The Fives Run North-South (28 page)

“Not really,” Ben said. “Loosely based, if at all.”

“How do you know?” Walter asked.

“I just do.”

“But…”

“Walter…calm yourself. Please.” Ben turned to Cary. “You were saying something about Fred’s office when you came in.”

Cary hesitated, looking beyond Ben to Walter. Then she inhaled and gave Ben the details of her meeting with Dover.

“Holy shit,” Walter said.

“Wow,” Ben said. He turned to Walter. “Tell us what you’ve learned.”

“Nothing as weird as that,” Walter said, pointing to Cary.

“Walter!”

“Okay. Well, I did some basic Google searches. You know that Fred Spencer is kind of common. Like, there’s more than one.”

“I would figure as much.”

“I mean, if his name had been a little more unique…”

“We’ll try to work on that next time,” Ben said.

“Well, the specific Fred Spencer that worked for Manover Mechanics was in the search results a bunch. Quoted in a lot of their PR pieces over the years. He was a networker, big profile on LinkedIn, which came to a dead stop over a year ago around March…when he stopped working there, as it turns out. I got into his public records. Shows him living at 1119 Pine Crest in Chestnut Hill…”

“That’s my house now. He’s not been there for a year.”

“See, it’s showing as current. If it’s been that long, the public record should be updated,” Walter said.

“Did you find anything else?”

Walter pulled a small notebook from his back pocket and flipped through it. “Let’s see…no criminal record….doesn’t appear on any online dating sites…nothing on Facebook…”

Cary gave a quick laugh. “Facebook. Now that would have added to the growing string of surprises.”

“Oh, and there’s another Fred Spencer that dresses up like
Spider
-
Man
and does funny dances in New York and Chicago,” Walter said, still looking at his notes. “Thought I had something there, but he’s not your husband.”

“Ex
-
husband
.”

“Whatever.”

“So,” said Ben. “What I was thinking was that I’d order some pizzas.” He looked at Cary and pointed to his desk. “And that you would read through my father’s notebook.” Walter sat straight, looking between Cary and Ben. “Maybe I’ll let you read it later,” Ben said to Walter, who slumped down. “It’s a mishmash of notes Dad took with respect to
Dented
.
Ideas, thoughts, some intended for the book, some just random thoughts. I’m hoping that something in there will be familiar to you, and might give us some insight into how he possibly made a work of fiction that could have ties to your life.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Walter asked.

“Red Sox are on.”

Walter looked like Ben had suggested they clean toilets. He looked over at Cary and the black notebook then followed Ben into the other room.

Later, as they sat around empty pizza boxes and sipped beer, Cary flipped over the last page of the notebook and shrugged.

“Nothing?” Ben said.

“Not really. Other than the few things I mentioned that could have something to do with us, but more likely are parts of the story.”

Ben nodded, frowning.

“Maybe it was all just a coincidence and I’ve wasted our time,” Cary said.

“Afraid not,” Ben said.

“What do you mean?”

Ben told her about finding the invoice for Roger Glass, and about learning that his father had not only witnessed the traffic incident, but had hired Glass to locate Fred.

“Why?” Cary asked.

Ben shrugged. He also told her what Paul had
said
—
about
the story not coming entirely from his imagination.

“So you see, we officially have a mystery,” Ben said.

“Whoa,” Walter said. Ben and Cary looked at him, both appearing to have forgotten he was in the room.

“So what next?” Cary asked.

“I really don’t know. Did Fred have any other friends that he might have had contact with after he divorced you? Any family?”

“We shared some friends. Most have already told me that he’s not been in contact. I can call again, make sure. And he has a brother out in California. They weren’t close. It was hard to believe they were related, really. I can call him.”

Cary stood up and stretched then looked at her watch. “This has been exhausting. I think I’m going to make my way home.”

“It’s still pouring out. Do you have an umbrella?”

She shook her head.

“Let me grab mine,” Ben said. “I’ll walk you to your car.” Then he turned his head toward Walter. “Get your jacket on, too. I’m calling it a night as well.”

It was still raining hard, so Ben and Cary had to jump a couple puddles as they made their way to her car. She unlocked it and reached for the handle before stopping and turning to Ben. “This is all pretty weird, isn’t it?”

“Keeps Monday from being like Tuesday.”

“Thanks for everything, really. I can only imagine what this is doing, how it’s screwing up your grieving process. This isn’t normal.”

“Normal’s another word for cliché. If there’s anything Dad tried to keep from our lives it was cliché. Somehow this is all strangely appropriate.”

She reached for the car door. “See you soon?”

“I kinda hope so.”

Cary smiled, opened the door, and hopped in. Ben moved back to the sidewalk and watched her pull out into the street and drive off. He hopped back to his door, and saw Walter still standing on the stoop.

