Fool Me Once(48)

“Could be a while.”

“My name is Maya Stern.”

“Yeah,” the woman said. “I recognize you from the news. What do you want with my husband?”

Great question. “Can I come in?”

Mrs. Douglass stepped back to let her enter. Maya really hadn’t meant to ask about coming inside. She had just been buying time, trying to figure out the best way to approach it.

Mrs. Douglass led her past the foyer and into the den. The theme there was nautical. Big-time. Stuffed fish hung from the ceiling on wires. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with antique fishing rods and fishing nets and an old captain’s wheel and round life preservers. There were family photos involving the seas. Maya spotted two sons, both of whom must have been grown by now. This family of four clearly liked to fish together. Maya had never been much for fishing, but she’d noticed over the years that there were few photographed smiles as bright and authentic as those taken with caught fish.

Mrs. Douglass folded her arms and waited.

The best approach, Maya quickly surmised, would be the direct one.

“Your husband has done work for the Burkett family for a long time.”

Blank face.

“I wanted to ask him about what he does.”

“I see,” Mrs. Douglass said.

“Do you know about his work with the Burketts?”

“You’re a Burkett, Maya, aren’t you?”

The question rocked Maya back a bit. “I married in, I guess.”

“That’s what I thought. And I saw that your husband was killed.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Then: “Do you think Tom knows something about the murder?”

Again her bluntness threw Maya. “I don’t know.”

“But that’s why you’re here?”

“In part.”

Mrs. Douglass nodded. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know anything.”

“I’d like to talk to Tom.”

“He’s not around.”

“Where is he?”

“Away.”

She started back toward the door.

“My sister was also murdered,” Maya said.

Mrs. Douglass slowed her step.

“Her name was Claire Walker. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“Right before she was killed, she found out about the Burketts’ secret payments to your husband.”

“Secret payments? I don’t know what you’re trying to imply here, but I think you better leave.”

“What kind of work does Tom do for them?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I have your tax returns for the past five years.”

Now it was Mrs. Douglass’s turn to show surprise. “You . . . what?”

“More than half your husband’s yearly income has come from the Burketts. The payments are substantial.”

“So? Tom works hard.”

“Doing what?”

“I wouldn’t know. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t say.”

“Something about those payments troubled my sister, Mrs. Douglass. A few days after Claire found out about them, someone tortured her and shot her in the head.”

Her mouth made a perfect O. “And you think, what, Tom had something to do with it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“My husband is a good man. He, like you, served in the military.” She nodded toward the wall behind her. Beneath a plaque that read “Semper Paratus” were silver crossed anchors, the symbol of the esteemed boatswain’s mate. Maya had known a few BMs in the Navy. It was a proud distinction. “Tom worked as a town cop for almost two decades. He took early retirement after getting hurt on the job. He opened up his own firm and he works hard.”

“So what did he do for the Burketts?”

“I told you. I wouldn’t know.”

“Or say?”

“That’s right.”

“But whatever he did for them was worth nine or ten grand a month going back . . . how long?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You don’t know when he started with them?”

“His work was confidential.”

“He never talked about the Burketts?”

For the first time, Maya saw a chink in the woman’s armor as she said softly, “Never.”

“Where is he, Mrs. Douglass?”

“He’s away. And I don’t know anything.” She flung open the door. “I’ll let him know you stopped by.”





Chapter 16


Most people have a pretty antiquated idea of what a shooting range/gun shop looks like. They picture musty animal taxidermy and bear pelts on the walls, dusty rifles lined up haphazardly, a cantankerous owner behind a counter wearing either early Elmer Fudd hunting gear or a wifebeater T-shirt with a hook for one hand.

That wasn’t the case anymore.

Maya, Shane, and their compatriots hung out at a state-of-the-art gun club called RTSP, which stood for Right To Self-Protect or, as some joked, Right To Shoot People. Forget dust—everything in here gleamed like new. The unfailingly solicitous employees all donned black polo shirts neatly tucked into khakis. The weaponry was laid out in glass cases like fine jewelry. There were twenty shooting ports altogether, ten for the twenty-five-yard-range shooter, ten for the fifteen-yarders. A digital simulator worked pretty much like a life-sized video game. Picture a theater room with some sort of hostile situation—gang attack, hostage taking, Wild West, even zombie infiltration—come to life with fully formed targets coming at you. You “shot” lasers with a real-weight firearm.