“What?” I said.
“Marks on the floor,” he said. “Like something was wheeled through here. Went through some water on the floor, leaking out from under the washing machine . . .”
“A wheelchair,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“I’m not making this shit up,” I said.
“Let’s go back up,” he said. We rendezvoused in the kitchen. “Think Phyllis drives a Crown Vic. Tan-colored one. Looks sort of like a cop car without the bells and whistles.”
He got out his phone, told the Griffon police dispatcher to have everyone looking for Phyllis Pearce’s car. “Try Patchett’s first. If you see it, don’t do anything. Just let me know.”
He put the phone away and said, “We might as well head over there anyway.”
“I need to talk to you about this other thing.”
Augie pulled back a kitchen chair and plopped himself down. He gestured for me to do the same, and I did.
“Go ahead,” he said wearily.
“I think Ricky Haines killed Scott.”
I’d found, over the years, it was nearly impossible to shock Augustus Perry. Provoke, yes, but not shock. Even if you managed to say something that surprised him, he’d do his best to remain stone-faced.
He wasn’t able to hide his reaction this time.
“What?” he bellowed. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Haines was searching Claire Sanders out back of Patchett’s one night. Used it as an excuse to give her one hell of a patdown. Scott saw it happen, threatened to report Haines—maybe to you—for assault. Every time he saw Haines around town, he referred to him as a pervert. Haines had it in for him.”
“Come on,” Augie said. “Maybe Claire’s making it up.”
“Scott actually told us this story, although he never said which cop it was. Looks like Scott was a constant thorn in Haines’ side. One night, Haines had a chance to deal with it.”
Augie was slowly shaking his head. “I still don’t buy it.”
“You think it’s just a coincidence that the night Scott goes off the roof of Ravelson Furniture, it just happens to be Haines who finds him? Haines wasn’t answering a call. It wasn’t someone else who found Scott. Haines found him. And then came to our door with the news. Something else that’s bothered me. Haines must have known you were Scott’s uncle. You’d think, if you’ve just found the body of your own chief’s nephew, that you might put in a call to him. Maybe even bring him in to break the news to the family. But he didn’t want to bring you in. Probably too rattled to do that.”
“Jesus,” Augie said.
“I might not have believed it before,” I said, “but now I know what Ricky Haines is capable of. I think he murdered Hanna Rodomski. I know he murdered Dennis Mullavey, and tried to kill me and Claire. He planted tracking devices in my car so he could follow me to where Dennis and Claire had been hiding out. He wasn’t expecting me to get picked up for threatening the Tapscott kid. He even offered to call my lawyer for me. He needed me free, to lead him to Claire and Dennis.”
Augie winced. “It was Ricky who told me you were in custody. Just before I came and lied my ass off for you.”
“He and his mother have been keeping a prisoner in this house for seven years. You telling me someone capable of all that couldn’t have thrown my son off that roof?”
That left him with nothing to say. I watched his cheeks grow red. “The bastard,” he said finally. “Why the hell didn’t Claire Sanders come forward?”
“Seriously? With all the shit going down between you and her father? She figured she didn’t need any part of that. She said if she’d reported it, you’d just say her father put her up to it to make you look bad.”
He sighed. “Shit.” He pushed the chair back and stood. “We’ve got to get Haines and his mother, bring them both in, sort all of this out. Believe me, if that fucker killed Scott . . .” Augie made a fist at his side. “I loved him, too, you know. He’s my sister’s boy.”
“I know,” I said.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this. I swear to God.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I intend to.”
“Let’s go find them,” he said, and started for the door.
My cell rang. I grabbed it from my jacket pocket, saw that it was home calling.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hi,” Donna said. Her voice was flat, lacking animation.
“What’s going on?”
“I need you to come home.”
“I’m kind of—I’m with Augie, and we’re right in the middle of something.”
“Still, I need you to come home,” she said. “I’ve got a visitor.”
“A visitor? Donna, just tell me what’s going on and—”
I heard the phone being jostled, then a different voice came on the line. “Mr. Weaver? Phyllis Pearce here. We have some things we need to discuss. You’re going to help me out, because if you don’t, it’s going to be your fault what happens to your wife.”
SIXTY-FOUR
It wasn’t as though Phyllis wanted to use a knife. She would have preferred a gun, but feared the noise would attract attention, certainly if she fired it outside the house. Her son may have a silencer for one of his weapons, but she certainly doesn’t. And she has no expertise in poisons. She considered holding a pillow over his face, but she feared he’d put up too much of a struggle and she wouldn’t be able to finish the job.
In the end, a knife seemed the way to go.
Now he’s in the trunk, wrapped in the plastic. Later, she will get Richard to help her bury him in the woods. She knows she hasn’t the strength to dig a grave. Richard is still a strapping lad, and it shouldn’t be any trouble for him. She’s already put a shovel in the car, and a pair of gardening gloves so he won’t get blisters. And even though she didn’t choose to use it on her husband, she has a gun in her handbag.
