When Holly was unsure about what to do next, she almost always sought out either an International House of Pancakes or a Denny’s. Both served breakfast all day, comfort food that you could eat slowly without being bothered by things like wine lists and pushy waiters. She found an IHOP close to her hotel.
Once seated at a two-top in the corner, she ordered pancakes (a short stack), a single scrambled egg, and hash browns (the IHOP hash browns were always delicious). While she waited for her food to come, she fired up her laptop and searched for Ralph Anderson’s telephone number. She didn’t find it, which was no huge surprise; police officers almost always unlisted their phones. She could almost certainly get it, even so—Bill had taught her all the tricks—and she wanted to talk to him, because she was sure they both had pieces of the puzzle the other lacked.
“He’s Macy’s, I’m Gimbels,” she said.
“What was that, hon?” It was the waitress, with her evening repast.
“I was just saying how hungry I am,” Holly said.
“You better be, because this is a lot of chow.” She set the plates down. “But you could use some feeding up, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’re too skinny.”
“I had a friend who used to tell me that all the time,” Holly said, and suddenly felt like crying. It was that phrase—I had a friend. Time had passed, and time probably did heal all wounds, but God, some of them healed so slowly. And the difference between I have and I had was such a gulf.
She ate slowly, going heavy on the pancake syrup. It wasn’t the real deal, not maple, but it was tasty, just the same, and it was good to eat a meal where you sat down and took your time.
By the time she finished, she had come to a reluctant decision. Calling Detective Anderson without informing Pelley was apt to get her fired when she wanted—it was Bill’s turn of phrase—to chase the case. More importantly, it would be unethical.
The waitress came back to offer more coffee, and Holly agreed. You didn’t get free refills at Starbucks. And the IHOP coffee, while not gourmet, was good enough. Like the syrup. And like me, Holly thought. Her therapist said these moments of self-validation throughout the day were very important. I may not be Sherlock Holmes—or Tommy and Tuppence, for that matter—but I am good enough, and I know what I have to do. Mr. Pelley may argue with me, and I hate arguments, but I’ll argue back if I have to. I’ll channel my inner Bill Hodges.
She held that thought while she made the call. When Pelley answered, she said: “Terry Maitland didn’t kill the Peterson boy.”
“What? Did you just say what I think you—”
“Yes. I’ve discovered some very interesting things here in Dayton, Mr. Pelley, but before I make my report, I need to talk to Detective Anderson. Do you have any objections?”
Pelley didn’t give her the argument she had dreaded. “I’d have to talk to Howie Gold about that, and he’d have to clear it with Marcy. But I think it will be okay with both of them.”
Holly relaxed and sipped her coffee. “That’s good. Clear it with them as fast as you can, please, and get me his number. I’d like to talk to him tonight.”
“But why? What have you found out?”
“Let me ask you a question. Do you know if anything unusual happened at the Heisman Memory Unit on the day Terry Maitland visited his father for the last time?”
“Unusual like what?”
This time Holly didn’t lead her witness. “Like anything. You may not know, but then again you might. If Terry said something to his wife when he got back to their hotel, for instance. Anything?”
“No . . . unless you mean Terry bumping into an orderly when he went out. The orderly fell down because the floor was wet, but it was just a chance thing. Neither of them was hurt, or anything.”
She clutched her phone so hard her knuckles creaked. “You never said anything like that before.”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“That’s why I need to talk to Detective Anderson. There are missing pieces. You just gave me one. He may have more. Also, he can find things out that I can’t.”
“Are you saying an excuse-me bump as Maitland was going out has relevance? If so, what is it?”
“Let me talk to Detective Anderson first. Please.”
There was a long pause, then Pelley said, “Let me see what I can do.”
The waitress put down the check as Holly pocketed her phone. “That sounded intense.”
Holly gave her a smile. “Thank you for such good service.”
The waitress left. The check came to eighteen dollars and twenty cents. Holly left a five-dollar tip under her plate. This was quite a bit more than the recommended amount, but she was excited.
10
She had barely returned to her room when her cell rang. UNKNOWN CALLER, the screen said. “Hello? You’ve reached Holly Gibney, to whom am I speaking?”
“This is Ralph Anderson. Alec Pelley gave me your number, Ms. Gibney, and told me what you’re doing. My first question is, do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.” Holly had many worries, and she was a very doubtful person even after years of therapy, but of this much she was sure.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh, well, maybe you do and maybe you don’t, I have no way of telling, do I?”
“No,” Holly agreed. “At least not as of this moment.”
“Alec said you told him Terry Maitland didn’t kill Frank Peterson. He said you seemed very sure of it. I’m curious as to how you can make a statement like that when you’re in Dayton and the Peterson murder happened here in Flint City.”
“Because there was a similar crime here, at the same time Maitland was here. Not a boy killed, but two little girls. Same basic MO: rape and mutilation. The man the police arrested claimed to have been staying with his mother in a town thirty miles away, and she corroborated that, but he was also seen in Trotwood, the suburb where the little girls were abducted. There’s surveillance footage of him. Does this sound familiar?”
“Familiar but not surprising. Most killers toss up some kind of alibi once they’re caught. You might not know that from your work collaring bail-jumpers, Ms. Gibney—Alec told me what your firm mostly does—but surely you know it from TV.”
“This man was an orderly at the Heisman Memory Unit, and although he was supposed to be on vacation, he was there at least once during the same week that Mr. Maitland was there visiting his father. On the occasion of Mr. Maitland’s last visit—April 26th, this would have been—these two supposed killers actually bumped into each other. And I mean that literally.”
“Are you shitting me?” Anderson nearly shouted.
“I am not. This is what my old partner at Finders Keepers would have called an authentic no-shit situation. Is your interest piqued?”
“Did Pelley tell you the orderly scraped Maitland when he fell down? Reached out and grabbed for him and nicked his arm?”
Holly was silent. She was thinking about the movie she had packed in her carry-on. She wasn’t in the habit of self-congratulation—just the opposite—but it now seemed like an act of intuitive genius. Only had she ever doubted there was something far out of the ordinary about the Maitland case? She had not. Mostly because of her association with the monstrous Brady Wilson Hartsfield. A thing like that tended to widen your perspective quite a bit.
“And that wasn’t the only cut.” He sounded like he was talking to himself. “There was another one. But down here. After Frank Peterson was murdered.”
Here was another missing piece.
“Tell me, Detective. Tell me tell me tell me!”
“I think . . . not over the phone. Can you fly down here? We should sit down and talk. You, me, Alec Pelley, Howie Gold, and a State Police detective who’s also been working the case. And maybe Marcy. Her, too.”
“I think that’s a good idea, but I’ll have to discuss it with my client, Mr. Pelley.”
“Talk to Howie Gold instead. I’ll give you his number.”
“Protocol—”