Chapter XXXIII

I prepared to leave LFK little wiser than I had been when I arrived, a pattern that was becoming uncomfortably familiar. I hadn't managed to get a lot out of Steady Freddy, but I might have succeeded in sowing a few seeds of uncertainty regarding Colleen Clark's guilt. Also, from what he was willing to share toward the end of our conversation, any earth-shattering revelations from the prosecution were unlikely. As Moxie had anticipated, Erin Becker was relying on the evidence of the bloodied blanket and the absence of an alibi as the basis for her case, along with testimony from Stephen Clark regarding his wife's supposedly hostile feelings toward their son, and—if Becker could swing it—evidence from Colleen's physician and therapist that the accused had been suffering from severe depression and had admitted to feelings of anger toward her child.

"Becker's good," said Steady Freddy, as he ordered one more for the road on my tab, "but my guess is that it's still sixty-forty in favor of a conviction, at best. We're under pressure to locate a body."

"Meaning?" I said.

"Meaning we finally start digging at the Clark property tomorrow morning."

Becker and Nowak had been hoping that Colleen would break down and confess, thereby avoiding the necessity of a blind excavation, but frustratingly for them—and their ambitions—she continued to protest her innocence, even with the prosecution mooting a shorter sentence in return for a guilty plea and a burial site.

"I heard you were looking for a warrant. Has Becker alerted the media to the search?"

"Won't make much difference one way or the other. As soon as we arrive with spades and a cadaver dog, we'll have coverage up the wazoo. Wherever you've stashed Colleen Clark, you'd be advised to keep her there until we're done, because the carnival is about to pitch up again in her part of town."

"What about the house itself?"

"That was searched thoroughly with the Clarks' consent as soon as the child went missing, and so far no one has suggested we should take up floorboards. If Henry Clark's body was somewhere inside, we'd know about it by now. You can hide a body, but hiding a smell is harder. Still, I don't doubt they'll run the dog through there as well. They'll also be looking for traces of blood. If there was a cleanup, however thorough, it'll show."

I thanked him for his time, paid the tab, and put on my coat.

"That money order could be smart thinking," said Steady Freddy, "if there's mileage in the Teller lead."

"It was luck, but it might come to nothing. As you said, I may just be chasing after a woman who had an affair she regretted and is now covering her tracks."

"But you don't believe that, do you?"

"No, I don't. And do you want to hear something else?"

He raised his fresh glass of beer. "You pay the piper," he said, "you call the tune."

"I think Stephen Clark hasn't been straight about his relationship with Teller, whoever she really is: not with you, not with me, and not with his wife. By being unfaithful, he's demonstrated that he's capable of deceit. He may even have become habituated to it."

Steady Freddy sipped his beer.

"I've revised those odds," he said.

"Already?"

"Yeah. I think I was mistaken earlier: seventy-thirty in favor of a conviction."

"And there I was about to congratulate myself for opening your mind."

Neither of us had to stress that our meeting should stay between ourselves, even though nothing major had been conceded or revealed on either side. Discretion was understood.

"I'll see you around, Freddy."

"That you will."

As the server arrived to pick up the credit card receipt and his tip, Steady Freddy tapped him on the arm.

"Son," he said, "I'd like you to send a manager my way. We need to have a conversation about avocado…"

PAULIE FULCI CALLED ASI started my car.

"I'm at the Bear," he said. "I drove over to get takeout for Evelyn and Tony. You know how my brother likes the Angry Bird."

The Angry Bird was a fried chicken sandwich loaded with Hellfire sauce, jalape?os, and blue cheese. Tony Fulci's version was customized for him with a few added drops of something called Chilli Pepper Pete's Dragon's Blood Mega Hot Sauce. Moxie had tried it once, and spent the whole of the following day afraid to leave the house.

"Is there a problem?" I said. "If they've run out of hot sauce, I can't help."

"There's a woman here," said Paulie. "She was asking after you. She says she knows something about Henry Clark. She's—"

He struggled to find the right description before settling for "strange."

"Crazy strange?"

Just as I had expected the police to get around to a more extensive examination of the Clark property, I had also been anticipating the emergence of lunatics and self-promoters. Missing persons cases drew them like flies, but particularly those involving children. Paulie Fulci might not have been a trained psychiatrist, but he'd been around enough of them in his life, along with the folk they treated, to be able to spot signs of disturbance in others.

"I don't think so," said Paulie. "Or if she is, it's the mellow sort."

I heard a muffled voice from nearby.

"Wait a minute," said Paulie. "Dave wants to speak to you."

Moments later, Dave Evans came on the phone.

"It took me a while to figure out who she is, the woman waiting for you," he said. "I knew the face was familiar, but it's been a few years."

"Well?" I said.

"It's Sabine Drew."