Page 50 of Not a Word

McCabe thought about that. They’d been in bed together, so close that when Chartwell shot her, one might have expected to find gunshot residue on the victim. But he could have shot her from elsewhere in the room, then got into bed and turned the gun on himself.

Slowly, McCabe said, “I can think how that might have happened. All seems pretty straightforward.”

“Not necessarily.”

McCabe sighed. “Hit me.”

“The gun was not registered to Brent Chartwell or Leah Kennard. Neither held a license to own a firearm. No luck so far tracing it. Maybe it came in from south of the border at some point. Checking records down there, but so far, big fat nothing.”

“Okay.” No surprises there. And in the grand scheme of things, maybe it didn’t matter.

“But there was something,” Jason said. “You sitting down?”

McCabe listened to him tell her the rest of what he’d learned. When he was done, she ended the call, put the phone down slowly, and stared straight ahead, as though looking for something that wasn’t there.

Moira swallowed the last of her second pancake and said, “We’re not going to the mall, are we?”

Eighteen

1999

Ever since that grandiose party at Graham Wiffel’s estate, Catherine had been consumed with worry over security issues. Wiffel certainly took it seriously. Had that Crane guy following him everywhere he went, even if he seemed wrong for the part, too ordinary. Someone you’d have a hard time picking out of a crowd.

What troubled Catherine most was her husband’s story about that armed man in Ohio. What if that security guard hadn’t been there? Brent would have surrendered his sample case, but the man might have shot him anyway. Brent continued to insist it was no big deal, that she was overreacting.

“Never tell a woman she’s overreacting,” Catherine had said.

What had not troubled Catherine to a great degree were Evelyn Corby’s insinuations that Wiffel-Smith was up to no good, deliberately ignoring signs its painkiller was doing more harm than good. All drugs, Catherine rationalized, posed risks if not used responsibly.

Brent hoped installing a home security system would allay his wife’s fears. A central monitoring center would be alerted any time, day or night, should someone break into the house once the system was engaged. Sensors on all the doors and windows. Motion detectors inside and out. A keypad just inside the front and back doors, and one up in their bedroom.

Brent showed Catherine how to set the alarm for when she was in the house alone. He went outside and waited for her to do it, then opened the front door. A deafening siren immediately began to whoop. Seconds later, their landline phone was ringing. Catherine ran to answer it while Brent entered in the code to cancel the alarm. Catherine explained they’d opened the door, forgetting the alarm had been set. Provided a password to satisfy the monitoring agent.

“You see?” Brent had said. “You’re safe.”

But Catherine’s anxiety persisted.

One day, she noticed the same car kept driving by the house. She phoned her husband at work.

“It’s been by three times now. Going real slow.”

“Who’s driving?”

“Just some guy. He’s the only one in the car. I’m at the window now. Every time he goes by he looks at the house. What should I do? Should I call the police? Oh, he’s coming back!”

“What’s happening?”

“He’s slowing down . . . slowing. He’s stopped! He’s getting out of the car!”

“Jesus,” Brent said. “What’s he—”

“Oh,” Catherine said. “Never mind.”

“What is it? What’s happening?”

“He’s delivering a pizza, to the Mordens.” The people who lived across from them. “You can’t see their house number from the street.”

That night, clearing the table after dinner in the kitchen, Brent attempted to make light of what had happened. “But what if it hadn’t been a pizza delivery?” Catherine asked. “What if it had been someone who wanted to break in?”