Page 58 of A Talent for Murder

“Yeah, sorry I didn’t mention that before. I saw it once parked in front of this bar. A Jaguar XJ and if I recall correctly, the year was 1976. It was a beaut. He told me how he only took it out for special occasions.”

“It probably wouldn’t be out in front of his house,” Henry said. “Probably in a garage.”

“Probably,” Norman said. “Or under a tarp.”

“Right,” Henry said. Norman took a small sip of his whiskey and then a small sip of his beer, then excused himself. He slid off his stool gracefully, like someone with a lot of practice. Henry’s mind spun, excited to confirm that Saltz did live in this town, at least some of the time, but also thinking about what Norman had just said about protecting a car with a tarp. Driving around this morning, he’d seen so many different cars parked outside of houses, but it felt as though he’d seen a few that had been covered. He closed his eyes and replayed the drive, trying to shut out the Steely Dan song that was playing through the loudspeakers. And suddenly he remembered one of the covered cars, in front of a modest shingled house at the end of a quiet road. There were a couple of cars in front of it and one of them was under a black plastic tarp. For whatever reason, he’d just thought it was someone’s project, probably a fixer-upper that had sat out the winter months, but what if it had been the Jaguar?

Chapter29

Ethan had driven into Philadelphia in the Jaguar, not planning on seeing Rebecca just yet, but wanting to check in on the gallery and Chris. There were a few specific things he had to do at his desk—a belated call to an artist they would no longer be representing, a number of emails he hadn’t answered—but mostly he needed a moment of calm. Kidnapping Lily Kintner and holding her at his Tohickon house felt like a triumph. But it was also risky. He needed to think about his next moves.

Chris was in the office when he walked in, and Ethan thought he must have been looking at porn or something on his computer, because he physically jumped when Ethan said hello.

“Everything okay, Chris?” he said.

“Yeah, yeah. Just didn’t expect you and you scared the crap out of me.”

“I’m not here long, but I’m finally going to pull the plug on Dennis Maxwell.”

“Oh, thank fucking god. I’ve already had to talk to him twice this morning.”

“I’ll call him and let him know we’re not moving forward with him. What else is going on around here?”

Chris made a weird show of turning his eyes to the ceiling as though thinking about it, then finally said how quiet it had been. He was lying, of course, and Ethan stared at him for a little longer than usual, just to make him uncomfortable, wondering exactly what he was hiding. It could be something harmless—Ethan knew, for instance, that Chris had been fucking one of the framers, a married guy who drove over every few weeks from Delaware, and that they’d been doing it here in the gallery. But it could be something else.

“Has anyone come around looking for me?” Ethan said.

Again Chris made a show of thinking about it, then said that he didn’t think so. He really was a terrible liar.

“Okay, fine,” Ethan said. “Do you mind leaving the office while I call Maxwell?”

After Chris left and shut the door behind him, Ethan sat at his desk and thought for a moment. He knew that Lily was working hard at delaying the inevitable. He assumed it was just a natural instinct, the desire to stay alive as long as possible, and the hope that maybe someone would figure out where she was if enough time elapsed. But there was another possibility. Did she have a partner, someone who had helped her to figure out that he’d been responsible for the Alan Peralta murders? There was a chance, of course, that she did. But so what? Even if this other person knew the name Ethan Saltz there was no way that Ethan Saltz could be connected to Robert Charnock or to Brad Anderson. Still, he wondered. He knew he’d been careful, but even the most careful people make mistakes. And it wasn’t as though he’d changed the way he looked or anything. There were a few photographs floating around on the internet of Ethan Saltz, although he’d made sure that Robert Charnock was never—or hardly ever—photographed in public.

He got up from his Herman Miller chair and left the office. There was a small kitchenette down the hall, and that was where he found Chris, making his chai tea.

“Hey, Chris,” Ethan said. “I’m going to ask you again: Anyone been here looking for me?”

Chris’s jaw dropped just a little and he took a deep breath and said, “Oh god, Robert. I’m so sorry. He told me not to tell you.”

“Who told you?”

“It was this guy, this private investigator. He came around and told me that you’re part of a financial scam or something. I told him nothing. I mean, there’s nothing to tell him, right? And it seemed entirely possible that he had the wrong guy from the start, because he kept mentioning some other name.”

“What other name?”

“Um, it was Evan Saltz. No, that’s not right. Ethan Saltz.”

“We have a client named Evan Saltzman,” Ethan said, trying to keep his rage under control. “Was that who he was looking for?”

“No, no. The name was different.”

“But you didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“No, of course not, Robert. Nothing important, anyway. I mean, I did say that the name of Ethan Saltz was familiar because we had a client with a similar name, but of course I didn’t give him any information. I’m not stupid, Robert.”

“What else did he ask?”

“That’s it. It was no big deal, really, but he did say you were in trouble. Financial trouble.”

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