Broken Promise Read online

  The phone rang again. He let it go, but seconds after it stopped ringing, his cell went off. “Goddamn it,” he said. “It’s like having flies buzzing around your head all the time.”

  “Maybe you need an assistant,” Fenwick said.

  “Interested?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Because I’ve actually been scouting around, getting some names. What with running a business, restarting my political career, I’m kind of drowning.”

  “Is that a joke?” Fenwick asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You being in the water business.”

  “Oh.” He grinned. “I missed that one.”

  “When did you get into this?”

  “Three years ago. This has been Finley land for seventy-three years. We always knew there was a natural spring on the property, but I was the one who decided to look into its financial potential. I set up a plant, and now we’re going gangbusters.”

  “So what do you care about getting back into politics? You have a good business going here.”

  “I like to contribute,” Finley said. “I like to make a difference.”

  Fenwick wondered whether the man could keep a straight face. Finley managed it. But it didn’t stop her from pursuing the matter.

  “A man like you always has an angle. You don’t want to get back in to help the people. You want to get back in to help yourself. You get in, you do people favors, they pay you back. That’s how it works.”

  “A cynical theme-park operator,” Finley said. “It’s like finding out Willy Wonka hated chocolate.” He rubbed his hands together. “Here’s the thing. I’m not asking Five Mountains to reopen. I know that may not be feasible. But if you could find a way to say, after having a meeting with me, that you are at least considering taking another look at reopening, I’d really appreciate that.”

  “You mean lie,” she said.

  Finley waved a hand in the air. “Call it what you will. But just in this room.”

  “What’s in it for Five Mountains?” she asked. “Say I go to my superiors and make your pitch. What’s in it for me?”

  “All the free springwater you want?” he said, and grinned.

  Gloria took a second look at the clouded bottle. “If it comes with some antibiotics.”

  “And,” Finley said, taking a white letter-size envelope from his desk and placing it on top, “this.”

  The envelope was a quarter of an inch thick. Fenwick glanced at it, but did not touch it.

  “You must be kidding,” she said. “Who are you? Tony Soprano?”

  “It’s a consulting fee. I’ve been consulting you about your firm’s plans. Don’t you at least want to see how much it is?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, standing.

  Finley slid the envelope off the desk and back into the drawer. “I know you can’t sell the place.” He chortled. “If I was you, I’d tell my bosses to torch the whole operation and collect the insurance. Only way you’ll get a fraction of your money back out of it.”

  Fenwick shot him a look. “What the hell made you say that?”

  Finley’s smile broadened. “I touch a nerve there?”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Finley. I can find my way out.”

  Finley didn’t bother getting up as she left the office.

  “Bitch,” he said.

  He wondered if maybe he could have handled that better. Maybe it was the Penthouse calendar. Maybe he’d never had a chance at winning over Fenwick once she’d seen that woman with her bush hanging out.

  The phone rang again. He looked at it and shouted, “Shut up!” He lifted the receiver an inch and slammed it back down. It was only then that he realized, from the call display, that the call had come from his home. Which meant it was his wife, Jane, or Lindsay, who did double duty as housekeeper and care worker.

  “Shit,” he said, then picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  “Hello?” It was Lindsay.

  “Did you call?” he asked.

  “It must have been Jane,” she said. “Hang on.” The line was put on hold, then a pickup on an extension.

  “Randy?” Jane asked, her voice tired.

  “Hello, love. What’s up?”

  “Would you have time to go by the bookstore today? I finished the one I was reading.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Anything else by the same author. His name is, hang on, his name . . . what is his name?”

  “Leave it with me. I’ll see you soon.”

  Finley hung up the phone, sighed, cast his eye across his empty office. Thank God he had Lindsay’s help on the home front, but he needed assistance here just as much.

  As he’d told Fenwick, he had too much on his plate. He needed help. Someone to keep him organized, manage a campaign, deal with media out of Albany. Talk to local business leaders, get them behind his candidacy.

  Finley knew he could sometimes rub people the wrong way.

  Trouble was, he’d burned a lot of bridges. People who’d worked for him in the past had sworn they’d never work for him again. Like Jim Cutter, who used to drive him around back when he was the mayor. Fucking Cutter had broken his nose while working for him. Finley, looking back, knew he probably had it coming, and if he thought there was a chance in a million Cutter would work for him again, put the landscaping business on hold, Finley’d have him back in a minute. Cutter was a smart guy. Too smart, Finley realized, to ever work for him again.

  So Finley had been asking around, looking for someone he hadn’t already pissed off. Someone with media savvy.

  He had a name. Someone who’d gotten turfed when the Standard went tits-up. Guy by the name of David Harwood.

  Finley had a number for him.

  What the hell? he figured, and picked up the phone.

  NINETEEN

  “WHAT’S happening?” Gill Pickens asked his wife, Agnes, in the police station lobby. “What’s going on?”

  “She’s in there being interrogated like some common criminal; that’s what’s going on,” she told him, hands on her hips. “Where the hell were you?”

  “Why aren’t you in there with her?”

