“No word from our caller?” he said.
“None.”
“When he does get in touch, use Lombardi. You need to frighten him into coming forward. That way, we can protect him, Karis’s son, and anyone else who knows the truth about what happened. Keep Louis close until I get back. Find him a chair in a quiet corner.”
The line for his flight was gone, and Parker heard his name being called.
“I have to go.”
CHAPTER
LXXX
Holly Weaver and her father were half-watching the evening news, which was broadcasting live from the road outside the Grundy Quarry, police and forensic vehicles congregating in the background just as they had for the discovery of Karis.
“Christ,” said Holly, but the word held no real sense of shock, and suggested only a general disgust at the willingness of human beings to inflict suffering on one another. The news was also little more than a distraction for Owen Weaver, who was sitting in an adjacent armchair, drinking a beer. The body at the quarry was someone else’s problem. They had their own to deal with.
His daughter continued to procrastinate about meeting in person with the lawyer Castin. He couldn’t blame her. Sitting down with Castin would set in motion a train of events that might well conclude with her losing Daniel, temporarily if not permanently, and one or both of the adults ending up in jail. But Holly was also angry with her father. He’d shared with her exactly what he’d said to the lawyer, and her response had been that he’d told Castin too much. He’d revealed Karis’s name, and the sex of her child, and that wasn’t what they’d agreed. Owen had to admit he might have become a bit confused when talking with Castin, and maybe he should have guarded his tongue more, but like most sensible people he’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid lawyers. Dealing with one of them directly, even over the phone, had given him a bad case of the jitters.
Holly turned away from the television.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said.
“You can’t change it, not now.”
“I can, and I have. If we come forward, they’ll take Daniel away. If we stay quiet, there’s still a good chance that no one will ever find out the truth. It’ll all die down soon because the police have bigger worries, like finding the men who killed that trooper, and now the body dumped at the quarry. How much longer are they going to spend looking for a child?”
“But Castin knows.”
“What does he know? A name, and that Karis gave birth to a boy. That’s all.”
“If I don’t call back, he’ll go to the police.”
“Let him.”
“What about the private investigator?”
“What can he do: force the parents of every five-year-old boy in the state to take a DNA test? If he shows up, I’ll give him the name of every man I ever slept with. Hell, I’ll even make up a few more to bring it into double figures, and he can take a guess at which one I decided not to add to the birth certificate.”
Her father winced. Like every man with a daughter, there was a small part of him that wished to embrace the concept of a virgin birth.
“Holly—”
“Daniel’s mine. It’s my decision. I’ve made it, so we’re done talking.”
She stomped to the kitchen, where he heard her crashing about, pulling out pots for dinner. He wasn’t about to try and argue with her further, not for the present. He’d endured conversations like this with her late mother, after whom Holly took in so many ways, and a man learned when to retreat. And it might even have been that Holly was right: the advantages of confessing were only marginal, and perhaps it would all blow over, the whole business ultimately being consigned to a file in a basement somewhere in Augusta.
The doorbell rang. Daniel was on a play date with one of his buddies, and was due to be dropped home right about now, but when Owen opened the door Sheila Barham was standing on the doorstep. The Barhams owned the property to the east of the Weavers’, and both families enjoyed good relations, although the Barhams were closer in age to Owen than Holly, and their kids had long since left home to make kids of their own. Daniel sometimes stayed with the Barhams if Holly had to work late and Owen was away, although Daniel complained about the kind of TV the Barhams watched—mostly old game shows and religious programming—and the fact that every meal came with broccoli.
Owen invited Sheila to step inside, and Holly greeted her from the kitchen.
“Everything okay?” Owen asked.
“Kinda sorta,” said Sheila. “Look, it may be nothing, but I saw someone snooping around your place earlier today.”
“What kind of someone?” Owen asked.
