Parting Shot

by Linwood Barclay

  “Don’t you have to have a warrant for something like that?”

  Duckworth shook his head. “We’re not searching it. We just want to see if she’s there, and if she’s okay.”

  Gretchen Hardy nodded. “Go on up to the third floor. I’ll meet you there.”

  Going up in the elevator, Duckworth asked Trevor, “What about family?”

  “Huh?”

  “Remember I mentioned that maybe there was some kind of family emergency. Do Carol’s parents live in Promise Falls? She got any brothers or sisters? Maybe she spent the night with one of them.”

  “Her parents both died a few years ago. She said something about a brother, but he lives in Toronto, I think.”

  The elevator opened onto the third-floor hallway. Trevor led his father down to a door with tarnished brass numbers that said 313.

  Seconds later, a fire door at the end of the hall opened and Gretchen emerged. The sound of her flip-flops echoed with every step. When she reached Carol’s apartment, she inserted a key into the lock.

  “Hope she doesn’t have the chain on. If she’s got the chain on, we’re not going to be able to get in.”

  “If she has the chain on,” Duckworth said, “we’ll have to kick in the door.”

  “Who pays for the damage? The police going to pay for that?”

  It turned out not to be an issue. She turned the knob and the door opened wide.

  Trevor went through first. Duckworth reached out, grabbed his arm to hold him back.

  “Let me do this,” he said. “You stay right here.”

  Trevor, with reluctance, held his position.

  “You a cop too?” the superintendent asked him.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. But I’ve seen you around here before.”

  “Maybe so,” Trevor said.

  Duckworth quickly moved through the apartment. It was a one-bedroom, decked out with inexpensive but tasteful furniture that had an IKEA look about it. Flowered throw cushions on the couch, magazines perfectly stacked on the coffee table. Trevor watched him go into the bedroom, come out, go into the bathroom, come out, then, finally, check the kitchen.

  “She’s not here,” he said, returning to where his son stood.

  “Can you tell anything?”

  Duckworth sighed. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Everything looks fine. I saw a couple of purses in the bedroom, but most women have several. Neither of them contained a wallet or car keys.”

  “She had to spend the night somewhere,” Trevor said.

  Gretchen chortled. “Hey, women today, they don’t have to come home every night.”

  Duckworth said, “Thanks for your help, Ms. Hardy. You can lock the place up now.”

  He steered his son back into the hallway and in the direction of the elevator.

  “What next?” Trevor said. “If she’s not here and she’s not at work, then—”

  Duckworth’s cell rang. He dug it out of his jacket and put it to his ear.

  “Duckworth here. You get a plate from that info I gave you? What?” He stopped walking. “Say that again?”

  His head seemed to be dragged down by whatever he was hearing.

  “What is it?” Trevor asked.

  Duckworth held up a shushing hand. “Okay,” he said into the phone. “Don’t touch anything.”

  He put the phone back into his jacket and started to move toward the elevator again, but Trevor stopped him.

  “What is it? What’d they say? What did you mean, don’t touch anything?”

  “Outside,” Duckworth said.

  They went down in the elevator and through the lobby in silence. Once outdoors, Duckworth stopped. “Go home,” he said.

  “What do you mean, go home? I’m not going home. What’s going on?”

  “Trevor, really. I mean it. When I know something, I’ll call you.”

  Trevor stood up straighter, defiant. “I won’t. Whatever that call was about, wherever you’re going, I’m going too.”

  Duckworth sighed. “They found a car.”

  Trevor followed his father’s unmarked cruiser to an industrial district on the south side of town. Duckworth turned down Millwork Drive and drove past a storage unit operation, a cardboard manufacturer and a cement products place before hitting his blinker out front of a one-story plant that made and sold floor tiles.

  A Promise Falls police cruiser, lights quietly flashing, was blocking the way in. When the uniformed cop behind the wheel spotted who it was, he pulled out of the way, allowing Duckworth, and Trevor, to drive in.

  Duckworth parked in a spot near the entrance, and Trevor pulled in next to him. As Trevor got out, he called over to his father, “I don’t see Carol’s car.”

  “They say it’s around back. We walk from here.”

  The two of them headed down the side of the building. When Trevor started to break into a trot, his father said, “With me.”

  Trevor held back and walked alongside his father.

  As they came around the back, they encountered another police car, this one with a female officer behind the wheel. When she saw the two men approach, she got out.

  Duckworth didn’t need to flash his ID. Everyone on the Promise Falls force knew who he was.

  “Detective Duckworth,” she said.

  “Officer Stiles, right?” Duckworth said.

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.” She cast an eye at Trevor.

  “This is my son, Trevor,” Duckworth said. “He’s been trying to reach Ms. Beakman since last night without success. Where’s the car?”

  She pointed. “Just the other side of that Dumpster.”

  “How did we hear about it?”

  “The manager here, he spotted the car there this morning, and when he had a closer look he got concerned. He called it in about the same time as you were trying to get a plate for Ms. Beakman’s car.”

  “What was he concerned about?” Trevor asked.

