The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1) by A.J. Flynn (early reader books .txt) 📗

McPherson started back to her desk, when the desk officer called her again. She walked over and took a sheet of paper the man had just written.

“The State Police just called. They found Harry Valentine—or at least what was left of him.”

McPherson shot an inquisitive glance towards the desk man and asked, “What happened? I didn’t even know Valentine had left.”

“He tried to pass by another car up on the Sagan Pass. I guess it was a blind curve, because he met a tanker head on. They’re still trying to put out the fire. One of the state patrolmen recognized the car he was driving, so they were eventually able to identify him. The car belonged to an old guy who owns a garage up that way.”

“What in the hell was Valentine doing all the way up there in a car that wasn’t his?”

“Nobody knows. The wreck started one hell of a fire and they’re still busy with it. They said they’d call down as soon as there’s something to tell.”

“All right. Keep me posted. I’m going to talk to the captain.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Captain Ford was preparing to leave, but when he saw that it was McPherson, he made his way back to his desk.

“You should be an authority on where to get your shoes repaired,” he smiled mildly, referring to the fact that she spent all day on her feet. “Did you find anything valuable?”

“I think so. One man is fairly certain the repair job on the heel was his work, but he doesn’t remember who he did it for. Garrett and Fichte are trying to let him get a look at anyone that might fit Dr. Hemlock’s description.”

“That sort of work is tedious but valuable. Was there something else?”

McPherson studied Ford’s placid veneer and wondered if anything ever affected him. She knew and respected the man’s brilliance, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he ever thought about or considered the people with whom he dealt with in anything but a cynical way.

“Valentine is dead,” she said in a flat tone, and was surprised when the captain showed some surprise.

“How did it happen?”

“It was a car accident. We still don’t have all the details, but it appears as though he had a head-on collision with a gasoline tanker and it struck up a fire. The State Police have been too busy to give us any information.”

“State Police? Why are they involved?”

“The accident occurred on the eastern slope of Sagan Pass.”

“I see. Was he fleeing?”

“Hard to say. It looks funny. He was ordered not to leave town, but he did. He didn’t have any reason to run, though; his alibi checked out.”

“You told me he seemed frightened when you spoke to him,” the captain reminded her.

“Yes. I know McGill is running a check on him, but we haven’t gotten an answer yet.”

McPherson ran her hands through her hair. “Maybe it’s just an everyday accident.”

“In Sagan Pass?”

“Yeah, I know,” she answered, but was saved from saying anything else by a knock at the door.

It was the desk officer with more information on the accident. He passed his notes to McPherson and left.

McPherson read the new information, and began to feel sick.

Ford sat up in his chair. “Was he running, Lieutenant?”

“He was running, Captain. He lied to the guy who loaned him the car. Said something was wrong with his and that he had to make a service call to go fix a freezer down in Santana that was full of food. There wasn’t anything wrong with his car and the Santana grocer says there isn’t anything wrong with his freezer. McGill got his answer, too. Looks like Valentine took the fall for a robbery four years ago, down in Jacobson.”

“He had something to hide,” the captain said. “Or rather, he had something he thought he had to hide.”

“Still,” McPherson said bitterly, “he didn’t kill the kid, so why flee?”

“You’ve forgotten one of the first lessons of police work, Lieutenant. You can’t always account for people’s actions. They just go ahead and do things, and that’s that. Don’t even bother trying to figure out why. Leave that stuff to the psychiatrists.”

McPherson stood to her feet. “I’ll try to remember that. I suppose I’ll be the one to go tell Mrs. Valentine?”

“It would be best for it to be an officer who understands a little of what she might be going through, and I can’t think of anybody more qualified than you.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m the expert at giving bad news. I’ll pick her up a cup of coffee, then in my kindest, gentlest way, I’ll inform her that her husband just got splattered all over the road, and then, just to make sure the job was done, got himself barbecued.”

“You’ll manage.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I always do.”

XVIII

The dress shop where Hayley Valentine worked was only a few blocks down from the station, but the lieutenant took the car anyway. No matter how careful McPherson was in wording the news, there was no stopping it hitting Hayley like a ten-ton semi, and she wouldn’t be in any condition to drive home alone.

She picked out a parking place around a half block from the shop and, once parked, walked slowly towards the entrance. Deep down, she wished she were a thousand miles away in any direction.

The shop itself was one of those fancy boutiques without a dress in sight. Most of the front window that looked out over the street was covered, and in the small space left there was a hanging mobile. You wouldn’t even know what kind of shop it was, if you were to miss the small sign to the right that read, “Vanity—Couturiére.”

She pushed open the door and stepped into the perfumed interior. The floor was carpeted in a low-ply grey and there were small groups of low chairs, upholstered in pink velvet. There were large mirrors leaning against the walls, and they had a pinkish