Giller had performed due diligence checks on Mullis before approaching him, and now knew the name of his ex-wife, her home address, the nature of the two jobs she held down, and the school attended by her son—or “son,” as Giller had already begun to think of Daniel Weaver. But Giller needed confirmation from Mullis of the truth of the story told to him by Connie White: that Holly Weaver could not have conceived the boy she was calling her own. This was why Giller was now seated at a thrift-store table in a kitchen smelling of grease and boiled vegetables, in a house that would have benefited from a serious clean, or better still, an all-consuming fire.
Mullis was slouched opposite Giller, holding the business card Giller had handed to him at the door. The card identified Giller as one Marcus Light, an employee of the Office of Child and Family Services, a division of the state’s Department of Health and Human Services. Giller possessed an array of such cards: some he manufactured himself, while others—as in this case—he retained when they were presented to him, or he had an opportunity to steal them. Mullis and his girlfriend had not even asked to see some corroborating form of ID. The card had been sufficient to enable Giller to gain entry to their home—well, the card, and Giller’s assurances that they were not in any kind of trouble, and might even stand to benefit if they would answer a few questions for him.
Giller never ceased to be amazed by just how gullible people could be.
Mullis was five eight, and thin but not scrawny, as though assembled from scraps of wire. He’d probably been considered good-looking once, before disappointment began whittling away at him.
“You said something about benefits,” said Mullis’s girlfriend, whose name was Tanya. In case there was any doubt about the matter, she had it tattooed on the back of her left hand, contained in the outline of a heart. On the back of her right hand, a similar heart surrounded the name of her partner.
“Benefit,” Giller corrected her. “I’m authorized to offer a financial reward to anyone who assists in fraud investigations.”
“What kind of fraud?” Mullis asked.
“In this case, supplying false information for the purpose of registering a birth.”
Tanya glanced at Mullis.
“Someone we know?” she asked, and grinned, but Mullis wasn’t biting.
“Shut up,” he said.
“Fuck you, telling me to shut up.”
But she shut up.
Giller cleared his throat. “Mr. Mullis, the fact that I’m here means we’re already aware of the nature of the fraud committed. I also have to warn you that just as I’m in a position to offer a reward for any cooperation received, so too am I obliged to regard the withholding of information as a crime. This is a very serious matter. Falsification of a birth certificate is a felony, and brings with it legal penalties. Not just a fine, either: depending on the nature and severity of the offense, we could be talking about five years in prison—more, if the welfare of a child is deemed to be at risk.”
Mullis put the card on the table and gently pushed it toward Giller.
“I don’t know about any fraud,” he said.
Giller saw it all now. Any rage or bitterness Mullis might have felt toward his ex-wife had dissipated with the conception of his own boy. He’d loved her once, and he wasn’t about to collude in the possible removal of Daniel from her home, or help put her behind bars.
“Your ex-wife registered the birth of a son five years ago.”
“So what?”
“Your ex-wife is infertile.”
“The hell she is.”
“Please don’t do this, Mr. Mullis,” said Giller, and he meant it.
“Gregg,” said Tanya, “let’s talk in private.”
“I don’t need to talk.”
Her voice softened.
“Gregg.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “A minute.”
And just as Giller had perceived a vestige of old love in Mullis, and a basic decency not entirely excised by the years, so also did he recognize genuine affection and concern in the face of his girlfriend. It made Giller feel bad for them, and sorry that his search had brought him to their home.
The couple left the room, closing the door behind them, but the walls were thin, and Giller could pick up some of what was passing between them.
“They already know . . . It’s not your business . . . think about our baby . . . jail.”
He made the call while they argued. They had already told him everything he needed to know. What would follow was out of his hands.
CHAPTER
LXXXV
Quayle sat in a rental car across from the Weavers’ property. Thanks to Giller’s hard work, Quayle already had in his possession a great deal of information about Holly Weaver’s life, including the school attended by the boy she was calling her son, but he had no idea what the boy in question looked like. He did know the time Saber Hill Elementary got out, though, and thirty minutes earlier had found himself a spot in a disused lot from which he could watch the road leading to the two Weaver houses.
At one p.m., a blue Chrysler that wouldn’t have been worth the price of the gas needed to get it to the dump, driven by a white-haired man in a black coat who was still trying and failing to secure his safety belt as he drove, pulled out and made the turn south. This would be Holly Weaver’s father, Owen. Quayle knew all about him as well: widowed once, divorced once; owned a big rig; not much money to speak of, and none likely to materialize at this late stage in his life.
Quayle stayed behind the Chrysler until it reached the school. He took a space farther along, from which he saw the white-haired man cross the street and join the conclave of parents milling by the gate. Quayle heard the school bell ring, and moments later the first of the children began to emerge, among them a boy with dark hair who moved slower than the rest, as though the bag on his back weighed more than it should, but who still managed the faintest of smiles for his grandfather.
