A Tap on the Window (28 page)

FIFTY-TWO

Donna
handed me the phone. It was the same type as mine. I tried turning it on, but the battery was dead. Assuming it belonged to the person I figured it belonged to, it had been sitting in my car for a couple of days. Even before it had run out of power, I wouldn’t have heard it because the switch on the side had been set on
.

“Whose is it?” Donna asked.

“I’m guessing Claire’s,” I said. “She had it on her knee before she got out of the car. Even if she realized pretty soon that she’d lost it, once Hanna had come out, she could hardly run back out to my car to get it, not with Hanna inside.”

I wouldn’t have to wait for it to fully recharge to see what clues it might hold. All I had to do was plug it into my charger in the kitchen.

“What are you going to do with this?” Donna asked, pointing to the GPS on the roof.

“For now,” I said, “I’ll just leave it on and keep it in the car.”

“You’re not going to turn it off? Smash it? Do something to it?”

“Not yet. I don’t want whoever put it there to know I’ve found it,” I said. I tucked it under the passenger seat, closed up the car and locked it. “Let’s go see what’s on this baby.”

We went back into the house. On the kitchen counter, by the phone, was my charger. I plugged it into the receptacle at the base of the phone. The screen lit up, showing a battery icon completely drained of power.

“It might take a minute,” I said. “Given that it was totally dead.”

It took half that long. If the phone had any kind of password lock on it to keep others from using it, it hadn’t been engaged.

Given that the phone was tethered to an outlet, I read it leaning over, my elbows on the kitchen counter. A screen full of apps and icons appeared. It immediately showed that Claire had missed countless phone calls and that she had several voice mail messages. I was betting most of those were from her parents, wondering where she was.

I might have some trouble retrieving the voice mails, since I didn’t know Claire’s four-digit password. But I wouldn’t need a password to check her text messages.

I went straight to the green box with the cartoon word bubble on it, and
underneath, and tapped the touch screen, which was lightly smeared with makeup from Claire’s cheek.

A specific conversation popped out. Within the banner across the top of the screen, the word
. Texts in pale gray boxes on the left side of the screen were messages from him, while those in pale blue on the right were Claire’s. Donna was huddled next to me, as curious as I was about what we might find.

The most recent texts were these:

ROMAN:
so hows it feel huh?

ROMAN:
come on talk to me

ROMAN:
i forgiv u lets just get back togthr

ROMAN:
i desrve better than this

CLAIRE:
lve me alone

I scrolled back to some earlier conversations.

ROMAN:
hes not so smart

ROMAN:
whats he got

And then, a texted photo.

Donna said, “If that’s what I think it is, for his sake I hope it’s not actual size.”

I scanned another screen filled with his texts to Claire. She’d responded only twice, both times telling him to leave her alone. I tapped the screen to see who else Claire might have been having chats with.

I tapped on
.

The last message from him was:
k. luv u

The one immediately before that, from Claire:
looking for ride, b there soon i hope.

Donna, leaning on the counter next to me, our shoulders touching, said, “Scroll back up a ways, get it from the beginning.”

I started to do that, and realized their chatter seemed to extend back to the beginning of time. I decided on an arbitrary starting point and started reading.

DENNIS:
miss you 2

CLAIRE:
really pissed at u. unfriended you on FB

DENNIS:
i know. will expln evrytng when i c u

CLAIRE:
better

DENNIS:
i will. nvr wantd to leve like tht felt like a shit

CLAIRE:
u r a shit

DENNIS:
told you will expln. just hv to c u

CLAIRE:
things shtty here

DENNIS:
y

CLAIRE:
stupid cops watching me all time mad at my dad trying to scare us dad still in pissing match with cheef

DENNIS:
no

CLAIRE:
?

DENNIS:
maybe not b cause of dad

CLAIRE:
wtf

DENNIS:
looking 4 me

CLAIRE:
cops looking 4 u?

DENNIS:
yeah

CLAIRE:
y

DENNIS:
cant say now y i ran off sudden. couldnt expln

CLAIRE:
what u do?

DENNIS:
nothin

CLAIRE:
so y?

