Linwood Barclay - Fear The Worst

“What’s this about?” I asked.

“Detective Marjorie and I would like to review the incidents of a couple nights ago,” she said.

Not last night, when someone took a shot at me?

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

“We want to ask you about Patty Swain,” Marjorie said. His voice was low and gravelly.

I was starting to get an inkling of what was going on here. I was in an interrogation room. This was going to be an interrogation. And this Marjorie character, he was going to be the bad cop.

“I told Detective Jennings everything I could,” I said. Looking at her, I pleaded, “Didn’t I?”

If Marjorie was going to be the bad cop, surely it only followed what Jennings’s role was supposed to be?

“Tell us again about the phone call you got from her,” she said.

I told my story again. Patty calling for a ride, how she’d hurt her knee falling on some cut glass. I also gave them some details about the boy who was bothering her, holding on to her arm. Jennings made a couple of notes about that, but Marjorie didn’t appear to care.

“What sort of shape would you say she was in when you got her to your house?” he asked, moving around the side of the table, only a couple of feet from me.

“What do you mean?”

“Was she aware of what was going on? Was she lucid? Was she conscious?”

“Yes. Yes to all those things.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course I’m sure. What the hell?” I looked back and forth between the two of them.

Jennings sat down across from me. “Didn’t you have to practically carry her into your house?” she asked.

“She was limping,” I said. “Because of her knee.”

“So you were in physical contact with her,” she said.

“Huh? Yes, I had to be, to help her into the house, so she wouldn’t fall over. She’d also been drinking.”

“Where’d she get the booze?” Detective Marjorie asked. “You give it to her?”

“That’s right,” I said. “It’s so hard for teenagers to get booze, they need me to buy it for them.”

“Don’t get smart, asshole,” Detective Marjorie said.

I looked at Jennings, stupefied. “Who is this guy?”

Marjorie didn’t like that. He leaned in close enough that I could feel his hot breath on my face. “I’m the guy who thinks it’s odd that a man as old as you takes a young, drunk girl into his house late at night supposedly to help her out. What did you do with her when you got her inside?”

“I don’t believe this,” I said. I turned again to Jennings, thinking naively that maybe I’d find an ally in her, but there was nothing in her expression to suggest she was on my side.

“I think you should answer the question,” Jennings said.

“She hardly needed me to get her booze,” I said. “She’d been at a party down on the beach strip. She could gave gotten it from anyone. In fact, by the time I got Patty to my place, she was sobering up. Still a bit drunk, but relatively coherent.”

“There was a fair bit of blood on those towels,” Marjorie said.

“Her knee was bleeding,” I said. “Most of the cuts were pretty superficial, but one or two of them were deeper and they bled quite a bit. Come on, what are you suggesting? That I did something to Patty, and then left bloody towels on the bathroom floor where you could just walk in and find them?”

Jennings leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “We spoke to Ms. Wood.”

“Okay,” I said.

“She said you called her the next morning about what she saw.”

“She drove past the house when Patty and I were going inside. I think she might have been intending to stop, but when she saw I wasn’t alone, she drove on. So the next day, I gave her a call.”

“Why?” Jennings asked. “You’re not still seeing Ms. Wood, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“So why would you owe her some explanation?”

“I was worried she might have the wrong impression.”

“So you were worried. About what she might have thought was going on? Carrying a girl into your house? You felt that needed to be explained. That she might naturally get the wrong idea about that.”

“I wasn’t carrying her,” I insisted. “I told you, I was helping her.”

“Ms. Wood saw it differently,” Marjorie said.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “She was driving past, at a good clip, at night. She didn’t see things the way they happened.”

“Okay,” Jennings said, her voice trailing off for a second, like she was collecting her thoughts. Then, “Tell us again about when you first heard from this Yolanda Mills person in Seattle. The one who said she’d seen your daughter out there.”

What did Yolanda Mills have to do with Patty?

“It was an email,” I said. “She’d seen the website about Syd. That was what she claimed. But the whole thing was a setup. We’ve talked about this.” I said this looking right at Jennings. “You already know it was a trick to get me out of town.”

“And then you emailed her back?” Like she hadn’t heard a word I’d just said.

“That’s right. I wanted to know where I could get in touch with her, and then whoever it was emailed back with a phone number, and I called her.”

“And spoke to someone,” she said.

I nodded. “I don’t know who it was. And of course there was no such person when I went out there.”

“Yes, I know,” Jennings said. She seemed to be working up to something. “Kate Wood, she was at your home when you received the first email correspondence from the Mills woman, is that right?”

I said yes.

“And then she was on your computer when the second email came in from her, is that right?”

I said yes again.

“Where were you at that moment?”

“What do you mean?” I said. “I was right there.”

“In the same room with Ms. Wood?”

I thought back to that night. “I was downstairs, in the kitchen.”

“And what were you doing?” Marjorie asked.

“I was phoning shelters, drop-in places for runaways in Seattle,” I said. “I was using my cell while Kate was making calls upstairs.”

“And where were you getting the phone numbers from?” Jennings asked.

“I’d grabbed Syd’s laptop and taken it downstairs.”

The two detectives glanced at each other, then looked back at me.

“So it was while you were downstairs on the laptop that Ms. Wood shouted down to you that you’d received another email from Yolanda Mills.”

“Yes,” I said. Where the hell were they going with this?

“And then what happened?” Jennings asked.

“I ran back upstairs, read the email, and there was a phone number, so I called it and talked to that woman.”

Jennings nodded. “Was Ms. Wood in the room at the time?”

“Yes.”

“And did she listen in to the phone call at all? Was she on an extension?”

“No. She wasn’t.”

“Would you say she was able to listen to both sides of the conversation?”

“I don’t understand the point of these questions,” I said.

“Could you just please answer them?” Jennings said.

“Should I have a lawyer? You said the other night I might want to give my lawyer a call.”

Marjorie cut in. “You think you need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would a guy with nothing to hide need a lawyer? I mean, if you’ve got something to hide, we can shut this down right now and you can get your lawyer in here if that’s the way you want it.”

“I don’t have anything to hide,” I said, knowing as the words came out of my mouth that I was a moron if I let this go on much longer.

“You want to answer that last question?” he asked.