“Well, it was a woman. I saw her from the kitchen. She looked dirty, and I don’t think she was wearing any shoes. I guess it might have been some homeless person. She seemed to be trying the windows, probably hoping to climb through and steal something. I called Henry and told him to send her on her way, because who knows how long the police might have taken to get here.”
Henry Barham was a big man, and a Vietnam veteran. Owen wouldn’t have fucked with Henry Barham for a bucketful of silver dollars.
Holly joined them.
“What happened?”
“Sheila says a woman might have tried to break into the house earlier.”
“She was gone by the time Henry got here,” Sheila continued. “He didn’t think she’d managed to get inside, but we have a key so he checked, just in case. He did the same for your place, Owen. I hope you don’t mind.”
Owen had gone to the bank that afternoon, which was the only reason he hadn’t been around.
“No,” said Owen, “not at all.”
“We’re grateful to you both for your care,” said Holly.
“We thought we’d leave it up to you if you wanted to report it to the police. We’re always around anyway. You know Henry: he don’t like to leave the house much, except to go to church.”
“I don’t think we’ll bother the police with it,” said Holly, carefully avoiding her father’s eye. “We’ll make sure the alarms are set, and the doors and windows are locked. Don’t mention it to Daniel, though. I wouldn’t want to worry him.”
Sheila agreed that keeping it between themselves would probably be for the best. They thanked her again, and she went on her way.
“Odd, huh?” said Holly.
“No police?” said Owen. “You sure?”
“You want me to get it tattooed on my forehead? We’re not talking to the police, not about anything.”
“I think I can remember that.” Owen took his coat from the rack, and a flashlight from the drawer beneath. “Maybe I’ll take a look outside, just for the fresh air.”
He made circuits of the two houses. The only signs of any attempted intrusion were by Daniel’s window, where the flashlight picked up muddy streaks on the wood and glass, the kind dirty fingers might have left in an effort to open it. Owen used the sleeve of his coat to wipe them away.
Like Holly said, no point in frightening the boy.
CHAPTER
LXXXI
The call came through to Billy Ocean’s cell phone as he was cleaning up trash from outside the twelve-unit Sunlight Haven apartments in South Portland. The complex was the highest earner in the Stonehurst residential property portfolio, with a mature sheltered garden to the rear and bright, high-ceilinged rooms. It rented to Caucasians only, didn’t matter what kind of bank references any nonwhites might be able to conjure up. A top-floor unit was currently vacant, and Billy had a viewing scheduled in an hour, but someone had thrown a couple of garbage bags over by the Dumpsters and they’d burst on landing, scattering crap all over the yard. Now Billy was chasing after windblown food wrappers, and picking up pieces of rotten fruit, and thinking that life really did seem determined to shit in his shoes.
He looked at the screen of his phone, but the number was withheld. He hated it when people did that, and usually let those calls go to voice mail. On this occasion he picked up, just i
n case it was the couple coming to view the apartment today, and they’d had to borrow a phone.
The voice on the other end of the line sounded as though it should be announcing that dinner was served on one of those dull British Masterpiece shows that his mother loved to watch.
“Am I speaking to Mr. Stonehurst?” the voice asked.
“You are.”
“Mr. William Stonehurst?”
Billy couldn’t remember the last time anyone other than his mother had called him William, and she used his full name only when she was pissed at him.
“Yeah. Who is this?”
“My name is Quayle. I believe I may know who was responsible for setting fire to your truck.”
CHAPTER
LXXXII
Daniel Weaver woke to the sound of scratching at his window. The drapes were closed, and the house was otherwise quiet. His mom had gone to bed shortly after Daniel returned from his play date, and Grandpa Owen was already back at his own place by then, so Daniel didn’t get to see him at all. Daniel thought his mom seemed more relaxed than she had in a while. She sat Daniel down when he got home, and asked him to tell her all about his day, and after that she just held him for a while, and Daniel had liked that. He’d liked it a lot.
The scratching came again. Daniel sat up.
