Free Far From True by Linwood Barclay

there but didn’t say anything. The child obeyed when the woman told her to go back upstairs to bed, her arms hanging straight down at her sides as she walked.
    Weird kid.
    Lucy Brighton’s cry of despair when he told her the newsbrought her daughter back, although Ms. Brighton didn’t know she was standing there when she said, “Dad was telling me, just the other day, about the drive-in closing, about it having its last night, how he might go but hadn’t made up his mind. He’s a huge film buff, he’s written for the movies, and . . . I can’t believe this. I can’t believe it. There must be some mistake. What was the car?”
    “A Jaguar. An old classic one, red. An E-Type, I think.” Carlson, who’d worked out of a cruiser for years, knew every kind of car out there, even the antiques.
    Lucy Brighton put a hand on the wall to steady herself.
    “Was the license plate AFV-5218?” the girl asked. Her mother turned, saw that her daughter had returned.
    “Oh, Crystal.” She reached out an arm and pulled her daughter close.
    “Uh,” said Carlson, glancing at his notes, “yes. That is the plate.” He looked at the girl. “You have a good memory.”
    “Has something happened to Grandpa’s car?” To the police detective, Crystal said, “It’s an antique.”
    “I’m afraid so,” Carlson said.
    “I like that car.”
    “I bet.”
    “Sweetheart,” Lucy said, “I’m just trying to find out what—”
    “Are they dead?”
    Lucy hugged the child, patted her head. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
    “I hope they’re not dead,” she said flatly, trying to free herself. “I’m supposed to go over there on Saturday when you go to the conference. I like to go over.” Crystal said to Carlson, “My grandpa has pinball games in his basement.”
    “Is that so?” Carlson said.
    “Miriam is nice to me. She isn’t my grandmother, but she’s nice to me.”
    “Sweetheart, please go up to bed. I’ll come see you after the policeman leaves.”
    “Okay.” Crystal made the trip back up the stairs.
    “I just have a few more questions,” Carlson said. But he also had information to pass along, including where the bodies would be taken. In another ten minutes, he was out of there.
    He headed home to get some sleep before reporting back to the station at eight. He entered the house as quietly as possible, but those damned hardwood floors gave him away every time. The boards creaked under his feet as he came inside.
    “Angus?” The voice came from upstairs.
    “Just me. Go back to sleep, Gale.”
    A woman in her thirties appeared at the second-floor landing. She flipped on a light. She had short, streaked hair and wore a frayed housecoat. “This is way past the end of your shift.” Not an accusation, just a statement of fact.
    “I would have called, but then I’d have just woken you up.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “There was a crazy thing. The screen at the drive-in fell over, killed some people.”
    “Oh my God, how could that happen?”
    He waved his hand tiredly, too weary to explain. “Who knows? Just go back to sleep.”
    “I was awake anyway.”
    “Still, you should—”
    “I was thinking.”
    “I gotta eat something,” he said, and went into the kitchen.
    Gale descended the stairs, followed him, asked what he wanted. There was some leftover beef stew she could reheat in the microwave. Or, given that the clock was closer to breakfast than dinner, she could scramble him some eggs.
    He opened the refrigerator, took out a beer. “This’ll do for now.”
    “I was thinking that—”
    “I’m really tired. Do we have to do this now?”
    “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
    “I don’t?” he said before drawing on the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let me see if I can guess.” He opened a hamper in the fridge, took out some wrapped deli meat, put the package on the counter, and ripped it open. He grabbed a handful of thinly shaved