“So that’s what you were doing here? Being Keith’s friend?”
“Fuck no,” Finch says. “Like I said before, he sells my art, he’s not my friend.”
“What kind of pictures did you find in Derrick’s bag?” I ask, then motion to Finch’s face. “That led him to do that?”
“Pictures of Maeve,” he says. “Fucking weird.”
“I thought Derrick was married?”
Finch shakes his head. “Sure, barely.”
“Meaning?”
“They don’t like each other very much, Derrick and Beth.”
“Does Beth know about Derrick’s feelings for Maeve?” We haven’t confirmed the whereabouts of the wife, though we have been trying to track her down. Angry wives do all sorts of things.
“I’ve got no idea what Beth knows.”
“And so you confront him with these pictures, and . . .”
“He just fucking lost it on me.” Finch gestures again to his face. He sounds almost . . . wounded. “And then I left. You can ask Peter, Jonathan’s fiancé. I literally ran into him in the hall on my way out the door.”
“Peter is here?” I ask.
“Yup,” he says.
“The whole time?”
“Not the night before.”
“Okay, so, bleeding internally, you get to the train station by mid-morning Saturday. But you’re still not on a train by four a.m. the next day?”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you— that’s what happened. So can I go? I’ve answered your questions, and if I leave now, I’ll make it to my show, and I won’t have to sue the shit out of you.”
“No, Mr. Hendrix,” I say. “You cannot go. Because none of that makes any sense whatsoever. I might be lost right now, but I’m not stupid.”
“You can’t just hold me here forever.”
“You’re right. I can’t hold you forever,” I say. “But I can hold you a whole lot longer.”
Twenty minutes later Dan is with me in the file room, a dark fluorescent cave down a flight of concrete steps. I asked him to come, and he did a good job of pretending it was no big deal. In the end, it takes us under a half hour to find the right box. Jane’s case files are well organized at least, all the witness interviews in one place.
I flip through the stack of files on my lap twice while Dan looks through his pile. “I’ve got the Gaffneys’ statements and their alibi witnesses,” I say. They seem like reasonably credible statements from third parties— though you never really know until you confirm with a witness yourself. “But I still don’t see Bob Hoff’s statement.”
“It’s not here either,” Dan says. “But things do get lost.” Then I see his expression tighten, as he stares down at the contents of another folder. Finally, he holds out the page to me. “And sometimes they get lost on purpose.”
The page is an inventory of the box, a list of all the interview notes that should be included. What would be there unless somebody removed it after the fact. Sure enough, there it is, listed four lines down: “Witness Interview: Bob Hoff.”
MAEVE
SATURDAY, 11:29 A.M.
Stephanie, Jonathan, and I sat in the living room on the uncomfortable bright-red couches, waiting for Derrick and Keith to get back from the Farm. Or Jonathan and I sat; Stephanie paced. I tried sitting upright, counting my breaths. Panicking would only make this out-of-control situation worse.
What had happened to Crystal was horrific. Of course it was. An awful twist of fate— what were the chances of Keith bringing someone home, using with her, and that being the time that finally pushed her over the edge? I’d never believed in curses before, but this sure felt like proof.
We needed to leave town; that was obvious to me. Nothing we did now could change the awful things that had already happened. Our best option— our only option— was to move on, before the Kaaterskill police showed up.
“We shouldn’t have moved her,” Stephanie mumbled as she stalked back again in front of the couch. She stopped and looked up at Jonathan and me. “But we can still make a different choice. It’s not too late. We moved her, yes, and we’ll have to face those consequences. If I get disbarred, I get disbarred. There are more important things than my job.”
“That’s true. But it’s not just about you, right?” I said, my chest tight. “Keith’s the one who’d go to jail— for murder. I mean, is that his punishment for being an addict?” This was bad, very bad. “I’m sorry, that’s just wrong.”