DENNIS:
cant say now. have to c u. have to figure out what to do

CLAIRE:
ok. so then com see me

DENNIS:
not that simple

CLAIRE:
not getting this

DENNIS:
think cops watching u has nothing 2 do with your dad

CLAIRE:
huh?

DENNIS:
cops watching you bcause they think you’ll lead them to me

CLAIRE:
no way

DENNIS:
yeah so we can meet but you have to shake cops

CLAIRE:
wtf did u do

DENNIS:
nothin

CLAIRE:
so cops following me to get to you bcause u did nothing

DENNIS:
told u will explan l8r

CLAIRE:
have to get back 2 u

There was a time gap indicated in the message stream. The following day the conversation resumed.

CLAIRE:
where r u

DENNIS:
not at home.

CLAIRE:
figured that where are u now

DENNIS:
remember jeremy’s cottage canoga springs

CLAIRE:
on the lake?

DENNIS:
yeah. it’s safe here

CLAIRE:
safe from what

DENNIS:
pls, will tell u when i c u, have you figured out way 2 get away from cops?

CLAIRE:
hanna helping me have something worked out

DENNIS:
what plan

CLAIRE:
you still have car

DENNIS:
yes

CLAIRE:
will phone u when its the day

DENNIS:
k

CLAIRE:
park at back of iggy’s where no one can see you at 10

DENNIS:
k. miss you. luv u so much

CLAIRE:
luv u 2

Another time gap of a few hours. Then:

CLAIRE:
u there?

DENNIS:
here

CLAIRE:
k. b there soon. at patchetts waiting for ride. sean coming hanna in position

DENNIS:
k

CLAIRE:
hungry?

DENNIS:
lol. kinda

CLAIRE:
wont have time to get anytng at igg

DENNIS:
once we get on road

CLAIRE:
k. i just wnt to eat you up

DENNIS:
oh yeah

CLAIRE:
shit

DENNIS:
?

CLAIRE:
sean got pulled over.

DENNIS:
what happen

CLAIRE:
dont know black truck watching me

DENNIS:
cant pick u up there not safe

CLAIRE:
shit

DENNIS:
hitch it

CLAIRE:
looking for ride, b there soon i hope

DENNIS:
k. luv u.

I said to Donna: “Laptop.”

She grabbed it off the kitchen table and set it in front of me. I went to Google maps and entered “Canoga Springs.”

“It’s in the Finger Lakes area,” I said. “Yeah, here we go. On the west side of Cayuga Lake. Couple hours’ drive, maybe. Not all that far from where Dennis’ dad lives. Good place to hide out.”

“You think they’re still there?” Donna asked.

“I’d bet yes.”

I went to Facebook, back to Claire Sanders’ page, entered the name “Jeremy” to see if she had a friend by that name. I found a Jeremy Finder, who lived in Rochester. Then I went to the online phone directory to see if there might be a Finder listed in the Cayuga Lake area, and found an M FINDER on North Parker Road. I went back to the map page and found the road.

“Ta-da,” I said, pointing to the screen.

I got out my cell and placed a call.

“Didn’t we just talk?” Augie said.

“Why are you looking for Dennis Mullavey?”

“Who?”

“Dennis Mullavey.”

“I have no idea who that is,” he said gruffly.

“You sent one of your people almost all the way to Rochester to try and find him.”

“I’m drawing a blank here, Cal.”

I was about to tell him what I’d found in my car, taped to the frame beneath the rear seat, but then held my tongue. He seemed to be playing straight with me lately. He’d gotten me out of a tight fix when I’d been in that interrogation room. He’d brought me up to speed on Quinn.

But the Griffon police were looking for Dennis Mullavey. And those text messages between Claire and Dennis seemed to confirm that they were following her in hopes that she would lead them to him.

Augie knew I was looking for Claire. Why not slap a GPS on my car and let me do the work for his department? Maybe that was why he’d lied to save my ass when Haines and Brindle had brought me in for threatening Russell Tapscott. Augie needed me out in the field.

“You still there?” Augie snapped.

“Yeah.”

“Was there something else?”