She just hopes Richard isn’t too upset that she decided something had to be done with Harry. That it had to be done now. For seven years he’s been burdened with the guilt of what he did, been so attentive to his stepfather. Phyllis knows he still loves him, that he remembers that there were good times among the bad, when Harry was a real father to him.
Richard’s just going to have to get used to the idea.
Phyllis has one more stop to make.
She’ll go the Weaver house, hold the wife hostage, get him on the phone, tell him to bring her the book. Once she has it in her possession, she’ll find out from the detective whether anyone else knows about Harry. If not, the killing can end with the Weavers.
You can’t go around knocking off everyone. Have to draw the line somewhere. She’ll be relieved to have it end with the Weavers. Then she and Richard can go on about their lives again.
It’ll be good to have things back to normal.
She can feel the extra weight in the back of the car as she drives. Going around corners, she notices the back end is heavy, sways some. She’s looked up Weaver’s address, makes a call on her cell as she heads to that part of town.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Where are you now?” she asks her son.
“Almost home.”
“You know where Mr. Weaver lives?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s where I’m going now. Go there, and park across the street and down a ways. Call me if you see anything suspicious.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Just let me handle things now.”
“What about Dad? Is he okay? Is he at the house?”
“Not anymore, child. I’ve moved him.”
“Moved him where?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later. Just get to Weaver’s house.”
Phyllis ends the call.
She finds the Weaver ho
use, pulls up to the curb and parks on the street. Goes to the door and rings the bell. Seconds later, it is opened.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Weaver?” Phyllis says.
“That’s right.”
“I can’t believe we’ve never actually met, and if we have, please forgive me for not remembering. I’m Phyllis Pearce. I own Patchett’s.”
“Oh, of course, hello. What can I do for you?” Donna Weaver asks.
“May I come in?”
Donna opens the door wide and admits her. Donna is wearing a bulky, button-up-the-front, long-sleeved sweater, and feels the need to apologize for it. “I just put this on. It’s one of my husband’s. It looks awful, but the house is chilly. There’s something wonky with the thermostat.”
“I’m hardly a fashion plate myself,” Phyllis says. “It looks very comfortable.”
“Excuse the mess,” Donna says, pointing to the coffee table in the living room. It is covered in sketches of the same person from different angles, all in differing stages of completion. Charcoal pencils, fixative spray, a thick book of sketch paper, a small pad of yellow sticky notes. One of the sketches has a yellow note stuck to it, a few words scribbled on it.
“What’s this?” Phyllis asks.
“Just . . . drawings. Of our son.”
“Oh yes,” Phyllis says. “I’m so sorry.”
Donna’s attempt to smile turns into a jagged line. “Thank you.”
“This has to have been such a difficult time for you. How long has it been now since he passed away?”
“Is there something I can help you with, Mrs. Pearce?”
“Phyllis, please.” The woman smiles. “I understand your son died by misadventure. That he was under the influence of drugs when he fell off the roof.”
Donna puts a hand delicately to her chest, as though she has indigestion. “I really don’t want to talk about that.”
“I only mention it because we have something in common, in a way. I mean, your son must be a terrible disappointment to you. The things he could have done, all thrown away. Now, my Richard—you know him of course because you process his checks—is still alive, but I swear, if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s how to screw something up.”
“I think you should leave.”
“I need to see your husband,” Phyllis says.
“I’ll be sure to tell him you were here.”
“He’s been by a couple of times to talk to me. I think we kind of hit it off. I need you to call him now and get him over here right away.”
“I’m sorry,” Donna says. “I’m not doing that. If you want to talk to him, call him yourself. And I repeat, I think you should leave.”
Phyllis sets her purse on the floor, opens it, and takes out a handgun. She points it at Donna and says, “Call him.”
Donna struggles to remain calm, but she has never had a gun pointed at her before, and she feels as though her insides are about to melt. “What do you want with him?”
“That’s between him and me,” Phyllis says. “Is the phone in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’d best go to the kitchen.”
Donna goes to the kitchen phone, puts the receiver to her ear, hits the memory button that will connect to her husband’s cell. She talks to him briefly before Phyllis takes the phone from her.
“Mr. Weaver? Phyllis Pearce here. We have some things we need to discuss. You’re going to help me out, because if you don’t, it’s going to be your fault what happens to your wife.”
“Leave her alone.”
“And you need to know, your house is being watched. You come here by yourself. If anyone else shows up, your wife will die. And bring the book.”
“What book?”
“Please don’t do that. I’m sure you have it. The one my husband gave to that boy. I need to have that back.”
“Where’s Harry?” Weaver asks.
“Excuse me?” Phyllis’ eyes go wide.
