Conspiracy Theory(35)

“Looking at you,” Gregor said, “nobody would ever guess you grew up here.”

Bennis shot him a sour look. “It’s not my part of town. I got you to Tony and Charlotte’s the other night without having to pause for anything but stop signs. Besides, I never came back here as an adult if I could help it. Before my mother got sick, I used to have her come into the city and I’d meet her there.”

“You were living in Boston.”

“It was too difficult for her to come to Boston. My father, as you know, was a professional bastard.”

Bennis paused again, at another side street. The car behind her honked. She ignored it. “Here,” she said, turning right. “I think we got a little off the track the directions said we were supposed to be on. You’ve been here before. How did you get here?”

“John Jackman drove me. He was chief of police here at the time.”

Bennis let the subject of John Jackman’s career drop. She went down a block and made another turn. She went down another two blocks and made another turn. Gregor had been here before, but he had never paid much attention to his surroundings, and now he found himself surprised that there was this sort of area to Bryn Mawr at all. It wasn’t poor. The small storefronts were well-tended and the sidewalks were free of debris and street toughs propped up against buildings trying to look like they were concealing weapons. It was modest, that was the word Gregor wanted. He saw a small store with plate-glass windows making up almost the entirety of its sidewalk-facing wall. When he looked inside its windows, it seemed to go back forever in a narrow line, like those old railroad flats in New York. It sold mystery books. Gregor saw a copy of Blindsighted in the window, which he recognized because Bennis and Donna had both been reading it. Farther along, the stores got more ambiguous. One looked like a hardware store, except for the riot of wicker baskets taking up one window. One looked like a pharmacy, except that its main window had a display of what looked like hair dryers. The side streets they crossed now led to small houses set in small square lawns. Like the mystery store and the hardware store and the pharmacy, they all seemed to be made of brick.

“Here we are,” Bennis said, turning into a parking lot that looked as confusing as a puzzle. There was a lot of it, but it did odd things, and seemed to accommodate too many people. There was the police station, and the township building, and a Chinese restaurant that gave an entirely new meaning to “upscale.” Then there was more parking, in the back, marked only for police, which was where Bennis took them, since they’d been told to “consider themselves official” for at least this visit.

“I’ll bet you anything they’ve got a first-class drug problem here,” Gregor said. “I know the signs. They’ve got population. They’re close to the city.”

“I thought you said every place had drug problems these days,” Bennis said. “Even small places that aren’t close to cities.”

“There are drug problems and drug problems,” Gregor said.

Bennis was carefully locking up the car. It was a custom-painted, tangerine orange Mercedes two-seater convertible. Gregor had warned her about the color. It was like putting a strobe light on your vehicle and running a tape screaming: Slash my tires! Crack my windshield! Run your keys through my paint!

A door opened in the side of the building and a man in a brown wool suit looked out. Gregor looked back. The man nodded to himself and came down the small set of side steps and started across the narrow lot to them.

“Mr. Demarkian,” he said. “Miss Hannaford.”

“Are we late?” Bennis said. “I was trying to keep track of the time—”

“No, no,” the man said. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Frank Margiotti. I don’t know if you remember. We met briefly the other night—”

“I remember,” Gregor said.

“We talked mostly to that other man,” Bennis said.

“Marty Tackner, yes. Marty’s inside waiting. We were just, ah … It’s been a little stressful here these last few days.”

“I’m sure,” Gregor said.

“And then there’s the FBI.” Frank Margiotti paused and looked quickly back at the building. He shook his head slightly. “I mean no disrepect, mind you, but I’m not so happy with the FBI. You were an agent, weren’t you?”

“An agent and later an administrator.”

“Well, I really do mean no disrespect. He says you’re something of a legend at the FBI. Invented the method they use to catch serial killers.”