“So what? He went crazy, and crazy people don’t give a shit.”
I’m sure Detective Anderson and the Flint County DA said the exact same thing about Terry Maitland, Holly thought. Even though some serial killers—sex-killers, to use Candy Wilson’s term—keep getting away with it for years. Ted Bundy for one, John Wayne Gacy for another.
Holly got up. “Thank you so much for your time.”
“Thank me by making sure Mrs. Kelly doesn’t find out I talked to you.”
“I’ll do that,” Holly said.
As she was stepping out the door, Candy said, “You know about his mom, right? What she did after Heath offed himself in jail?”
Holly stopped, keys in hand. “No.”
“It was a month later. Guess you didn’t get that far in your researches. She hung herself. Just like him, only in her basement instead of a jail cell.”
“Holy frack! Did she leave a note?”
“That I don’t know,” Candy said, “but the basement was where the cops found those bloody underpants. The ones with Winnie and Tigger and Roo on them. If your only son does a thing like that, who needs to leave a note?”
9
When Holly was unsure about what to do next, she almost always sought out either an International House of Pancakes or a Denny’s. Both served breakfast all day, comfort food that you could eat slowly without being bothered by things like wine lists and pushy waiters. She found an IHOP close to her hotel.
Once seated at a two-top in the corner, she ordered pancakes （a short stack）， a single scrambled egg, and hash browns （the IHOP hash browns were always delicious）。 While she waited for her food to come, she fired up her laptop and searched for Ralph Anderson’s telephone number. She didn’t find it, which was no huge surprise; police officers almost always unlisted their phones. She could almost certainly get it, even so—Bill had taught her all the tricks—and she wanted to talk to him, because she was sure they both had pieces of the puzzle the other lacked.
“He’s Macy’s, I’m Gimbels,” she said.
“What was that, hon?” It was the waitress, with her evening repast.
“I was just saying how hungry I am,” Holly said.
“You better be, because this is a lot of chow.” She set the plates down. “But you could use some feeding up, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’re too skinny.”
“I had a friend who used to tell me that all the time,” Holly said, and suddenly felt like crying. It was that phrase—I had a friend. Time had passed, and time probably did heal all wounds, but God, some of them healed so slowly. And the difference between I have and I had was such a gulf.
She ate slowly, going heavy on the pancake syrup. It wasn’t the real deal, not maple, but it was tasty, just the same, and it was good to eat a meal where you sat down and took your time.
By the time she finished, she had come to a reluctant decision. Calling Detective Anderson without informing Pelley was apt to get her fired when she wanted—it was Bill’s turn of phrase—to chase the case. More importantly, it would be unethical.
The waitress came back to offer more coffee, and Holly agreed. You didn’t get free refills at Starbucks. And the IHOP coffee, while not gourmet, was good enough. Like the syrup. And like me, Holly thought. Her therapist said these moments of self-validation throughout the day were very important. I may not be Sherlock Holmes—or Tommy and Tuppence, for that matter—but I am good enough, and I know what I have to do. Mr. Pelley may argue with me, and I hate arguments, but I’ll argue back if I have to. I’ll channel my inner Bill Hodges.
She held that thought while she made the call. When Pelley answered, she said: “Terry Maitland didn’t kill the Peterson boy.”
“What? Did you just say what I think you—”
“Yes. I’ve discovered some very interesting things here in Dayton, Mr. Pelley, but before I make my report, I need to talk to Detective Anderson. Do you have any objections?”
Pelley didn’t give her the argument she had dreaded. “I’d have to talk to Howie Gold about that, and he’d have to clear it with Marcy. But I think it will be okay with both of them.”
Holly relaxed and sipped her coffee. “That’s good. Clear it with them as fast as you can, please, and get me his number. I’d like to talk to him tonight.”
“But why? What have you found out?”
“Let me ask you a question. Do you know if anything unusual happened at the Heisman Memory Unit on the day Terry Maitland visited his father for the last time?”