“Why’d you really lie to get me out of that mess, Augie?”

“What?”

“Because I’m family? Or did you need me to do your work for you?”

“By God, you’re a horse’s ass.”

Augie hung up.

When he and I had talked earlier, and he’d told me Quinn denied telling Brindle and Haines that the chief wanted my car towed in, I’d brilliantly deduced that someone had to be lying. I’d meant Quinn, or Brindle or Haines.

I’d left out someone.

“You didn’t tell my brother about that GPS thing,” Donna said.

“No,” I said. “Slipped my mind.”

FIFTY-THREE

I
decided against leaving right then and there for Canoga Springs, although I contemplated it. I’d be getting there after midnight, and I didn’t want to scare Dennis Mullavey and Claire Sanders to death. I just wanted to find them. Also, I didn’t have an exact address on North Parker Road for the cottage, so I’d need daylight to look for Dennis’ old Volvo station wagon.

Even though I set my alarm for five, I was waking up every half hour through the night to look at the clock radio to see what time it was. At four thirty I decided to just get up. I tried not to disturb Donna, but she was already awake.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You can turn on a light.”

“No, no, go back to sleep. You can get in another couple of hours before you have to get up for work.”

“It’s Saturday, Sherlock.”

Still, I left the bedroom lights off, and turned on the one in the bathroom only after I had closed the door. I showered and shaved. When I came back out, turning off the light first and figuring I could hunt up what I needed from the dresser in the dark, I realized Donna was not there. The smell of coffee wafted up from the kitchen.

I got dressed and went downstairs. Donna was in her blue bathrobe, sitting at the kitchen table, her index finger looped into the handle of a mug. There was a pencil in her other hand, and a sketch in front of her.

“It’s cold,” I said. “The furnace not cutting in?”

“It’s something with the thermostat. If you jiggle it, it comes on. I’m gonna have to call somebody. There’s two slices in the toaster. All you gotta do is push it down.”

“I was just going to go and grab—”

“Eat some toast.” She got up, poured another cup of coffee and handed it to me, then took some strawberry jam out of the fridge and a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. “We have a vast array of choices.”

When I shifted over to see what she had been drawing, she cut in front of me and tucked the picture into a folder.

“What?” I said.

“I don’t want you to see that one,” she said. “Not till it’s finished.” Her eyes glistened. “I think this might be the one.”

I took that comment a couple of ways. Maybe this was turning into the best drawing of Scott she’d ever done. Or, if that was the case, this was the sketch that would allow her to move forward. To the next step, whatever that step might actually be.

I backed off. “Okay,” I said.

Once the toast had popped, I slathered jam on one slice and peanut butter on the other. I washed it down with the coffee.

“Something that’s always troubled me,” Donna said, letting the half sentence just hang there.

“What?” I asked.

“We loved him,” she said. “We loved him unreservedly.”

“Of course we did.”

“But I don’t know if . . . I don’t know if he was lovable,” she said softly. “To others. He didn’t have a lot of friends.”

“Donna.”

“He was always . . . you know what he was like. He had a bit of the tattletale in him.”

“I know,” I said, and forced a smile. “Maybe he was just trying to pull people up to his standards.”

Her face fell. “What standards were those?” She shook her head. “He destroyed himself.”

I looked at her across the table from me, unsure what to say or what to do. Two steps forward, one step back. Sometimes you just run out of gas.

“I need to go,” I said.

* * *

I
opened the garage, even though my car was already in the driveway. I fished out the still-active GPS device from under the front seat and walked it into the garage, setting it on a shelf where I kept gardening equipment. Whoever was minding this thing, from whatever location, if they could detect that small a movement, they’d figure I’d just moved the Honda into the garage.

While I left the GPS behind, I didn’t set off without my Glock. For the drive, I put it in the glove box.

When I got to the other side of Buffalo, the sun was coming up, nearly blinding me as I drove due east. I flipped the visor down and slipped on my shades to keep from squinting. One of those interstate highway service centers served as a pit stop for me. Got back in the car with another coffee and a blueberry muffin.

