8
Alec Pelley thought he had the number he wanted in his contacts, but when he made the call, he got an announcement saying the number had been disconnected. He found his old black address book （once a faithful companion that had gone with him everywhere, in this computer age relegated to a desk drawer, and one of the lower ones, at that） and tried a different number.
“Finders Keepers,” said the voice on the other end. Believing that he’d reached an answering machine—a reasonable assumption, considering it was Sunday night—Alec waited for the announcement of office hours, followed by a menu of choices that could be accessed by punching various extensions, and at last the invitation to leave a message after the beep. Instead, sounding a bit querulous, the voice said, “Well? Is anyone there?”
Alec realized that was a voice he knew, although he couldn’t place the name. How long had it been since he’d spoken to the owner of that voice? Two years? Three?
“I’m hanging up n—”
“Don’t. I’m here. My name is Alec Pelley, and I was trying to reach Bill Hodges. I worked with him on a case a few years back, just after I retired from the State Police. There was a bad actor named Oliver Madden who stole an airplane from a Texas oilman named—”
“Dwight Cramm. I remember. And I remember you, Mr. Pelley, although we’ve never met. Mr. Cramm did not pay us promptly, I’m sorry to say. I had to invoice him at least half a dozen times, and then threaten legal action. I hope you did better.”
“It took a little work,” Alec said, smiling at the memory. “The first check he sent me bounced, but the second one went through all right. You’re Holly, aren’t you? I can’t remember the last name, but Bill spoke very highly of you.”
“Holly Gibney,” she said.
“Well, it’s very nice to speak with you again, Ms. Gibney. I tried Bill’s number, but I guess he’s changed it.”
Silence.
“Ms. Gibney? Did I lose you?”
“No,” she said. “I’m here. Bill died two years ago.”
“Oh, Jesus. I’m very sorry to hear that. Was it his heart?” Although Alec had only met Hodges once—they had done most of their business by phone and email—he had been on the heavy side.
“Cancer. Pancreatic. Now I run the company with Peter Huntley. He was Bill’s partner when they were on the force.”
“Well, good for you.”
“No,” she said. “Not good for me. The business is doing quite well, but I would give it up in a minute to have Bill alive and healthy. Cancer is very poopy.”
Alec almost thanked her then and ended the call after renewing his condolences. Later on, he wondered how much things would have changed if he had done that. But he remembered something Bill had said about this woman during the business of retrieving Dwight Cramm’s King Air: She’s eccentric, a little obsessive-compulsive, and she’s not big on personal contact, but she never misses a trick. Holly would have made one hell of a police detective.
“I was hoping to hire Bill to do some investigating for me,” he said, “but possibly you could take it on. He really did speak highly of you.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Pelley, but I doubt if I’m the right person. Mostly what we do at Finders Keepers is chase bail-jumpers and trace missing persons.” She paused, then added, “There is also the fact that we are quite a distance from you, unless you’re calling from somewhere in the northeast.”
“I’m not, but my interest happens to be in Ohio, and it would be inconvenient for me to fly up myself—there are things going on here that I need to stick with. How far are you from Dayton?”
“One moment,” she said, and then, almost immediately: “Two hundred and thirty-two miles, according to MapQuest. Which is a very good program. What is it you need investigated, Mr. Pelley? And before you answer, I need to tell you that if it involves any possibility of violence, I really would have to pass on the case. I abhor violence.”
“No violence,” he said. “There was violence—the murder of a child—but it happened down here, and the man who was arrested for the crime is dead. The question is whether or not he was the doer, and answering that involves back-checking a trip he made to Dayton with his family in April.”
“I see, and who would be paying for the company’s services? You?”
“No, an attorney named Howard Gold.”
“To your knowledge, does Attorney Gold pay more promptly than Dwight Cramm?”