Shadow Image by Martin J Smith Page A

the family’s embarrassed attempt to explain a drunken indiscretion by young Ford as a Princeton senior, to a single, brief account of the accidental horseback-riding death three years earlier of Ford’s only child—an unblinking chronicle of life in the fishbowl of wealth and celebrity. Only a few of the stories were negative. He could have gorged himself on tales of philanthropy. The last quarter-inch of the chronological printout was nothing but stories about the Underhills’ heroic role at Harmony.
    Brenna picked up suddenly. “So how’d he do?”
    The driver behind him leaned on the horn. The Explorer lurched as he stomped the gas. “Stiff upper lip. I think Annie told him some horror story about what happens to new kids, so he started in a hole. I’ll talk to her.”
    â€œBut he was okay when you left?”
    â€œFine. He was pretty excited, actually, after seeing you on TV.”
    â€œYou saw that?” she said. “Myron’s such a jerk. He knows I’ll talk to him if I can, but the visuals aren’t as good unless it looks like he stalked me.”
    Christensen shifted the phone to his other ear and moved with the morning traffic. “So the sheriff’s people are still nosing around?”
    â€œIt’s weird. Nobody Downtown’s talking.”
    Christensen pulled a folded Post-it from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “Somebody is. Levin called you at home right after the live report.”
    â€œHe called the house, too? It’s a brand-new number. Myron’s such a pain in the ass.” Brenna waited.
    â€œSaid he’d interviewed—” Reading from the Post-it now. “Enrique Chembergo.”
    The line was silent, but only for a moment. “The gardener,” Brenna said.
“Shit.
He talked to Myron?”
    â€œThat’s the guy who heard something or saw something when Floss fell, right?”
    â€œHell.
He and his wife both work for the Underhills. She does home-care stuff with Floss, actually. Both from Central America somewhere. I read his statement to the cops. Seems pretty sure what he saw. I’m sure Myron’ll make the most of that. He say anything else?”
    â€œHe wants to talk to you ASAP. Said this guy knows what happened, but not why, and that he had information you might need.”
    No response.
    â€œBren? He’s just blowing smoke, right?”
    â€œMaybe. Hard to say. I’ve known Myron a long time.”
    â€œThen call him, okay?” he said. “I’d feel better.”
    â€œHow’s your schedule today?”
    â€œOpen,” he said. “Just doing some screening out at Harmony, still trying to find case-study candidates. I want to be back by three to get the kids.”
    â€œYou can let them go to Kids’ Korner after school, you know. No need to pick them up until six.”
    â€œJust for today. I’ll feel better.”
    â€œWhere are you now?” Brenna said. Her voice had changed.
    He looked around. A state police headquarters flashed past on his left. “Washington Boulevard. Almost to Allegheny River Boulevard.”
    â€œStill on this side of the river?”
    He slowed as he approached the intersection. Directly in front of him, across the busy boulevard, the Allegheny River ran high and muddy. He watched a battered tug churn its way east.
    â€œWhat?” he said.
    â€œYou’re not
that
far from Mount Mercy, that’s all. It’d sure be nice to know if Floss remembers anything about what happened. You could be there in ten minutes.”
    â€œBren—”
    â€œShe has some megasuite on the fourteenth floor, which is no big surprise. You knew the family built the new wing, right?”
    He knew, just as he knew every corridor of Mount Mercy Hospital, every ICU nurse on every shift, every sad-eyed priest who roamed its halls dispensing platitudes like aspirin. Today was Monday. If nothing had changed during