Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [43]
Regan rolled her eyes and laughed as she left the room.
“Now, tell me, what exactly are you looking for in Channing’s letters?” Josh Landry ran a hand through his thick white hair. “I mean, the man is dead, and I can assure you he never mentioned a thing about having killed anyone. I would, of course, have gone straight to the police had he done so.”
“We’re sure you would have, Mr. Landry, but the truth is, we’re not investigating an old murder. We’re trying to prevent a future one,” Miranda told him. “Let me explain . . .”
She proceeded to tell him about the unholy trio who had put into play a game that required each man to kill three people who had, in some way, been a thorn in the side of one of the others.
“Hmmmm.” Landry stroked his chin, his eyes bright as he contemplated the scenario. “So you think this last fellow, this Lowell, is going to kill three people named by Channing. Interesting.”
Regan came back into the room carrying a red file, which she handed over to Miranda.
“Most of the letters are here,” Regan told her. “There are several others we’re still looking for. I think a few might have been misplaced when Dad hired a new secretary. She moved some files around, and there are some things still missing. But these will give you a start.”
“Thank you.” Miranda opened the folder.
“This Lowell . . . you say he’s not the killer type?” Landry directed the question to Will.
“We certainly didn’t think so. At least, not until Al Unger was murdered,” Will replied. “Even our profiler believed that Lowell wouldn’t play it out.”
“Wait a minute. What did I miss?” Regan asked. “Who is Lowell?”
“Archer Lowell,” Miranda said, and repeated the connection of Lowell to Channing.
“Three killers?” Regan’s eyebrows raised, and she glanced at her father. “There’s a story for you.”
“Indeed. I admit to being intrigued by what Agent Cahill has shared with us. Now, back to this Lowell fellow. You were saying that your profiler thought he wasn’t the killer type. Most people are repelled by the notion of killing, you know. Most normal people, anyway.”
“According to the reports I’ve heard, Lowell was definitely repelled by the photographs of Giordano’s victims,” Miranda told him as she skimmed the contents of the file.
“Then I suppose it needs to be determined what could have coerced this young man to kill,” Landry noted. “If in fact he did kill Albert Unger. You’re certain there was no fourth player?”
“As far as we know, there are only the three involved.”
“Hmmm. Certainly a lot to think about. A real puzzle to be solved.” Landry looked pleased at the prospect.
“Mr. Landry—” Miranda looked up from the letter she was reading “—Channing says in this letter, ‘You need to tell it the way it is. You set it straight, or someday I will set you straight. I hate people like you who think you know, when you don’t know. You talk about these things like they are truth, but you do not know the truth. You are getting rich telling lies. My mother always said that liars are found out. Maybe someone should find you out and show you the truth. Maybe someday I will. . . .’ ”
Miranda held the letter up. “Does that sound like a threat to you?”
“Not really.” Landry shrugged. “Besides, Channing is dead and . . .” He paused for a moment, then said, “Oh. I see. You’re wondering if maybe mine was one of the three names?”
“The thought is crossing my mind.”
“What an intriguing idea. Me, a victim.”
Regan looked up sharply.
“Dad, I don’t think you should be so cavalier. If this man was part of this killing club, and there’s reason to believe that you might have been singled out—”
Landry waved a hand as if to dismiss her. “Those letters were written six or seven years ago. I’d be surprised if Channing even remembered writing them,” Landry told her. “And I’d be surprised if this was all that important to him even when he wrote them.”
“It’s been thirty years since Unger killed Channing’s mother,” Regan reminded him. “And Unger