Quayle released his breath, his whole body sagging with relief, like a man long burdened with illness welcoming at last the possibility of an end to his pain. Hand in hand, Owen Weaver and the boy walked to the car, Quayle’s eyes fixed on them throughout.
Funny, Quayle thought, how some boys take after their mothers.
He needed no further confirmation from Giller. He had found Karis Lamb’s child.
CHAPTER
LXXXVI
The cell phone number went straight to voicemail the first time Giller tried to call, but he had time for a second, more successful attempt before the shouting from outside the kitchen reached a crescendo, followed by silence. He heard footsteps approaching from the hall and put the phone away. Mullis opened the kitchen door. Tanya stood behind him, crying.
“Go on, get out,” said Mullis. “We’ve got nothing more to say to you.”
“I’m really sorry you’ve chosen this path.”
“I told you,” said Mullis. “Get out of my house.”
The doorbell rang—not once but continuously, the caller keeping a finger on the button. Behind the frosted glass, the figure of a woman was visible.
“Who the fuck is that?” Mullis asked.
Tanya moved toward the door.
“Don’t answer it,” said Mullis.
“It won’t do any good,” said Giller, loudly enough to be heard over the clamor.
Mullis turned back to Giller. “What did you say?”
“I said that it won’t do any good. You can’t keep her out.”
“You mean this bitch is with you?”
Tanya’s hands had clasped instinctively over the swell of her belly, as though that might be enough to protect her baby.
“You’d best just let her in,” said Giller.
His eyes were warm. He felt a tear drop to his cheek. He was crying for Mullis, for Tanya, for their unborn child.
For himself.
“Let her in, and we can be done with it.”
CHAPTER
LXXXVII
Louis sat
in Moxie Castin’s reception area, absorbed in his reading, his long legs extended before him. He was currently alternating between Montaigne, The Sun Also Rises, and the New York Times: an essay, a chapter of the novel, followed by a couple of articles. When he wasn’t reading, he was contemplating what he’d just read.
Moxie watched him from the doorway of his office.
“You know what one of my clients asked earlier?”
“No,” said Louis. He was back to Montaigne, and did not look up from the book as he spoke.
“She wanted to know what crime you’d committed.”
“I hope you thought carefully before you answered.”
“I left it to her imagination.”
“Probably for the best.”
Louis turned another page, but still did not look up.
“That tie,” he said.
Moxie fingered the item of clothing in question.
“What about it?”
“Just ‘that tie.’ ”
“It’s an expensive tie.”
“You sure about that?”
“You want me to show you the receipt?”
“Doesn’t go with the suit.”
“I like contrasts.”
“Good, because it’s hard to imagine any suit it would go with.”
“It’s got character.”
“Except a clown suit.”
“It’s Italian.”
“Then maybe an Italian clown suit.”
Moxie walked to the mirror by the secretary’s desk and examined his reflection. His secretary, he noticed, was keeping her head down and saying nothing. He made a mental note to remind her of the necessity of supporting the man who paid her salary.
“You got me doubting myself now,” he said.
“Good,” said Louis.
Moxie buttoned his jacket, frowned, and unbuttoned it again.
“I guess it might be a little loud for this suit,” he conceded.
“Loud for Times Square.”
“Okay, okay, you convinced me. I’ll change it. I’ll change it, and I’ll never wear it again. I’ll send it to Goodwill.”
“Send it to clown school.”
“Enough with the clowns.”
Moxie skulked into his office, rummaged in his closet, and returned moments later with a more subdued tie, which he knotted in front of the mirror before turning to face Louis.
“Better?”
Louis flicked a glance over the top of his book.
“Better,” he said. “Now about the suit . . .”
From behind his back, Moxie heard what sounded like his secretary choking.
“If you’re laughing when I turn around,” he said, “you’re fired.”
CHAPTER
LXXXVIII
Dwight Hillick might have looked like he could have done with skipping a couple of meals, but he was nobody’s fool. He took Parker step-by-step through every detail of the fire at the diner, the discovery of Errol Dobey’s body, and the disappearance of Esther Bachmeier, all without stumbling, hesitating, or referring to a single file or note.
“So the blaze is being treated as accidental?” said Parker.
“Dobey’s body was badly burned, but there was no sign of injuries other than those consistent with a fire, and no trace of accelerants, paper apart.”
“And Dobey liked to smoke weed.”
“Certainly did. He wouldn’t be the first man to have died from dropping a lit joint. We’re still waiting on the results of toxicology tests, but we won’t have those for another month. On the other hand, there’s the matter of Esther’s disappearance, which raises a couple of flags.”
“Is she a suspect?”
“Officially, we’d sure like to talk to her. Unofficially, I don’t believe so.”
“What about the women and girls who stayed with Dobey in the past?”
“What about them?”
“Any reason to suspect a grudge? Boyfriend, husband?”
