Parting Shot, Page 3

  “Why so hesitant?”

  “I’m . . .”

  “What is it, Brian?”

  “I guess . . . I’m embarrassed. I’m ashamed of what’s happened to me.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Duckworth said, although he didn’t know that for certain. Maybe Brian had consumed far more alcohol than he’d let on. Maybe he’d allowed someone to do this to him, but had no memory of it. But his gut told him that wasn’t the case.

  Gaffney half shrugged. “I guess you should let them know.”

  Duckworth had him write down his parents’ Montcalm Street address and phone number on his notepad. He decided he’d go there before heading to Knight’s. He was just pulling out of the ER parking lot when his phone rang. It was Maureen.

  “Hey,” he said to her over the Bluetooth. “You at work?”

  “Yeah. We’ve got a bit of a lull.” Maureen worked at an eyeglasses shop in the Promise Falls mall. “Am I calling at a bad time?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “How are you?”

  It was an innocent enough question. She’d always asked how he was when she called. But now, when she asked, he knew she was asking him something more. She was really asking how he was doing. She was asking how he felt. She was asking how he was managing.

  Even ten months after returning to the job.

  Not that he didn’t ask himself every day how he was doing.

  “I’m fine,” he said quickly. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  But he could tell from her tone that it was something, and her most frequent source of worry, after him, was their son, Trevor. Twenty-five now, back living at home with his parents, and looking for work.

  He’d had a job driving a truck for Finley Springs Water. Randall Finley, the owner, had been mayor a decade ago, but was voted out after his dalliances with an underage prostitute became public. He’d made a comeback last year, though, after becoming something of a local hero, and presided over city hall once again.

  Wonders never ceased. Nor, Duckworth thought, did the public’s willingness to be conned.

  Trevor—like his father—despised Finley and everything he stood for, and when he found another driving gig with a local lumber company, he quit the water bottling plant. But with the housing industry still taking its time to recover, and the demand for building supplies weak, he was laid off three months later. He kept his apartment another six weeks, but with money running out, he’d given his notice and moved back in with Mom and Dad while he looked for something else.

  Of course, Barry and Maureen could have kept their son in his apartment by paying his rent, but that had struck both of them as an open-ended commitment they could not afford, so they’d offered him his old room. They had mixed feelings when he took them up on it, but as it turned out, even with Trevor living under the same roof with them, they saw little of him. He was out most evenings, and returned home after Barry and Maureen had turned out their lights.

  Trouble was, they often lay awake until he came home, as if he were still a teenager with a curfew. When your kids no longer lived with you, Duckworth said, you didn’t care what their hours were. But when they were back sharing quarters with you, you couldn’t help but wonder, and worry, what they were up to.

  “Is it Trevor?” he asked now.

  He heard Maureen sigh. “He doesn’t seem himself these days.”

  “Like how?”

  “You haven’t noticed?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Aren’t cops supposed to be keen observers of human behavior?”

  Duckworth wasn’t sure whether she was needling him or being serious. Maybe both.

  “We’re distant second to mothers in that area,” he said.

  “Sure, patronize me,” Maureen said.

  “I’m not patronizing you.”

  “You are. You think I’m being overly concerned.”

  “Tell me what you’ve seen that I’ve been too dumb to notice.”

  “Okay, it’s not anything specific. But he seems more withdrawn, more to himself.”

  “He’s got a lot on his mind,” Barry said. “He’s looking for work, and living with his parents. How much fun can that be?”

  “He spends a lot of time on the computer.”

  “He’s probably looking at job ads. It’s not like you can find them in the paper any more.”

  “I suppose so.”

  They’d both wondered if Trevor needed to go back to school. Learn some kind of trade. After traveling around Europe with a girlfriend, he’d gone to Syracuse University and taken political science, and done well with it. Graduated. No one expected him to become a politician, or work for one, but they’d hoped his field of study would lead to something more challenging than driving a truck for that narcissistic asshole who was now the mayor of Promise Falls.

  “I wish I had some idea where he goes off to every night,” Maureen said.

  “We never knew where he went at night when he didn’t live with us. He’s entitled to a personal life. What he does at night isn’t any of our business.”

  “I know. I—Gotta go. Customer.”

  “Talk to you later,” Duckworth said.

  When he got to Brian Gaffney’s parents’ house, it was nearly five in the afternoon, and there were two cars in the driveway. It was a modest but well-maintained two-story, and the cars were mid-price GM sedans, each about five years old.

  Duckworth rang the bell, and seconds later a heavyset woman in her fifties opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Gaffney?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your first name?”

  “Constance. Who’re you?”

  He showed her his police ID. She looked at it warily as he introduced himself. Most people, Duckworth thought, viewed his ID with some degree of alarm—cops at the door did not usually mean good news—but Constance Gaffney’s reaction struck him as more cautious.

  “Is your husband home?” he asked.

  “What’s this about?” she asked.

  “If your husband is home I’d like to discuss it with both of you.”

  She called out over her shoulder, “Albert? Albert!”

