Darby was looking at the label, at the tiny words MAGIC MOON printed underneath the tuxedoed penguin, when the door behind the counter swung open. Laurie Richards stepped out; her gaze fell on Darby and she started, nearly dropping the plastic bucket gripped in her hand.

Darby hadn’t called in advance; she had wanted to catch the woman unprepared, didn’t want her to have time to rehearse her answers.

‘Good Lord, you gave me a fright,’ Richards tittered. Then she noticed Darby’s bandages and her expression turned serious. Bright yellow Playtex cleaning gloves were stretched tightly all the way up to her forearms, and the baggy grey sweatshirt and black leggings she wore were marred with bleach stains.

‘I heard about what happened,’ Richards said quietly. Her hair was pulled back on her head, and her round, oily face glistened with sweat. ‘I’m truly sorry for your loss.’

People who aren’t psychopaths or pathological liars reveal themselves in small ways when they’re working at trying to conceal the truth. They begin to fidget and sweat, and they have trouble maintaining eye contact. The rush of adrenalin dries up their saliva and they constantly swallow and clear their throats; they breathe faster, their noses itch and they constantly scratch or cover their mouths as if trying to cover the lie. The mouth appears tense, the lips pursed.

Nine times out of ten, their eyes and ‘micro-expressions’ – those fraction-of-a-second facial movements that reveal the true emotion beneath the lie – are what betray them. They act distressed and their eyes are drawn upwards and they blink rapidly. Darby watched for any changes in the woman’s expression.

‘Who told you?’

‘It was on the radio. I listen to the news and NPR while I’m cleaning the rooms.’

‘Was Eli on the radio too?’

The woman blinked once, and her brow furrowed in thought. ‘Eli?’

‘Eli Savran. People call him Tim or Timmy.’

‘I don’t think I heard anything like that on the radio.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘No.’

‘You sure? Guy I’m talking about smells like a human garbage truck.’

The lobby door opened. Richards watched as Coop headed their way.

‘Ms Richards?’

‘No. No, I don’t know anyone like that.’

When a suspect, witness or any ordinary citizen hesitated before answering a question, it meant they were debating whether to hide information or whether deliberately to lie about it. Laurie Richards hadn’t paused to think about her responses; she didn’t look away and she seemed genuinely confused about who Eli Savran was. Now Darby had a baseline to work with when she asked her next set of questions.

Coop stepped up to the counter. His face was not friendly.

‘Would you tell me?’ Darby asked Richards.

‘Tell you what?’

‘If you did know someone like Eli Savran.’

‘Of course I would,’ Richards replied, indignant. ‘My mother didn’t raise a liar.’

‘Good. So I don’t have to explain to you that lying to a police or federal officer is a crime.’

Richards arched her back slightly. After she placed the bucket on the counter, she put her hands on her hips and puffed out her chest a little.

‘With all due respect to the both of you, I don’t like the way you’re treating me. I’ve been nothing but helpful to you people, I’ve been nothing but truthful.’

‘Then maybe you can explain this,’ Darby said. She tapped a finger against the bottle of ink, her eyes never leaving the woman’s face.

It was only a fraction of a second, but Darby saw that her words had hit home. And, while her gut said the woman had nothing to do with Eli Savran or the Red Hill Ripper, Darby knew she had stumbled upon something. Richards swallowed and licked her lips. Then she swallowed again.

‘That’s a bottle of ink.’

‘A bottle of ink that’s no longer in production,’ Darby said. ‘It’s actually forty years old.’

‘So?’

‘It showed up on the duct tape wrapped around David Downes’s mouth.’

Now Laurie Richards looked distressed. Her eyebrows drew upwards, towards the middle of her forehead, and suddenly she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

Coop took out his handcuffs. ‘Think real carefully before you answer,’ he said, and placed the cuffs on the front counter.

‘It was a gift,’ Richards said.

‘From Eli Savran?’ Darby asked.

‘No! I told you I don’t know who he is. David gave them to me. The ink and the fountain pen.’

‘David who?’

‘Downes. He was really into fountain pens and stuff. He was cleaning out his office closet or something and came across the bottle of ink – it’s called “Magic Moon”, see? We’re the Silver Moon Inn, and David thought the owner would like to use it here on the front desk because it went with the décor. He was kind like that.’

‘You didn’t tell us you knew him.’

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘But you didn’t volunteer the information either. Why? Were you having an affair with him?’

‘An affair,’ Richards said, aghast. ‘He was a married man.’

‘So David Downes just waltzed in here one day out of the blue and decided to give these things to the hotel? That’s what you’re telling us?’

‘No, he did … He …’

‘He what?’

‘Stop yelling at me! You’re getting me all confused.’ A sour, unwashed odour rose from Richards, and her breath was rank. ‘When my husband, Larry, dropped dead of a heart attack, David helped me with all the probate stuff. Larry was a good man but he wasn’t exactly a forward-thinker, so he didn’t leave a will. I went to David’s office a few times, and during one of them he gave me the pen and the bottle of ink. Why? Because David was a very thoughtful and very kind man. If you don’t believe me, I suggest you talk to his secretary, Sally Kelly. She was there the day David gave me the pen and the ink.’

‘So explain to me how the ink from that bottle wound up at a crime scene.’

‘How the heck should I know? That’s your job, number one. Number two, who’s to say David didn’t have a similar bottle inside his office? Or his house?’ The woman smiled a greasy, triumphant smile; her eyes roved over them as though she had made a profound observation.

Everything Laurie Richards had said sounded perfectly logical, and Darby sensed the woman was telling the truth. And maybe Darby would have let the whole thing go if it weren’t for the smile that had punctuated her last words. It was as if she had swerved at the last moment to avoid a head-on collision and had righted herself, back on course to her destination, no one knowing how close she had come to a fatal accident.

‘That’s it, the whole big whopping mystery,’ Richards said in mocking sarcasm. ‘Satisfied?’

Not yet, Darby thought, and moved behind the reception desk.

64

Laurie Richards made gulping sounds as Darby approached.

‘I told you the truth,’ Richards said.

‘Not all of it.’ The woman was still holding something back. Darby could sense it the way a bloodhound picks up a scent.

‘Yes, I did! Why do you insist on harassing me?’

To get anything more out of Richards, Darby would need a warrant – but both she and the FBI had been booted off the case. So she decided to play the only card she had left, one that would, hopefully, push the envelope.

Darby glared at the woman and said, ‘You know why he’s killing these families.’

The woman’s mouth went slack, and her small eyes were bright with terror.

‘You knew all this time and yet you didn’t tell us,’ Darby said. ‘That’s called obstruction of justice – and we’re talking about a federal-level charge here. Coop, what’s the going rate these days for a federal charge?’

‘Minimum of ten years,’ Coop replied. ‘Max of twenty.’

Richards blinked rapidly, and she seemed to have trouble catching her breath.

‘Why are you protecting him?’ Darby asked the woman.