Linwood Barclay - A Tap on the Window

“So one day, out of the blue, he just quits his job, breaks up with Claire, and goes back home. Broke off with her with a text or an e-mail or something. Said it wasn’t working out for him, he was sorry, but he wasn’t interested in having some long, drawn-out discussion about it. She was heartbroken. Cried for a couple of days. I told her, ‘Look, you’re young, you’ll have a hundred more boyfriends before you find the right one.’”

“Huh,” I said.

“In case you’re wondering, I didn’t try to break them up,” Sanders said defensively.

“I didn’t suggest you did.”

“You’d be surprised, this day and age, how many people took me aside, said I should talk Claire into breaking it off with him because he’s black. Said I should scare him off. Unbelievable.”

Sounded like the kind of thing Augie might say, but I knew Augie wasn’t exactly giving advice to the mayor, except maybe to take a long walk on a short pier.

“Even Caroline,” he said. “You know, my ex. I swear she’s not a racist, but she was uncomfortable with it.”

“Did she tell Claire how she felt?”

“No, she was putting it all on me, since Claire spends most of her time in Griffon. I told her I wasn’t going to do any such thing.”

“You sure she couldn’t have said something to Dennis? Did he and Claire ever go visit her mother in Toronto?”

“They might have, once, but no, I don’t think so.”

I wondered why Claire lived mostly with her father. So I asked.

“When Caroline got remarried and moved to Toronto, Claire put up a huge fuss. She wasn’t going to move there, she wasn’t going to leave her school and her friends. And honestly, I think Caroline was happy to lose that battle. She wanted to start off this new marriage without the complications of a teenage daughter at home.”

“You were okay with that?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Look, Cal — may I call you Cal?”

“Of course.”

“Cal, I owe you an apology. I misjudged you, misjudged your motives. I know now that your concern for Claire is genuine, and I understand how, given the way you were dragged into this, you felt an obligation to become involved. And I appreciate your discretion where Annette is concerned.” I was waiting for a “but.”

“But up to now, you’ve kind of been working for yourself. I’d like to make that right, and hire you, pay you for your time.”

It wasn’t the “but” I was expecting. I thought he was going to politely tell me to cease and desist, that he’d handle things from here on.

“I want you to find Claire. I mean, look, maybe she’ll call me in the next hour. Maybe she’ll be in touch before the day is out. But what if she isn’t? Then I’ll have lost a day trying to find out what’s happened to her.”

“I guess you don’t want to go to the police and report her missing,” I said.

Sanders almost chuckled. “No, I don’t think so. But I have to ask, is it going to be difficult for you to help me with this, given the animosity between you and your brother-in-law?”

“Probably,” I said. “But that’s okay. Look, I have a couple of things I was going to follow up on this morning, anyway. There are a couple of gas stations close to Iggy’s. Someone who’d been waiting around to pick Claire up might have filled up before or after. And I’ll make some calls to local landscapers, see if I can get a lead on this Dennis Mullavey character.”

For a moment I thought I’d been cut off. Sanders wasn’t saying anything.

“Bert?” I said.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was shaky. He’d broken down. He’d been crying. “Tell me you don’t think she’s ended up like Hanna.”

“I’m gonna do my best to find her.”

“I just want to know she’s okay. I have to know she’s okay.”

I hung up.

Donna said, “I’ll get breakfast going.”

A few minutes later, in the kitchen, things felt slightly different. Not unlike the feeling after a tornado whips through. You’ve been through this horrendous storm, wondering whether the roof will fly off, the walls will come crashing in, the car will get flipped over onto its roof.

But then the storm’s roar fades away and you think it’s safe to venture outside. The sun is coming out. You’ve lost a few trees, the power’s out, half the shingles on the roof have been blown off.

But you’re still standing.

We brushed against each other as we went about our morning routine without the recent awkwardness. I placed a gentle hand on her hip in a way I hadn’t in some time. She made enough coffee for two. Most mornings, lately, she had been grabbing coffee on her way to work and I’d stopped by a drive-through en route to whatever job I had at the time.

While we sat at the kitchen table eating some English muffins with jam, I opened up the laptop and looked up Griffon-area landscapers. There were four listed, but when I went to their respective Web sites, one — Hooper Gardening — had photos of orange pickup trucks. I made a note of the number. It wasn’t even eight a.m., so I’d give them a call in another hour or so.

There were other things I could get started on first.

There were two self-serve gas stations within sight of the restaurant. If I checked their security footage from two nights ago, I might be able to get a better look at that Volvo. Maybe I’d be able to pick up a license plate, or see the driver.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. I was also thinking about Patchett’s, and whether there might be more leads worth following from there. Owner Phyllis Pearce seemed to know everybody’s business. Maybe she knew something about Claire Sanders and Dennis Mullavey. I’d gone back to Claire’s Facebook page to see if he was among her friends, but his name didn’t come up.

Donna was ready for work ahead of schedule so she could get a ride with me in her Corolla. She didn’t lean over for a kiss as she got out the passenger side, but she reached over and squeezed my hand.

Neither of us said a word.

From there, I drove to the first of the two service stations on Danbury within walking distance of Iggy’s. I pulled up to the pump, got out, and put a quarter of a tank of unleaded into the car, casting my eyes around as I did so, taking in the cameras. Most self-serve places now required you to put your credit card in first and have it approved, so you couldn’t take off without paying. If you wanted to pay cash, you usually had to go in and put down a deposit before they’d activate the pump.

Those cameras had been more important back in the day when people filled their tanks before they paid. Station owners no longer had that kind of trust in their customers, but the cameras remained.

Even though I’d paid at the pump, I went inside on the pretext of buying a treat. As I was getting out a five to pay the woman standing behind the counter for a Mars bar, I brought out my detective license as well.

“What’s this?” the woman asked tensely. She was in her mid-twenties, and thin enough to make one wonder whether she was anorexic. “You a cop? Because if you are, I’ve got the petition right here. I don’t always remember to get everyone to sign it, but most of the time I do. And I get the people to write down their addresses, too.”

“I’m private,” I said. “I don’t care if anyone signs that thing or not.”

That seemed to relax her. “That’s good, because I hate asking. Why the fuck should I have to do PR for the cops, right?”

“Right.” I explained I was looking for a vehicle that might have filled up here a couple of nights ago.

“What for?” she asked.

“Some guy who may have picked up a girl out back of Iggy’s.” I implied menace.