He told himself that it was just an animal: a raccoon, or the Barhams’ cat, Solomon, which sometimes wandered over looking for food.
The noise stopped, and he relaxed. He knew it. Stupid—
The scratching was replaced by a soft tap-tap-tap on the glass, and the voice of the woman named Karis called his name.
daniel
Daniel started to tremble.
daniel
His stomach tightened, and he tasted something bad at the back of his throat.
open the window
He let out a little moan, and immediately covered his mouth. But it was too late.
i can hear you
“No,” he whispered.
don’t make mommy mad
And Daniel started screaming.
CHAPTER
LXXXIII
Parker’s Delta flight got into Cincinnati at eight p.m. He could have spent the night at an airport hotel and headed to Cadillac in the morning, but airport hotels depressed him—everybody staying in an airport hotel wanted to be someplace else, so they were essentially existential dilemmas with poor bar service—so he picked up a rental car and headed west.
Cadillac, according to the Internet, boasted a grand total of two motels: a family-owned, cabin-style place that looked like the set of a horror movie, with Internet reviews to match; and a Holiday Inn. Parker opted for the Holiday Inn. He arrived shortly before midnight and went straight to bed without closing the drapes, so he was woken by sunlight. He put on a casual black jacket over a white shirt and dark jeans, set off nicely by a pair of black OluKai Mauna Kea boots he’d been saving. He wanted to project a certain degree of formality when he found Leila Patton: not intimidating, just intimidating enough.
He skipped breakfast at the hotel in favor of the Sunnyside Dine-In on the town’s main street. He scored a booth by the window, where he ate toast, drank coffee, read The Indianapolis Star, and watched a tall, willowy brunette with LEILA stitched on the left breast of her shirt working the seats at the counter.
Leila Patton hadn’t been difficult to find: there was only one Patton family on the Cadillac property register, and her Social Security number had recently been added to the payroll record of the Sunnyside. Parker had no intention of confronting Patton while she was at work. It had just been his good fortune to find her present when he went for breakfast. As a licensed private investigator, he had also obtained details of her vehicle from the state DMV, so he was aware that she drove the 2005 VW New Beetle parked in the employee section of the diner’s lot. While making conversation, he asked his waitress, Tamira, how long shifts lasted on the floor. Based on her answer, he figured that Patton was likely to be working until two p.m. Even if she left early, he had her home address, but it would be better if he first approached her in a public place. She could easily close the door in his face if he called to her house, and she would be entirely within her rights to notify the police if he hung around.
Cadillac was busy in the way certain small towns could be, especially those that weren’t large enough to have attracted significant malls. God only knew what the Holiday Inn people were thinking when they opened their Cadillac outpost. Parker had only counted ten cars in the parking lot that morning, and at least a couple of those must have belonged to staff.
Parker paid the check, left the diner, and drove to the outskirts of town until he came to Dobey’s. The building was locked up, and a chain denied access to the parking lot. The letterboard sign outside read BUSINESS CLOSED, and beneath it, ERROL DOBEY RIP. WE’LL MISS YOU.
Parker had read the newspaper accounts of the fire, but the remains of the trailers in which Errol Dobey had lived, and in which he had stored what one report described as “among the finest private book collections in southern Indiana,” were gone. Parker stepped over the chain and walked around the property. Only blackened grass and scorched concrete marked the site of the fire that had taken Dobey’s life, although Parker spotted signs of minor damage to the rear of the restaurant. Four bouquets of flowers—two wilted, two fresh—lay in the dirt by the service door. He looked for cards or messages among them, but found none.
Parker next paid a visit to the Cadillac PD, but not before making a call to Solange Corriveau.
“Have you spoken to Moxie Castin?” he asked.
“I have, although certain of my colleagues expressed surprise, even skepticism, at his helpfulness—and yours.”
“Let me guess: Walsh.”
