Alec grinned at that. “Absolutely.”
And although the retainer would come from Howie, the entire Finders Keepers fee—assuming Ms. Holly Gibney agreed to take on the Dayton investigation—would in the end come from Marcy Maitland, who would be able to afford it. The insurance company wouldn’t like paying out on an accused murderer, but since Terry had never been convicted of anything, they would have no recourse. There was also the wrongful death suit against Flint City that Howie would be lodging on Marcy’s behalf; he had told Alec that the city would probably settle for an amount in the low seven figures. A fat bank account wouldn’t bring her husband back, but it could pay for an investigation, and a home relocation if Marcy decided that was best, and the college educations of two girls when the time came. Money was no cure for sorrow, Alec reflected, but it did allow one to grieve in relative comfort.
“Tell me about this case, Mr. Pelley, and I’ll tell you if I can take it on.”
“Doing that will take some time. I can call tomorrow, during office hours, if that would be better for you.”
“Tonight is fine. Just give me a moment to turn off the movie I was watching.”
“I’m interrupting your evening.”
“Not really. I’ve seen Paths of Glory at least a dozen times. It’s one of Mr. Kubrick’s finest. Much better than The Shining and Barry Lyndon, in my opinion, but of course he was much younger when he made it. Young artists are much more likely to be risk-takers, in my opinion.”
“I’m not much of a movie buff,” Alec replied, remembering what Hodges had said: eccentric and a little obsessive-compulsive.
“They brighten the world, that’s what I think. Just one second . . .” In the background, the sound of faint movie music ceased. Then she was back. “Tell me what you need done in Dayton, Mr. Pelley.”
“It’s not just a very long story, it’s a strange one. Let me warn you of that in advance.”
She laughed, a sound much richer than her usual careful speech. It made her sound younger. “Yours won’t be the first strange story I’ve heard, believe me. When I was with Bill . . . well, never mind that. But if we’re going to be talking for awhile, you might as well call me Holly. I’m going to put you on speaker to free up my hands. Wait . . . okay, now tell me everything.”
Thus encouraged, Alec began to talk. Instead of movie music in the background, he heard the steady clitter-clitter-clitter of her keyboard as she took notes. And before the conversation was finished, he was glad he hadn’t hung up. She asked good questions, sharp questions. The oddities of the case didn’t seem to faze her in the slightest. It was a goddam shame that Bill Hodges was dead, but Alec thought he might have found a perfectly adequate replacement.
When he was finally done, he asked, “Are you intrigued?”
“Yes. Mr. Pelley—”
“Alec. You’re Holly and I’m Alec.”
“All right, Alec. Finders Keepers will take this case. I will send you regular reports either by phone, email, or FaceTime, which I find is far superior to Skype. When I have gotten everything I can, I will send you a complete summary.”
“Thank you. That sounds very—”
“Yes. Now let me give you an account number, so you can transfer the retainer fee to our bank in the amount we discussed.”
HOLLY
July 22nd–July 24th
1
She put back the office phone （which she always brought home with her, although Pete kidded her about it） on its stand next to her home phone, and sat quiet in front of her computer for perhaps thirty seconds. Then she pushed the button on her Fitbit to check her pulse. Seventy-five, eight to ten beats faster than normal. She wasn’t surprised. Pelley’s story of the Maitland affair had excited and engaged her in a way no case had since finishing with the late （and very horrible） Brady Hartsfield.
Except that wasn’t exactly right. The truth was she hadn’t been really excited about anything since Bill had died. Pete Huntley was fine, but he was—here in the silence of her nice apartment, she could admit it—a bit of a plodder. He was happy to chase the deadbeats, bail-jumpers, stolen cars, lost pets, and daddies delinquent on child support. And while Holly had told Alec Pelley nothing but the truth—she really did abhor violence, except in movies; it made her tummy hurt—chasing after Hartsfield had made her feel alive in a way nothing had since. That was also true of Morris Bellamy, a crazy literature buff who had killed his favorite writer.