Robert B. Parker’s Fallout

Sixty-Eight

Molly was still bothered by her conversation with Ainsley Walsh when she woke up in the morning, Nellie still asleep. Molly had the impression that Nellie could sleep like a college girl.

At seven in the morning Molly was already on her second cup of coffee. Awake since five. She still had no evidence and no proof that Jack Carlisle had been gay. Only intuition. But to Molly that was a lot, as much of a cliché as feminine intuition was. Jesse had always told her to trust her gut, even if it might ultimately turn out to be nothing more than heartburn.

There was something else that Molly could not get out of her brain, something that had been scratching around at the edges of her consciousness since Jesse had recounted his conversation with Kevin More.

Why was he the only member of Jack Carlisle’s inner circle, if there was such a thing, who had gone to his house?

She knew what Kevin had told Jesse. That he’d been looking to retrieve a note of friendship that he’d written to Jack. But why was he so worried about it?

Jesse, or Sunny — it was sometimes difficult to remember which one of them had said what when they were still together — had referenced MacGuffins more than once. From the old Hitchcock movies. A thing that drove the story. The plot. Sometimes a thing, sometimes a person, sometimes missing, sometimes hiding in plain sight.

Jesse thought the MacGuffin might be the play that Jack was supposed to have been working on, or maybe even had finished.

What if it was that note?

Maybe, Molly thought as she sat at her kitchen table in the quiet of the early morning, that’s where the secret was.

What if?

She had already showered, was dressed for the day. She had plenty of time before she had to get to the office.

She knew the address.

Drove over there now, not entirely sure what she was going to say.

There was no car in the driveway. Molly peeked through one of the garage windows and saw a Cherokee that looked almost as old as her own.

After Molly rang the bell, Kevin More answered the door.

“Are you here about my mom?” he asked Molly before she could say anything.

“No. Why?”

“She didn’t come home last night and I can’t reach her.”

“Maybe she had a date?”

“She always tells me if she’s not coming home,” the kid said.

White T-shirt. Jeans. Shoeless. Hair still wet from a shower.

“But then she hasn’t had that kind of date for a long time,” he added.

Not for lack of effort with the chief of police.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Molly said. “If you still haven’t heard from her later, and you’re still concerned, we can look into it.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“See,” Molly said. “The police aren’t so bad when you get to know them.”

He cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes.

“Wait,” he said. “Why are you here, then?”

“We need to talk about you and Jack,” Molly said.