Chapter LIV

I left Lyra Shapleigh's office no wiser, but with the knowledge that she might be unlikely to do or say anything that would strengthen the case against Colleen Clark, if only out of self-interest—and if one were being cynical about it, self-interest was a more reliable stimulus than altruism, particularly when it came to the law. I was pulling out of the medical center's parking lot when Dave Evans called from the Great Lost Bear.

"Do you know a guy called John Wayne Akers?"

"Seriously?" I said. "After the serial killer, or the movie star?"

"The movie star, smart-ass." Dave paused. "Or I'm pretty sure it's the movie star. Still, I'll take that as a no. He drives a truck for Pine State, so he's in and out of here every couple of weeks." Pine State Beverage was one of the biggest beer and wine distributors in the region. "He's solid."

I dodged a battle-scarred cat on the road and saw that I'd also missed a call from Tony Fulci while speaking with Shapleigh.

"What about John Wayne Akers," I said, "solidity apart?"

"He saw on the news that you were involved with the Colleen Clark case. He told me that a friend of his sister used to date Stephen Clark. Before he was married, obviously."

"We all know that Clark cheated at least once on his wife," I told him, "so I wouldn't go rushing to qualify his behavior."

"My grandmother used to say that every man looked like someone who'd cheat on his wife," said Dave. "I think she did it to get a rise out of my grandfather. Worked every time. Anyway, John Wayne says that Clark used his fists on the girl. She came close to pressing charges, before deciding it might be less trouble just to dump him."

"Did John Wayne give you a name?"

"Beth Witham. He thinks it's Witham with an i, but he couldn't swear to it. She lives in Topsham now. Last he heard, she was working weekdays at the Kopper Kettle. He said it might be worth your while talking to her."

"That was helpful of him."

"Do I detect a note of hesitation?"

"So far, helpfulness has been rare when it comes to Colleen Clark, for obvious reasons."

"All the more cause to be open to breaks. John Wayne told me that no one who knew Stephen Clark from those days has any great fondness for him. John Wayne's sister is convinced she smells a rat. When she read about the case, the first thing she said to him was 'stephen did it,' and even the appearance of that bloodied blanket hasn't altered her opinion."

I thanked Dave and stopped to make a note of the two names—John Wayne Akers and Beth Witham—on the writing pad attached to the dashboard. Dave was right: under the current circumstances, I'd accept help, whatever the source.

Topsham was just shy of thirty miles north of Portland, but I'd still have to set aside a couple of hours to travel there and back to speak with Witham, assuming Akers was as solid as Dave maintained. The Kopper Kettle opened only for breakfast and lunch. I could aim to cross paths with her at her place of employment the next morning. Right now, I wanted to check in at the Clark house, and speak with Tony.

TRUE TO STEADY FREDDY'S word, the police had begun a new search of the Clark property, this time using a cadaver dog. To offer some element of privacy to those inside, and also to ensure that no graphic images of human remains made their way onto the Internet, a barrier tarp had been erected at the front of the property, and a no-fly zone for drones created by order of the court. That wouldn't necessarily stop people from trying to use them, but the police would have to act if they did.

I doubted the searchers would find anything beyond old squirrel bones under the Clark dirt, but the search had attracted a media presence, as well as assorted locals—the Robacks to the fore, though not Alison Piucci—and a handful of lookie-loos from farther afield. I wondered if Mara Teller might be among them, but a quick recce of the other faces turned up only hostile men and hard women.

Tony was on duty when I pulled up, the monster truck casting a literal pall over the lawn and a metaphorical one over the lives of the neighbors. That truck was hard to ignore. Tony jumped out to greet me, and the ground shook as he landed.

"I saw I missed some calls," I said.

"Paulie had a problem last night."

"What kind of problem?"

Tony led me past the cop in the yard, a patrolman who knew us both by sight and reputation. There were scorch marks under the living room window, and blackened flowers in the beds beneath. To my right, I saw two officers working a grid with the cadaver dog.

"A firebomb, lobbed from a passing car," said Tony. "Two guys: one driving, one throwing. Paulie used an extinguisher on the flames, but by then the car was gone."

"Was Paulie in the truck?"

"No, I took the truck home. He was in the Explorer."

That might have explained it. The Explorer was a lot less conspicuous.

"Did he get a license number or make of the vehicle?" I asked.

"He didn't get a look at the plate, though he thought he might know the car. It was a gray sedan, but the driver's door was black. He's seen it around the Old Port. He thinks it belongs to Antoine Pinette."

Antoine Pinette was a racist and committed anti-Semite, but far from unintelligent, which made his shortcomings even more reprehensible. Lately, he'd assumed responsibility for what passed for security in the world of Bobby Ocean and his Stonehurst Foundation. Bobby and I had history. His son—Billy Stonehurst, aka Billy Ocean—had once burned out my car and nearly set fire to my home. The kid was now dead, and his father had compiled a long list of people he held responsible, me included. His son's passing had driven any semblance of humanity from Bobby, who was now mired in racial hatred and the politics of the far right. If Antoine Pinette was pitching firebombs at the Clark home as part of his deal with Bobby Ocean, it was as much an attack on me as on Colleen. Bobby was sending a message: he hadn't forgiven, or forgotten.

"Where's Paulie now?"

"At home, asleep."

"You sure about that?"