  Duckworth held up a finger. Trevor went quiet.

  “Let’s have a look,” the detective said.

  Officer Stiles led them around a rusted open-topped trash container that was a good five feet tall. It had been blocking the view of a silver Toyota Corolla. The driver’s door was wide open.

  “That’s the car,” Trevor said urgently. “That’s it.”

  “Okay, so I’ll ask Trevor’s question,” Duckworth said to Stiles. “What was it that raised the manager’s concern? Was the car like that when he found it? With the door open?”

  Stiles nodded. “That’s right. He thought it looked kind of odd. Plus, it was running.”

  “The engine was on?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s not now.”

  “He says he turned it off, but left everything else as it was.”

  Keeping his hands inside his pockets, Duckworth walked slowly around the car, leaning in over the driver’s seat, noticing that the key was still in the ignition.

  “What do you see?” Trevor asked.

  Another raised finger.

  Duckworth reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He pointed to a spot about ten feet away and said to Trevor, “I want you to stand over there.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Trevor took five steps back. “This okay?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  “That’s fine.”

  Duckworth went back to the open door and leaned down to flick the tab that opened the trunk. The lid lifted an inch.

  “Why are you looking in there?” Trevor asked.

  Duckworth said nothing. He came around to the back of the car and, using one gloved index finger, gently lifted the lid.

  Even from where Trevor was standing, it was clear what the trunk contained.

  “Oh Jesus,” he said, moving forward.

  Duckworth quickly turned around. “Do not take a step closer.”

  “It’s her! Oh my God, it’s her. It’s Carol.�
�

  “No . . .” Duckworth said slowly.

  “What?

  Duckworth examined the body of the woman in the trunk of the Corolla. He needed a moment to remember where he had seen her before. Definitely not at Starbucks with his son.

  Of course, she looked different now. Her face bloated, the blue strangulation marks around her neck.

  But he was pretty sure this was the woman who could not believe he had never watched an episode of Seinfield.

  It was Dolores, from the tattoo parlor.

  Dolly to her friends.

  THIRTY

  CAL

  JEREMY and I followed the ambulance carrying Charlene Wilson to a hospital that was no more than ten minutes away from the hotel. The paramedics handled her with great care, but there did not seem to be a strong indication that Charlene was seriously injured. It would probably take an X-ray before anyone knew for certain.

  Charlene had given me her cell phone and brought up a number where I could reach her mother, whose name was Alicia. (So I was right about the Alicia Wilson mentioned in that story about the party at Galen Broadhurst’s place.) I made the call while we were en route to the hospital.

  I guess I was expecting a more frantic reaction, but Alicia Wilson was all business once I had explained who I was and why I was calling.

  “Where did this happen?”

  I told her.

  “Which hospital are they taking her to?”

  I told her.

  “Will the boy be there?”

  I told her he would be.

  “Forty-five minutes.” She hung up.

  I looked over at Jeremy. “What’s the story on Charlene’s mother?”

  “Well, aside from the fact that she hates me, I guess she’s okay,” he said, trying to sink into his seat where maybe I wouldn’t notice him. “She’ll shit a brick when she finds out Charlene’s been coming to see me.”

  “Something to look forward to,” I said.

  I found a place to park a couple of blocks from the hospital. We took two seats side by side in the ER waiting room while Charlene was being looked at. Jeremy sat with his hands clasped together down between his legs, his head bowed.

  “You wanna talk?” I asked him.

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “Are we still going to New York?” he asked.

  “I’d have to say that’s kind of up in the air right now. I’m going to have to let your mom and Ms. Plimpton and Bob know what’s happened.”

  His head seemed to droop further.

  “What happened to the other two?” he asked.

  “The ones who rammed Charlene’s car? I don’t know. The police were dealing with them. They’re not my concern.”

  We’d been sitting there for the better part of an hour when a smartly dressed woman with auburn hair walked into the ER like she owned the place. She went straight to the admitting desk and said, “I’m Alicia Wilson. Where’s my daughter? Charlene Wilson.”

  I got up and approached.

  “Ms. Wilson,” I said. “Cal Weaver. We spoke on the phone.”

  She eyed me the way one might examine a bug in a jar. Her eyes went to Jeremy, and the look she gave him was even more contemptuous.

  “I will speak to you after I have seen Charlene.”

  She turned and disappeared into the rabbit’s warren of examining rooms.

  “She looked kinda mad,” Jeremy said when I sat back down next to him.

  “You don’t miss much,” I said.

  Alicia Wilson reappeared five minutes later. We both stood as she stormed across the waiting room.

  “How’s your daughter?” I asked.

  “They say she’s fine,” Alicia said. “I’m going to take her home with me. Do you know what happened to her car?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “Couple of scratches on the bumper, but not much beyond that that I could see. I think it’s at the hotel.”

  “Hotel?” She fixed her eyes on Jeremy. “The two of you were at a hotel?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “Jeremy and I were there. Charlene drove down to see Jeremy this morning.”

  She still had her eyes on the boy. “You are a despicable worm.”

  Jeremy said nothing.

