Page 125 of Cold, Cold Bones
Ryan raised both brows.
“Alasdair Campbell. The psycho Scot.”
“Anyone else?”
“I recently crossed paths with a former student who seemed to hold a grudge.”
I told him about Terrence Edy.
“Anyone else?”
“There’s a homeless guy I think was stalking Katy. He was very hostile to me.”
I told him about Winky Winkard.
“Jesus, Brennan.”
“Don’t go there.”
“Could any of these people be this hateful?”
I shrugged. Who knows?
“Call your next-door neighbor?”
I did. Walter said we were welcome to view the video anytime.
As things turned out, it was good that we did.
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“Isee you!”
The tinny voice startled Ryan, despite a warning that my neighbor was quirky.
“Hi, Walter.” I gave a five-finger wave.
“Three-D motion detection and head-to-toe video,” he chirped. “No one sneaks up on this old boy.”
The door opened before we reached it. Walter stepped out and pointed to his roof. “Cameras, lights, action!” He was wearing a tracksuit perhaps purchased from a meth dealer in the eighties, purple with turquoise chevron stripes. His toupee was new. And not custom fitted.
We followed Walter inside, across a faux Persian rug to a living room furnished with dark mahogany pieces upholstered in bright emerald velvet. Green patterned drapes.
Walter gestured at a sofa outfitted with enough throw pillows to stock a Bed Bath & Beyond, all in variations on the verdant motif. Forest. Kelly. Something a decorator would probably call moss.
After clearing space, Ryan and I sat.
Settling into a wing chair, Walter raised one polyester-clad armand waggled what looked like an iPhone 13 Pro. “My nephew wired the system for me. It’s state of the art.”
“Impressive,” Ryan said.
“You would be the oft-mentioned Canadian cop?” Walter asked.
“I would.”
“You’re supposed to be French.”
“Je suis, vraiment.”
