A Tap on the Window (25 page)

“You weren’t following Sean and Hanna around, were you?”

Adam blustered. “Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because you were at Iggy’s. You were there not long after Claire came in, and Hanna came out and got in my car.”

I caught him speechless. He needed a few seconds. “How—who told you that?”

“You’re on Iggy’s closed-circuit. I’ve seen it. What were you doing there? Seems kind of a funny time to leave the house to go grab a burger.”

“I didn’t get—I only ordered a coffee,” he protested.

“I don’t give a damn what you had. I want to know why you were there.”

“Okay,” Adam Skilling said resignedly. “I’d been driving around. I’d been hoping I might spot Sean, see his truck. I haven’t had a good feeling lately about what he might be up to, so I left the house around nine thirty and started going by places where I know he hangs out sometimes. I never did find him, never saw him anywhere. So as I was heading home, I pulled into Iggy’s for a take-out coffee. Simple as that.”

“Simple as that,” I repeated.

“What, you think—what
do
you think?”

“I think it’s funny you never mentioned this before. That you were driving around Griffon, looking for your son, while all these other things were going on.”

“There wasn’t anything to mention. The thing is, I didn’t want to worry Sheila about what Sean might be doing, so I told her I was going to the dealership to do some paperwork. That’s all.”

“When Hanna stayed over at your house, that bothered you,” I said. “You mentioned that before. You didn’t like her parading around in her underwear.”

His cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t—I never said ‘parading.’ I just didn’t think it was proper, what was going on. That’s all. Are you trying to make something out of this, Mr. Weaver? I thought you were trying to help us. I thought you were on our side.”

“I’m on Hanna’s side,” I said. “And Claire’s. I don’t think I know yet who else’s to be on.”

FORTY-FIVE

Shortly
after leaving the Skillings’ house, I pulled into Iggy’s parking lot. I wasn’t here to ask any more questions. I had a call to make, and possibly some notes, and didn’t want to do it sitting in the car.

And I was hungry.

As I headed in, I walked past two parked motorcycles that at a glance looked like the ones that belonged to the two bikers who’d been rousted by Quinn and Ramsey that night in front of Patchett’s after Roman had bonked me on the head.

Once I was inside, I spotted them sitting next to the window, chowing down on burgers, fries, and onion rings. They each had a soda in a cup that looked bigger than the gas tanks on their bikes. They both looked to be in their forties, short hair—not the kind of long locks one might expect on some Hell’s Angels wannabes—and both carried about forty pounds more than they should have.

At the counter, I ordered a chicken sandwich and a Coke, then took a table where I could see them, and their bikes outside. I got out my notebook and wrote down their license plates. I took a bite of my sandwich, got out my cell, and put in a call to Barb at Hooper’s office.

“Oh yeah, hi,” she said. “I’ve been waitin’ for your call. You need some info on Dennis?”

“Dennis Mullavey, that’s right.”

“Okay, hang on, I just had it on my desk here, and then—here it is. So are you hiring him or something? I’ve got his birth date here . . . September 17, 1995. I don’t know if I can give you his Social Security number—”

“Mainly I’m just looking for a way to get in touch with him.”

“Okay, I’ve got a cell number.” I scribbled it down as she read it off. “And his address . . . okay, it’s sort of Rochester, but it’s actually northeast, a dot on the map called Hilton.” She gave me a mailing address and a home number.

“This Hilton address, that’s his parents’ place?” I asked.

“His dad,” Barb said. “Far as I know, anyway. I think he said his mother died years ago, and he lives with his dad, or did when he wasn’t working for us. But I don’t know if it’s going to do you any good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you
are
trying to get hold of him for a job, good luck. We’ve still got one last paycheck for him, and I was going to send it to his dad’s address, but I called him first to make sure, and he said he doesn’t know where Dennis is. And when we call his cell, it just goes to message.”

“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend in Griffon? Maybe she’d know where I could find him.”

“You talkin’ about Claire?” Barb asked.

“I think that was her name.”

