The Fallen (Amos Decker #4)(51)

Jamison seemed to understand his internal struggle. She gripped his big hand. “Thanks, Amos.”

He said nothing. But he kept patting her shoulder, silently cursing his inability to do anything more than that.

Now, in his room, he looked at the spot on the window glass where he had just now wiped away the circle he’d made in the condensation.

Six people were dead.

Indisputably murdered by another with premeditation and malice aforethought.

Now a seventh person, Frank Mitchell, was dead. By an accident, from all accounts.

Jamison had finally gone to bed.

But Decker once again found sleep too elusive.

He decided, despite the rain, to take another walk.

He took the same umbrella from the hall closet, buttoned his coat around him, and set off.

His path took him to the street of the Murder House. The place was dark, but the police tape was still there. The local cop car wasn’t there. But one of Kemper’s black SUVs was. He could see a man inside it.

Decker looked down the street.

Dan Bond, the blind man.

Mrs. Martin, the Sunday school teacher.

And Fred Ross with his sawed-off shotgun and bitter demeanor.

The only three people who lived on the street and who could have seen anything relevant. And if that was the criterion, then Bond should be struck from the list, though he might have heard something.

And Ross too. He said he’d been at the hospital, though Decker would have to check that.

He looked at his watch.

Ten-thirty.

Mrs. Martin lived at number 1640. The lights were on there.

Decker started walking toward it.





Chapter 31



YES?” SAID THE voice on the other side of the peephole.

Decker held up his creds to the little circle of glass.

“Mrs. Martin? I’m Amos Decker, I’m with the FBI. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About what happened down the street.”

“It’s rather late. And I don’t know you.”

“I’m sorry for the lateness. But I saw your lights on. I’m working with Detective Lassiter. She told me that you used to teach her Sunday school,” he added, hoping that would break the ice.

It worked, because he heard the locks turn, and the door swung open to reveal a tall elderly woman with wispy white hair and a pale complexion. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles rode low on her long, bumpy nose. She had on a beige cardigan wrapped around a starched white blouse. A baggy pair of dingy gray sweatpants incongruously completed her outfit. A sturdy pair of white orthopedic shoes were on her feet.

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin, I appreciate it.”

“Would you like some hot tea? It’s so damp out.” She shivered. “Gets in my bones.”

Decker didn’t really feel like tea, but he figured it might buy him some more time with her. “That would be great, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble. I’ve nothing else to do, and I was thinking of having another cup myself. Oh, there’s Missy.”

This was in reference to a sleek silver and black tabby that glided out from behind the couch in the front living room. It sidled up to Decker and rubbed itself against his leg.

“Nice kitty,” said Decker awkwardly to the cat.

“Oh, she’s a pain in the butt, but it’s just her and me now.”

Decker looked at one wall where a deer head was mounted.

“Six-point buck,” he said.

“My late husband. He had that mounted, oh, it was almost forty years ago now. But, unlike some hunters, he ate what he killed. That buck gave us enough venison to last a long time.”

She turned and put a hand against the wall to steady herself.

Decker spotted a quad cane, so called because it had four sturdy feet for firm support, standing in a corner.

“Do you want me to get your cane?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I need to get the darn thing fixed,” she said. “Can’t use it inside. It scratches my hardwood floors.”

She led Decker into the kitchen, continuing to steady herself with a hand against the wall as she went.

The house, Decker estimated, had been built in the fifties, so the kitchen was small but functional. There were little frilly curtains around the window over the sink and a wooden table with two ladder-back chairs. On the wall was a landline phone, with a long flex cord dangling from it. Next to it were phone numbers written in pencil on the wall, some with names next to them.

Martin glanced at where he was looking and smiled. “I don’t have one of those smartphones, and I’ve no memory for numbers, so I write my important numbers down there. I call it my phone number wall.”

“Good system.”

“Do you have a memory for numbers?”

“Apparently not as much as I used to.”

Martin put the kettle on the stove and lit the gas with a long match. Then she took cups and saucers from a pine cabinet with a sheen of lacquer finish over it.

She opened a plastic storage container and said, “Would you like some cookies? They’re oatmeal raisin. I made them myself.”

“That sounds great, thanks.”

“So you’re with the FBI. That is so exciting. But don’t FBI agents wear suits? They do on TV.” She put a hand to her mouth as she looked over Decker’s rumpled appearance. “Or are you undercover? You look like you could be an undercover agent.”