“I’m not going to name names.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Of course you are. That apart, what can I do for you?”
“Have you ever been to Indiana?”
“No.”
“Ever wanted to go to Indiana?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I may be saving you a trip, because I’m in Indiana.”
Parker heard the sound of paper rustling.
“Cadillac, Indiana?” said Corriveau.
“Got it in one.”
“Errol Dobey.”
“And Esther Bachmeier, both of whom may have passed our Jane Doe—”
“Karis, according to the man who got in touch with Castin.”
“—up the line to Maela Lombardi.”
“The late Maela Lombardi,” Corriveau corrected. “Dental records gave us a positive ID. Saved us asking the niece to view a body that had been in the water for a while.”
“Cause of death?”
“Not drowning. I spoke to the ME this morning. Lombardi was already dead when she went into the water, but that’s as much as I know for now. We have a recent puncture wound to one arm, though, so we could be relying on toxicology. Now you: Do you have something to tell me, or are you looking for a favor?”
“A favor, but you’ll benefit. I’m about to pay a visit to the Cadillac PD. If they want confirmation that I’m on the level, can I refer them to you?”
“Uh . . .”
“You shouldn’t listen to Walsh. He’s sore about a lot of stuff.”
“Still ‘uh.’ ”
“Maybe you really do want to visit Indiana after all, but I have to tell you, the round-trip ticket was expensive, and there’s not a whole lot to see once you get here, unless you’re a big NASCAR fan. Come on, Corriveau: if I’m not saving you a trip, I’m saving you some groundwork.”
“Okay, fine. But you share everything you find out, and you don’t piss anyone off.”
“Uh . . .”
“Yeah, funny.”
Parker thanked her and hung up.
* * *
THE CADILLAC PD WAS organized along almost identical lines to the Cape Elizabeth PD: fourteen members, of whom fi
ve were patrol officers, and one detective. The front desk was staffed from eight a.m. to five p.m. every day, with lobby telephones directly wired to regional dispatch accessible outside those hours. It employed four reserve police officers, and four reserve weekend clerks, with vacancies currently existing for one of each. Parker knew all this because a large sign informed him of it, and he had half an hour to familiarize himself with its details while he waited for the chief to return from whatever it was the chief was doing—which, as it turned out, was enjoying a late breakfast at the Sunnyside Dine-In, and not the first such breakfast he’d had, judging by the strain his belly was placing on the buttons of his uniform shirt. His name was Dwight Hillick, and he proved cautiously interested once Parker explained to him why he was in town.
“Trunk of a car, you say?”
“That’s right.”
Hillick tapped his pen on his desk.
“We haven’t had a request from Maine for information or assistance.”
“You will.”
“So why shouldn’t I wait for them to call instead of talking to you?”
“Because I’m here, and they’re there. Solange Corriveau at the MSP will vouch for me.”
Hillick put down his pen.
“I don’t need a reference,” he said. “I know who you are. I looked you up on the Google machine. You planning on shooting anyone?”
“What day is it?”
“I do believe it’s Thursday.”
“No, I’m not planning on shooting anyone.”
Hillick silently regarded Parker for a good ten seconds.
“Well, all right then,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
CHAPTER
LXXXIV
In Ivan Giller’s opinion—based, admittedly, on limited exposure to the subject—Gregg Mullis was not Connie White’s kind of guy. He lived in a dump, worked in a slaughterhouse, and his demeanor was that of someone who woke each morning anticipating only the many ways that life would find to fuck him before he could go back to bed again. He had at least managed to impregnate a woman at last—a boy, according to the expectant mother in question—but Giller believed Mullis could only have done so by keeping his eyes closed. Mullis’s girlfriend might have been described as homely, but only if someone had never actually seen homely, let alone pretty. Also, judging by the ashtrays scattered around their home, the smell from her clothing, and the cigarette dangling from her right hand, her kid, if he survived until birth, would grow up to be the Marlboro Man.