… find someone else who’s hurting as bad as you are, and try to give them a hand.
His eyes fixed once more on Lindsay Marshall’s image.
What could he do?
What could he offer?
He wasn’t sure.
But the point of light that had pierced the vast darkness in his soul began to brighten.
Chapter Twenty-five
Rick Mancuso handed his fake Mont Blanc pen to Ellen Fine, and watched disinterestedly as she read every line of the fine print on the listing agreement, knowing that in the end she would sign. This was a nice little listing; he wasn’t sure Ms. Ellen Fine and her daughter were going to be prospects for another house, but at least he’d make a nice commission on this one.
She hesitated, looking up, but before she could say anything, his cell phone rang.
“Sorry,” he said, pulled the phone from his pocket and looked at the caller ID. Instead of a single name, or just a phone number, four words were scrolling across the screen.
CAMDEN GREEN POLICE DEPARTMENT.
Crap.
Mark Acton had told him they’d be calling, but why did they have to call now, just as he was about to get this woman to sign on the dotted line?
He’d talk to them later.
Keeping his expression impassive, he switched the ringer to vibrate and dropped the phone back into his pocket. “Will you be relocating in this area?” he asked, his voice betraying none of the concern the phone call had caused.
Ellen Fine shook her head as a little blond girl — maybe five years old, he thought — appeared at the kitchen doorway.
“Mommy?” the child piped, sidling over to her mother while her eyes remained suspiciously on Rick.
“Hi, honey.” Ellen wrapped an arm around her little girl. “This is Mr. Mancuso. He’s going to help us sell our house.” “Hi,” Rick said, and held out his hand.
The little girl kept her own hands firmly behind her back. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Emily.” “You’re very pretty, Emily.”
The little girl smiled shyly at the floor.
“What do you say?” Ellen prompted.
“Thank you,” the girl whispered, her eyes still avoiding Rick's.
“Sweet little girl,” Mancuso said. Ellen frowned, glanced at Mancuso, and felt a sudden urge to end the meeting right then. A moment later, though, she remembered her financial plight, dismissed her misgivings about the agent, and signed the listing. “We’ll get a good price for this house, Ellen,” Mancuso went on. “You and Emily can—” His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and though he tried to resist it, he couldn’t help pulling it out and looking at the screen. The police again, and obviously not about to give up. “Sorry,” he said, throwing his new client an apologetic smile. He opened the phone and turned away from Ellen Fine. “Rick Mancuso.” “This is Sergeant Grant from the Camden Green police department, Mr. Mancuso. We’re investigating the disappearance of Lindsay Marshall.” The real-estate agent nodded as if the officer were in the room with him. “Listen, I’m with a client right now. Can I call you back in a few minutes?” He scribbled the sergeant’s name and phone number in his notebook, then folded his phone and tucked it back in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning back. “Where were we?” “I think you were about to pitch us another house,” Ellen Fine said. “But I’m afraid we’ll be moving out of the area entirely.” “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We’re moving to Missouri to live with my grandmom,” Emily said.
“Lucky her,” Rick said. He picked up his paperwork and put it in his briefcase. “I’ll get this right into Multiple and we’ll start showing it.” He stood up.
Ellen hoisted her daughter to her hip and walked him to the front door. “The sooner the better,” she said. “Thanks for your help.”
Rick opened the back door of his black Mercury and threw in his briefcase, then got into the driver’s seat, wondering how long he could postpone his call to the cops. Not long at all, he decided. Might as well get it over with. He pulled out his phone and punched in the numbers.
“Sergeant Grant,” a gruff voice responded after the first ring.
“This is Rick Mancuso.”
“Thanks for getting back to us so quickly,” the officer said, somewhat moderating his tone. “We’re just following up on a few things. You were at the Marshalls’ open house last Sunday?” “Mark Acton’s open house in Camden Green. Yes, I was there.” “You were there with clients?”
Rick frowned. “That was the plan, but they had to cancel.” “But you went anyway?”
“I was meeting them there, and they called at the last minute. I was already there, so I took another look at the place, with them in mind. And it’s perfect for them, by the way.” “You were at a broker’s open house there the previous Wednesday.” It was a statement, not a question, and Mancuso thought he detected an edge to the cop’s voice now. Where was this going? “Yes,” he said, remembering his father’s advice never to volunteer anything.
“And you went back again on Sunday by yourself?” Sergeant Grant pressed.
“Yes.”
“Have you taken your clients to see the house yet?”
“No,” Rick said, but the definite edge in Grant’s voice told him he’d followed his father’s advice long enough. “I called Mark to schedule a showing, but he said the house had been temporarily taken off the market because of what happened to the girl.” “What did you do after Sunday’s open house?”
Rick told himself this call was nothing personal. The police were just following up, calling everyone who had been at the open house. “Let’s see,” he said. “I dropped by the post office to get my mail, went to the grocery store, drove to my sister’s place to take her some ice cream, but she wasn’t home, so I went home and grilled myself a steak.” “Can anybody vouch for any of that?”
Rick’s heart began to pound. The post office had been closed — he’d just picked up the mail from his box.
He’d paid cash at the store.
His sister wasn’t home, and he lived alone — her ice cream was still in his freezer.
So he hadn’t talked with anybody. There was nobody to corroborate his story.
“Mr. Mancuso?”
“I–I guess not,” he finally said. “Unless maybe someone at the store remembers seeing me.” “And what time would that have been?” Grant asked.
Rick hesitated. “I’m not sure. Five? Five-thirty? I remember getting home in time for the six o’clock news.” Grant thanked him and hung up, but even after the phone went dead in his hand, Rick sat there, staring numbly through the windshield of his car.
Maybe he ought to stop by Fishburn's, he thought, and see who else the police had called.
And it wouldn’t hurt to show his face after leaving Ellen Fine’s place, either.
That was the other thing his father had always told him: You can’t be too careful.
“I heard we were the last to see her alive,” Tina McCormick said, tossing her blond hair in the way she thought was so sexy but that Dawn D'Angelo thought was just kind of slutty. Both of them, along with the rest of the cheerleading squad and their coach, Sharon Spandler, were sitting at a table in the cafeteria, facing the policeman who had called them all there.
“Well,” Andrew Grant said carefully, ignoring Tina’s flirting, “you were certainly among the last to see her.” “And we’re sure she’s still alive, Tina,” Sharon Spandler said, fixing her eyes disapprovingly on the girl. Tina tried to pretend she didn’t notice the coach’s glare, but reddened in spite of herself.
“I was the last to see Lindsay,” Dawn said. “We walked home together Sunday after practice. And she’s still alive,” she added, glowering at Tina. She could hardly believe Tina had said that. If the policeman and Ms. Spandler hadn’t been sitting with them, she would have thrown her water bottle at Tina. But the coach was there, looking almost as tired as she herself felt, and the cop was there, so she hadn’t. Not that doing anything to Tina would help her feel any better, Dawn thought. She hadn’t been able to eat since last Sunday night, when Mrs. Marshall had called, saying that Lindsay was missing.