out of business, but the records it left were still available to local authorities, so I’d call Abrams later and fill him in, but I was willing to bet I knew what they would say.
One person who wore a toupee was involved in this affair. One person who had sabotaged every attempt I’d made to find out more in his presence. One person who might have had Legs’ confidence, and could easily have been helping him skim money away from his own foundation.
Branford Purell’s hair had ridden in on Lester Gibson’s head.
Chapter
Twenty
Preston Burke finished painting the front door just before the kids got home that afternoon. He had done a much better job than I would have, sanding and smoothing the entire surface before he applied primer and then two coats of paint. I was impressed, and ashamed.
All that took a back seat to the touching scene when Ethan walked in the door, hung up his backpack, and walked directly through the living room and past the hyperventilating dog without noticing anything out of the ordinary. Warren looked mightily disappointed, but I explained to him about Asperger’s Syndrome, and he nodded his understanding. Ethan went right into the bathroom and turned on the exhaust fan. It was anybody’s guess how long he would be in there.
Things were different when Leah walked in. The dog practically rushed the door this time, and Leah fell to her knees, yelled “He’s here!” and gave the dog the biggest hug since Charlie Brown met Snoopy. “Daddy, he’s here!” she repeated, sincere in her belief that the dog had merely gotten our address from the shelter people, hopped into his car, and driven all the way to our house on his own, without my knowledge.
“I know, Puss,” I said. “But you know he’s going to be a big responsibility, right? You’re going to have to walk him every day after school.”
“Every day, Daddy,” she said.
“Like today, right?”
“Today? I have six pages of homework!” Leah fretted prettily, but to no effect on her hardhearted father.
“Today. Here’s the leash and here’s a bag.” I handed her a plastic bag from the supermarket.
“What’s the bag for?”
“What do you think?”
She thought about it. “Ewwww. . .” she said.
“You got it.”
“You mean I have to. . .”
“You sure do,” I said. “There are laws in this town, and this is the kind of town where they’re serious about those laws.”
She grumbled, but took the leash, and led the dog outside. We settled on a specific route—one that would require crossing no large streets, and a brief visit to the park. That, I figured should give Warren the time and varied scenery he would need.
While she was out, Ethan came out of the bathroom and started on his homework. I was about to impart the news of the dog, but the phone rang, and I went to answer it.
“Mr. Tucker?” The voice was shaky, and vaguely familiar. I braced myself for the latest threat. “This is Jason Gibson.”
Whoa. If you’d told me Marcel Proust was going to call out of the blue, I might have found it just a tad less likely than a call from Legs Gibson’s younger son. But this was a lucky break, since Marcel probably didn’t speak English all that well, even when he was alive.
“Hi, Jason. I’m surprised to hear from you, but I’m glad you called.” I was trying as hard as I could to sound somewhat jovial. “What’s up?” If I got any more jovial, they’d probably have me committed.
“I just wanted you to know,” Jason began. His voice was urgent, and somewhat hushed. I couldn’t tell if he was on a land line or a wireless phone. “About what my brother and I were telling you the other day. It wasn’t the truth.” “Jason, where are you? Are there people listening to this conversation?” I got up to pace.
“No, I’m back at school. They don’t know I’m calling you. But I just wanted you to know.”
“What wasn’t the truth, Jason? You guys didn’t tell me much that could be lies. You didn’t tell me much at all.”
He paused, thinking about how to say this without getting himself in trouble, or saying anything that could be traced directly back to him later. “Well, I was there the week before the stabbing, but. . .”
I was going to wear out a path in the rug. “But what?”
“Don’t believe anything they tell you, Mr. Tucker. Every word of it is a lie, okay? I don’t want