And then he saw three men at the far side of the parking lot, moving through the trees carefully, their eyes on the ground.
“What happened?” he whispered.
“I don’t have an answer for you yet. We’re looking into it.”
“But something made you call those people, right? You found something.”
Ellis hesitated. “I don’t know anything for sure, but there are some indications that a violent altercation took place here.”
“And those men over there . . . are they looking for my wife?”
“Mr. Fishburne, I promise I will give you an update as soon as we know more. But you can’t be here.”
Ellis gently pushed him away from the yellow tape. Bill complied, realizing that the way Ellis escorted him back to his car wasn’t very different from the way he had helped Chelsey go back to bed, just hours earlier.
CHAPTER 22
Albert Lamb’s home was a small white house on a quiet street. The wooden stairs drummed hollowly as Tatum climbed them, Zoe following close behind. Instead of buzzing the bell, Tatum knocked, as if the ringing of the doorbell would somehow sully the atmosphere of grief in the house.
A series of loud barks erupted beyond the door. A few seconds later Albert’s voice called, “Just a second.” A longer wait followed until Albert Lamb opened the door. He was dressed in a suit, but it was rumpled, his thin hair in disarray. Eyes puffy from sleeplessness, or tears, or both. A large golden retriever pushed past him, wagging his tail, and sniffed Tatum’s legs.
Albert looked at them blankly. It took a moment until the sliver of recognition shimmered in his eyes. “Oh. You’re working with Detective O’Donnell, right? Tatum Gray?”
“That’s right,” Tatum said. “Can we come in?”
Albert motioned them inside. The house was dark and still. Even the dust motes seemed to hover in space, unwavering, frozen by grief. Albert led them to the living room, shuffling strangely, and Tatum suspected that he might be intoxicated. The dog followed them, his own head lowered, tail drooping. He clearly wasn’t impervious to the heavy blanket of sadness that hung in the air.
The living room was surprisingly colorful—the rug round and blue, the couch off white, a couple of matching chairs. A glass coffee table sat in the middle of the room. A potted plant stood in the corner, identical to the one in Catherine Lamb’s home. Tatum guessed that she’d bought two of them, one for herself, one for her father. Albert Lamb’s plant showed no signs of neglect. Yet.
“Sit down.” Albert motioned at the couch. “I’ll be just a second.”
Tatum sat down; Zoe remained standing. Albert stepped out of the room, and Tatum decided he’d been wrong: the man wasn’t drunk—he was simply an inch away from breaking. Every movement seemed to take a toll.
Zoe immediately began pacing the room, examining a bookshelf, a picture of Catherine hanging on the wall, the window. Tatum had no idea if she was trying to build some sort of profile for the old man or just nervously reacting to the sadness that weighed the room down. The dog followed Zoe everywhere, looking up at her, expectant. Tatum counted the seconds until Albert returned with a small tray, holding three glasses of water and a bowl of crackers. He laid the tray on the coffee table and sat down on one of the chairs. Zoe joined Tatum on the couch.
“How can I help you?” Albert asked. His voice was tired, uninterested. He didn’t ask for news about the case. People handled grief in different ways. Many of them wanted the guilty party to be found, hoping it would give them some sense of justice or an inkling of closure. Albert Lamb didn’t seem the type.
“Mr. Lamb, we were hoping you could tell us about one of the people in your congregation.”
Albert sighed. “Patrick told me you were focusing the investigation on our church members.”
“Not all of them. Just one man. You know him as Daniel Moore.”
Albert picked up one of the glasses and sipped from it. “Does he have a different name?” he asked.
“His real name is Rod Glover.”
Albert nodded thoughtfully. “So that was his name.”
“You knew he’d changed his name?” Zoe asked abruptly. “How did you know?”
“Because he told me.”
For a moment, no one said anything. Tatum blinked, trying to get his thoughts in order. “What else did he tell you?”
“Not much. He said he wanted a fresh start. He had a disturbed childhood and a violent past. He said there were