Linwood Barclay - A Tap on the Window

“How’d Augie get you out of this?”

“I’ll tell you all about it later. Really.”

“Sure.” Her voice sounded flat.

“What is it?”

“Last night doesn’t mean everything’s okay,” she said.

“I know.”

The lockup where they were holding my Honda was a large parking lot surrounded by high chain-link fencing with a nasty string of barbed wire running along the top. In the office I found a short woman, working away at the crossword, who was expecting me. She retrieved my keys and led me into the compound past decommissioned cruisers, cars that had been in accidents, and a few untouched vehicles like my own.

Once we’d found it, the woman shoved a clipboard at me and said, “You have to sign here.” I did. She handed over the keys, told me to have a nice day, and said to beep the horn when I reached the gate and she’d open it.

I didn’t just get behind the wheel and drive off. I popped the trunk, where I kept those tools of my trade. The laptop, an orange traffic vest, a matching hard hat. Among other things.

Nothing appeared to have been touched.

I went through the glove compartment and had the sense nothing in there had been fiddled with, either. As Augie’d said, no one had touched the car yet.

Even so, I was surprised to see Hanna’s wig still in the car, on the floor in front of the backseat. Maybe it didn’t constitute evidence, since Hanna wasn’t wearing it at the time of her death, but it was all part and parcel of what had happened to her.

There was no shortage of other things to puzzle over. Why did Quinn tell Haines and Brindle to tow my car in? If he thought it should be searched for evidence, why lay it off on the chief?

And Sean Skilling arrested in Hanna’s murder?

I got behind the wheel. I inserted the key, started the engine, gave the pedal a couple of taps and listened to the engine rev. I got out my phone and listened to the message from the lawn service guy.

“Bill Hooper here, returning your call.”

He’d called an hour and a half ago. I tapped his number with my thumb to call him right back.

“You’ve reached Bill Hooper. I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave a message I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Phone tag time.

When I reached the gate I tapped the horn, prompting the woman to hit the button and open it without so much as looking up from her crossword puzzle.

Sean could have been lying about a Griffon cop pulling him over. But then, if the incident never happened, what kept Sean from getting to Patchett’s in time to pick Claire up and deliver her to Iggy’s? The kid, at least in the short time I’d spent with him, didn’t impress me as a very good liar, or a killer.

But they’d found Hanna’s missing clothing in his truck. Not good. Not good at—

I blame distraction for what happened next. I pulled out of the police station parking lot and nearly hit a black Escalade. Hard to miss, given that the thing was big enough to have orbiting moons. The truck swerved and the man behind the wheel shot me the finger.

I slammed on the brakes, hard enough to make the tires squeal.

I should have seen it. But I just didn’t.

I took a second to collect myself and let the Escalade get a block ahead. Gave the brake pedal a couple of soft, reassuring taps, then continued on my way.

There was someone I’d been meaning to pay a visit to, but just hadn’t had a chance to get around to it. I had a feeling this person was not going to be very happy to see me.

I figured there was a good chance he wasn’t even out of bed yet.

When I got to the house I was looking for, I found a red Mustang convertible, top up, parked in the driveway. There was no BMW there, which told me Annette Ravelson was at work.

Just as well. I didn’t want her around when I talked to her son, Roman. I could still feel the dull thud in my head where he’d hit me at Patchett’s.

I rang the bell. After ten seconds, I rang it again. Then I banged on the door. When a minute had gone by, I tried the doorbell again, but this time I held my thumb on it. Inside the house, the chime rang relentlessly.

I could hold out as long as he could.

After about five minutes of this, I heard someone inside the house shout groggily. “Okay, okay! Fuck! I’m coming.”

I kept my thumb on the button. I heard a dead bolt turn. The second the door swung open, I got my foot in, thinking that once Roman saw me, he’d try to slam it shut.

He did.

The door hit the side of my shoe, bouncing back and catching Roman’s toes.

“Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuck!” he screamed, hopped, and stumbled backward.

I stepped into the house and closed the door behind me. Roman, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts with little red hearts all over them, was collapsed on the broadloom, holding his left foot in both hands, whimpering.

“Hi, Roman,” I said. “How’s it hanging?”

The man wonders who was at the door. He’s always curious when he hears a knock, or the doorbell upstairs. It’s been so long since he’s had a chance to talk to anyone. At least, anyone other than his wife and their son.

The man sits up in bed to listen. Maybe he’ll be able to hear voices. He doesn’t even have a radio or a TV down here. There haven’t been any unfamiliar voices in so long.

Well, other than that one visitor, just the other week. But he’d had so few words to say. Ran off in such a hurry. Scared to death, probably.

The man barely had time to ask for help. Or toss over his notebook. He figured if his visitor needed proof, the book would do it.

But all this time’s gone by, and no one’s come. Still, anytime he hears someone at the door, he wonders, and hopes.

In the meantime, he spends most of his time in bed. Sometimes he gets himself into the chair, wheels himself around. But where’s he going to go? What’s the point?

So he just stays in bed and reads magazines.

And sleeps.

And dreams.

About going out.

“You fucking broke my toes, man!”

I knelt down and had a look. “Try to wiggle them.”

Roman Ravelson wiggled his toes.

“I don’t think they’re broken,” I said. “But then again, I don’t hold a medical degree.”

I offered my hand to help him get up, but instead he crawled two feet over to the stairs and used them to pull himself to a standing position. His skin was milky white, like he’d spent the last few years in a cave. Maybe he only came out at night. There was a little roll of fat over the elastic of his boxers, and sheet creases in his pudgy cheeks.

“Did I get you up?” I asked.

“I was out late,” he said. “You should leave. If you don’t leave, I’m gonna call my mom.”

I got out my cell. “Want to use my phone? You can tell her how you practically knocked me out last night.”

“That Sean— Jesus— I was trying to help him and he gives me up just like that. My mom told me you said to say hi. You wanted to fuck with my head, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “Your dad home?” I recalled Annette saying Kent Ravelson was out of town.

Roman blinked a couple of times, like he was kick-starting his eyes. “He’s — my dad’s away or something.”

“When’s he coming back?”

The young man shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t keep track of him.”

“You want to put on a shirt or anything? I’ve got a few questions.”

Roman sighed. “Fuck. Follow me.”

He started trudging upstairs. I followed him to the second floor, down the hall, and into his bedroom. Bumping his toes with the door appeared not to have crippled him for life.