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“Honestly, Andy, nothing that you’re saying makes any sense to me.”
“But you can rest easy,” I said. “He did what you paid him to do. That Brie who showed up this week was a fake. But I’m guessing you know that by now, too.”
“What?”
“Did you see her by chance, too? Just like Tyler did? Followed her back to her place and killed her before you realized you had the wrong person?”
“Okay, now I’m really confused.”
I had no doubt that he was. At least about the most recent accusation.
“It’s only been a little while since I found out it was you who wanted Brie killed, so I haven’t had long to try to figure out why, but I’ve got a couple of ideas,” I said. “I’m guessing it had something to do with the business. Something Brie found out.”
Greg said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.
“You son of a bitch,” Isabel said.
Greg licked his lips. “Look, Andy—”
“What always seemed weird, but I never really thought about until today, was how Brie encouraged me to take that fishing trip with you. She wanted me to spend time with you. That wasn’t like her, you know? Because she was never your biggest fan. I remember her asking me what we’d talked about, when I chatted with her on the Saturday night. Like she was waiting for some specific topic of conversation to come up.”
Greg’s eyes were darting about, as though looking for an escape route.
“Remember that time when you kind of made a pass at her? Had a bit to drink, acted stupid. Brie told me about it, and I took your side.” I shook my head regretfully. “I made Brie feel like it was her fault. Not that she’d brought it on, but that she was making too big a deal about it. I think, after that, Brie felt there wasn’t anything to be gained by pointing out your transgressions. I wouldn’t take them seriously.”
I took a breath. “What I’m thinking is, maybe you did something else, something bad, certainly worse than patting Brie’s backside. But instead of her telling me, she twisted your arm and told you to confess. And that if you didn’t, she’d have no choice but to tell me herself.”
Greg appeared to shrink before my eyes. His head dropped, his shoulders slumped. He kicked at a piece of debris with his boot.
“They were going to kill me,” he said, barely loud enough for me to hear.
And to his obvious surprise, I said, “The bikers.”
“What?”
“Matt told me a few things at the end. You ripped off some bikers.”
Greg appeared to deflate. I didn’t know everything, but I clearly knew more than Greg would have guessed.
“You know I was never one to say no to something that fell off the back of a truck,” he said. “If something found its way into my hands, hey, I was happy to take it. Remember that VCR I scored back in the day?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a habit I should have given up. Remember when I broke my leg? Said I’d jumped from some scaffolding?”
I nodded.
“That’s not exactly what happened. You know Beaver Meadow Road?”
“Vaguely.”
“South of Middletown? Nice stretch of road through the Cockaponset State Forest, east of Route 9, on the way to the Connecticut River. Remember that old MG I used to have? The convertible? Got it for a song because it wasn’t in the best of shape? And didn’t keep it long because I couldn’t afford the repairs?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I was taking it for a spin up that way. On my own, riding along behind this biker guy. A Harley, handlebars up in the stratosphere. A fucking deer runs into the road and he swerves and wipes out. I pull over, you know, see if he’s okay, and he’s out cold. So I put in a call, 911. Didn’t give my name, just told them where to send an ambulance.”
I wanted him to move it along, but I’d waited six years to hear this. I guessed I could wait a little longer.
