Linwood Barclay - A Tap on the Window

“Scott actually told us this story, although he never said which cop it was. Looks like Scott was a constant thorn in Haines’ side. One night, Haines had a chance to deal with it.”

Augie was slowly shaking his head. “I still don’t buy it.”

“You think it’s just a coincidence that the night Scott goes off the roof of Ravelson Furniture, it just happens to be Haines who finds him? Haines wasn’t answering a call. It wasn’t someone else who found Scott. Haines found him. And then came to our door with the news. Something else that’s bothered me. Haines must have known you were Scott’s uncle. You’d think, if you’ve just found the body of your own chief’s nephew, that you might put in a call to him. Maybe even bring him in to break the news to the family. But he didn’t want to bring you in. Probably too rattled to do that.”

“Jesus,” Augie said.

“I might not have believed it before,” I said, “but now I know what Ricky Haines is capable of. I think he murdered Hanna Rodomski. I know he murdered Dennis Mullavey, and tried to kill me and Claire. He planted tracking devices in my car so he could follow me to where Dennis and Claire had been hiding out. He wasn’t expecting me to get picked up for threatening the Tapscott kid. He even offered to call my lawyer for me. He needed me free, to lead him to Claire and Dennis.”

Augie winced. “It was Ricky who told me you were in custody. Just before I came and lied my ass off for you.”

“He and his mother have been keeping a prisoner in this house for seven years. You telling me someone capable of all that couldn’t have thrown my son off that roof?”

That left him with nothing to say. I watched his cheeks grow red. “The bastard,” he said finally. “Why the hell didn’t Claire Sanders come forward?”

“Seriously? With all the shit going down between you and her father? She figured she didn’t need any part of that. She said if she’d reported it, you’d just say her father put her up to it to make you look bad.”

He sighed. “Shit.” He pushed the chair back and stood. “We’ve got to get Haines and his mother, bring them both in, sort all of this out. Believe me, if that fucker killed Scott...” Augie made a fist at his side. “I loved him, too, you know. He’s my sister’s boy.”

“I know,” I said.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this. I swear to God.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I intend to.”

“Let’s go find them,” he said, and started for the door.

My cell rang. I grabbed it from my jacket pocket, saw that it was home calling.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hi,” Donna said. Her voice was flat, lacking animation.

“What’s going on?”

“I need you to come home.”

“I’m kind of — I’m with Augie, and we’re right in the middle of something.”

“Still, I need you to come home,” she said. “I’ve got a visitor.”

“A visitor? Donna, just tell me what’s going on and—”

I heard the phone being jostled, then a different voice came on the line. “Mr. Weaver? Phyllis Pearce here. We have some things we need to discuss. You’re going to help me out, because if you don’t, it’s going to be your fault what happens to your wife.”

It wasn’t as though Phyllis wanted to use a knife. She would have preferred a gun, but feared the noise would attract attention, certainly if she fired it outside the house. Her son may have a silencer for one of his weapons, but she certainly doesn’t. And she has no expertise in poisons. She considered holding a pillow over his face, but she feared he’d put up too much of a struggle and she wouldn’t be able to finish the job.

In the end, a knife seemed the way to go.

Now he’s in the trunk, wrapped in the plastic. Later, she will get Richard to help her bury him in the woods. She knows she hasn’t the strength to dig a grave. Richard is still a strapping lad, and it shouldn’t be any trouble for him. She’s already put a shovel in the car, and a pair of gardening gloves so he won’t get blisters. And even though she didn’t choose to use it on her husband, she has a gun in her handbag.

She just hopes Richard isn’t too upset that she decided something had to be done with Harry. That it had to be done now. For seven years he’s been burdened with the guilt of what he did, been so attentive to his stepfather. Phyllis knows he still loves him, that he remembers that there were good times among the bad, when Harry was a real father to him.

Richard’s just going to have to get used to the idea.

Phyllis has one more stop to make.

She’ll go the Weaver house, hold the wife hostage, get him on the phone, tell him to bring her the book. Once she has it in her possession, she’ll find out from the detective whether anyone else knows about Harry. If not, the killing can end with the Weavers.

You can’t go around knocking off everyone. Have to draw the line somewhere. She’ll be relieved to have it end with the Weavers. Then she and Richard can go on about their lives again.

It’ll be good to have things back to normal.

She can feel the extra weight in the back of the car as she drives. Going around corners, she notices the back end is heavy, sways some. She’s looked up Weaver’s address, makes a call on her cell as she heads to that part of town.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Where are you now?” she asks her son.

“Almost home.”

“You know where Mr. Weaver lives?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s where I’m going now. Go there, and park across the street and down a ways. Call me if you see anything suspicious.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just let me handle things now.”

“What about Dad? Is he okay? Is he at the house?”

“Not anymore, child. I’ve moved him.”

“Moved him where?”

“I’ll tell you all about it later. Just get to Weaver’s house.”

Phyllis ends the call.

She finds the Weaver house, pulls up to the curb and parks on the street. Goes to the door and rings the bell. Seconds later, it is opened.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Weaver?” Phyllis says.

“That’s right.”

“I can’t believe we’ve never actually met, and if we have, please forgive me for not remembering. I’m Phyllis Pearce. I own Patchett’s.”

“Oh, of course, hello. What can I do for you?” Donna Weaver asks.

“May I come in?”

Donna opens the door wide and admits her. Donna is wearing a bulky, button-up-the-front, long-sleeved sweater, and feels the need to apologize for it. “I just put this on. It’s one of my husband’s. It looks awful, but the house is chilly. There’s something wonky with the thermostat.”

“I’m hardly a fashion plate myself,” Phyllis says. “It looks very comfortable.”

“Excuse the mess,” Donna says, pointing to the coffee table in the living room. It is covered in sketches of the same person from different angles, all in differing stages of completion. Charcoal pencils, fixative spray, a thick book of sketch paper, a small pad of yellow sticky notes. One of the sketches has a yellow note stuck to it, a few words scribbled on it.

“What’s this?” Phyllis asks.

“Just... drawings. Of our son.”

“Oh yes,” Phyllis says. “I’m so sorry.”

Donna’s attempt to smile turns into a jagged line. “Thank you.”

“This has to have been such a difficult time for you. How long has it been now since he passed away?”