Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [41]
“Well, come in, come in.” Joshua Landry rose from his leather chair near the window and greeted them with enthusiasm. He was a tall, well-built man in his late sixties, with broad shoulders and a shock of white hair and piercing eyes that were the same intense shade of blue as his daughter’s. “Please, sit. Here, Agent . . .”
“Cahill. Miranda Cahill.” Miranda shook the hand he offered.
“Will Fletcher,” Will introduced himself.
“Welcome, both of you. Here, let’s sit over here.” He ushered them toward the sofa. “You’ve met my daughter. . . .”
“Yes.” Miranda smiled as she took a seat.
“What can we offer you? Tea? Coffee?” Landry seemed to hover.
“You don’t need to—”
“Of course, we do. It isn’t every day that we get a visit from the FBI.”
“Tea would be fine,” Miranda said, “if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“I was just making a pot.” Regan smiled hospitably. “My mother was English, and she and Dad lived outside of London for years. They always had tea together around this time every day, so we still do. Old habits die hard.” She turned to Will. “Agent Fletcher?”
“Actually, water would be fine.”
“I’ll just be a minute, then.” She glanced over at her father before leaving the room. “Need anything, Dad?”
“Just tea. Thanks, sweetheart.” After she left, Landry turned to Miranda and Will and said, “I had a bit of a go-round with my cardiologist this week, and everyone’s acting like they expect me to keel over at any minute. Which I can guarantee you is not going to happen.”
“Oh. Are you sure you want to—” Miranda began.
He waved away her concern.
“It’s nothing. Doctors always make a big deal out of the least little thing, don’t you think? I wish I hadn’t even mentioned it to Regan. Since her mother died, she thinks she has to watch over me, you know? Only child and all that.”
“Well, I’m sure she’s concerned . . .” Miranda said, and once again he waved her off.
“I keep telling her, Get on with your life. But she keeps taking these guest lectures within a stone’s throw of my front door. This semester she’s at Penn, so she’s just an hour away in Philly.”
“Does she live here, then?” Miranda asked.
“No. She’s staying with a friend from college in the city until she finishes up there, then she’ll go back to her own place. She bought herself a nifty little place on the Eastern Shore, spends most of her time there. These days she just drops in often enough to get on my nerves.” He laughed. “I know she means well. And I appreciate her, I do. I just don’t want her to worry so much about me. Now,” he moved past the subject of his health, “you mentioned on the phone that you were looking into the death of Albert Unger. Why would the FBI be interested in the death of an old man whose claim to fame was the murder of a junkie prostitute some thirty years ago?”
“We wanted to ask you the same question about your interest, Mr. Landry,” Will said. “Unger told us you paid a visit to him, not so long ago.”
Landry sat back in his leather chair and crossed his legs. “It certainly shouldn’t surprise you that I’d be interested in speaking with him. After all, he is the man who killed the mother of Curtis Alan Channing, a man whose . . . career . . . is most interesting to me. And to the public. He’s become quite notorious in a very brief time. With his death earlier this year, and the coming to light of his crimes, well, naturally, I’m going to gather all the information I can.”
“Unger mentioned that you and Channing had corresponded at one time,” Miranda said.
“I was about to get to that, yes. Actually, it was a bit one-sided at first.” He paused as Regan came into the room with a tray. “Do you need help with that?”
“No, thanks.” She set the tray on the table that stood between the chair in which he sat and the sofa. She proceeded to pour tea and pass out cups.
“Yes, I received my first letter from Channing about six or seven years ago. Right after the publication of