“Duckworth.”
“Hey, Barry. Cal Weaver.”
There was a voice from the past.
“Son of a bitch. I knew you were back. I’ve been meaning to call.”
“Everyone’s busy,” Weaver said.
“Where you living?”
“You know that used bookstore downtown? Naman’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Above it.”
“Okay.”
“I was living at my sister’s for a while,” Weaver said. “But that was temporary till I got my own place.”
“I knew you’d moved back from Griffon,” Duckworth said. “I heard about what happened there. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” Weaver said. “Listen, you’re working the Rosemary Gaynor murder.”
“I am.”
“Neponset Insurance has asked me to look into it. Bill Gaynor works for them, and all their insurance is with them as well.”
“Okay,” Duckworth said.
“There was a million-dollar policy on Ms. Gaynor. Before there’s a payout to Mr. Gaynor, there’s the usual due diligence.”
“Of course,” Duckworth said.
“But from what I understand, this one may be a bit of a slam dunk,” Weaver said.
“I’m in the middle of my investigation, Cal. No charges yet.”
“But this Marla Pickens is looking good for it.”
“She’s a suspect.”
“She had their baby,” Weaver said. “And it wasn’t the first time she pulled a stunt like that. Am I right?”
“You are.”
“Look, I don’t want to get in your way on this, and I’m not doing an active investigation of my own, not at this stage. I’m hanging back, monitoring developments, waiting to see if there’s an arrest. I wanted to give you a heads-up, is all.”
“Appreciate it,” Duckworth said. “Listen, we should have a beer sometime, get caught up.”
“Sure,” Weaver said noncommittally, and ended the call.
Duckworth was thinking he should have reached out to his old friend before now, but even more than that, he was thinking Bill Gaynor wasn’t going to have any trouble paying for a new nanny to look after Matthew.
A million bucks.
• • •
When Duckworth bumped into David Harwood coming out of Derek Cutter’s place, he asked him what he was doing there. “Trying to find out what happened, same as you,” the former reporter said on his way to an old Taurus parked on the street.
Duckworth found Derek waiting for him at the door to his apartment.
“Hey, Derek,” Duckworth said. “How you been?”
“Okay.”
“How’s your dad?”
“Okay.”
Once upstairs, Duckworth asked about Marla Pickens. Derek said, “I’ll tell you what I just told the other guy.”
Which he did.
Then Duckworth turned to Mason Helt. “I hear you guys were friends.”
“They fuckin’ executed him; that’s what I hear,” Derek said.
“Did you know Mason was stalking women on campus, attacking them?”
“You think if I knew something like that I wouldn’t say something about it?”
“So you had no idea.”
“No. I still don’t believe it. I’ve got some experience with being accused of something I didn’t do.”
Duckworth felt he’d apologized enough years ago for all of that. “When was the last time you talked to him?”
“Maybe two weeks ago? We ran into each other and he invited me to his place for a couple of beers.” Derek moved his lips in an out. “He said he got this weird kind of job. Sort of an acting thing. We’d been taking some theater classes together.”
“What kind of acting thing?”
“I asked him. I said, ‘Like in amateur theater? Something on campus or off?’ I even wondered if he’d tried out for some kind of commercial or something like that.”
“Which was it?”
“Well, none of those. Mason said it was a private thing. I thought, Maybe it’s got to do with sex, you know? Like maybe some old guy’d hired him to come to his house and dance or strip or do some kinky kind of role-play.”
“Why would something like that come to mind?” Duckworth asked. “Have you ever been asked to do something like that?”
“Geez, no. It’s just because he was so secretive about it, it made me wonder. But I kept asking him about it, and what he would say was, it was kind of like, you know when they hire actors to pretend they’re sick and medical students have to figure out what they’ve got?”
“I’ve heard of that.”
“Like what he was doing was part of a study or something. But he also implied it was a bit risky.” He shook his head. “He sure turned out to be right about that.”
