Part 11 (2/2)
The phone in Miranda's pocket began to ring.
”Cahill . . . yes. Thanks. Give me a minute to find something to write that down.” She disappeared into the house, then returned a few minutes later. ”I appreciate the information. Thanks so much . . .”
”Telford PD,” she explained as she tucked the phone back into her jacket pocket. ”I'd asked them to check Unger's room for a business card from anyone who might be a writer. They found one with the name Joshua Landry on it. Sound familiar?”
”Of course. True-crime writer. Picks up on cold cases and tries to solve them. Does all the talk shows, the morning shows. Made a big splash a year or so ago when he solved an old murder in Wisconsin, then another in Michigan. I have a bunch of his books.”
”Me, too. He's really good.”
”Agreed. So, he was the writer who came to see Al Unger a few weeks back. Not too tough to figure out what he was interested in. Wonder what his angle was going to be.”
”I think we should ask him.”
”I think you're right.”
”Should we call, or pay a visit?”
”I think we should speak with him in person.”
”I agree,” Miranda told him. ”I'll call him first just to make sure he's home today.”
”Where does he live?”
From her pocket Miranda pulled the slip of paper on which she'd written the information given to her by the Telford police.
”New Jersey. Near Princeton.”
”Maybe we can catch an afternoon flight.”
”Last minute on a Sat.u.r.day? Doubtful. It will take less time to drive.” She dialed Landry's number and smiled up at Will. ”Especially if I drive . . .”
The ride to Joshua Landry's home wound through several miles of flat farmland outside the Princeton borough limits. Following the directions Landry had given them over the phone, they found his two-hundred-year-old farmhouse at the end of a long lane, guarded by trees splendid in autumn golds and reds and overlooking a small, peaceful pond. Mature woods along the back of the property added yet more color, and a large well-kept barn completed the picture of pastoral serenity. All was as perfectly composed as a painting, and impeccably maintained.
”Who says crime doesn't pay?” Miranda said dryly as she parked next to a Jeep near the barn.
”He's sure found a way.” Will got out of the car and stretched the kinks from his long legs. He wished Miranda had fallen in love with a car that had a little more legroom.
”Wow. He's got, what, twenty, thirty acres here. Pool and pool house out back. Tennis courts over near the barn. Looks like a little guesthouse out there as well. Nice.” Miranda nodded as they walked to the front porch. ”Very, very nice.”
Will leaned past her and rang the doorbell.
A moment later, the door opened, and a woman in her mid-thirties greeted them. She wore faded jeans and a cornflower-blue sweater that matched her eyes. A haze of blonde hair framed her pretty face.
”Agent Cahill?” the woman asked.
”Yes. This is Agent William Fletcher,” Miranda replied.
”I'm Regan Landry. Please come in. My father is waiting for you in his study.” She smiled and stepped aside to permit her guests to enter, then closed the door behind them. ”This way . . .”
They followed her down the hall, over highly polished oak floors upon which lay a well-worn carpet of reds and creams and golds. American primitive artwork flanked the walls on either side, and a huge bouquet of fresh flowers sat on an antique table. The overall impression was one of comfort and quiet wealth.
”Dad, your visitors are here,” Regan announced as she showed the two agents into a large square room, three walls of which were lined with bookshelves. The fourth wall was mostly gla.s.s and looked out over the pond.
”Well, come in, come in.” Joshua Landry rose from his leather chair near the window and greeted them with enthusiasm. He was a tall, well-built man in his late sixties, with broad shoulders and a shock of white hair and piercing eyes that were the same intense shade of blue as his daughter's. ”Please, sit. Here, Agent . . .”
”Cahill. Miranda Cahill.” Miranda shook the hand he offered.
”Will Fletcher,” Will introduced himself.
”Welcome, both of you. Here, let's sit over here.” He ushered them toward the sofa. ”You've met my daughter. . . .”
”Yes.” Miranda smiled as she took a seat.
”What can we offer you? Tea? Coffee?” Landry seemed to hover.
”You don't need to-”
”Of course, we do. It isn't every day that we get a visit from the FBI.”
”Tea would be fine,” Miranda said, ”if it isn't too much trouble.”
”I was just making a pot.” Regan smiled hospitably. ”My mother was English, and she and Dad lived outside of London for years. They always had tea together around this time every day, so we still do. Old habits die hard.” She turned to Will. ”Agent Fletcher?”
”Actually, water would be fine.”
”I'll just be a minute, then.” She glanced over at her father before leaving the room. ”Need anything, Dad?”
”Just tea. Thanks, sweetheart.” After she left, Landry turned to Miranda and Will and said, ”I had a bit of a go-round with my cardiologist this week, and everyone's acting like they expect me to keel over at any minute. Which I can guarantee you is not going to happen.”
”Oh. Are you sure you want to-” Miranda began.
He waved away her concern.
”It's nothing. Doctors always make a big deal out of the least little thing, don't you think? I wish I hadn't even mentioned it to Regan. Since her mother died, she thinks she has to watch over me, you know? Only child and all that.”
”Well, I'm sure she's concerned . . .” Miranda said, and once again he waved her off.
”I keep telling her, Get on with your life. But she keeps taking these guest lectures within a stone's throw of my front door. This semester she's at Penn, so she's just an hour away in Philly.”
”Does she live here, then?” Miranda asked.
”No. She's staying with a friend from college in the city until she finishes up there, then she'll go back to her own place. She bought herself a nifty little place on the Eastern Sh.o.r.e, spends most of her time there. These days she just drops in often enough to get on my nerves.” He laughed. ”I know she means well. And I appreciate her, I do. I just don't want her to worry so much about me. Now,” he moved past the subject of his health, ”you mentioned on the phone that you were looking into the death of Albert Unger. Why would the FBI be interested in the death of an old man whose claim to fame was the murder of a junkie prost.i.tute some thirty years ago?”
”We wanted to ask you the same question about your interest, Mr. Landry,” Will said. ”Unger told us you paid a visit to him, not so long ago.”
Landry sat back in his leather chair and crossed his legs. ”It certainly shouldn't surprise you that I'd be interested in speaking with him. After all, he is the man who killed the mother of Curtis Alan Channing, a man whose . . . career . . . is most interesting to me. And to the public. He's become quite notorious in a very brief time. With his death earlier this year, and the coming to light of his crimes, well, naturally, I'm going to gather all the information I can.”
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