Page 67 of A Deeper Darkness

When he’d finished, Lyons straightened and held on to the railing for balance. “So you shee, I need to get in and talk to her. She’s rolling in dough, and I got nothing. And she needs to know I ain’t paying jack for that brat.”

And with that last valiant proclamation, Lyons’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went down in a heap on the porch. Passed out cold.

Fletcher checked his pulse, put a cushion from the chair under his head and knocked on the door.

“Mrs. Lyons? Metro Police. Open the door. It’s safe.”

Nothing. Crickets. Literally.

The people down the street were watching him with interest now.

He tried the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked. He reached down and felt for Lyons’s pulse, found it strong and steady. The man wasn’t in immediate danger, then. He called in to dispatch, explained what was happening, asked that an ambulance be sent to the address to cart off Roy Lyons, and a backup patrol officer, then walked around to the rear of the house.

There was a nice garden back here, with a pretty little deck covered in potted plants. He walked up on the deck, peered into the kitchen and witnessed exactly what Roy Lyons had alleged: four plates on the table, surrounding a half-eaten birthday cake.

Except Fletcher knew that cake was three days old.

Exigent circumstances. He used a branch to break the glass pane near the knob and opened the French door from the inside. He didn’t smell anything noticeable, which slowed his heart rate only the slightest bit. He made a pass through the house. Prayed he wasn’t going to find Maggie Lyons and her three kids lying dead in their rooms.

They weren’t. The house was clear. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. He chose anger. It looked like someone had left in a hurry. Probably right after they’d rolled away.

“Son of a bitch!”

Fletcher went back out on the deck and kicked the potted plant closest to the door. What an idiot he was. Maggie Lyons had lied right to his face, and he’d seen it. He’d seen her flinch when he mentioned Harold Croswell’s name, even as she denied ever hearing of the man. Damn it. He’d even made himself a note to check her out, then gotten dragged off in a different direction. Now, three days later, he finds out she was in Afghanistan, too? No way that was a coincidence.

He returned to the front of the house. The ambulance was coming down the street. Fletcher caught the eye of the man he’d been talking to when he first arrived, signaled for him to come over. Monk Spot hurried to him, happy to be of service now that the situation had gotten more interesting.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Frank Wright.”

“Mr. Wright, you said you told Roy Lyons Maggie wasn’t home, is that right? You knew that definitively?”Wright, right. Is that right, Mr. Wright?Good grief, he was starting to sound like Dr. Seuss.

“Yes, sir. She and the kids left the same day you were here for the murder across the way. Like she was taking them to school, but they had bags. Bags bigger than what the kids normally carried. They were brown. Looked military. And her little girl was crying.”

Fletcher eyed the man. That was an awful lot of detail. “And you just happened to notice this why?”

Frank Wright blushed. “Well…Maggie’s a hot piece of ass. You know how it is.”

“So you’re stalking her?”

“No.” Wright had the audacity to look upset. “Not at all. I just like watching her. She’s pretty, that’s all. I was out on my porch watching the brouhaha and noticed her leaving. She’s a friend. Don’t make it sound so dirty.”

“You didn’t talk to her, did you? Ask her where she was headed?”

“No.”

Fletcher just shook his head. “Thank you for your help, sir.”

“You aren’t going to mention this to my wife, are you?”

Fletcher tossed a glance over his shoulder at the man and didn’t answer. Let him sweat.

He flipped open his phone and called Hart.

“We’re going to need a warrant for 67435 N Street. Computers included. And everything we can find out about Maggie Lyons.”

Hart was quiet for a moment. “The chick from the Croswell scene?”