“He’s not in his room downstairs. Where’ve you got him?”
“Just get here,” Phyllis says, and replaces the receiver.
“Whatever’s happened, whatever you’ve done,” Donna says, moving back into the living room, “you should just turn yourself in. Get a lawyer. He can arrange a surrender for you. He can work something out.”
“I don’t think so,” Phyllis says as Donna leans over the coffee table, shuffling her drawings. “What are you doing?”
Donna, her back to the woman, continues to collect the pictures into a neat pile, slides them into a folder.
“I said, what are you doing?” Phyllis asks.
“I don’t like you looking at pictures of my son.”
Phyllis comes around the other side of the coffee table, orders Donna to stop what she’s doing and sit down. Phyllis goes to the window, pulls back the curtain an inch to get a look at the street.
Her son’s black pickup is parked at the curb on the other side.
Phyllis sighs with relief. “Richard is here.” She appears contemplative. “I hope he understands what I’ve had to do.”
SIXTY-FIVE
I’d waved Augie over so he could hear both sides of the conversation. He was huddled close to me, his ear close to mine, and when Phyllis ended the call we looked at each other and he said, “Did you actually talk to Donna?”
He’d missed the first few seconds of the conversation. “Yeah,” I said. “She sounds okay, but she’s scared.”
“She says the house is being watched. That’ll be Ricky. What the hell does she want?”
“Me,” I said. “And the book. Ricky must think he killed Claire, or she’d be asking for her, too.”
“What book?”
I patted my chest to reassure myself that it was still in my jacket pocket. “A kind of diary Harry kept. It proves he’s been alive all these years.”
I started moving toward the door.
“What are you doing?” Augie asked.
“Going for Donna.”
“What’s the plan?” he asked as I kept walking.
“No idea, but hanging around here isn’t part of it.”
He followed me all the way to my car, grabbing my arm as I was opening the door of the Subaru.
“Hold on,” he said. “You think if you give her that book, that’s going to be the end of it? Think about what you know. What she knows you know. You think she’s just going to get in her car and drive off? You go off half-cocked, you’ll end up getting you and Donna both killed.”
I stopped.
“Tell me how to handle it.”
“First,” Augie said, “I’ll take care of Ricky.”
“How you going to do that?”
“I’ll figure that out,” he said. “Give me a five-minute head start to see where he is, get in position.”
“Five minutes,” I said.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
We decided we’d both drive to within a couple of blocks of my house, then I’d wait while Augie found a spot he could watch Ricky from. I’d give him five minutes to call me, then drive to my house.
When we were a quarter mile away, I pulled over. Augie rolled up alongside in his Suburban, held up all five fingers of one hand, then drove off.
I kept my eyes on the dashboard clock. Two minutes. Three minutes. It seemed more like three hours.
Hang in there, Donna.
I looked at the clock again. Four minutes.
I wasn’t waiting any longer. I put the transmission into drive.
My phone rang.
“I’m ready.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in a house. Looking out the living room at Ricky in his pickup. He’s on the other side of the street from your place, two houses down.”
“How did you get in a—”
“I broke in. Go.”
I went.
A Ford Crown Vic was parked in front of our place. Just up the street, facing this way, Ricky’s black pickup. Through the tinted windows, I could just make out someone behind the wheel. I turned into the driveway, got out, noticed a hand pulling back the living room curtain an inch.
Should I knock? It was my own house, and Phyllis could obviously see me coming. So when I got to the door, I turned the knob and entered.
Phyllis was waiting for me, standing ten feet away from the door, weapon drawn, held in both hands to try and keep it steady. Her face looked drawn and haggard, and she seemed to have aged ten years since I’d last seen her. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, but it didn’t feel all that warm in here.
I glanced into the living room, saw Donna sitting on the couch, her mouth a jagged line across her face.
“Take out your gun,” Phyllis said.
I reached around for my Glock, removed it from my holster.
“Put it there, right there,” she said, pointing to the table in the front hall where we set our keys and dropped the mail. I did as she asked. “In there,” she said, pointing to the living room. I moved slowly.
“You okay?” I asked Donna. I thought it odd she didn’t stand up. She sat there, holding her right wrist with her left hand.
“I’m okay,” she said quietly.
“She hurt you?” I said, looking at her wrist.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Sit down,” Phyllis said.
I took a seat that allowed me to see Phyllis and Donna, and catch a glimpse of the street through the sheers.
“Smartest thing for you to do, Phyllis,” I said, “is walk out that door, hop in the truck with your son, and turn yourself in.”
“The book,” she said.
I reached, slowly, into my jacket and tossed it at Phyllis’ feet. She knelt and picked it up.
“It’s not very interesting reading,” I said as she stood, the gun still pointed at us.
“I’m sorry about all this,” she said. “I am. But I have to do what I have to do.”