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“Not if… the boss knocked him… out first with a… piece of wood… then shoved him off.”
“Was DiFanetti strong enough to do that?”
Chris nodded. “Big guy. Then when we got to… his office, he was… on the phone. Said he’d been… talking for a half hour.”
Dan glanced at Gary. “Wouldn’t the police have checked up on that? Phone records or something?”
“Why would they?” Gary said. “As far as they were concerned, James was just a carpenter who’d fallen off a roof. It was an accidental death, substantiated by witness statements.”
Dan stroked his smooth jaw. “Something I have to ask. This was two years ago. Why tell us now?”
Chris’s face darkened, and he inclined his head toward the door. “Because Carla has lung cancer too.”
Gary’s breathing caught. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“So that’s both of us dying. We don’t have kids. No way the guy can… hurt us anymore.” He clutched the sheet tightly. “I’ve felt so guilty. If I’d made a noise… said something… the boss would’ve known he… had an audience… and maybe James would still… be alive. I had to… set the record straight… before… before it’s too late.”
Gary rose, and Dan joined him. “Thank you, Mr. Reed.”
Chris reached out and grabbed Gary’s hand. “Wait. One more thing.” They stilled, and he released Gary. “James told me what… he was going to say… to the boss.”
“You mentioned that,” Gary told him.
He nodded. “But that stuff about a painter? James had to have… said something about it… to get that reaction. Only….” He locked gazes with Gary. “That wasn’t in the script.”
The door opened, and Carla came back into the room, carrying a cup. “I think my husband has talked for long enough, don’t you?”
“We’re done now,” Gary informed her.
“I had to… tell someone, honey.”
Her face tightened. “I know. And now that you have, maybe you’ll sleep a little easier. Let the police deal with it.”
They thanked the couple, then left the room, walking slowly toward the exit, Gary going over Chris’s words in his head.
“I knew about his wife’s cancer,” Dan said quietly. “But I couldn’t say anything, not without giving the game away.” He paused. “It doesn’t add up, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Gary admitted. “So he was going to confront his boss. Butradon levels? That’s not enough to get him killed. If Chris is right—and I see no reason to doubt him—and those barrierscanbe retrofitted for all builds after 2016, then what was the problem?” He pursed his lips. “No, it feels wrong. There had to be something else.”
“I agree. Maybe the key to all this is ‘that fucking painter freak.’”
Gary had a feeling he might be right. “And who the hell knows whatthatmeant?”
As they neared the car, Gary got his phone out and dialed. “Mrs. Sebring? Detective Mitchell here. Just to inform you we’ve been to see Chris Reed.”
“And? What did you find out?”
“He’s given us new information that I can’t discuss right now. But wewilllook into it.”
The problem was Gary had no idea where to start.
“Thereisone thing I’d like to know. Mr. Reed talked aboutyourdiagnosis.”
A sigh filled his ear. “Yeah. I’m receiving treatment. They removed a third of my lung, and so far I’m doing okay. Fingers crossed, right? Thank God the medical bills get covered. I was sure my insurance wouldn’t stretch that far, but James’s old boss told me he’d take care of it. He’s been awesome.”
You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d been in that room with us just now.
“I didn’t say so before, but…. Something was going on with James in the weeks before he died. He wasn’t himself. It was like there was something eating away at him, and he wouldn’t tell me what it was.”
