Page 101 of The Lie Maker

Nothing. No reaction.

And I suddenly realized I hadn’t given a lot of thought to what I was going to say when this moment arrived.

I winged it.

“This is going to sound like a really strange question,” I said, “but some time ago, someone dinged my car—not this one, that’s my girlfriend’s—and drove off, and we got a picture of the car on a security camera, and the plate on it was registered to your name.”

Frank Dutton listened intently, concern growing on his face.

“But”—I pointed to the car—“while that’s the plate, it was on a different car.”

Dutton was slowly nodding. “Son of a bitch. That was ages ago. How long ago did your car get dinged? Who worries about something like that after all this time?”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s the insurance company, trying to clear something up. You know what they can be like.”

“The bloodsuckers, yeah, tell me about it. Someone did swipe my plate, but like I said, it was a long time ago. And then later it turned up again, back on the car. Whatever damage was done, it’s not my fault.”

I gave him a “don’t worry” wave. “It’s okay, I’m not looking to get reimbursed or anything.”

“It was almost like someone borrowed it,” Dutton said. “One day I looked and it was gone, and then I get up the next morning and it’s back. Why the hell would someone do that?”

“Beats me,” I lied.

This trip had now proved itself to be the total waste of time I’d feared it would be. My father had been telling the truth. He’d stolen, or borrowed, someone else’s plate and put it on his car when he came looking for me that day.

Just being careful.

But why put it back on Dutton’s car? Why go to that trouble? Was it possible Dad lived nearby? That he knew Frank Dutton?

Dutton squinted at me, then grinned.

“What?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing, just noticing a resemblance is all.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t know anybody else here at Trailwind, do you?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Then I guess it’s a coincidence. But you look a lot like one of the other residents here. Spittin’ image. You could be his son.”

A chill ran the length of my spine.

“Which resident would that be?” I asked.

Dutton pointed to the end of the road, by the turnaround.

“Lives in the last one down there, on the other side. Can’t miss it. Little Honda parked next to it. Kind of keeps to himself. Haven’t seen him around the last few days.”

Fifty-Three

Kyle Gartner was rattled.

He’d already been feeling on edge before getting the call from that reporter, whatever her name was, from Boston. Asking all those questions about Valerie and Frohm and Donohue. After ending the call, he’d gone to the minibar in his hotel room, taken out a tiny bottle of gin, mixed it with some tonic, and knocked it back.

He was going to need more than that to calm his nerves. Maybe head down to the bar, have a few drinks there.

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