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I rewound the video and played it again. It was daytime, and Rigel’s arm and leg came over the fence, his head toward the camera. He looked up, and I could see his face. He’d broken into my house while I was at work.
I eyed the image, mulling over what could have happened to Lemaire. Rigel could have killed him, but I didn’t know why. If Rigel hadn’t killed him, it could have been someone else in the conspiracy.Somebodyowned the maroon Volvo that Lemaire had been driving that first night.
TJ, is everything about cars?
I remembered what my brother said, but now it gave me pause. I realized that I didn’t really know if there ever had been a maroon Volvo at the quarry at all. John had told me so, but now I didn’t know if I could believe anything he said. Still I didn’t know why he would lie or why he’d pick a maroon Volvo.
I shifted forward and googledBarry RigelandExton. Onto thescreen popped a headline,local man, 45, hit by vehicle and killed. I clicked the link:
EXTON—Barry Rigel, 45, died last night after he was struck by a pickup truck at the Glen Meade Apartments in West Goshen. The pickup truck was driven by Terry Pantolo and the incident occurred around 10:00p.m. The pickup was traveling west on Pickering Valley Road approaching Brinton Avenue. Rigel was walking in a northerly direction and not in a crosswalk when he was struck. Rigel was rushed to Paoli Hospital, where he was pronounced dead from his injuries. Pantolo was not injured and remained at the scene after the victim was struck. The matter remains under investigation.
I flashed on last night. The horrific crash. The sickeningthud, the heat of the pickup’s engine.
I shook it off, rereading the article. I realized it didn’t mention me, so my father had worked his Chamber of Commerce magic. Devlin & Devlin would suffer no consequences, and neither would I. Privilege was an awful, beautiful thing.
I sat back, wishing to God I had a beer. I used to start every day with a breakfast beer, or three. I went through three thirty-packs a week, and if you want to drink that much, you have to start early.
I got my thoughts back on track and kept researching Barry Rigel, but there wasn’t much more to learn. He didn’t have any social media, and the white pages showed that he was the only person who lived at his address. An ad came up,Want to Run a Criminal Background Check on Barry Rigel?and I clickedyes, putting $250 I didn’t have on my credit card. It turned out that Barry Rigel didn’t have a criminal record, unlike me.
I sat back, rethinking Barry Rigel. I knew he was linked to Lemaire but I couldn’t figure out how. I decided to work it from the other direction and start with Lemaire. There had to be a funeral scheduled, so I searched for his obituary. The first link that came up was from a funeral home, and his wake was tomorrow.
I eyed the obit, realizing that Stan would be at the wake. I wondered now if he was covering up Lemaire’s embezzlement, if John had really told him that Lemaire was embezzling, or whether Lemaire was embezzling at all.
I mulled it over. It felt like a puzzle with too many missing pieces, and I couldn’t put it together. One important piece could be Lemaire’s boyfriend, Daniel Rocha, who wasn’t mentioned in the obituary. He must have found out by now Lemaire was gone. I still had the thumb drive with his and Lemaire’s emails in my jean jacket.
I jumped up, got the jacket, and dug inside the pocket for the thumb drive. I brought it back to the kitchen table, sat down, and plugged it into the laptop, opening Lemaire’s private email account.
The first emails from Rocha flooded onto the laptop, with his email address. I sorted them and started going through them for a cell number. I hit pay dirt near the end, when one had an automatic signature and cell number.
I picked up my phone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Malvern was a quaint town in Chester County, its main drag lined with antiques dealers, hip little restaurants, and a saddlery that catered to the horsey set. There wasn’t a strip mall or chain store, not counting the Wawa, which was a necessity. There was on-street parking, which I took advantage of, having left the GPS tracker hidden at home.
I waited for Daniel at a sidewalk table outside the Buttery, a bakery restaurant with a funky chalkboard menu. He’d chosen the spot, and I recognized him walking toward me because I’d looked him up on Instagram. He was tall and lanky as a male model, with a lean face and thick brown hair, and he had on a gray sweater with jeans and Blundstones.
I stood up when he reached me and shook his hand. “Daniel, I’m TJ. Thanks for coming. I’m sorry about your loss.”
“Thanks.” Daniel managed a smile, his greenish eyes narrowing in the sunlight. “It’s devasting that he’s gone.”
“I know, I’m sure.” I sat down. “I appreciate you coming.”
“I wasn’t sure when you called, but when you said you took Mango, you were in.”
“Thanks. She’s not a big fan of mine, but I assume she misses Neil.”
“No, she’s just bitchy.”
I smiled. “You can see her if you want to.”
“Thanks. Just take good care of her. I would have taken her but my apartment doesn’t allow pets.” Daniel paused. “I’m still trying to get used to the idea that he’s gone. It’s weird because we were off and on, then long distance. I keep thinking I’ll see him this weekend.”
“Let me get you something to eat. The scones here are great.” I motioned to the waitress, who came over and cocked her head.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes,” Daniel answered. “Tea, please. Lipton is fine, and a raisin scone with butter.”
