FORTY-NINE
NICOLE called Lewis in the morning from Florida and told him it was done. Lewis told her to catch the first flight north that she could. She’d found Allison Fitch, and he’d found the man who’d paid a visit to her apartment. Together, they were going to retrieve him. A man named Ray Kilbride.
“Retrieve?” Nicole said.
“We have to know what he knows. We have to know why he was there. My employer wants to talk to him.”
“Whatever.”
“And you’re not flying to New York,” Lewis told her. He gave her another destination, closer to where they’d find Kilbride. “I’m heading up that way now.”
“Fine,” she said, and ended the call.
Then Lewis contacted Howard Talliman.
“She’s been found. And she’s no longer a problem,” Lewis said. He felt safe discussing these things with Howard, knowing that the man had a security expert who swept his office every morning for listening devices.
“That’s a great relief, Lewis.”
“And I’m heading north to deal with our other problem.”
“It’s still too early to relax.”
“I agree,” Lewis said.
“We have to know why Kilbride had that printout. We have to know why he was there. Have you any reason to believe he’s anything other than what he purports to be?”
“He’s an illustrator. Plain and simple.”
“Not everyone is who they appear to be, Lewis.”
“I know. But I’ve torn his life apart since finding out he’s our guy. I’ve got his Social Security number. He’s got fifty-four bucks charged to his Visa card. He lives frugally. He’s paid off his mortgage. Last year he reported an income of $73,675 to the IRS. He drives an Audi Q5. He’s gotten four speeding tickets in the last ten years but other than that his record is clean. Never been married. Got a brother named Thomas who lives with their father in Promise Falls. That sound like some undercover CIA guy to you?”
“No, but it doesn’t make any sense for someone who makes his living doing silly drawings to show up at a murder scene with that printout in hand. Did he stumble upon the image online and then come investigating, or did he already have an inkling of what had happened at that address before he went looking for the image? Either scenario is troubling, but the latter particularly so. No illustrator would be doing that. A private detective might be. An FBI agent might be.” Howard paused, as though steeling himself for his next thought. “As might someone from the CIA.”
“Howard, I’ve told you what I know. When you’ve got the son of a bitch in front of you, you can ask him whatever you want. I’m gonna fly up, rent a van there.”
“Keep me informed,” Howard said, concluding the conversation.
Howard had always known the Goldsmith matter might still come back and bite them in the ass, even though the man was dead. But did it really make sense that the CIA might be sniffing around Orchard Street? There had to be people at Langley who already knew everything. For God’s sake, the plan had originated there. It wasn’t as if this whole thing had been Morris’s idea from the outset.
Was it possible that those left behind after Goldsmith’s death were covering their asses by finding a way to lay off more of their troubles on Morris? But even then, how had they connected Morris to Orchard Street? Had they also been keeping tabs on Bridget? Learned of her link to Allison Fitch? Which could have led them to the Web, and the image, and— It did seem far-fetched.
And yet, some facts were not in dispute. This man Ray Kilbride had shown up at Allison Fitch’s apartment, presumably led there by an online image of Bridget Sawchuck’s murder.
Howard felt he needed to talk to Sawchuck. To sound him out on a few things, without actually telling him about Fitch, or Kilbride, or what had happened at Orchard Street, because Morris still had no idea how his wife had actually died.
That she had not killed herself. That she had been murdered as a direct result of an action taken by Morris’s best friend.
Morris picked up on the third ring. “Just on my way to lunch with the mayor,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said, Morris. About how you think it’s time. I know you think I’m not listening to you, but I am. I know what you’re feeling.”
“Funny you should mention it, Howard. I’ve been wondering who you are lately. I’ve been wondering what happened to the Howard I used to know. The one who liked to takes chances and stir up some shit.”
“I don’t mind stirring up shit, but I don’t want you stepping in it,” Howard said. “Which is why I’ve been stepping very carefully of late. You’re my friend, Morris. Any advice I give you, you need to know that I’m giving it to you as a friend first.”
Morris waited a moment before responding. “Okay.”