“Yes, but I think it was the Canning Township part of the title that caught his eye. Did he say his family lived there for a long time?”
“I don’t know,” Ralph said. “You tell me.”
“Pretty sure he did. He took it down, but when he saw the pricetag—seventy-nine ninety-nine—he put it back on the shelf.”
And whoomp, there it was. “Has anyone looked at that book since? Taken it down and handled it?”
“That one? You’re kidding.”
Ralph went to the rack, stood on his toes, and took down the shrink-wrapped book. He held it by the sides, using his palms. On the front was a sepia-toned photograph of a long-ago funeral procession. Six cowboys, all wearing battered hats and holstered pistols, were carrying a plank coffin into a dusty cemetery. A preacher (also wearing a holstered gun) was waiting for them at the head of an open grave with a Bible in his hands.
Ms. Levelle brightened considerably. “You actually want to buy that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, hand it over so I can scan it.”
“I don’t think so.” He held the book up with the bar code stickered to the shrink-wrap facing her, and she beeped it.
“That’s eighty-four fourteen with the tax, but we’ll call it eighty-four even.”
Ralph set the book carefully on end to hand over his credit card. He tucked his receipt into his breast pocket, then once again picked the book up using just his palms, holding it out like a chalice.
“He handled it,” he said, less to make sure of her than to confirm his own absurd luck. “You’re sure the man in the picture I showed you handled this book.”
“Took it down and said that cover picture was taken in Canning Township. Then he looked at the price and put it back. Just like I told you. Is it evidence, or something?”
“I don’t know,” Ralph said, looking down at the antique mourners gracing the cover. “But I’m going to find out.”
16
Frank Peterson’s body had been released to the Donelli Brothers Funeral Home on Thursday afternoon. Arlene Peterson had arranged for this and everything else, including the obituary, the flowers, the Friday morning memorial service, the funeral itself, the graveside service, and the Saturday evening gathering of friends and family. It had to be her. Fred was useless at making any kind of social arrangements at the best of times.
But this time it has to be me, Fred told himself when he and Ollie got home from the hospital. It has to be, because there is no one else. And that guy from Donelli will help me. They’re experts at this. Only how was he supposed to pay for a second funeral, so soon after the first? Would insurance cover it? He didn’t know. Arlene had handled all that stuff, too. They had a deal: he made the money and she paid the bills. He would have to look through her desk for the insurance paperwork. The thought of it made him tired.
They sat in the living room. Ollie turned on the television. There was a soccer match on. They watched it awhile, although neither of them really cared for the game; they were pro football guys. At last Fred got up, trudged into the hall, and brought back Arlene’s old red address book. He turned to the Ds, and yes, there was Donelli Brothers, but her usual neat script was shaky, and why not? She wouldn’t have noted down the number of a funeral parlor before Frank died, now would she? The Petersons were supposed to have years before needing to worry about burial rites. Years.
Looking at the address book, its red leather faded and scuffed, Fred thought of all the times he had seen it in her hands, jotting down return addresses from envelopes in the old days, from the Internet more recently. He began to cry.
“I can’t,” he said. “I just can’t. Not so soon after Frankie.”
On TV, the announcer screamed “GOAL!” and the players in the red shirts started to jump all over each other. Ollie turned it off and held out his hand.
“I’ll do it.”
Fred looked at him, eyes red and streaming.
Ollie nodded. “It’s okay, Dad. Really. I’ll take care of it, the whole deal. Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down?”
And although Fred knew it was probably wrong to leave his seventeen-year-old son with this burden, he did just that. He promised himself he would carry his share of the weight in time, but right now he needed to take a nap. He was really very tired.
17
Alec Pelley wasn’t able to break free of his own family commitments that Sunday until three thirty. It was after five when he reached the Cap City Sheraton, but the afternoon sun was still burning a hole in the sky. He parked in the hotel turnaround, slipped the parking valet a ten, and told him to keep his car close. In the newsstand, Lorette Levelle was once more rearranging her bits of jewelry. Alec’s visit there was brief. He went back outside, leaned against his Explorer, and called Howie Gold.
“I beat Anderson to the security footage—plus the TV tape—but he beat me to the book. And bought it. I guess you’d have to call that a wash.”
“Fuck,” Howie said. “How did he even know about it?”
“I don’t think he did. I think it was a combination of luck and old-fashioned police work. The woman who works in the newsstand says a guy took it down on the day of Coben’s lecture, saw the pricetag—almost eighty bucks—and put it back. Didn’t seem to know the guy was Maitland, so I guess she doesn’t watch the news. She told Anderson, and Anderson bought the book. She says he walked out holding it by the sides, and with the palms of his hands.”
“Hoping to raise prints that don’t match Terry’s,” Howie said, “thus suggesting that whoever handled that book was not Terry. Won’t work. God knows how many people may have taken that book down and handled it.”
“The woman who runs the newsstand would beg to disagree. She says that one just sat up there, month in and month out.”
“Makes no difference.” Howie didn’t sound worried, which left Alec free to worry for both of them. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A small flaw in a case that had been shaping up as pretty as a painting in a museum. A possible flaw, he reminded himself, and Howie could easily work around it; juries didn’t care much about what wasn’t there.
“Just wanted you to know, boss. It’s what you pay me for.”
“Okay, now I know. You’ll be there for the arraignment tomorrow, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Alec said. “Did you talk to Samuels about bail?”
“I did. The conversation was brief. He said he would fight it with every fiber of his being. His very words.”
“Jesus, does the guy have an off button?”
“A good question.”
“Will you get it anyway?”
“I have a good chance. Nothing’s a sure thing, but I’m almost positive.”
“If you do, tell Maitland not to take any neighborhood strolls. Lots of people keep a home protection weapon handy, and right now he’s the least popular guy in Flint City.”
“He’ll be restricted to his home, and you can be sure the cops will be keeping the house under surveillance.” Howie sighed. “A shame about that book.”
Alec ended the call and jumped back in his car. He wanted to be home in plenty of time to make popcorn before Game of Thrones.
18