Linwood Barclay - A Tap on the Window

The garage door was halfway open, and I could make out a vehicle in there, a pickup truck. I was surprised the police hadn’t seized it, just as they’d seized my car. There seemed to be plenty more reasons to have taken Sean’s Ranger in, given that they’d found Hanna’s clothes in it.

I said, “They didn’t take Sean’s truck?”

“Huh?” Adam said, and saw where I was looking. “That’s not Sean’s. That’s my vehicle.”

I squinted. Upon closer examination, I could see it was dark gray, not black like Sean’s. And it was a bigger truck than the Ranger. An F-150.

“It’s not exactly mine,” Adam clarified. “Just one I borrowed from the lot for a couple of days. I have a different car every week.”

“Two nights ago,” I said slowly, drawing out the words, “what were you doing?”

“I don’t recall,” he said. “Probably home, with Sheila.”

“You weren’t out driving around anywhere?”

He appeared to be thinking. “I might have been, actually.”

“You weren’t following Sean and Hanna around, were you?”

Adam blustered. “Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because you were at Iggy’s. You were there not long after Claire came in, and Hanna came out and got in my car.”

I caught him speechless. He needed a few seconds. “How— who told you that?”

“You’re on Iggy’s closed-circuit. I’ve seen it. What were you doing there? Seems kind of a funny time to leave the house to go grab a burger.”

“I didn’t get — I only ordered a coffee,” he protested.

“I don’t give a damn what you had. I want to know why you were there.”

“Okay,” Adam Skilling said resignedly. “I’d been driving around. I’d been hoping I might spot Sean, see his truck. I haven’t had a good feeling lately about what he might be up to, so I left the house around nine thirty and started going by places where I know he hangs out sometimes. I never did find him, never saw him anywhere. So as I was heading home, I pulled into Iggy’s for a take-out coffee. Simple as that.”

“Simple as that,” I repeated.

“What, you think — what do you think?”

“I think it’s funny you never mentioned this before. That you were driving around Griffon, looking for your son, while all these other things were going on.”

“There wasn’t anything to mention. The thing is, I didn’t want to worry Sheila about what Sean might be doing, so I told her I was going to the dealership to do some paperwork. That’s all.”

“When Hanna stayed over at your house, that bothered you,” I said. “You mentioned that before. You didn’t like her parading around in her underwear.”

His cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t — I never said ‘parading.’ I just didn’t think it was proper, what was going on. That’s all. Are you trying to make something out of this, Mr. Weaver? I thought you were trying to help us. I thought you were on our side.”

“I’m on Hanna’s side,” I said. “And Claire’s. I don’t think I know yet who else’s to be on.”

Shortly after leaving the Skillings’ house, I pulled into Iggy’s parking lot. I wasn’t here to ask any more questions. I had a call to make, and possibly some notes, and didn’t want to do it sitting in the car.

And I was hungry.

As I headed in, I walked past two parked motorcycles that at a glance looked like the ones that belonged to the two bikers who’d been rousted by Quinn and Ramsey that night in front of Patchett’s after Roman had bonked me on the head.

Once I was inside, I spotted them sitting next to the window, chowing down on burgers, fries, and onion rings. They each had a soda in a cup that looked bigger than the gas tanks on their bikes. They both looked to be in their forties, short hair — not the kind of long locks one might expect on some Hell’s Angels wannabes — and both carried about forty pounds more than they should have.

At the counter, I ordered a chicken sandwich and a Coke, then took a table where I could see them, and their bikes outside. I got out my notebook and wrote down their license plates. I took a bite of my sandwich, got out my cell, and put in a call to Barb at Hooper’s office.

“Oh yeah, hi,” she said. “I’ve been waitin’ for your call. You need some info on Dennis?”

“Dennis Mullavey, that’s right.”

“Okay, hang on, I just had it on my desk here, and then — here it is. So are you hiring him or something? I’ve got his birth date here... September 17, 1995. I don’t know if I can give you his Social Security number—”

“Mainly I’m just looking for a way to get in touch with him.”

“Okay, I’ve got a cell number.” I scribbled it down as she read it off. “And his address... okay, it’s sort of Rochester, but it’s actually northeast, a dot on the map called Hilton.” She gave me a mailing address and a home number.

“This Hilton address, that’s his parents’ place?” I asked.

“His dad,” Barb said. “Far as I know, anyway. I think he said his mother died years ago, and he lives with his dad, or did when he wasn’t working for us. But I don’t know if it’s going to do you any good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you are trying to get hold of him for a job, good luck. We’ve still got one last paycheck for him, and I was going to send it to his dad’s address, but I called him first to make sure, and he said he doesn’t know where Dennis is. And when we call his cell, it just goes to message.”

“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend in Griffon? Maybe she’d know where I could find him.”

“You talkin’ about Claire?” Barb asked.

“I think that was her name.”

“Claire Sanders. That’s the mayor’s kid, you know. I don’t have a number for her, but of course he would. Just call the town hall. He’s pretty approachable. Dennis, he was crazy about that girl — at least he seemed to be just before he bailed on us.”

“Thanks for all this,” I said.

“No problem. Look, if you see him, tell him Barb said hi. I still like the kid, even if the boss would like to wring his neck for taking off so quick.”

“Will do,” I said. I ended the call and put the phone down on the table.

Took a bite of my sandwich.

Watched the two bikers continue to eat their lunch.

I tried the cell phone number Barb had given me for Dennis. It went straight to message.

I decided not to leave one.

I watched the bikers some more.

When the Griffon police abused their authority by running people out of town, it didn’t mean those people were total innocents. Maybe these bikers were trouble. Maybe they’d ridden up to Griffon to make a few sales.

I hadn’t shown much fear when it came to questioning Scott’s contemporaries. I’d always figured he’d gotten the ecstasy from one of his friends, but I supposed it was possible he’d gotten it from a couple of guys like these. Maybe Scott had been to Patchett’s one night and bought something off one or the other of them, although Phyllis Pearce had suggested kids like Scott who really looked too young were given the boot. Which explained why Scott preferred house parties and rooftops for getting drunk and high.

These two bikers were certainly more formidable-looking than the young guys I’d been putting the fear of God into.

The young men I’d bullied and terrorized.

But these bikers, for all I knew, could be armed.

“Hey, Mr. Weaver?”

It was Sal, the manager who’d been here the night I looked at the surveillance video. He was standing by my table, looking down and smiling.

“Hey, Sal,” I said. “I thought you worked nights.”