Stone Rain by Linwood Barclay Read Free Book Online Page A

reputation gets out there. You hardly need your picture in the local paper telling the world how you make your living.
    But Trixie’s concerns about her picture running in the paper seemed to go beyond how it might disrupt her livelihood. She seemed terrified by the repercussions of Martin Benson running, as Trixie called it, her “mug shot” in the
Suburban
.
    Was Trixie on the run from the authorities? Had she been on some episode of
America’s Most Wanted
that I’d missed? And what was to account for her skittishness when that biker came into the Starbucks?
    I typed “Trixie Snelling” on the Google page. The only thing that came back was a reference to a woman by that name who, at the beginning of the last century, married a man who wrote a cantata for a church in England. I didn’t think that was my Trixie. Next I tried a Yahoo “people search” and came up with a big fat zero. I tried Google and Yahoo again, this time with the name “Trixie Snell,” who, I learned, was a character in the 1933 movie called
Sensation Hunters
that featured a young Walter Brennan as a stuttering waiter. But I didn’t learn anything more useful than that.
    I went into the paper’s library and checked our own database. It would find any story the
Metropolitan
, or any other major North American newspaper, had run with the name Trixie Snelling. I figured, if police were looking for her, her name could have been mentioned at some point.
    But I came up with nothing. Which seemed, on the face of it, to be a good thing.
    I returned to the newsroom, found an Oakwood phone book on the shelf where we kept directories from all over the country—even though more and more of them were online—and looked up Snelling. Nothing. I guess all that proved was that Trixie had an unlisted number.
    Of course, if the police were looking for Trixie, and given her line of work it was not beyond the realm of possibility that they might be, chances were pretty good she was not using the same name today that she was using when she’d originally come to their attention.
    If she’d come to their attention at all.
    Maybe she’d come to the attention of someone other than the police.
    Whoever might be looking for her was going to have a hard time finding her, at least if they looked for her under the name I’d always known her by. Because, using the most conventional resources at my disposal, it appeared that no one by the name of Trixie Snelling had ever actually existed.
     
     
    I was home before Sarah and started throwing something together for dinner. I concluded, from the presence of the backpack full of books by the front door and the absence of Paul, that he had preceded me home and gone back out again. Clearly, not to the library to work on an assignment.
    I had some pasta on the counter and was looking in the fridge for a half-full jar of spaghetti sauce when Angie came into the kitchen. I felt the same thing I always felt when I saw her—that I had the most beautiful daughter in the world, and I’d be a fool to think I could take any of the credit.
    “Hey, stranger,” I said. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you.” She hugged me and I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You here for dinner?”
    “What are we having?”
    I love this question, the one that says,
Hey, there’s nothing like getting together with family, so long as you’re serving something decent
.
    “Spaghetti,” I said.
    “Don’t worry about me,” Angie said. “I’ll grab something somewhere. I’ve got to go back downtown tonight for a lecture anyway.”
    She blew threw the kitchen like a twister, there one moment, up the stairs the next. I heard the front door open, a new storm system approaching.
    “Well, I hope you’re happy now,” Paul said, forcing me out of the way as he reached into the fridge for a can of Coke.
    “Happy about what?” I asked.
    “I got a job. Just like you and Mom wanted. I won’t have to be bugging you for money