“Did Mason say who hired him?”
“No, but he said he’d be able to buy me a few rounds for the next few weeks on what he was getting paid.”
It fit with what Joyce Pilgrim had told him. Mason, just before Clive Duncomb shot him, had said he wouldn’t hurt her. That the attack was some kind of gig.
“Mason was wearing a hoodie when he was shot,” Duckworth said. “With the number twenty-three on it. You ever see him wearing that?”
“That’s weird that you should bring that up,” Derek said.
“Why?”
“That time I ran into him, he’d been to some sports store in Promise Falls. Where you can buy stitch-on letters for varsity jackets, that kind of thing. He had this white plastic bag, and I asked him what was in it, and he said it was for the gig, but he wouldn’t show it to me. But he had to leave the room for a second to take a leak, and I peeked inside, and it was two numbers. The way they were in the bag, they made a thirty-two, but yeah, could just as easy be twenty-three.”
“So whoever hired him, for whatever it was he was supposed to do, he had to be wearing that number.”
“I guess,” Derek said. “Why would someone do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the significance of twenty-three?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s a reference to Psalm Twenty-three,” Derek offered.
“You’re going to have to help me there,” the detective said. “I sleep in on Sunday mornings if I’m not on duty.”
“Well, I haven’t been to church in years either, but my parents used to send me to Sunday school when I was really little. Psalm Twenty-three is the one that goes ‘The Lord is my shepherd.’ And there’s that part that talks about walking through the valley of the shadow of death, but not fearing any evil. You know?”
“It rings a bell,” Duckworth said.
FORTY-FOUR
TREVOR Duckworth had rarely driven a van with so few windows. There was the front windshield, of course, and the roll-down ones on the driver and passenger doors. But that was it. The cargo area was totally closed in. There wasn’t even any glass on the two rear floor-to-ceiling doors.
Visibility was a bitch.
A couple of times over the years, he’d found himself behind the wheel of a rental, helping someone move, and he hated having to back the damn thing up. Couldn’t see where you were going. He’d adopted a style of backing up very slowly and hoping that if and when he hit something—or somebody—he’d hear it and stop before he did too much damage.
But after a few days of working for Finley Springs Water, he was getting the hang of it. He could back this sucker up pretty nicely using only the mirrors that were bolted to the two doors. He’d dropped off about a hundred cases of water at several convenience stores around Promise Falls, and had now returned to the plant with an empty truck. He drove up in front of the loading docks, put the column shift into reverse, spun the wheel around, and guided the truck right up to the platform. Stopped an inch short, never touched the bumper.
Hot damn.
He grabbed a clipboard from the other seat that listed the places he’d be
en and how much had been delivered, and headed to the office with the paperwork.
God, his dad could be such a dick sometimes.
Giving him a hard time about working for Randall Finley. Who cared? A job was a job, and Trevor’d been out of work too long. How long had his parents been at him about getting a weekly paycheck? And then he finally gets one, and his dad’s not happy about it. At least his mother seemed pleased. It was funny about her. She could be such a huge worrier. Like when he was going around Europe with Trish, and was out of touch with his parents for days or weeks at a time. It drove his mother crazy. And yet now that he was back in Promise Falls, she was okay. She was the one he could go to when he had a problem. His dad was another story. Maybe it was the whole thing about being a cop. You got all hard-ass about everything.
And then all this shit about how Finley might have hired him to get some sort of leverage over his father. Sometimes, Trevor thought, his dad believed the whole world revolved around him.
Just as well he lied to him about how he got the job at Finley Springs.
Trevor had said he’d found the job online. That wasn’t exactly the truth. Yes, the water-bottling company had placed ads on the Internet looking for drivers, but Trevor had been offered the job in person. He was at Walgreens, buying half a dozen microwavable frozen dinners, which was about the only thing he ever ate these days at his apartment, when this guy coming down the aisle the other way caught his eye and said, “Hey, aren’t you Barry’s boy?”
