeding tickets, Holmes’s record is squeaky clean. His twice-yearly work evaluations, first at Kindred Hospital and then at the Heisman Memory Unit, are excellent. Co-workers and patients spoke highly of him. There are comments like always friendly and genuinely caring and goes the extra mile.”
“People said all those things about Terry,” Marcy murmured.