Once I’d passed the last of the exits for Rochester, I kept my eye out for the sign for Interchange 41, Waterloo-Clyde. I got off, paid the toll, then went south on 414, taking me past the Seneca Meadows Wetlands Preserve. I stayed on 414 as it bore east into Seneca Falls, then followed it south of town, past the Finger Lakes Regional Airport. When I hit Canoga Street I took it east to 89 through farmland. Finally, I found my way down a narrow road to the shore of Cayuga Lake and North Parker Road.

Cayuga was one of the north-south Finger Lakes, a popular place for people across New York State to buy summer properties. Some of the cottages appeared to date back decades, while others weren’t cottages at all, but proper homes, no doubt built to replace cabins that were no longer worth fixing up.

I traveled slowly down the lane. In a lot of the driveways, there were no cars at all. The summer season was over. Some of the cottages had been boarded up and wouldn’t be opened until spring.

I drove to the end of the road without seeing the Volvo wagon. I turned around, made the trip back just as slowly, in case I’d missed something. The road was littered with leaves, but there were still quite a few clinging to the trees. I got back to where I’d turned onto North Parker, again without seeing the car.

It was possible Claire and Dennis had been here but had now moved to another location. I sat there in the car, the engine idling, wondering if I’d wasted my time coming out here. I decided to do one more drive to the end and back.

It was on the way down, passing one of the cottages where there appeared to be little life, and no car parked outside, that I noticed the smoke.

A thin gray wisp of it, drifting up from the chimney.

I stopped the car, backed up thirty yards, and turned in. The driveway amounted to two ruts with grass growing in the center. I could hear the blades brushing along the underside of the car as I drove down between the trees. The cottage was a simple rectangular box, one story, painted dark brown. Beyond it was a separate building at the edge of the water that looked like a place to store a boat, but the big doors on this side suggested a car could just as easily fit inside.

I parked, killed the engine, opened the glove box and took out my Glock. Once I was out of the car, I slipped it into the holster on my belt and pulled my jacket over it.

The cottage was still. I didn’t think my car had made a lot of noise coming in, and it was possible that whoever was inside was still sleeping. I decided to walk down to the outbuilding first.

There were two windows set high on the door, and I peered inside.

The Volvo was there. Tucked in the way it was, with the door closed, they weren’t going to be making any fast getaways. A few steps away from the garage was a wooden dock and, tied to it, an aluminum boat—a fourteen-footer, I guessed, with a small Evinrude outboard motor bolted to the transom.

I walked over to the cottage, stepped up onto a deck that faced the lake and rapped my knuckles on one of the sliding glass doors. There were no curtains drawn across them, so I made my hand into a visor and peered inside. Looked like one big room that was a kitchen and living area with a large television, an older, non-flat screen that looked like it weighed five hundred pounds. There were three doors facing onto the room, probably two bedrooms and a bathroom. What looked like one of the bedroom doors was open. There were dirty dishes in the sink, a pizza box on the dining table.

At one end of the main room sat a small stack of firewood, about a foot away from a wood-burning stove from which a black pipe snaked its way up and out through the roof.

I rapped again, a little louder this time, then heard a rustling in the leaves behind me. I whirled around in time to see a young black man, dressed only in blue boxers and a pair of sneakers, leap up the three steps to the deck and charge me.

I’d been caught off guard the night before, but this time I was ready. He came at me with his right fist, but before he could connect I had my left arm up to block the blow and simultaneously drove forward with my right, catching him just below the ribs. I pulled the punch some before it connected. I didn’t want to hurt him that bad.

He doubled over and stumbled back a couple of steps, but he wasn’t done with me. He raised his head and got ready to attack again, but by this time he was looking down the barrel of my Glock.

“Whoa,” I said, my arm locked into position. The man froze.

When I heard the glass door behind me start to slide, I took a few steps to one side so I could keep my eye on the man and still see whoever was at the door.

It was Claire, dressed in a pair of panties and a T-shirt.

“It’s okay, Dennis,” she said. “It’s Mr. Weaver.”

Dennis Mullavey looked from Claire to me and back to Claire. I slowly lowered the Glock.

“You got coffee?” I asked.