got opened up again back there, I can’t be part of it.”
“I understand.”
“No. No, I don’t think you do.” Doucette seemed to puff up a little, regaining most of his facial color. “Working on this paper, you get cursed at and jeered at and threatened, but it’s all small-time stuff. Over the paper’s telephone, sometimes at home. That’s why I chose ‘unlisted.’ But, the Kinnington death, that was the real thing. If he … if it comes out that I’ve talked to you, I could be killed.” Doucette gave it a beat. “No joke, John. That was the threat three years ago.”
I tried my best steady look. “Thom, I promise that I will not tell anyone—at any time—that I’ve spoken with you.”
Doucette nodded once, then swallowed twice. I offered him the rest of my lemonade and he quaffed it. “So, what do you want to know?”
“As I started to say, I think there’s a connection between Diane Kinnington’s death and Stephen’s disappearance. I don’t know what that connection might be, but I think it could help me find him. Precious few people seem interested in contributing to that effort, including some of those who should be most concerned. Since I don’t know what I’m looking for, it would probably be best for you to just tell me all you know—or even suspect—about her death that night.”
A woman walked by with a dainty dog on a purple-ribbon leash.
“Okay,” said Doucette. He waited until she was beyond earshot, then began.
“I don’t remember whether it was March or April, John, but the weather was still cold and rainy.” Another beat. “You know much about small-town newspapers?”
“No.”
“Well, a reporter isn’t paid a lot, and the newsroom isn’t open after maybe three P.M. SO, you get most of your tips from the police radio. One advantage is that, by definition, you’re close to the action in your town, and the Boston papers and stations can’t beat you to the scene.
“Well, it must have been about one in the morning, maybe one-thirty. I couldn’t sleep that night, so I was dressed, but in bed, reading a novel. I was still living with my parents. I heard his … an officer named Gerald Blakey’s voice came over the scanner on my bureau.”
“I’ve met the man.”
Doucette visibly shivered, then continued. “Gerry was calling in to the dispatcher, saying a Mercedes had gone off the Swan Street bridge and was in the river.”
“Did Blakey say he saw the car go into the water?”
Thom Doucette finally looked at me as brightly as he had after his call to Mo. “No, which made me wonder how he could know it was a Mercedes. But I’ll get to that.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”
“When I heard Gerry’s call, I pulled on a slicker and some boots and drove there. It was a terrible night to be out and about. Still, the police station is in Meade Center and my parents live just off Swan, so I had as much as a mile or so lead on the rest of the cops. I got to the bridge first—that is, Gerry was the only one there when I arrived.”
“Go on.”
“It was raining so hard as I arrived that I’m not sure he heard me coming. When I slammed the car door, though, Gerry turned around. He was down at the foot of the bridge, near the riverbank.” Doucette paused. “John, have you seen the bridge?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, it’s on Swan Street, as you drive toward Bonham. The bridge is maybe half a mile, I don’t know, before the town line. Anyway, I angled in alongside Gerry’s cruiser on the Meade side of the bridge.
“When he saw it was me, he came scrambling up the bank, which was quite a sight, between him being so big and the bank so slippery. Gerry Blakey was cursing at me when he got to the top. That surprised me, because I hadn’t done anything.
“Before he could say anything specific, another cruiser roared up, lights flashing but no siren, and then Chief Smollett in his own car behind it. I remember there were two cops in the cruiser,
“I understand.”
“No. No, I don’t think you do.” Doucette seemed to puff up a little, regaining most of his facial color. “Working on this paper, you get cursed at and jeered at and threatened, but it’s all small-time stuff. Over the paper’s telephone, sometimes at home. That’s why I chose ‘unlisted.’ But, the Kinnington death, that was the real thing. If he … if it comes out that I’ve talked to you, I could be killed.” Doucette gave it a beat. “No joke, John. That was the threat three years ago.”
I tried my best steady look. “Thom, I promise that I will not tell anyone—at any time—that I’ve spoken with you.”
Doucette nodded once, then swallowed twice. I offered him the rest of my lemonade and he quaffed it. “So, what do you want to know?”
“As I started to say, I think there’s a connection between Diane Kinnington’s death and Stephen’s disappearance. I don’t know what that connection might be, but I think it could help me find him. Precious few people seem interested in contributing to that effort, including some of those who should be most concerned. Since I don’t know what I’m looking for, it would probably be best for you to just tell me all you know—or even suspect—about her death that night.”
A woman walked by with a dainty dog on a purple-ribbon leash.
“Okay,” said Doucette. He waited until she was beyond earshot, then began.
“I don’t remember whether it was March or April, John, but the weather was still cold and rainy.” Another beat. “You know much about small-town newspapers?”
“No.”
“Well, a reporter isn’t paid a lot, and the newsroom isn’t open after maybe three P.M. SO, you get most of your tips from the police radio. One advantage is that, by definition, you’re close to the action in your town, and the Boston papers and stations can’t beat you to the scene.
“Well, it must have been about one in the morning, maybe one-thirty. I couldn’t sleep that night, so I was dressed, but in bed, reading a novel. I was still living with my parents. I heard his … an officer named Gerald Blakey’s voice came over the scanner on my bureau.”
“I’ve met the man.”
Doucette visibly shivered, then continued. “Gerry was calling in to the dispatcher, saying a Mercedes had gone off the Swan Street bridge and was in the river.”
“Did Blakey say he saw the car go into the water?”
Thom Doucette finally looked at me as brightly as he had after his call to Mo. “No, which made me wonder how he could know it was a Mercedes. But I’ll get to that.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”
“When I heard Gerry’s call, I pulled on a slicker and some boots and drove there. It was a terrible night to be out and about. Still, the police station is in Meade Center and my parents live just off Swan, so I had as much as a mile or so lead on the rest of the cops. I got to the bridge first—that is, Gerry was the only one there when I arrived.”
“Go on.”
“It was raining so hard as I arrived that I’m not sure he heard me coming. When I slammed the car door, though, Gerry turned around. He was down at the foot of the bridge, near the riverbank.” Doucette paused. “John, have you seen the bridge?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, it’s on Swan Street, as you drive toward Bonham. The bridge is maybe half a mile, I don’t know, before the town line. Anyway, I angled in alongside Gerry’s cruiser on the Meade side of the bridge.
“When he saw it was me, he came scrambling up the bank, which was quite a sight, between him being so big and the bank so slippery. Gerry Blakey was cursing at me when he got to the top. That surprised me, because I hadn’t done anything.
“Before he could say anything specific, another cruiser roared up, lights flashing but no siren, and then Chief Smollett in his own car behind it. I remember there were two cops in the cruiser,
Similar Books