  “It wasn’t enough that you got one girl killed. You want to go for a second?”

  Even though I knew the circumstances here were very different, I didn’t want to wade too far into this. Alicia had plenty of reason to be angry with Jeremy, even if her own daughter had to shoulder some of the blame.

  “I didn’t make her come,” Jeremy said meekly. “And I didn’t run that car into hers.”

  “Oh, don’t think for a minute that Charlene isn’t going to get an earful. But you—you shouldn’t even be free. You should be in jail, and not for some short visit, either.”

  If I were Alicia Wilson, I wouldn’t feel much differently. Charlene wouldn’t be here if Jeremy hadn’t told her where he was. He’d clearly done nothing to discourage her from coming to see him for the second time in two days, even after my lecture about putting her at risk.

  If I were Alicia Wilson, I’d rip his face off.

  There was also our chat of the night before, once the lights were off, about owning up to his actions, about taking some responsibility for them.

  “You got anything you want to say, Jeremy?” I asked him.

  His eyes searched mine, as though he might find the answer there.

  “Like what?” he said.

  Alicia laughed. “He’s unbelievable.” The laughter quickly faded. “Stay away from my daughter. If you ever so much as wave to her from across the street, let alone send her a text, I’ll get a restraining order against you.”

  Jeremy looked down.

  Alicia turned and walked away.

  “You had a chance there,” I said.

  “A chance to what?”

  “To do something right. To say you were sorry. To accept even some share of responsibility for what happened.”

  “I just . . . I didn’t know what to . . . I . . .” His eyes were wet. “Do you think,” he asked me tentatively, “I could just say goodbye to Charlene?”

  “With her mother there? Are you serious?”

  His chest collapsed, his body a balloon that had just been pricked.

  “I need to call your mom. Let everyone know what’s going on.”

  Jeremy sighed.

  We exited the ER and started walking back to my Honda. I didn’t want to have my chat with his mother in his presence, so I got out my keys and said, “If I give you these, you promise not to run off with the car?”

  He took them. “Yeah, like I could even drive your car.”

  “I’m not even sure I thought to lock it,” I said. When we’d arrived, we’d raced straight into the ER to see how Charlene was, and some things had probably slipped my mind.

  As Jeremy walked away, I entered a number into my phone. Madeline Plimpton answered.

  “Mr. Weaver?”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “We were going to call you. Well, Bob or I were going to. Not Gloria.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We think Gloria might have given her phone to Jeremy. She took it out of Bob’s jacket and we can’t find it anywhere.”

  “That’s exactly what she did,” I said.

  “Oh my. I hope it hasn’t caused any kind of trouble.”

  I filled her in on the latest developments.

  “Good Lord,” Ms. Plimpton said. “You just can’t catch a break, can you?”

  I smiled that she directed some of her sympathy to me. “I’m wondering if this changes anything. You want me to stay on the road with him, or bring him back?”

  “I can discuss it with Gloria and Bob—I might even have a word with Grant about it—but honestly, I don’t think coming back here is an option.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “There was a protest out front of the house last night. About
a dozen people, waving signs that said things like ‘Big Baby go home.’ We had to call the police to have them dispersed.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I was going to take him to New York, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea any more.”

  Madeline Plimpton said nothing.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m just thinking,” she said. “I have a place.”

  “A place?”

  “On the Cape. Cape Cod. My husband and I bought it years ago. I haven’t been there since he passed away. I still own it, but it’s in the hands of a rental agent. People book it for the summer months. But it’s only May. It might not be rented.”

  “Would anyone be able to track us down there? Seems wherever Jeremy goes, people figure it out.”

  A hesitation. “I don’t know. It’s owned through a company, so my name’s not really attached to it. I haven’t been to the Cape in years. And Gloria—in case you’re worried she might inadvertently let something slip—probably thinks I sold it years ago. But the good news is, it’s on the beach, you’ve got some privacy, there won’t be many people around through the week, it being so early in the season. I could make a call, see if it’s available right now. It’s not that far out. East Sandwich. Beautiful view of Cape Cod Bay.”

  I thought about it. Finding a place to hunker down seemed better than moving from hotel to hotel.

  “The question is, how long do we go on like this?” I asked.

  A sigh. “I know.”

  “Let’s take it a day at a time. You find out if the place is available and we’ll go from there.”

  We said our goodbyes.

  I found Jeremy right where he was supposed to be, sitting in the passenger seat of my Honda. He was relentlessly pounding the side of his right fist into the top of his thigh with everything he had.

  THIRTY-ONE

  DUCKWORTH brought everyone in. The crime-scene unit, the cor-oner, extra police to cordon off the area near where Carol Beakman’s car had been found and to interview possible witnesses. Dolores, also known as Dolly, had no identification on her so Duckworth had no last name or address.

  But he did know where she worked.

  “What about Carol?” Trevor asked. “Where the hell is she?”

  That was the question.

  Her car had been found with someone else’s body in it. That didn’t bode well for Carol, no matter how one looked at it. She could end up being a second victim, or she might have had something to do with what happened.