Far From True Read Free Page B

new business cards. The words
Cal Weaver: Private Investigations
in black, raised type. A cell phone number. Even a Web site and an e-mail address. Maybe one of these days, I’d even be on Twitter.
    “I worry about you in that apartment,” she said.
    “I like it there. The guy who runs the bookshop, who owns the building, is a decent landlord, and he’s got a good selection of stuff to read, too. I’m good.” I figured if I said it enough, I might even believe it.
    “It was smart, you moving back here from Griffon. After . . . you know.”
    Celeste wanted me to face what happened, but could never bring herself to say what that actually was. My son, Scott, had been tossed off the top of a building, and my wife, Donna, had been shot. The people responsible for their deaths were either dead or serving time.
    “Couldn’t stay there,” I said. “Augie had the good sense to leave, too. They’re down in Florida.” Donna’s brother, Augustus,the chief of police in Griffon, had taken an early retirement and, along with his wife, headed for warmer climes.
    “You keep in touch?”
    “No,” I said. After a few seconds, I nodded my head in the direction of the front door and asked, “How’s he doing?”
    Celeste forced a smile. “He’s just out of sorts.”
    “You guys okay?”
    “He’s not getting so much work from the town.” Dwayne had a paving business. “They’re cutting back. Figure unless a pothole’s big enough to swallow up a car whole, they don’t have to fill it. Ninety percent of Dwayne’s business is with Promise Falls. The town’s always contracted out road repair. They’re just letting things go to shit—at least that’s the way it looks to me. I heard that Finley guy is gonna run for mayor again. He might be able to set things straight.”
    I didn’t know much about him, except that his previous stint in the position had ended badly. We’d been living in Griffon when all that happened.
    “Things’ll pick up for Dwayne,” I said, because it seemed like the thing to say. Maybe this was why Celeste wanted me to bunk in with them. She knew I’d insist on paying room and board. But I couldn’t live here, not under this roof. Not with my controlling sister and her moody, beer-guzzling husband. It didn’t mean I couldn’t help, however.
    “You short?” I asked. “If you need some money, just something to get you—”
    “No,” Celeste said. “I couldn’t accept that.” But she protested no further, and I wondered whether she was waiting for me to insist.
    Next time.
    I got up, gave Celeste a peck on the cheek and half a hug. On my way through the living room, I heard sirens.
    As I came out the front door, the last in what looked like a convoy of half a dozen ambulances went screaming up the street.Dwayne was standing at the porch railing, beer in hand, watching the vehicles tear past, with a wry grin on his face.
    “There’s always work for those bastards,” he said. “You don’t see the town layin’ them off, do ya?”

FIVE
    ONCE he was out of the trunk, Derek ran. Not away, not back down the road, but past the gate and onto the grounds of the drive-in theater.
    Toward the screams.
    He couldn’t run directly to where the screen had fallen. A fence too high to scale ran alongside the driveway for about fifty yards. Once he’d cleared it, he doubled back, sprinting to the disaster site.
    There were at least a hundred cars in the lot, and it was Derek’s experience, from the few times he’d been here, that hardly anyone parked in the first row, right in front of the screen. Just as most people didn’t want to sit in the front row of a conventional theater, and have to crane their necks at an awkward angle for two hours, very few were interested in leaning forward, heads perched over the dashboard, to take in a flick.
    Except maybe for owners of convertibles.
    It was a cool evening, but not too cool to drop the top, if you had a blanket or two. You put down the roof,