“You serious about the job?”

“Of course,” Ben said.

Walter looked at the space where Cary’s car had been. “You like her?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, you do like women, right?”

“Yes. And I like her.”

Walter smiled. He zipped up his jacket and threw the hood over his head, jumped onto the street, and ran to his car. Ben shook his head and went inside.

Walter got in his car and drove away. Inside the house, lights went out as Ben got ready for bed. At the end of the block, another vehicle started, and the headlights and windshield wipers came to life. It had been there for a while, but slowly started forward and passed Ben’s house, slowing slightly before it sped up. Then the red SUV rounded the bend and left the neighborhood.

30

T
he ringing phone yanked Ben out of a deep sleep.

Who the hell calls this early…?
He looked at the clock on his bedside table. It was 11:45.
Oh.

He answered. It was Paul.

“What’s up?” Ben asked, wiping his face.

“Did I wake you?”

“Course not.”

“Right.”

“What do you need, Paul?”

“I’m flying in this afternoon. Thought we’d grab a bite tonight.”

“Didn’t expect you back so soon. What, you coming to tie me to the desk so I write a chapter or two?”

Silence.
Shit
.

“I told you it’d be okay,” Ben said.

“I know. So what do you say? I’m thinking we go to that blue place.”

“You know it’s not really blue.”

“Looks blue to me.”

“Fine. I haven’t been there since the last time we were there. Good memories.”

“Right. I’ll pick you up. Comb your hair.”

“Got it.”

“Well, it’s kind of blue…” Ben said as they sat down. “But not as blue as you think.”

They had decided to sit at the bar, taking the far corner. It was a weekday, so while there was a fair crowd on the restaurant side, the bar was nearly empty. After ordering a couple beers, they told the bartender that they’d be eating, but weren’t in a rush. Taking the hint, the bartender walked to the other side of the bar and checked out the ballgame.

“How long you in town for?” Ben asked.

“Flying out in the morning. Have to go to Atlanta for a few days,” Paul said, wiping the beer foam from the top of his lip. “So…”

“I won’t miss the deadline,” Ben said.

“Just practicing your
last
-
minute
heroics?”

“Something like that.”

“Still working on your conspiracy theory with the
funeral
-
crasher
lady?”

“You’d be surprised.”

The bartender returned with his pad, so they took a break to order some food. After he left, Paul said: “We were stuck on the runway for a half hour on my flight in. I got pissed. I’m in first class…”

“Of course,” Ben said.

“And to pass the time, the stewardess gave me a second complimentary drink. So here I am, sitting in a nice, comfortable leather chair, drink in hand, not too warm, not too cold. And I’m feeling abused because the plane’s not going anywhere. And I don’t know, maybe it was the drink, maybe because I’m coming to see you…but I get all philosophical. I think: how many people on earth would like to switch places with me, sitting comfortably like that.”

“Was there TV? If so, you can count me as one of them.”

“No, but I had a good book.”

“Well, that’s almost as good.”

“Think about it for a minute. I’m part of the fairly
well
-
off
crowd in 2012. Hell, up until a hundred years or so ago, the world was a pretty sucky place. You take all the people who’ve ever lived on planet earth and put them in a room. I’m talking those from caveman days. Or medieval times when most people just grew turnips and got chopped up by bored knights. Or Ireland when all the rats came. Or Africa. I mean, you don’t even have to go back to olden times. Africa today. Africa pretty much sucks. Or Haiti. And even America up until pretty recently. You had the Depression. Remember
Grapes of Wrath
in school? Or those suckers who froze their asses off in covered wagons. Think about it: most people who are in that room had a shitty life. I mean, of all the people who have lived on earth, those of us who live in rich American suburbs are a pretty small corner of that room. We won some fucking cosmic lottery because people who live like us on this earth are a pretty small group of the collective beehive.”

“Wow,” said Ben. “What was in that drink?”

“So what I’m saying is this: I really don’t have the right to complain about the smallish troubles in my life. Not really. That being said, I have my manhood sitting right under the literary guillotine right now. And I know that you’re dealing with some stuff that’s a little more real than that. So I feel bad bugging you for chapters. But if you’re not up for this, tell me now and let me start putting together my contingency.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Look into being a sports agent. Record producer.
High
-
school
janitor. I’m pretty sure I’ve the aptitude for at least one of those three career paths.”

“I won’t let you down,” Ben said.

“Oh?”

“Here’s the thing. You know the name Roger Glass?”

Paul thought about it then shook his head.

“He’s an investigator. Dad hired him. To track down Cary’s husband based on a license plate from a car involved in a traffic altercation with a red SUV.”

“Okay…what?”