  Agnes rolled her eyes. “They won’t let me. But Natalie Bondurant’s with her. I just hope she knows what the hell she’s doing.”

  “Natalie’s good,” Gill said.

  “You talking professionally, or is she one you’ve bagged I don’t know about?”

  Gill sighed. “Honest to God, Agnes.”

  “That’s not an answer,” she said.

  “She’s a good lawyer. A very good lawyer. And that’s all I know about her. You know it, too.”

  Agnes ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek. “Again, where the hell have you been?”

  “I told you. I was with a client. I met with him at the Holiday Inn Express in Amsterdam. He runs an industrial cleaning service, and he’s looking for ways to make it more efficient. Baldry. Emmett Baldry. Call him if you don’t believe me.”

  “Why’d you meet at the Holiday Inn?” she asked. “Were you planning on some other business there?”

  Gill shook his head as he whispered angrily, “Is this really the time? When we’ve got another crisis with Marla? This is what you want to talk about? I swear, Agnes, you’ve become fixated on this notion that I’m being unfaithful to you, which is complete and utter bullshit. I’m telling you, I had a meeting with Emmett Baldry, and I got here as fast as I could. Could we talk about what really matters? What does Natalie say? Does she think Marla’s in real trouble here?”

  “She’s still getting up to speed,” Agnes said, implicitly agreeing to her husband’s request to move on. At least for now. “But this isn’t like what happened before. I could control that. It happened under my roof. This time it’s different.”

  “Where did she grab this baby?”

  Agnes’s eyes went up, as though heaven would provide an answer. “I don’t know. She’s saying someone
came to the door and just handed the kid over.”

  “And the mother? The real mother? She’s dead?”

  Agnes nodded gravely. “Our girl’s really done it this time.”

  • • •

  “My client has nothing to say,” Natalie Bondurant said.

  She was sitting next to Marla Pickens at a metal table in an interrogation room of the Promise Falls Police Department. Across from them sat Detective Barry Duckworth.

  “I understand,” he said. “Really, what I’m looking for here is some assistance. I’m not out to get you, Marla.” He looked directly at her instead of talking through Natalie. “I’m really not. I just want to find out what happened, and I think you may be in a position to help me with that. Fill in some of the blanks.”

  “Barry, please,” Natalie said.

  “I’m serious, Natalie. Right now no one is talking about kidnapping charges against Ms. Pickens or anything like that.”

  “Kidnapping?” Marla said.

  Duckworth nodded. “We don’t fully understand how Matthew Gaynor came into your care, Marla. That’s something I hope will come clear in time. Right now I’m trying to find out what happened to Matthew’s mother. I’m sure you’d like to do everything you can to help us in that regard.”

  “Sure,” Marla said.

  “Don’t answer him,” Natalie said, resting her hand on Marla’s arm.

  “But I do,” she said. “I want them to find out who did that. That was a terrible thing somebody did.”

  “It sure is,” Duckworth said. “Have you ever met Rosemary Gaynor before?”

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Natalie said.

  “But I haven’t. At least, I don’t think so. The name isn’t familiar to me.”

  Duckworth slid a picture across the table. A blown-up profile shot from Rosemary Gaynor’s Facebook page.

  “You’ve never seen this woman before?”

  Marla studied it. “I don’t recognize her.”

  “Okay. You know what, let me just get a few other things out of the way. What’s your address, Marla?”

  “You already know that,” Natalie said. “You took her driver’s license.”

  “Please, Counselor.”

  Marla rattled off her address and phone number. “I live by myself,” she added.

  “And what do you do?”

  “What do I do?”

  “What’s your job? Are you employed?”

  “Yes,” Marla said, nodding. “I write reviews.”

  Duckworth’s eyebrows went up. “No kidding? What sort of reviews? Movie reviews? Book reviews? Do you review restaurants?”

  “Not movies or books. Some restaurants. But mostly businesses.”

  Natalie, not sure where this was going, looked uncertain. “Maybe we should—”

  “No, it’s okay,” Marla said. “I do write-ups about businesses on the Internet.”

  “How does that work, exactly?” Duckworth asked.

  “Well, let’s say you run a—I don’t know—a paving company. You go around paving people’s driveways. I write a review of your company saying what a good job you did.” She smiled tiredly. “I don’t get paid a lot for each review, but I can get a lot done in an hour, so it adds up pretty fast.”

  “Wait a sec,” Duckworth said. “I’m confused. You use the services of enough businesses that you can write lots of reviews in an hour?”

  Marla shook her head. “No, no, I haven’t used any of them.”

  “I don’t think this has any bearing on anything,” Natalie said.

  “But hang on,” Duckworth said, holding up a hand. “I’m just curious, personally, how you can review businesses whose services you’ve never engaged?”

  Marla said, “The way it works is, if you’re the paving guy, you get in touch with the Internet company I work for, and you say you need lots of good customer reviews so that when people are looking for a paver, they pick you. So then the company sends me the info and I write the review. I’ve got, like, half a dozen online identities I can use so it doesn’t look like they’re all from the same person. So even though I don’t know a lot about paving, I can kind of figure it out, and say they gave me a good price, they were on time, the driveway was really smooth, like that.”