  Moments later, Albert Gaffney appeared. Balding, also heavyset, broad enough in the shoulders to obliterate his wife when he edged in front of her.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, loosening the tie around the collar of his white shirt. He took a quick glance at Duckworth and his ID and suddenly looked as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “It’s about your son,” Duckworth said, adding, “Brian.”

  “What’s happened to him?” Constance asked, stepping aside to let the detective into their home.

  “He’s okay,” Duckworth said quickly. “He’s at PFG for some tests.”

  “Tests?” Albert said. “What’s happened?”

  “He was . . . assaulted,” Duckworth said. “And possibly confined for a period of time.”

  “What’s that mean?” the man asked. “Assaulted? Was he . . . I mean, did someone . . .”

  Duckworth guessed what the man was trying to ask. “He was rendered unconscious and . . .”

  How did one describe what had happened to Brian? It wasn’t enough to say he’d been knocked out and tattooed. It was worse than that. One had to see him to fully comprehend the crime that had been committed against him. Duckworth supposed he could show them the photos on his phone, but somehow that didn’t seem appropriate.

  “The best thing to do would be to go see him,” he said.

  “For God’s sake, Albert, get your keys,” Constance Gaffney said. She shot him a stern look. “I hope you’re happy.”

  Albert started to say something, but the look in her eyes told him to keep whatever it was to himself. Instead, he turned to Duckworth.

  “Who did it?” he asked. “Who hurt my son?”


  “The matter’s under investigation,” Duckworth said. “I have a question for you.”

  Albert waited.

  “Do you know anyone named Sean? Someone with a possible connection to your son or your family?”

  “Sean?” Brian Gaffney’s father asked. “Is that who did it?”

  Duckworth shook his head. “No. Does the name ring any bells?”

  “No,” said Albert. He glanced at his wife, then asked, “Did this happen at his apartment? At his place?”

  “No,” Duckworth said. “Brian says it began at a bar. At Knight’s.”

  Albert said to Constance, with a hint of vindication in his voice, “You see? It could have happened anyway. He went there even when he still lived with us.”

  But something in her face said she was still blaming him for something. “I’m getting my purse,” she said.

  “Keys,” Albert said, patting his front pockets. “Where the hell are my keys?”

  While they both retreated into the house, Duckworth walked back toward his car as an old green Volkswagen Beetle—one of the originals, not the remake—came up the street and pulled over to the curb in front of the house. A young woman behind the wheel killed the engine and got out.

  Duckworth remembered Brian telling him he had a sister.

  “Are you Monica?” he said as she approached the house.

  She eyed him warily. “Who are you?”

  He told her, quickly, what he’d told her parents. Once she was over the initial shock of learning her brother was in the hospital, he asked, “When was the last time you spoke with Brian?”

  “I tried to call him yesterday, but he didn’t answer. I saw him last week, I guess. I popped into his work.”

  “Monica, do you know anyone named Sean? An acquaintance of your brother’s?”

  “Sean?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t know any Sean. A man or a woman?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Because if he’s seeing someone, I wouldn’t necessarily know about it.”

  “This Sean might no longer be with us.”

  “Dead?”

  Duckworth nodded. “Does that jog any memory?”

  She started to shake her head, then stopped. “No, it couldn’t be that Sean.”

  “What Sean?”

  She tipped her head at the house across the street. “That was old lady Beecham’s dog. Right after Brian got his license, he backed over him.”

  “He killed her dog?”

  Monica nodded. “It was years ago, and even though it was her own fault for letting the dog run loose, she was pretty mad about it. But she wouldn’t care now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Monica shrugged. “Mrs. Beecham has pretty much lost her marbles.”

  FIVE

  CAL

  MS. Plimpton led me out of the dining room, through a kitchen that was bigger than my entire apartment, and out to a screened-in porch that overlooked an expansive backyard with a working fountain. The porch was decked out with white wicker furniture decorated with plump flowered cushions. Four of the chairs were occupied.

  I’d been given the impression I’d be meeting just two people, not an entourage.

  I figured the woman sitting in the closest chair was Ms. Plimpton’s niece, Gloria Pilford. Fortyish, decked out in white slacks, a coral-colored top and high-heeled sandals. Her blonde hair seemed to be inflated, making her head look too big for her slender body. She sprang to her feet when Ms. Plimpton and I entered the room, and those heels allowed her to look me right in the eye. When she smiled, her face wrinkled like crêpe paper, as if the muscles used to convey happiness might end up tearing her face apart.

  She extended a hand and I took it.

  “This is wonderful,” she said. “I’m so pleased you’re going to help us.”

  Before I could say anything, Ms. Plimpton raised a hand of caution. “He’s agreed to meet you, Gloria. Nothing more than that, for now.”

  The smile retracted immediately, and Gloria struggled to restore it. She turned to the three people—all male—who were still seated.

  “Mr. Weaver, this is my good friend, and partner, Bob Butler.”

  The first man stood. Just over six feet, silver-haired, barrel-chested and strong-jawed, blue eyes. Pushing fifty, or maybe he’d recently pushed past it. Tailored slacks, open-collared white dress shirt, plaid sport jacket. He put out a hand too. The grip was firm.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Madeline has had good things to say about you.”

  “And this,” Gloria Pilford said, as the second man stood, “is Grant Finch.”