“Claire Sanders. That’s the mayor’s kid, you know. I don’t have a number for her, but of course he would. Just call the town hall. He’s pretty approachable. Dennis, he was crazy about that girl—at least he seemed to be just before he bailed on us.”

“Thanks for all this,” I said.

“No problem. Look, if you see him, tell him Barb said hi. I still like the kid, even if the boss would like to wring his neck for taking off so quick.”

“Will do,” I said. I ended the call and put the phone down on the table.

Took a bite of my sandwich.

Watched the two bikers continue to eat their lunch.

I tried the cell phone number Barb had given me for Dennis. It went straight to message.

I decided not to leave one.

I watched the bikers some more.

When the Griffon police abused their authority by running people out of town, it didn’t mean those people were total innocents. Maybe these bikers were trouble. Maybe they’d ridden up to Griffon to make a few sales.

I hadn’t shown much fear when it came to questioning Scott’s contemporaries. I’d always figured he’d gotten the ecstasy from one of his friends, but I supposed it was possible he’d gotten it from a couple of guys like these. Maybe Scott had been to Patchett’s one night and bought something off one or the other of them, although Phyllis Pearce had suggested kids like Scott who really looked too young were given the boot. Which explained why Scott preferred house parties and rooftops for getting drunk and high.

These two bikers were certainly more formidable-looking than the young guys I’d been putting the fear of God into.

The young men I’d bullied and terrorized.

But these bikers, for all I knew, could be armed.

“Hey, Mr. Weaver?”

It was Sal, the manager who’d been here the night I looked at the surveillance video. He was standing by my table, looking down and smiling.

“Hey, Sal,” I said. “I thought you worked nights.”

“I’m filling in for the day guy who’s sick.”

“Hope it’s nothing he ate,” I said.

Sal gave me a reproachful look. “Don’t even joke.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You got a minute?” When he nodded, I waved my hand, inviting him to take the seat opposite me.

“I hope you got what you needed the other night,” he said. “You were looking for someone?”

“Yeah. That’s kind of ongoing. I don’t want you to look around, but there are two biker types sitting over that way.”

Sal turned his head anyway. “Oh, sorry. I just couldn’t help it. I’m not used to your line of work.”

“Those two come in often?”

He shrugged. “I’ve seen them before. Sometimes at night. Maybe once a week.”

“Whaddya know about them?”

“I don’t know that much. They just like riding around on their hogs.”

“They ever do any business here? Maybe not right here in the restaurant, but out in the parking lot?”

His eyes narrowed. “What kind of business? You talking drugs?”

I nodded.

He grinned. “Next time you’re at your computer, Google ‘Pilkens, Gilmore
’
and ‘state lottery.’ Oh, and add the word ‘gay
’
in there. You’ll probably find a story about them.”

“If you know what I’ll find, save me the trouble. I’ll buy a milk shake.”

“They’re one of those same-sex couples. They won the state lottery couple of years back, quit their jobs, bought some bikes, and they just wander around all the time. First time they came in, I recognized them from seeing them on the news.”

“So they’re not dealing?”

He chuckled. “If you had, like, six million dollars in the bank, would you risk all that selling dope to kids in Griffon?”

* * *

I
called up the map app on my phone and found Hilton. I figured I could drive there in about an hour and a half. Normally, going to the Rochester area, I’d head south and pick up I-90 and take it east. But Hilton was on the north side of Rochester, and it looked as though I’d make just as good time going northeast and taking Lake Road, which would turn into the Roosevelt Highway, and finally the Lake Ontario State Parkway. Slower roads, more stops, but a more scenic route, to be sure.

I called Donna.

“I’m heading Rochester way. Not sure when I’ll be home.”

“Okay.”

Donna often didn’t ask where I was going. She knew my work could take me almost anywhere unexpectedly.

I didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.

“Cal?” she said. “You there?”

“We should go away,” I said.

“What?”

“We should take a trip.”

“Take a trip where?”

“I don’t know. Where would you like to go?”

“I—I have no idea,” she said.

“What about Spain?”

She half laughed. “Why would you say Spain?”

“It was the first place I thought of. We could do Australia.”

“Just because we go to the other side of the world doesn’t mean everything will be okay,” Donna said.