“Yeah,” Trevor said.
The man extended a hand. “Randy Finley. I think we may have met a few years ago, when you were just a kid. Your dad and I worked together some when I was mayor. How you doing? Did I hear you were touring around Europe at some point? With the Vandenburgs’ girl? Trisha?”
“Trish,” Trevor said.
They made some small talk. Finley asked after Trevor’s father. Said they didn’t cross paths that much anymore, not since Finley left politics and started up a new business. Had Trevor heard of his water-bottling operation?
Trevor said he had not.
Finley said, “If you know any guys looking for work, point them in my direction. Rest of this town is going to shit, but we’re hiring. Like I say, if you know anyone.”
“What kind of work?” Trevor asked.
“Well, drivers for a start.”
“I’m kind of looking for a job,” Barry Duckworth’s son said.
“Well, shit, you got a driver’s license?” Trevor nodded. “Come on up and see me, then.”
Trevor got the job. If he’d told his father how it had happened, you could just bet he’d have read something sinister into it. Like maybe Finley hadn’t just bumped into him. That he’d somehow arranged it. And Trevor didn’t even give much thought to the fact that Randy knew all about him being in Europe with Trish Vandenburg.
Promise Falls was still a small town in many ways, even if there were more than thirty thousand people living here.
Trish.
He didn’t think about her quite as often. Hell, she crossed his mind only every ten minutes now, instead of every five. How many times had he apologized to her? Said he was sorry? That what he’d done, he really wasn’t like that? He’d just lost his head for a second. She’d actually told him once that she’d forgiven him. But that didn’t mean she was coming back.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Trevor wished he could turn back the clock, start over. You make one stupid mistake, and you never stop paying for it.
He was slipping into the office to drop off the clipboard when he felt a hand slap him atop the shoulder.
“How’s it hanging?” Finley asked.
Trevor Duckworth spun around. “Hey, good, Mr. Finley. Things are good.”
“I told you before, you call me Randy.”
“Randy, yeah. Just did a run, left the truck at the dock so they can load it up again. Think I’m doing a run to Syracuse today.”
“Sounds good, sounds good.” Finley’s smile was wide enough to show off his crooked teeth. “I was gonna get myself some horrible coffee. Want a cup?”
Trevor didn’t, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to say no. Finley went over to the coffee machine sitting on a table in the corner of the room, glanced into two empty mugs to see whether they were relatively clean, and filled them.
“You know, I make this coffee with our own springwater, and it still tastes like shit. What do you take?”
“Some milk, if you’ve got it.”
“That all?”
“Yeah?”
“Because I usually add something a bit stronger.” He went over to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a bottle of whiskey. He poured a shot into the coffee, held out the bottle to Trevor, and said, “You?”
“No, sir. I mean, no, thanks, Randy. I’m heading back out soon.”
“Of course you are,” he said, and tucked the bottle back into his drawer. He came around the desk and parked his butt on the edge, took a sip. “It does make bad coffee better. There’s not much it doesn’t make better.”
Trevor smiled as he took a sip out of his mug. The boss was right. It was bad.
“You’re working out real good,” Finley said. “I’ve been asking around, and everyone’s happy with you. I mean, you’re new, and you still got time to fuck up, but so far, so good.” Finley laughed.
“I’m glad to have a job,” Trevor said. “I like driving around. It gives you time to think.”
“Sure, it would. You got a lot on your mind?”
“Not really.”
“When I was your age, what I had on my mind most was pussy.” He laughed. “Not that anything has really changed. But I am, for the purposes of the official record, a happily married man.”
“Yeah, well, you know.”
“And I don’t mean to brag, but I got my fair share of it,” he said. Patting his belly, he said, “Hard to believe, but at one time I cut a slightly more dashing figure. These days, looking down, I can’t even find my cock. Even when it’s standing at attention.” Another grin. “But as long as someone can find it, then all’s right with the world.”
