Gnosis by Tom Wallace

scattered and talkative. In a matter of seconds, she let Laurie know that her mother was a real estate agent with Rector-Hayden, she was showing a house in McMeekin Place, she should be finished at any moment, and, by the way, here’s her cell phone number.
    Laurie thanked her and hung up. She thought about grabbing a bite of lunch, but decided to go ahead and call Angie. With any luck she might catch her between showings. Angie answered on the second ring.
    “This is Angie Claybrooke.”
    “Miss Claybrooke, this is Detective Laurie Dunn, with Lexington Homicide. I—”
    “Homicide? I give my word that I haven’t murdered anyone lately. Not that the thought hasn’t occasionally crossed my mind.”
    “That’s good to know. The reason I’m calling is to see if you have some free time this afternoon. If you do, I would like to get with you. Ask you a few questions about that night in nineteen eighty-two.”
    Laurie immediately regretted the way she had broached the subject with Angie. It was clumsy and insensitive. She cringed, unsure how Angie was going to respond.
    “No prob,” Angie said, cheerfully. “I’ve just finished showing a house, and my next showing isn’t for another two hours. If you like, we can meet here. It’s a terrific house. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it enough to buy it.”
    “In McMeekin Place? On my salary? I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”
    “As Don Corleone so famously said, ‘I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.’”
    “Yes, and as Sam Spade so famously said, ‘it’s the stuff that dreams are made of.’”
    Both women laughed.
    “When you turn into McMeekin Place, it will be the third house on the right,” Angie said. “You’ll see the ‘For Sale’ sign out front. You can park behind my black Volvo.”
    “I’ll see you  in about fifteen minutes.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
     
    Angie Claybrooke was standing next to her Volvo, a hammer in one hand and a thick folder tucked under her arm. She wore a blue pants suit, white turtleneck, and black Michael Kors loafers. The ensemble was tailored to accentuate a still-impressive figure. Her auburn hair was long and pulled back into a ponytail, which gave her a youthful look. She wore no noticeable make-up, and the only visible jewelry was a gold chain necklace. Chic and professional without being pretentious was Laurie’s assessment.
    Upon seeing Laurie drive up, Angie tossed the hammer and folder into the front seat, moved away from the car, and waved.
    “Sam Spade—it’s nice to meet you,” she said, once Laurie got out of her car.
    “Same here, Don Corleone.” Laurie motioned toward the house Angie was showing. “Nice spread. And you really thought I could buy it?”
    “I had to give it a shot,” Angie said. “It’s how I make a buck.”
    “I couldn’t afford this crib if I earned twice what I’m making now. This place is a palace.”
    “And for a million-two this palace can be yours.”
    Laurie whistled. “Knock off the million and we’ll talk.”
    “I’m afraid that in my line of work, another movie line always comes into play—‘show me the money.’” Angie pointed at the house. “Let’s talk inside. There’s a marvelous antique table in the kitchen. We’ll sit there and pretend we’re wealthy.”
    “I feel like a criminal just entering this mansion,” Laurie said.
    She followed Angie up the walkway and around to the side of the house. Angie walked quickly, almost aggressively, as if she was striding toward a neighborhood donnybrook and wanted to be among the first to arrive. There was real purpose in every step she took. She moved with great intent, and with the grace of a superb athlete.
    Laurie was struck by the fact that in no way did this Angie resemble the Angie portrayed by her mother. This Angie was a strikingly beautiful woman, tall, with a trim figure and a confident demeanor. There was nothing about her that said victim. No outward signs of a shattered or tormented