Overconfident? Maybe. But Wu didn’t think he’d need a weapon.
He turned the knob and pushed hard.
Freddy Sykes was still in the tub. The gag was in his mouth. His eyes were closed. Wu wondered if Freddy was dead. Probably. No one else was here. There was no place to hide. Nobody had come to Freddy’s rescue.
Wu moved toward the window. He looked out at the house now, at the house next door.
The woman—the one who’d been in the lingerie—was there.
In her house. Standing by the window.
She stared back at him.
That was when Wu heard the car door slam. There was no siren, but now, as he turned toward the driveway, he could see the red cruiser lights.
The police were here.
• • •
Charlaine Swain was not crazy.
She watched movies. She read books. Lots of them. Escapism, she had thought. Entertainment. A way to numb the boredom every day. But maybe these movies and books were oddly educational. How many times had she shouted at the plucky heroine—the oh-so-guileless, witch-skinny, raven-haired beauty—not to go into that damned house?
Too many. So now, when it had been her turn . . . uh-uh, no way. Charlaine Swain was not about to make that mistake.
She had stood in front of Freddy’s back door staring at that hide-a-key. She couldn’t go inside per her movie and book training, but she couldn’t just leave it alone either. Something was wrong. A man was in trouble. You can’t just walk away from that.
So she came up with an idea.
It was simple really. She took the key out of the rock. It was in her pocket now. She left the hide-a-key in plain view, not because she wanted the Asian guy to see it, but because that would be her excuse for calling the police.
The moment the Asian guy entered Freddy’s house, she dialed 911. “Someone is in the neighbor’s house,” she told them. The clincher: The hide-a-key was strewn on the walkway.
Now the police were here.
One cruiser had made the turn onto her block. The siren was silent. The car was not speeding bat-out-of-hell style, just moving at a clip solidly above the speed limit. Charlaine risked a look back at Freddy’s house.
The Asian man was watching her.
chapter 17
Grace stared at the headline. “He was murdered?” Cora nodded.
“How?”
“Bob Dodd was shot in the head in front of his wife. Gangland style, they called it, whatever that means.”
“They catch who did it?”
“Nope.”
“When?”
“When was he murdered?”
“Yeah, when?”
“Four days after Jack called him.”
Cora moved back toward the computer. Grace considered the date.
“It couldn’t have been Jack.”
“Uh huh.”
“It would be impossible. Jack hasn’t traveled out of the state in more than a month.”
“You say so.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, Grace. I’m on your side, okay? I don’t think Jack killed anybody either, but c’mon, let’s get a grip here.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning stop with the ‘hasn’t traveled out of state’ nonsense. New Hampshire is hardly California. You can drive up in four hours. You can fly up in one.”
Grace rubbed her eyes.
“Something else,” Cora went on. “I know why he’s listed as Bob, not Robert.”
“Why?”
“He’s a reporter. That’s his byline. Bob Dodd. Google listed one hundred and twenty-six hits on his name over the past three years for the New Hampshire Post. The obituary called him—where’s the line?—‘a hard-nosed investigative reporter, famous for his controversial exposés’—like the New Hampshire mob rubbed him out to keep him quiet.”
“And you don’t think that’s the case?”
“Who knows? But skimming through his articles, I’d say Bob Dodd was more like an ‘On Your Side’ reporter, you know—he finds dishwasher repairmen scamming old ladies, wedding photographers who bail out with the deposit, that sorta thing.”
“He could have pissed someone off.”
Cora’s tone was flat. “Yup, could have. And, what, you think it’s a coincidence—Jack calling the guy before he died?”
“No, there’s no coincidence here.” Grace tried to process what she was hearing. “Hold up.”
“What?”
“That photograph. There were five people in it. Two women, three men. This is a long shot. . . .”
Cora was already typing. “But maybe Bob Dodd is one of them?”
“There are image search engines, right?”
“Already there.”
Her fingers flew, her cursor pointed, her mouse slid. There were two pages, a total of twelve picture hits for Bob Dodd. The first page featured a hunter with the same name living out in Wisconsin. On the second page—the eleventh hit—they found a table photograph taken at a charity function in Bristol, New Hampshire.
Bob Dodd, a reporter for the New Hampshire Post, was the first face on the left.
They didn’t need to study it closely. Bob Dodd was African-American. Everyone in the mystery photograph was white.
Grace frowned. “There still has to be a connection.”
“Let me see if I can dig up a bio on him. Maybe they went to college together or something.”
There was a gentle rapping at the front door. Grace and Cora looked at each other. “Late,” Cora said.
The knocking came again, still soft. There was a doorbell. Whoever was there had chosen not to use it. Must know she had kids. Grace rose and Cora followed. At the door she flicked on the outside light and peered out the window on the side of the door. She should have been more surprised, but Grace guessed that maybe she was beyond that.
“Who’s that?” Cora asked.
“The man who changed my life,” Grace said softly.
She opened the door. Jimmy X stood on the stoop looking down.
• • •
Wu had to smile.
That woman. As soon as he saw those siren lights, he put it together. Her ingenuity was both admirable and grating.
No time for that.
What to do . . . ?
Jack Lawson was tied up in the trunk. Wu realized now that he should have fled the moment he saw that hide-a-key. Another mistake. How many more could he afford?
Minimize the damage. That was the key here. There was no way to prevent it all—the damage, that is. He would be hurt here. It would cost him. His fingerprints were in the house. The woman next door had probably already given the police a description. Sykes, alive or dead, would be found. There was nothing he could do about that either.