Page 124 of The Lie Maker

We spotted a station about five minutes later and Dad steered off the road and up to the pumps.

“I’ll be quick,” I said.

I took out my wallet, grabbed a credit card, and left the wallet on the dash, along with the notepad and the pen. I got out, hoping the pump would be one where you swiped the card and didn’t have to go into the station, but no such luck. Eager to save time where I could, I only put in about half a tank.

I shouted to Dad through the open passenger window, “Gotta go inside. Be right back.”

He waved okay. I ran into the station and waited behind a guy who wanted to load up on chips and dip and buy a couple of lottery tickets before settling his gas bar tab. I thought, for a moment, while he hunted through his jacket to find his wallet, that I might have to kill him, but decided that committing a homicide might delay us even further.

Dad had the Beemer in first gear before I had my right foot back in the car and took off with a squeal of the tires. The wallet slid off the dash and I had to feel around the footwell to retrieve it.

A few miles later, after I’d been looking up anything I could find on my phone about Garth Walton, Dad said, “Well?”

I’d made a few scribbles on the notepad. Walton had a website where he promoted himself as an actor and for voice work. There was a list of audiobooks he’d narrated.

“Hang on,” I said. “He’s in a play. In Boston.”

It was a revival of The Price, an Arthur Miller play. I knew some of his work—Death of a Salesman, The Crucible, for example—but I had never seen this one, and didn’t know much about the character of Walter, who was being played by Walton.

“Is it currently running?” Dad asked.

“Yeah,” I said, and looked at the dashboard clock. It was closing in on ten. “In fact, it’s on right this second. At the Citizens Bank Opera House, on Washington, a couple of blocks over from the Common.”

We were about an hour out from there. I read information about the production on the ticket website.

“It runs about two and a half hours, plus an intermission,” I said. “It started at eight.”

“So he’s there now, and should be done around eleven,” Dad said. He glanced at me. “Maybe we should meet him at the stage door.”

I found a picture of him, enlarged it with thumb and index finger, and turned the phone so Dad could see it.

“I know what he looks like, but you don’t,” I said.

Dad took a good look. “We’ll take the notebook. See if we can get his autograph.”

The theater was emptying out as we drove down Washington. The street was jammed with people hailing cabs and getting into their ordered Ubers.

“Not a moment too soon,” Dad said.

He pulled the car up to the curb in a no-parking zone the better part of a block away. There were cars illegally stopped everywhere and no sign of police issuing tickets. No tow trucks, either. It was probably like this at the end of every show. Dad put the flashers on.

“I’ll watch the front, in case he comes out that way, and you take the stage door,” he said.

We both bailed from the car and ran the half block to the theater. I scooted down the alley, hunting for where the actors would exit, leaving Dad standing amid the throngs of audience members who were leaving. When I got to the stage door, I joined half a dozen autograph seekers waiting excitedly for the performers to emerge.

When a woman finally did, she was besieged by fans. A minute later, a man in his sixties came out. He signed for a couple of people, then raised a hand and offered apologies, saying he had to meet someone for a late dinner. Two more people came out the door. Actors, production people, I had no idea. But none of them was Walton.

The autograph seekers drifted away, and I was left there alone. I decided to give it another minute.

The door opened and a short, round man came out. Definitely not the guy I was hoping to see.

“Hey,” I said, “is Garth Walton coming out?”

“Oh,” the man said, “I think he left right after the curtain dropped.”

Shit.

I ran back up the alley to the theater entrance. There were a handful of people still milling about, waiting at the curb for rides. Most of the cabs and Ubers were gone.