“Yeah. Welcome to my last two days.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“No,” Ben said. “Back when he made that statement to
you
—
the
one about the story not coming from his imagination…”

“I think he said not
completely
from his imagination. It’s still just a story. Your dad wrote fiction.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Did he say anything else?”

“No. It was a passing comment. You know me. I was too busy thinking of the next thing I had to say.”


“And there’s nothing he ever said other than that, no action that would give you any insight into what he was doing?”

Paul shook his head. “So where are you going with this?”

“Hell if I know.”

“I mean, is solving this mystery taking all your time?”

“Meaning,” Ben said, “am I still going to write the ending?”

“Something like that.”

“I can multitask.”

“When did you pick up that skill?”

“It can’t be that hard. You do it.”

Paul waved his hand at the bartender, pointing to the nearly empty glasses. “Here’s something that might be of mild interest to you,” he said to Ben.

“Oh?”

“You don’t keep up with these things, but the fact you’re finishing
Dented
is causing some reaction out there. Mostly good.”

“Right.”

“No. Really,” Paul pulled a small envelope from his jacket pocket. “Here are some clippings. The Sunday
New York Times
did a nice article on Rob. There’s a sidebar talking about you and the continuation. They mention
Flier
.”

“Someone in their research department did some digging.”

“Actually not. Been a bit of interest in
Flier.
Copies are starting to move. There’s some talk of a paperback reprinting.”

“Okay. I give up. If you’re going to play the
Flier
card I’ll squeeze out some chapters,” Ben said.

“You can keep on with your mystery solving, too, with Paddy and your new girlfriend. Hell, get a dog and some Scooby Snacks and we can license a TV show.”

Paul’s cell phone started buzzing. He glanced down, but rather than ignore
it
—
which
he did most of the
time
—
he
frowned as he looked at the number on the screen. He held up his finger to Ben and answered the phone.

“Hello….yes, this is he. Yes. What? When did this happen?” He looked down at his watch. “We can be there in a bit more than an hour.”

“Where?” Ben mouthed.

“Okay. Fine. Thanks for calling,” Paul said, hanging up the phone. He waved to the bartender and said: “Can you tell the kitchen to put our meals in
to
-
go
boxes?” The bartender nodded, showing a sliver of annoyance.

“What the hell?” Ben asked.

“That was the security company up in Portsmouth,” Paul said. They had changed the service from
full
-
time
watch to a daily
check
-
in
. “There’s been a
break
-
in
at your dad’s place.”

They made the drive north with little conversation. Mostly fighting over radio stations. As with many things, Paul lacked patience and hit the seek button with alarming frequency.

“Have you ever in your life listened to a complete song?” Ben asked.

“Of course.”

“Don’t see how.”

There were two cars in the driveway at Rob Keaton’s house. They assumed the associate who’d discovered the
break
-
in
had called his supervisor to the scene. They were right. This was a
high
-
profile
assignment, considering Rob Keaton’s celebrity, and it was evident the supervisor didn’t trust his employee’s
suck
-
up
/apology skill level. The two men were waiting for Ben and Paul at the front door.

“I have the activity logs, a copy of them, right here,” the supervisor said.

Ben waved him off and entered the house.

“It’s just as we found it,” he continued. “The police left about an hour ago. We’ll work with you to file a report on anything you suspect might have been stolen, though.”

“Fine,” Paul said. “Let’s turn on more lights.”

When they entered the back den, they saw the rock lying on the floor amid the shattered glass from the patio door. Ben looked at the mess, reminded that this was his father’s favorite part of the
house
—
where
he did almost as much writing as in his office. During the day, this was a bright, sunny room with a view of the water beyond his property.

“It set off the alarm, as expected,” the supervisor said. “Whoever it was, they were in and out pretty quickly. According to the log, we were here…”

“You can leave the damn log on the counter,” Ben said. “If you want to be of real use, you can grab a tarp and some duct tape out of the garage. Patch up this door while I take a look around.”

“Gladly, sir,” said the supervisor, turning to his
employee
—
who
didn’t look quite so
glad
—
and
leading him out to the garage.

Watches.

The thief had taken watches. Rob Keaton loved watches; he had quite a collection in his wardrobe. A couple Rolexes, which he hardly wore but they’d made good presents. His favorites had been other, more obscure Swiss brands, several
antiques
—
including
a Victorian pocket watch (a watch Rob had liked to think had been in the possession of Charles Dickens, but had no means of verifying). In all, there’d probably been nearly forty watches; many in cases, some in their original boxes. It had perhaps been the most expensive part of the home’s contents and certainly the most portable.

“Whoever it was,” Paul said, “he knew where to go and wasn’t overly worried about response time from the alarm.”

The security company supervisor cleared his throat.

“Don’t worry,” Paul said. “You guys did all we asked you to do. I’m guessing the burglar knew your
check
-
in
times.”