“You said something when we had our midnight breakfast,” I said. “You said we’ll never be happy again.”

“Cal, I’m sorry. I—”

“No, wait. You said we’ll never be happy again, but maybe we could be happier.” I felt a lump forming in my throat. “I want to be happier. I would settle for that for now.”

Now the silence came from the other end of the line. I waited a few seconds before saying her name.

“I’m here,” she said. Another pause, then, “San Francisco.”

“What?”

“I’d like to ride on a cable car. I want to stand on the side, holding on. That’s what I want to do.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“When?”

I thought. “I think—and I could be wrong—but I think I’m getting somewhere, trying to find Claire. When this is wrapped up, we’ll do it. If you can get the time off.”

“I can get the time off,” Donna said.

“You can start looking up hotels and stuff when you get off,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Maybe one of those small boutique hotels.”

“Okay.”

Each time she said the word, she sounded more sad.

She said, “I won’t be able to not think of him.”

“I know. Neither will I.”

“I
want
to think about him. I just don’t want to think about him . . .”

Falling
.

I could never stop thinking about Scott falling.

FORTY-SIX

Driving
north out of Griffon, I thought I saw the car again in my rearview mirror. That silver Hyundai with the tinted windows. But once I got out of the downtown area, and the buildings began to thin, the car took a hard right and disappeared.

It took me a full two hours to find Dennis Mullavey’s house in the village of Hilton. There were still some signs up, coming into the village, advertising the annual apple festival a couple of weeks back.

There was a cool breeze coming in off Lake Ontario as I mounted the steps of the one-story red-brick house. There was a rusted green Ford Explorer from the last century in the driveway. I rang the bell and waited. Seconds later, a tall, very thin black man in neatly creased white khakis and a red pullover Gap shirt opened the door. His short hair was gray, and a pair of reading glasses were perched on his nose. I put his age at late sixties, early seventies. Retired, no doubt, given that he was home in the middle of the afternoon.

“Yep?” he said.

“Mr. Mullavey?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Doug Mullavey.”

“My name is Cal Weaver.” I got out my license, held it in front of him, gave him enough time to get a good look at it.

“You’re a private eye?” he said.

“I am.”

“What brings a fella like you to my door?”

“I was hoping to have a word with your son, Dennis.”

“Dennis isn’t here,” he said.

“When might you be expecting him?”

The man shrugged. “He doesn’t live here.”

“Would you have an address for him?”

“Nope.”

I smiled. “If you wanted to get in touch with him, how would you go about that?”

“I guess I’d call his cell.”

“His cell doesn’t answer. That’s been my experience, and it’s also been the experience of his former employer.”

“Maybe he’s in a place where you can’t get a good signal,” Doug Mullavey said.

I leaned into the railing that ran down the side of the steps. “Can we speak plainly, Mr. Mullavey?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

“I’m trying to find Claire Sanders. A girl from Griffon. Her father’s the mayor there. Your son was going out with her, might still be, for all I know. Claire’s disappeared, and I’m hoping your son might have information that would lead me to her. It’s even possible they’re together.”

“I wish I could help you.”

“The thing is, Mr. Mullavey, Claire went to some lengths to slip away without anyone following her. She had help from a girl named Hanna Rodomski, and that girl’s now dead.”

That caught his attention. “What happened to her?”

“She was murdered. Around the same time that Claire vanished. I think Claire took off with Dennis. She got into an old Volvo station wagon, driven by someone matching your son’s description. Does your son have a car like that?”

“I’m not sure what kind of—”

“Mr. Mullavey, please. You and I both know no son gets a car without his father’s input and guidance. So you’ve as much as admitted that’s your son’s car. I don’t have any reason to believe Claire or your son had anything to do with that girl’s death, but I’m willing to bet one or both of them know something that could have some bearing on it. And if Hanna Rodomksi’s murder is tied in to Claire’s disappearance, it may very well mean that Claire’s in danger. If Claire’s in danger, and your son is with her, then your son is also—”

“I really don’t think—”

I talked over him. “Is
also
at risk. So if you have any idea where your son is, you’d be well advised to tell me.”