“We haven’t ruled it out. We had the Indiana State Fire Marshal down here, and a private arson investigator was engaged to perform an origin and cause. That’s still ongoing, but like I said, no sign of accelerants, or not yet. But with all that paper, a match would have been enough.”
“Back to the women who passed through: You were aware that Dobey and Bachmeier were running an unofficial shelter?”
“I was.”
“Any suggestion of impropriety on Dobey’s part?”
“None.”
“It never crossed your mind?”
“You didn’t know Dobey. I did. I’m not pissed at you for asking. I’d do the same if I were in your shoes, but he wasn’t like that.”
Parker threw a few more questions at Hillick, just to clarify and confirm. When Parker was done, Hillick made a call to the department’s detective, a former Indianapolis PD officer named Shears, asking him to drop by, even though Shears was off-duty that day. Shears arrived shortly after, and together the three men drove first to Dobey’s Diner, where they went over everything a second time, with Shears adding what he could to Hillick’s account, before they proceeded to the Bachmeier house. Shears led Parker through each of its rooms, which had been examined by detectives and forensics experts from the Indiana State Police, the ISP having jurisdiction over homicides outside major urban areas. There were no signs of disturbance, but equally no indications that Bachmeier was planning to leave for any length of time. A half-finished pint of Ben & Jerry’s had even been found melted by the sink, a spoon still inside.
Parker went outside and stood in the sun while Hillick and Shears locked up. He’d expected Indiana to be flat, Lord knows why, but the area around Cadillac was hilly and forested. It was a pretty setting for a town, but he still wouldn’t have wanted to live there.
“And Leila Patton?” he said when the lawmen rejoined him.
Hillick adjusted his bulk.
“Yeah, that’s a strange one. Leila says she was attacked after she came back from the diner. The staff and a lot of the townsfolk went there to gather after what happened—you know, to console each other, lay flowers, say some prayers—and Leila had just returned home. She couldn’t tell us much about what occurred, other than being certain it was a woman that tried to abduct her. The woman was wearing a ski mask, and as soon as it became clear that she wasn’t going to be able to take Leila, she turned tail. Leila thought she heard a car pull away, but she didn’t see it.”
“I hear Leila might have cut her attacker.”
“That’s right. Keyed her.”
“You think it’s connected to whatever else may have happened?”
“I’m keeping an open mind. This is a small town. So much occurs under the surface, like in most small towns, but to have a fatal fire, a disappearance, and an attempted abduction all in the space of fewer than twenty-four hours is off-the-scale unusual. So yeah, a link is possible, but I can’t see what it might be. Well, I can: it’s got to have something to do with Dobey’s girls, but it’s not like Dobey and Esther kept a record of the ones who passed through; or if they did, we haven’t found it yet. Could be any papers went up with everything else in that blaze.”
“Leila was working on the night of the fire, right?”
“Yes, she was.”
“And she saw nothing unusual?”
“She says not, other than some guy reading poetry. I don’t think that’s a crime, although I guess it might depend on the poetry.”
Parker looked at Hillick. Hillick looked at Parker. Parker looked at Shears.
“Don’t ask me,” said Shears. “I’m not a critic. I just work here.”
“Leila thought that Dobey didn’t like the look of the poetry guy,” said Hillick, “and was acting a bit antsy after, but Dobey claimed he didn’t know him, and Leila believed him. She gave us a description, but it sounded like Ralph Waldo Emerson. And not liking the look of someone wasn’t unusual for Dobey. He had his peculiarities.”
“He didn’t like men who wore sandals
with socks,” said Shears.
“No,” said Hillick, “he did not.”
They all considered this, decided it was pretty reasonable, and moved on.
“So Leila Patton is assaulted outside her home, apparently as part of an attempted abduction,” said Parker. “She manages to get inside her house and lock the door before calling the police. End of story.”
“That’s it,” said Hillick.
“So why try to abduct her to begin with?”
“You’re the PI with the reputation,” said Hillick.
“Because,” said Parker, “whoever this woman was—assuming it was a woman—she believed Patton knew something, or had seen something, that might aid the investigation. But according to you, Patton didn’t have anything useful to offer.”
“Which doesn’t mean she doesn’t have anything to tell,” said Shears. “Leila Patton is a bright young woman. She’s smarter than I am.”
He waited for Hillick to deny this. Hillick didn’t.
“Nice,” said Shears.
“So the attack could have been a warning?” said Hillick.
“If the fates of Dobey, Bachmeier, and Lombardi have a common root,” said Parker, “then we’re looking at conclusive actions, not warnings.”
Hillick jammed his hands in his trouser pockets and looked around for something to kick. When nothing suitable presented itself, he opted for swearing loudly. Behind him was Esther Bachmeier’s garage, and in the garage stood Bachmeier’s Nissan. Wherever she was, she hadn’t driven there herself. Either way, none of the three men currently standing in her yard believed she was coming back.