Read Online The Twenty-Three 3 (Promise Falls) by Linwood Barclay - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Linwood Barclay
Ads: Link
Duncomb’s wife, Liz, who, rumor had it, was not exactly from Beacon Hill. More like the Combat Zone. Okay, so maybe it had been a few years since the Combat Zone’s heyday of strip clubs and whorehouses,but just because they’d spruced up the area didn’t mean there was no more prostitution. Liz had found a way—and a stable of women—to meet the demand. The supposedly incorruptible cop had been taken by her charms, and before their misdeeds caught up with them, they’d bailed on their respective lives and built new ones here in Promise Falls.
But just because people move, it doesn’t make them different people.
Clive never passed up an opportunity to tell Joyce how she looked. Was she working out? Was she on a diet? Those pants sure fit nice. He’d tried to get through the door at the same moment she did, the back of a hand inadvertently touching her breast. The other numbnuts she worked with told her not to worry about it, that Clive didn’t mean anything by it—that was just the way he was.
And then came the guy in the hoodie.
Attacking women on campus, dragging them into the bushes. None of the female students had been raped or beaten, but that didn’t exactly put anyone at ease. The next attack, they feared, could be worse.
The assaults would escalate .
So rather than bring in the local cops, Duncomb decided they’d run a sting operation themselves. He persuaded Joyce to walk late at night along a wooded path, just daring the son of a bitch to show up. He tried to talk her into dressing up like a hooker—boots and fishnets, the whole nine yards—but Joyce pointed out to him that ladies of the evening had not been their guy’s victim of choice.
Fine, Duncomb said, clearly disappointed. He told her he and the rest of the security team would be watching closely, that she had nothing to worry about, which of course was total bullshit, because the guy did show up, did drag her into the bushes. The funny thing was, once he had her pinned to the ground, he’d told her she had nothing to worry about, that it was all for show, that—
And then Duncomb had burst through the bushes and put a bullet in the guy’s brain.
Joyce took a leave.
She’d pretty much made up her mind not to come back. She’d have a complete nervous breakdown working for that idiot. No way she was ever working for that trigger-happy asshole again.
And then something crazy happened.
The asshole died.
Clive Duncomb was killed. Run down—deliberately, it turned out—by one of the college’s professors. Details were sketchy—the whole thing was still under investigation by the Promise Falls cops—but Clive, his wife, and this English professor and his wife, who’d been killed when that drive-in came crashing down, were part of some sex club.
Well, there’s a shocker.
It would have been more surprising, Joyce thought, if Duncomb hadn’t been mixed up in something like that.
Anyway, the day after Clive had been killed, a call came from the office of the president of Thackeray College. Would Ms. Pilgrim be available to come in for a private lunch?
Not really up to it, she’d said.
The president, she was told, would very much like to speak with her. They would send around a car.
And so they did. A limo. A driver in a suit and tie. Came around and opened the door for her and everything. The driver pointed out to her that between the seats were bottles of water and a choice of snacks. Peanuts, chocolate bars, mints.
For a ten-minute ride!
The president’s private chef prepared lunch in a small, private dining room down the hall from his office. Filet mignon.
Joyce tried to remember whether she’d ever had filet mignon before.
He made his pitch. He wanted her to become the new chief of security.
“Not a chance,” she told him.
He told her that the college had made a serious error in judgmentwhen it had hired Clive Duncomb. They had not done a thorough enough background check. They had been dazzled by his time on
But just because people move, it doesn’t make them different people.
Clive never passed up an opportunity to tell Joyce how she looked. Was she working out? Was she on a diet? Those pants sure fit nice. He’d tried to get through the door at the same moment she did, the back of a hand inadvertently touching her breast. The other numbnuts she worked with told her not to worry about it, that Clive didn’t mean anything by it—that was just the way he was.
And then came the guy in the hoodie.
Attacking women on campus, dragging them into the bushes. None of the female students had been raped or beaten, but that didn’t exactly put anyone at ease. The next attack, they feared, could be worse.
The assaults would escalate .
So rather than bring in the local cops, Duncomb decided they’d run a sting operation themselves. He persuaded Joyce to walk late at night along a wooded path, just daring the son of a bitch to show up. He tried to talk her into dressing up like a hooker—boots and fishnets, the whole nine yards—but Joyce pointed out to him that ladies of the evening had not been their guy’s victim of choice.
Fine, Duncomb said, clearly disappointed. He told her he and the rest of the security team would be watching closely, that she had nothing to worry about, which of course was total bullshit, because the guy did show up, did drag her into the bushes. The funny thing was, once he had her pinned to the ground, he’d told her she had nothing to worry about, that it was all for show, that—
And then Duncomb had burst through the bushes and put a bullet in the guy’s brain.
Joyce took a leave.
She’d pretty much made up her mind not to come back. She’d have a complete nervous breakdown working for that idiot. No way she was ever working for that trigger-happy asshole again.
And then something crazy happened.
The asshole died.
Clive Duncomb was killed. Run down—deliberately, it turned out—by one of the college’s professors. Details were sketchy—the whole thing was still under investigation by the Promise Falls cops—but Clive, his wife, and this English professor and his wife, who’d been killed when that drive-in came crashing down, were part of some sex club.
Well, there’s a shocker.
It would have been more surprising, Joyce thought, if Duncomb hadn’t been mixed up in something like that.
Anyway, the day after Clive had been killed, a call came from the office of the president of Thackeray College. Would Ms. Pilgrim be available to come in for a private lunch?
Not really up to it, she’d said.
The president, she was told, would very much like to speak with her. They would send around a car.
And so they did. A limo. A driver in a suit and tie. Came around and opened the door for her and everything. The driver pointed out to her that between the seats were bottles of water and a choice of snacks. Peanuts, chocolate bars, mints.
For a ten-minute ride!
The president’s private chef prepared lunch in a small, private dining room down the hall from his office. Filet mignon.
Joyce tried to remember whether she’d ever had filet mignon before.
He made his pitch. He wanted her to become the new chief of security.
“Not a chance,” she told him.
He told her that the college had made a serious error in judgmentwhen it had hired Clive Duncomb. They had not done a thorough enough background check. They had been dazzled by his time on
Similar Books
