It was two weeks before I received the phone call I was waiting for.
I was been in my office making a list of my favorite European beers. I had just decided that tops on my list was Guinness Dry Stout when my phone rang. I set my pen aside, pleased with my list.
“ Knighthorse Investigations.”
“ Mr. Knighthorse, it’s Bert Tomlinson.”
I took in some air, collected my thoughts. “The same Bert Tomlinson whose son raped and murdered my mother?”
“ We need to talk.”
“ Boy do we.”
“ Not here. Not over the phone.”
“ At the police station, perhaps?”
“ No. Neutral ground. There’s some…information I need to tell you about your mother.”
“ Sure,” I said, knowing he was full of shit. “When and where?”
“ Tomorrow. Do you know where Irvine Lake is?”
“ Yup.”
“ There are some park benches along the east side. This time of year, it should be quiet.”
“ Sounds like a great place for an ambush.”
“ I’ll be there alone. You have my word.”
“ Is that the same word you used to uphold the law?”
“ I’ll be there alone, Knighthorse. Please be the same. We need to talk.”
“ We need to do something,” I said. “What time?”
“ Seven p.m. Dusk.”
“ Sounds spooky.”
“ See you there, Knighthorse.”
And he clicked off.
I sat quietly at my desk, digesting everything, listening to the sounds of the traffic outside, to my own beating heart, to the small hum of the mini-refrigerator cycling on.
I then reached for my cell and dialed the only number I could think of dialing.