Far From True Read Online Free PDF

those houses, find out who the people in those cars likely are. See if you can do it without cracking any jokes.”
    Carlson frowned. “Just breaking the tension.”
    “Go.”
    Lionel Grayson, who’d been identified as the owner and manager, was being treated by one of the paramedics. He gave every indication of being in mild shock, and had nearly passed out before Duckworth’s arrival.
    “Mr. Grayson,” Duckworth said, “I need to ask you some questions.”
    The man looked at Duckworth vacantly. “It was our last night.”
    “I understand that, yes.”
    “It was supposed to be a . . . celebration. Sad, too, but a night to remember all the wonderful times people had here . . .”
    He looked away. Duckworth could see the dried trail of tears that had run down the man’s cheeks.
    “How many?” the man asked.
    “How many what?”
    “How many are dead?” Grayson asked.
    “It appears to be four, sir, although until all the debris is removed, we won’t know for sure. Someone might have been walking along there, but it’s two cars that were crushed. Do you have any idea how this happened?”
    “Marsden,” he said. “He should be here soon. I called him.”
    “Who’s Marsden?”
    “Clifford Marsden. He owns Marsden Demolition.”
    “Are you saying he did this? He blew up the screen?”
    “He must have,” Grayson said. “But he mixed up the dates, or set the timer wrong, or something.”
    “You hired him to demolish the screen?”
    Grayson nodded.
    “When was that supposed to happen?”
    “In another week,” he said. “A week from today. I didn’t even think he’d planted the explosives yet. That’s crazy. Why would he put in the explosives a week early? Run the risk of something like this happening?”
    “That’s something we’ll want to ask him.”
    “He’s on his way. I tried to call him, but my hands were shaking. I couldn’t handle my phone. Someone did it for me. But he’s coming. When I get my hands on him, I . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.”
    “Why was the screen supposed to come down so soon after closing?”
    “It was part of the deal.”
    “What deal?”
    “The sale,” Grayson said. “To Mancini Homes.”
    “All this land has been sold?”
    Grayson nodded. “The sale goes through in a month. Before then, I have to clear the property. The screen, the outbuildings, the fencing, it all has to come down. It was one of the conditions.”
    “What’s happening with the land?”
    Grayson shrugged. “Houses, I guess. I don’t know. It never really mattered to me. I got just under three mil for the land. I was going to go to Florida. With my wife. Retire. But now . . . how do I . . . this is so horrible.”
    Duckworth put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We’re going to find out what happened, okay? You just hang in.”
    He noticed a big car snaking its way between fire engines and ambulances, then pulling over near the fence. Duckworth wondered whether this was Clifford Marsden. But when the driver opened the door, and the interior light went on, he saw that it was someone else.
    Randall Finley.
    Getting out of the passenger side was another man the detective recognized. David Harwood. Former reporter, now assistant to the former mayor. Camera in hand.
    Finley had already spotted something that interested him. A black SUV, covered in dust, some small chunks of the movie screen decorating the roof and the hood. The tailgate was wide open, and a woman was tending to two small girls—neither more than ten years old—sitting with their legs dangling over the bumper. One of the girls was crying and the woman was trying to console her.
    Duckworth said, “Excuse me, Mr. Grayson. I’ll be right back.”
    Finley walked quickly to the SUV, then slowed his approach when he was nearly there.
    “How are you folks doing?” he asked.
    The woman glanced around. “Hello?”
    “I just wanted to see if you were okay,” he said kindly. “Are these your