“Yes, it is. You know it is. You know how they treat suspects. He’d lose his job, he’d be ruined. It would kill him, Mr. Kincaid.”
Louis stared at her.
“I just want you to watch him.” She wiped at her eyes. “Can’t you just do that?”
Louis shook his head slowly.
“Can’t you talk to him, maybe, without letting him know who you are? Can’t you just tell me if...”
Her voice caught and she dropped her eyes to her lap.
“What if I find out he did it?” Louis asked gently.
Diane’s shoulders dropped and she let out a long sigh.
“I would have to go the cops,” Louis said. “You understand that, right?”
She nodded, her eyes still downcast.
“You understand that you’re hiring me to investigate your father and that you might not like the result?”
When she looked up at him her eyes still held that desperate look of hope. “I have to know,” she said.
CHAPTER 6
Louis stood at the magazine rack in the Lee County Library, a copy of Field and Stream open in his hands. But his eyes were on Frank Woods.
If ever there was a man who defined “average,” Woods was it. He was in his late fifties, about five-nine, maybe a little overweight. His complexion was not especially light or dark and he had a sort of gray cast, like he spent too much time indoors. His hair was dark but heavily peppered with gray, and he kept it trimmed short, like it was more a time consideration than style. His clothes were as innocuous as the rest of him. Long-sleeved white cotton shirt, buttoned at the collar and set off by a dark tie wide enough to look like it came from the sixties. His plain brown trousers were clean but didn’t have any crease. It was clear he didn’t care about any notions of fashion. The only thing about him that could make him stand out at all was his short salt-and-pepper beard. Other than that, Frank Woods looked exactly like what he was —- everyone’s cliché of a librarian.
Louis flipped through the magazine.
Diane Woods, Louis had discovered, was a high school principal, an only child whose mother had died when she was young. Diane was obviously a smart woman who was close enough to her father to have regular dinners. If anyone could judge whether Frank Woods was capable of murder, you would think it would be his daughter.
Louis watched Frank Woods as he wheeled a book cart away from the desk.
He didn’t believe families never saw it coming. They knew. They might be in denial, but they knew. And Diane Woods knew something, too. More than she had let on.
Louis set the magazine back and wandered toward the front of the library, making his way closer to Frank Woods.
Woods was filing books from a cart, and every once in a while, he would look up and Louis could see his eyes —- brown, alert, intelligent —- sweep the library. Then he would pick up the next book and silently slide it into place.
Louis eased closer, pretending to look at books. Suddenly, Frank disappeared around a shelf. Louis sighed. He had wanted to use this first visit to size Woods up, to get a sense of what kind of guy he was. But the library was nearly empty and he suddenly felt very conspicuous.
“Can I help you?”
Louis turned with a start.
Frank Woods was right next to him, his brown eyes intense.
“I was looking for something,” Louis said. He looked at the shelf in front of him. South American poetry...
“What’s the title? Maybe I can help you find it,” Woods said. His voice was soft, parental, as if he were gathering children for Saturday morning story time.
“Uh, local history,” Louis said finally. “I guess this isn’t it.”
Woods’s lips pressed together, and for a moment Louis felt he was caught, even though he knew Woods had absolutely no reason to suspect anyone was spying on him.
“This way, please,” Woods said.
Woods had an erect posture and an oddly light way of walking, as if he were afraid of waking someone up. Louis tried to imagine him chasing the Monkey Island woman across God-knows-what kind of terrain and it wasn’t coming. But then he remembered Frank Woods owned a rifle and thought of hunters stalking prey.
“What exactly is it you need?” Woods asked, his eyes scanning the books as he walked slowly down the aisle.
“I’m not sure.”
Woods looked back at him. “You’re not sure?”
Louis paused. “College. I’m doing a paper.” Another beat. “On Captiva Island, history, that sort of thing.”
“It’s your term paper?” Woods asked.
“Yeah.”
Woods was staring at him. “Where do you go to school?”
“Community college.” Louis shrugged. “I got a late start.”