“Sure,” Trevor said.
Finley pointed a friendly finger toward him. “But I’ll tell you this. I may come across sometimes as a bit of a pig, but—”
“Not at all.”
“But I always treat women with respect. When men get together, sure, we may say the odd comment a woman might interpret as disrespectful, but we don’t mean it that way, do we?”
“No,” Trevor said.
“But when we’re with them, we treat them right. That’s what I do. I admit, there was an incident a few years ago you may have heard about. I accidentally hurt a young woman—”
“I remember something about that,” Trevor said. “Wasn’t she fifteen?” He hadn’t meant anything by it, then realized he might be coming off as judgmental. So he quickly added, “But I could be wrong about that.”
“No, no, you’re right. My weaknesses have been well documented. I did end up striking this woman, but it was a reflexive action caused by some carelessness on her part during a moment of intimacy.”
Trevor looked at him, not comprehending.
Finley said, “She bit my dick.” When Trevor had nothing to say, the former mayor continued. “So I can understand when even a well-intentioned man such as yourself can have a moment when he makes an error in judgment.”
Trevor felt his insides weaken.
“You probably don’t know this, but the Vandenburgs have been friends of mine going way back. Did you know that?”
Trevor shook his head.
“I’ve known Patricia—Trish—since she was a little girl. An adorable child, and a lovely young woman. It was a shame, what happened between you two.”
Trevor Duckworth said, “I . . . I don’t see . . . I should go.”
“No, you stay right here. In fact, why don’t you close the door. Yeah, that’s good. It’s better to be able to talk
in private.” He took another sip of his spiked coffee. “I believe, every once in a while, people deserve a break. The benefit of the doubt. I’m betting you never, ever meant to hurt that girl.”
“It was . . .”
“An accident? Well, I’m not sure you’d call it that. It’s not like you ran into the back of her with a shopping cart at the grocery store, is it?”
Trevor’s face flushed. “I never . . . I mean, I told her I was sorry.”
“Have you considered how lucky you were?” Finley asked. “That she didn’t have you charged? Because I can tell you, she did think about it.” He paused. “I guess you didn’t know that hiring you was the second favor I had done for you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Trish is kind of like a niece to me. I’m her unofficial uncle.”
“You talked to Trish?”
“I told you, we lived next door to the Vandenburgs for years. When you punched her in the face—”
“I didn’t punch her; I—”
“When you punched her in the face, she came to me. She was afraid to go to Duffy and Mildred—you know, her parents—for fear Duffy would grab a gun and blow your fucking head off. She said to me, ‘No man will ever hit me twice.’ Trish is a strong woman. She was done with you at that moment, and there was never a snowball’s chance in hell she’d ever go back with you. Her question was whether to file a complaint.”
Trevor tried to find his voice. “It was all so stupid. It was a dumb argument; that’s all it was. I wanted to go back to Germany, maybe find a job there, and she said it was time to settle down here and do something with our lives, you know? And she started attacking me, criticizing me, saying I couldn’t figure out what to do with my life, and she was waving her hands at me, and I thought she was actually going to swat me or something, and I came at her backhanded, but I ended up hitting her in the side of the head. It was a fucking accident. I swear to God.”
“Trish told me she stayed in her apartment for three days till the bruising went down,” Finley said.
Trevor could think of nothing to say to that.
“So, she asked me what I thought she should do. I told her she was fully within her rights to charge you. That you had assaulted her. I even offered to go to the Promise Falls police with her. They got a woman chief now, as you’d well know, and I can’t imagine she’d have liked the sounds of what you did. But I also spelled out for her the pitfalls. That, first of all, your father is a detective with the force, and there would be a lot of attention surrounding the case because of that. Her parents would learn details about her life she might rather they not know. There was no telling what might come out about her own background. Not that there was anything that salacious, but in a trial, the most innocent things can be made to sound sordid. No one knows better than me about that.”