  “No more,” Natalie said, gripping Marla’s arm tighter.

  “That’s fascinating,” Duckworth said. “So you just completely make it up. You say a few good words about a business you know nothing about and have never used. I’m guessing it wouldn’t even have to be in Promise Falls. It could literally be anywhere.”

  Marla nodded.

  “So, in other words, Marla, you lie,” Duckworth said.

  Her head snapped back as though she’d been slapped. “Not really,” she said. “It’s the Internet.”

  “Well, let me ask you this, then. Why did you try to take a baby out of Promise Falls General?”

  Natalie blinked. She said, “Whoa, hold on. If you’ve got anything to substantiate the idea that Ms. Pickens took Matthew Gaynor from the hospital, then I’d like to see—”

  He raised a hand. “No, not Matthew.” He reviewed some paperwork in front of him. “The child’s name was Dwight Westphall. He was just a couple of days old when your client snuck into the maternity ward and—”

  “I would ask that you refrain from a word like ‘snuck,’ Detective.”

  “We’re not in front of a jury, Ms. Bondurant.” He paused. “Not yet. As I was saying, Ms. Pickens here was stopped by hospital security before she could exit the building. Police were notified, but an accommodation was reached between the Westphalls and the hospital and no further action was taken. Would that accommodation have anything to do with the fact that your mother is the hospital administrator, Ms. Pickens?”

  Her eyes were welling up with tears.

  “Strikes me,” Duckworth said to Natalie, “that you haven’t been fully informed of your client’s previous activities.” He leaned over the table and eyed Marla sympathetically. “It’s a good thing Matthew’s okay, Marla. You looked out for him and that’s good. Maybe, when you tried to take him, Mrs. Gaynor came at you. Threatened to hurt you. Is that what happened? Were you just acting in self-defense?”

  “It was the angel,” Marla said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t take Matthew. It was the angel that brought her.”

  “We’re done here,” Natalie said.

  “Can you describe this angel?” Duckworth asked.

  Marla shook her head. “I can’t.”

  Duckworth slid the photo of Rosemary Gaynor toward her again. “Was this your angel?”

  Marla gave the picture another look. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Either this is her or it isn’t.”

  “I . . . have trouble,” Marla said. “With faces.”

  “But this only just happened in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “It’s the prosopagnosia,” Marla said.

  Confusion flashed across the faces of both lawyer and detective.

  “I’m sorry. Proso – what?” Duckworth said.

  “I have it,” Marla said. “Not real bad, but bad enough. Prosopagnosia.” She paused. “Face blindness.”

  “What’s that?” Duckworth asked.

  “I can’t remember faces. I can’t remember what people look like.” Marla pointed to the picture. “So it might have been that woman who gave me Matthew. But I just don’t know.”

  TWENTY

  David

  “WHOA,” I said, backing away from the door, putting my hands in the air. The last thing I wanted to do was appear threatening as Sam—make that Samantha—Worthington pointed that shotgun at my head.

  “Who’d you say you were?” she asked. “What are you doing asking about my boy? Did they send you?”

  “I think there’s some kind of misunderstanding here,” I said, slowly lowering my arms, but still keeping lots of space between my hands and my body. For
all I knew, she thought I was carrying a gun and might reach for it. Why else would you show up at the door with a shotgun?

  I continued, trying to keep my voice even. “My name’s David Harwood. I’m Ethan’s dad. Our boys go to school together. Ethan and Carl.”

  “What’s the name of the school?” Sam asked.

  “What?”

  “Name it. Name the school.”

  “Clinton Street Elementary,” I said.

  “What’s the teacher’s name?”

  I had to think. “Ms. Moffat,” I said.

  The shotgun began to lower. If she shot me now, it’d be my chest that got blown away and not my head. A slight improvement, perhaps.

  “Did I pass the test?” I asked. Because that was certainly what it felt like.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  From inside the house, someone shouted, “Who is it, Mom?” A boy. Carl, presumably.

  Sam whirled her head around, no more than a second. “Stay in the kitchen!” she said. There wasn’t another peep out of Carl.

  “Brandon’s folks didn’t send you?” Sam asked me.

  “I don’t know a Brandon,” I said.

  She studied me another five seconds, breathing through her nose. Finally she lowered the shotgun all the way, pointing it at the floor. I let my arms go limp, but I didn’t move any closer to the door.

  “What is it you want?” she asked.

  “Right now, a change of shorts,” I said. I looked for any hint of a smile and did not find one. “My son gave your boy an antique watch. It was a mistake. It wasn’t his to give. It belongs to his grandfather. Actually, it was his father’s. It’s kind of a family memento.”

  “A watch?”

  “A pocket watch.” I made a circle with my thumb and forefinger. “A little bigger than an Oreo.”

  “Just a minute,” she said. “Stay right there.” She closed the door. I heard a chain slide into place.

  So I cooled my heels out front. Put my hands into my pockets. Smiled as an elderly woman wheeled past with a small grocery cart. She ignored me.