  He was the only one in a suit, and I was betting the Rolex on his wrist was the only one in the room. He’d be the one who owned that Beemer in the driveway. He was slighter shorter than Bob Butler, but his grip was just as firm when we shook hands.

  “I’ve also heard good things,” he said, giving me a smile worthy of a game-show letter-turner. Those perfect teeth probably cost as much as his car. “I expect you already know why I’m here. I acted on Jeremy’s behalf during the trial.”

  “Most famous lawyer in the country,” I said.

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Or infamous, depending on one’s point of view. That’ll last a week or two, then I’ll be forgotten until HBO decides to make this all into a miniseries twenty years from now.”

  The way he said it suggested he was counting on it.

  Gloria moved the two men aside so I could view the young man slouching in the wicker chair at the end of the porch. Extending her arm in a kind of ta da! gesture, she said, “And last but not least, my son, Jeremy.”

  The young man had slid so far down the chair I was worried he might hit the floor. He had the rigidity of boneless chicken. His head was inches from where the cushions met, his eyes focused on the phone he held firmly in his lap in both hands. His thumbs were moving rapidly.

  His great-aunt, Ms. Plimpton, had said he was eighteen, but he could have passed for twenty or twenty-one. Short black hair, pasty complexion, as though he’d spent more time looking at video screens than running bases. It was hard to tell how tall he was, given his slithered state, but under six feet.

  Without looking away from his phone, he said, “Hey.”

  “Jeremy, for God’s sake, shake the man’s hand,” his mother said, like I was a puppy she wanted him to pet.

  “It’s okay,” I said, raising a palm. “Nice to meet you, Jeremy.”

  Gloria smiled awkwardly at me. “Please excuse him. He’s tired, and he’s been under a great deal of stress.”

  “We all have,” Bob Butler said.

  Gloria had referred to Bob as her friend and partner. He wasn’t the boy’s father. That much seemed clear.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Jeremy,” Gloria said, her voice struggling to stay upbeat, “can I get you anything?”

  He grunted.

  She turned to me for another chance at hospitality. “How about you, Mr. Weaver? A drink?”

  “I’m good,” I said. “Your aunt served tea.”

  She sighed and said quietly, “I could use something stronger. Why don’t we move this conversation to the kitchen.”

  Grant Finch put a friendly hand atop my shoulder as we—all of us except Jeremy—left the sunroom. “We’ve all been through a lot, but at least we’re coming out the other side of the nightmare,” he said.

  Seconds later we were standing around the kitchen island while Gloria opened the oversized stainless-steel refrigerator and took out a bottle of wine.

  “Anyone?” she asked.

  There were no takers.

  I said, “Maybe you could tell me about the harassment you’ve been getting.”

  “It hasn’t just been Jeremy,” Gloria said over the pop of the cork. The bottle was already half empty. “I’ve been getting my fair share too. People are saying unbelievable things about me on the Internet. That I’m the worst mother in the world.
” Another sigh. “Maybe it’s true.”

  “It certainly isn’t,” said Bob. “Gloria loves Jeremy more than anything in the world. She’s a wonderful mother. I’ve seen that first hand.”

  Ms. Plimpton was stone-faced. She turned away and went to the dining room to bring in the teapot and cups.

  I looked at Bob. “You and Ms. Pilford . . .” I let the sentence dangle.

  Gloria moved in close to Bob and slipped her arm into his, then displayed her hand so I wouldn’t miss the rock on her finger. “Bob and I are engaged. The one bright spot in my life these days.” She grimaced. “No, I take that back. Jeremy not going to jail, that was a wonderful thing.”

  Bob smiled uncomfortably. “Gloria just needs to sort some things out before we can get married. But we’ve been together a few years now.”

  Gloria nodded. “Once I’m finally free of Jack, we can move forward. That’s my ex.” She rolled her eyes. “Just waiting for the divorce to go through. Bob’s been so patient. He’s been so good to me.”

  And then she dug her teeth into her lower lip.

  “Well,” I said. “That’s great.”

  “And my other hero is this man right here,” she said, indicating Grant Finch. “If it weren’t for him, my boy’d be in jail right now.” She gave Bob’s arm a squeeze. “I can thank you for Grant.”

  Bob said, “Well, me and Galen.”

  At the mention of that name, Gloria slipped her arm out of Bob’s and went back to find a glass for her wine.

  Bob continued, “It was Galen who put me on to Grant. When Jeremy had his troubles, Galen immediately thought of Grant and it was a terrific recommendation.”

  “Galen?” I said.

  Bob nodded at my puzzlement. “Sorry. Galen Broadhurst. My business associate. I’m in real estate, land development, that kind of thing.”

  “Is he here?” I asked.

  “He actually said he might be coming up later today.”

  “We just couldn’t have done it without you, Grant,” Gloria said to Finch, pouring wine into a long-stemmed glass. Her eyes narrowed. “Even if you did make me look like a fool in the process.”

  It was the first thing she’d said that sounded like it was straight from the heart.

  “Well,” Grant said, “we all wanted the same thing. To keep Jeremy out of jail. He didn’t deserve that fate.”