Page 64 of One of Us Is Guilty

Harry counted out his bills, put them on the bar, said, ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’

The bartender poured me a Pepsi, then went back to the corner of the bar and his phone.

‘So we’ve got what looks like a murder weapon, with both the victim’s blood and our client’s DNA on it. Vanessa lied to the police saying she’d never been to the victim’s apartment, but she’s on security footage entering and leaving the victim’s apartment on the night of the murder with what looks like the victim’s head in a gym bag. Her husband was having an affair with the victim so there’s plenty of motive. Our defense is our client was being abused by her husband, she was afraid and that’s why she lied, and that same abusive husband has confessed to our client that he killed Molly, but we can’t use that in court or tell anybody else? And even if we do try to pin this murder on the husband, his father, who is one of the most powerful men in America, is going to come after us with everything he’s got. Have I missed anything out?’ I asked.

‘That’s about the sum of it. Plus, our client didn’t just lie to the police, she lied to us. Who is to know if she’s telling the truth now? Maybe she’s lying about the confession, so we stop looking at her and start focusing on the husband.’

‘I need something a lot stronger than Pepsi.’

‘Have you heard from Lake or Bloch?’ he asked.

‘No, let’s hope they find something useful.’

My cell phone vibrated.

Princess.

I checked my watch. I wasn’t due to pick up my daughter for several hours.

I answered the phone. ‘Amy, how’s the party? Is everything okay, sweetheart?’

The voice on the phone was one I didn’t recognize.

‘Mr. Flynn, this is Keisha. You need to get here right now. Something’s wrong with Amy.’

26

Bloch

Sag Harbor has some of the most expensive real estate in the world. Not a place where you’d expect to find retired police, especially those living off their pension. The churches were plenty and ornate, built to honor those lost at the sea. Windmills had been preserved here, as in East Hampton. This was an old town, built on the proceeds of whaling, a community that had grown rich on the profits from flesh.

Like a lot of the United States where there is prosperity, you don’t have to look hard to find old bloodstains in the dirt.

Bloch and Lake drove around a neighborhood that you’d expect to see in 1950s family movies. Vast white timber-frame homes, side by side on lush green lawns, separated by white picket fences. An array of electric cars and Italian sports cars in the driveways. At the end of one street, they pulled up outside a home that was set apart some distance from the rest. It was much older, as if the development of newer, larger homes had sprung up around it and this one had stayed put, defiantly. It was smaller than the others, and in need of some attention. The paint had flaked from the boards, the lawn was patchy and thick with weeds in certain places.

They climbed the stoop and stood on the porch. Bloch rang the doorbell.

A heavy-set man in an over-sized plaid shirt and faded, baggy blue jeans opened the door. He had a receding hairline, a faint beard and slight twitch in his left eye. Either the clothes belonged to someone else or he had lost a lot of weight recently.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

Bloch noticed he stood side-on to the door. The right side of his body beyond view. His right hand hanging at his hip. She knew there was a piece in that hand. A quiver in the man’s voice let her know he was nervous.

‘Mr. Winchester? I’m Bloch. This is my partner, Gabriel Lake. We’re private detectives. Could we come inside and talk?’

‘What about?’ said the man.

‘We’re investigating a disappearance. An old case of yours.’

‘Can’t help you,’ he said, and began to close the door.

‘We just spoke to Captain Landry. We got the impression that maybe we didn’t get the whole story. Thought we would talk to you,’ said Lake.

Winchester hesitated. Stared at them.

‘You got ID?’ he asked.

Bloch showed him her PI license.