Far From True

Sixty-two

The first thing Sam did was call the school and tell the office to get Carl out of class, keep him in the office, and not let him out of their sight for one second.

A pair of uniformed cops arrived before anyone else. Turned out they were already on their way even before I’d made a call. People passing by the Laundromat had heard shots and someone had dialed 911.

When I called in, I made clear that the gunfire was over, but I also knew that when the police arrived, they’d be on high alert, so I made sure neither Sam nor I was waving a gun around when they came through the front door. But we were both standing over Ed Noble, ready to pounce on him if he tried to get away.

Once the cops had a look at Noble, sprawled on the floor, whimpering as blood streamed from his nose, they put in a call for the paramedics. Before they arrived, a detective by the name of Angus Carlson arrived.

I explained, as quickly as I could, what had gone down, although a survey of the Laundromat offered more than a few clues. Bullet holes in the ceiling and a washer, a shattered dryer window, blood on the floor. I still had several washers chugging away, dealing with my smoky clothes.

I managed to work in, during my initial chat with Carlson, that I was a former Promise Falls cop, and that if he needed to check me out, he could call Barry Duckworth.

“That’s my partner,” Carlson said. “Or my supervisor. Kind of.”

“He says he was put up to it,” I told Carlson, pulling him to one side. “Ms. Worthington’s former in-laws want custody of her son. Sounds like the mother of her ex-husband — he’s in jail right now — figured the best way to achieve that was to kill Ms. Worthington.”

“Some mothers are just pure evil,” Carlson said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think she’s still in town somewhere.”

The paramedics arrived, but Carlson held up a hand to them. He wanted a few words with Noble before they took him to the hospital.

“Mr. Noble,” he said.

“That fucking bitch broke my nose!” he wept. “That’s the second time in two days.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I wish I’d done it both times.”

Carlson turned around, raised a finger to her.

“I’ll be quiet,” she said.

“Mr. Noble, you’re being placed under arrest. You have—”

“I can give you somebody!” he said. “I can give you who put me up to this!”

“The mother of this woman’s ex?”

“Yeah! Yolanda. It’s all her, man. I’ll testify against her. I will. You cut me a deal, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Like where she is right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Which is where?”

“The Walcott.”

Ed Noble clearly hadn’t figured out that you try to get your deal before you divulge information.

Carlson stood back up, conferred with the uniforms. I could hear him telling them to get to the Walcott and grab Yolanda and her husband. Then he assigned another officer to ride with Noble to the hospital, keep him under guard.

“We’re not losing this guy,” he said.

Once Noble had been moved out, he proceeded to take statements, separately, from Sam and me. As absurd as it sounded, I asked Carlson whether I, while he was interviewing Sam, could continue doing my laundry. Fortunately, a bullet had not pierced any of the machines I’d engaged.

Carlson said no, I wasn’t to touch a thing. This Laundromat was, after all, a crime scene, and everything within it was potential evidence.

Nuts.

I noticed Crystal’s graphic novel was still on the floor in front of the machine I could not get going, and I made an executive decision that it would not be covered by Carlson’s edict on evidence. I was pleased it hadn’t been damaged in any way. No blood, no broken glass, no water from a bullet-riddled washer.

It had fallen open somewhere in the middle. The cartoon Crystal had evidently, at some point, left her bedroom and wandered into an alley of some dark, dangerous Gotham-like city, lured in by the voice of her grandfather. Clutched in her arm was a teddy bear with one missing arm.

The bubble above the girl’s head said: “I’ll find you! I’ll find you!”

But it was something else, something other than what Crystal had drawn, that caught my eye as I leaned over to pick up the book.

The back of the preceding page was a handwritten letter.

The handwriting was small, meticulous, easily decipherable, and filled most of the page. There was no date at the top.

It began Dear Lucy.

It concluded with All my love, your father.

I set the letter on top of the washer and read it from beginning to end.

And then I said, “Holy shit.”