"I wouldn't lie to you, Mr. Parker."

"When he wakes up, you tell him from me that he's to keep his distance from Pinette," I said. "That goes for you as well. If you see Pinette, cross the street to avoid him. I'll take care of this."

"What if they try again?"

"I'll set things in motion today," I said, but I couldn't hide my frustration. I had enough to keep me occupied without reentering the world of Bobby Ocean. Neither would Moxie be pleased to hear that Bobby had involved himself in the Clark affair, if only by proxy. I was becoming stretched, which wouldn't be helpful to Moxie or Colleen. Sometimes, you had to know when to ask for more help. I stepped aside from Tony and called New York. The conversation was brief and to the point. When I hung up, Tony's face had brightened considerably.

"Are they coming?"

"Yes, Tony," I said, in the manner of Francis Pharcellus Church informing Virginia O'Hanlon that there was indeed a Santa Claus, "they're coming. They'll be here by evening."

Tony grinned.

"I like it better when they're around," he said. "They make everything more colorful."

I doubted Bobby Ocean or Antoine Pinette would view this development in quite the same light, but that was the point.

"?‘Colorful' is one term for it," I said.

"Yeah," said Tony. He frowned for a moment as he thought. "Wait, is ‘fucked up' the other?"

INSIDE THE HOUSE, EVELYNMiller was reading a copy of the Boston Globe at the breakfast table. After the firebomb, her nerves were likely to be on edge, not helped by police looking for her grandson's body in the yard.

"Is everything okay?" she asked. "With Colleen, I mean."

"She might be going stir-crazy," I said, "but she's safe."

"I just spoke to her and she sounded so down. She says she keeps waiting for her phone to ring with news of Henry. She knows he's dead, she said, but she doesn't want him to be lost anymore."

She put her hand to her mouth. I waited for her to compose herself.

"I'm sorry about what happened last night," I said.

"The fire? There was nothing more that Paulie could have done, but if he hadn't been on watch, the whole house might have gone up."

"We may have some idea of who was responsible. They'll be spoken to."

"Will that be enough?"

"It depends on who's doing the talking."

"I have confidence in your ability to select appropriate candidates." She turned the newspaper toward me. "Have you seen this?"

The story detailed the deaths of four men in a crash on I-91, all executives from the same company, DavMatt-Hunter.

"Your son-in-law's firm," I said.

"I'd prefer not to hear him referred to in that way any longer," she said, "but yes."

"What does this mean for him?"

"The last I heard, the company was poised to sign two or three big deals. If they've just lost four people, they'll have to consolidate, and present the best face possible. That could work out well for Stephen. He's good at what he does, but others at DavMatt-Hunter are better."

"Any of them among the dead?"

"At least two."

"So it's good news for him, once he gets over the shock."

"I don't think shock will be much of a problem," she said. "Stephen always viewed those immediately above him as obstacles to what should have been his progress. I fear that was one of the reasons he chose my daughter: because she represented a means of ascension. Perhaps it was less a case of marrying her than her father and his influence."

"And did your late husband oblige?"

"He put in a word or two where it mattered, and wasn't averse to introducing Stephen to the right people. Had he not, I don't believe DavMatt-Hunter would have hired him." She reconsidered. "No, that makes Stephen sound less competent than he is. It might be more accurate to say that his status as the son-in-law of Thomas Miller was enough to tip the scales in his favor. Once Stephen got a foot on the ladder, he became hard to dislodge, but I didn't think he'd rise much higher than his current position, for all his aspirations, not unless something changed dramatically. This accident means that an opportunity for advancement has presented itself, and you can be sure Stephen will grasp it."

It wasn't an unfamiliar situation, and didn't necessarily make Stephen Clark a terrible person. Much depended on his level of self-awareness and his understanding of his strengths and weaknesses. In life, I often thought it was better to have 20 percent talent and 80 percent application than the opposite, because you'd get a lot more done. Ambition wasn't a vice: as Browning wrote, "a man's reach should exceed his grasp, / Or what's a heaven for?", but the trick was to measure the gap and act accordingly. If someone didn't learn that lesson, they were likely to end up bitter, disappointed, or dead.

"How long will this go on?" she asked, as another pair of searchers joined the first set. We could see them through the kitchen window.

"It isn't a large area to search. They'll be done by the afternoon. The house will follow, but again, it won't take much time."

Moxie hadn't bothered raising any objection to the search. Cooperating was another move in the game.

"I miss my own home and garden," said Evelyn. "Do you think Colleen could be persuaded to join me there until the trial? I know she's said that she wants to return here, but increasingly it's starting to feel like a combination of a goldfish bowl and the waiting room of a funeral home. I'm sorry, but it's the truth."

The legal system was a form of limbo, leaving accusers and accused, along with their families, suspended in an enervating existence as cases slowly wended their way to court. No wonder the case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce broke so many people in Bleak House, leaving bodies and madness in its wake. Evelyn Miller was getting her first taste of that now.

"Aside from the fact that we don't know when the trial might be, this is her home," I replied. "If it's where she wants to be, that has to be respected."

"Even without Henry?"

"She'll be without Henry regardless of where she goes. Until he's found, Colleen is a ghost, and this is the place she'll have to haunt."

Evelyn pointedly returned to her newspaper, ruffling the pages for good measure.

"I was warned you were a strange man," she said.

"I try not to disappoint."