Doug Mullavey, lips together, ran his tongue over his teeth. His lips parted and he said, “That’s horrible about that girl. Just horrible.”

“Help me,” I said quietly.

He opened his mouth and said, “I don’t know you, Mr. Weaver. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know whose interests you really represent. I don’t know, if I asked you who you’re working for, that you’d give me an honest answer. So I’m afraid that I don’t have anything to say to you.”

I bowed my head wearily, then looked the man in the eye. “I don’t mean your son any harm. I’m trying to keep him, and Claire, out of trouble. What is it you’re afraid of? What is it your son is hiding from?”

“I’m afraid these are questions I can’t answer. Maybe, in time, you’ll be someone I come to trust.”

“Others might come with the same questions,” I told him.

“You think you’re the first?” he said, and came close to a smile.

“Who else has been here?”

“You think if I wouldn’t talk to the police, I’m going to talk to you?”

“The police have been here?” I asked. “Which police? State? Griffon?”

He waved his hand like he didn’t give a damn. “Someone came around looking for Dennis. Said he’d done some things I know aren’t true, that he stole from people’s houses when he was cutting their lawns and they were away. That’s bullshit. I sent him on his way.”

“It must have been a Griffon cop,” I said. “Did you get a name? When was this?”

Mullavey ran a hand over the crown of his head. “You know, I used to work for Kodak. Retired ten years ago. My wife, Denny’s mom, passed away two weeks after I stopped working.”

He looked off in the direction of Lake Ontario, although we couldn’t see it from here. “I’m glad I wasn’t there at Kodak for the end, when it ceased to be, what with people no longer needing film. There’s a phrase I used to say there—maybe it wouldn’t be so applicable these days, what with everything being digital and all, but whenever someone asked me what was going to happen next, I used to say, ‘I guess we’ll see what develops.’ I guess we’ll see what develops, Mr. Weaver, but in the meantime, I have nothing to say to you.”

“I’m not the enemy,” I said.

“Would the enemy say he was?” Doug Mullavey shot back.

“No,” I said. “He wouldn’t.” I handed him one of my business cards and to my surprise, he accepted it. He called out to me as I walked back to the car. “Mr. Weaver?”

I turned. “Yes?”

“Dennis is a good kid.”

“I hope he’s more than that,” I said. “I hope he’s smart. Because it looks like he’s not just responsible for his own safety. He’s responsible for Claire Sanders’, too. I hope I don’t have to come back here and tell you something happened to her, or to your son, and that you could have told me something that would have prevented it.”

I continued on my way and didn’t look back.

* * *

On
the drive back to Griffon, Donna called to say she’d be home late, probably around nine. If we were really going to try to go away, there was a lot of work she had to get ahead on. She figured she’d stay late today, a Friday, and Monday so that whoever had to do her job in her absence wouldn’t make a complete mess of it. I suggested that when she got home, we order a pizza.

No argument.

I told her I probably wouldn’t make it home much before she did, and that turned out to be true. When I pulled into the driveway at six forty-five, her car wasn’t there. It was dusk, and the streetlights had come on. I felt I’d done about as much as I could today. I was running on empty. I would make a few calls from home tonight, see if I could find out anything about Dennis Mullavey online. Maybe I could track down a Facebook page for him, find out who some of his friends were. If I got lucky, some of them might be right here in Griffon. If I had the energy later in the evening, I’d go looking for them.

A lot of maybes. Everything depended on my being able to stay awake once I went through the front door. I felt a face-plant on the couch coming on.

And then it occurred to me I really owed Bert Sanders a call. If I were him, I’d be waiting by the phone, hoping to hear something, anything. That would be the first thing I’d do.

No. The second. The first thing I was going to do was get a beer from the fridge.

I put the car in park, took out the key, and sat there for the better part of ten seconds.

Decompressing.

Finally, I opened the door, got out.

Behind me, someone said, “Mr. Weaver?”

I turned around, saw the baseball bat a millisecond before it connected, catching me at the back of the neck, just below my skull.

Then things got really bad.