Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

“If you’ve already been to her door, whaddya need me for?” Gretchen asked.

“We need you to let us into her apartment.”

“Don’t you have to have a warrant for something like that?”

Duckworth shook his head. “We’re not searching it. We just want to see if she’s there, and if she’s okay.”

Gretchen Hardy nodded. “Go on up to the third floor. I’ll meet you there.”

Going up in the elevator, Duckworth asked Trevor, “What about family?”

“Huh?”

“Remember I mentioned that maybe there was some kind of family emergency. Do Carol’s parents live in Promise Falls? She got any brothers or sisters? Maybe she spent the night with one of them.”

“Her parents both died a few years ago. She said something about a brother, but he lives in Toronto, I think.”

The elevator opened onto the third-floor hallway. Trevor led his father down to a door with tarnished brass numbers that said 313.

Seconds later, a fire door at the end of the hall opened and Gretchen emerged. The sound of her flip-flops echoed with every step. When she reached Carol’s apartment, she inserted a key into the lock.

“Hope she doesn’t have the chain on. If she’s got the chain on, we’re not going to be able to get in.”

“If she has the chain on,” Duckworth said, “we’ll have to kick in the door.”

“Who pays for the damage? The police going to pay for that?”

It turned out not to be an issue. She turned the knob and the door opened wide.

Trevor went through first. Duckworth reached out, grabbed his arm to hold him back.

“Let me do this,” he said. “You stay right here.”

Trevor, with reluctance, held his position.

“You a cop too?” the superintendent asked him.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. But I’ve seen you around here before.”

“Maybe so,” Trevor said.

Duckworth quickly moved through the apartment. It was a one-bedroom, decked out with inexpensive but tasteful furniture that had an IKEA look about it. Flowered throw cushions on the couch, magazines perfectly stacked on the coffee table. Trevor watched him go into the bedroom, come out, go into the bathroom, come out, then, finally, check the kitchen.

“She’s not here,” he said, returning to where his son stood.

“Can you tell anything?”

Duckworth sighed. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Everything looks fine. I saw a couple of purses in the bedroom, but most women have several. Neither of them contained a wallet or car keys.”

“She had to spend the night somewhere,” Trevor said.

Gretchen chortled. “Hey, women today, they don’t have to come home every night.”

Duckworth said, “Thanks for your help, Ms. Hardy. You can lock the place up now.”

He steered his son back into the hallway and in the direction of the elevator.

“What next?” Trevor said. “If she’s not here and she’s not at work, then—”

Duckworth’s cell rang. He dug it out of his jacket and put it to his ear.

“Duckworth here. You get a plate from that info I gave you? What?” He stopped walking. “Say that again?”

His head seemed to be dragged down by whatever he was hearing.

“What is it?” Trevor asked.

Duckworth held up a shushing hand. “Okay,” he said into the phone. “Don’t touch anything.”

He put the phone back into his jacket and started to move toward the elevator again, but Trevor stopped him.

“What is it? What’d they say? What did you mean, don’t touch anything?”

“Outside,” Duckworth said.

They went down in the elevator and through the lobby in silence. Once outdoors, Duckworth stopped. “Go home,” he said.

“What do you mean, go home? I’m not going home. What’s going on?”

“Trevor, really. I mean it. When I know something, I’ll call you.”

Trevor stood up straighter, defiant. “I won’t. Whatever that call was about, wherever you’re going, I’m going too.”

Duckworth sighed. “They found a car.”

Trevor followed his father’s unmarked cruiser to an industrial district on the south side of town. Duckworth turned down Millwork Drive and drove past a storage unit operation, a cardboard manufacturer and a cement products place before hitting his blinker out front of a one-story plant that made and sold floor tiles.

A Promise Falls police cruiser, lights quietly flashing, was blocking the way in. When the uniformed cop behind the wheel spotted who it was, he pulled out of the way, allowing Duckworth, and Trevor, to drive in.

Duckworth parked in a spot near the entrance, and Trevor pulled in next to him. As Trevor got out, he called over to his father, “I don’t see Carol’s car.”

“They say it’s around back. We walk from here.”

The two of them headed down the side of the building. When Trevor started to break into a trot, his father said, “With me.”

Trevor held back and walked alongside his father.

As they came around the back, they encountered another police car, this one with a female officer behind the wheel. When she saw the two men approach, she got out.

Duckworth didn’t need to flash his ID. Everyone on the Promise Falls force knew who he was.

“Detective Duckworth,” she said.

“Officer Stiles, right?” Duckworth said.

She nodded. “Yes, sir.” She cast an eye at Trevor.

“This is my son, Trevor,” Duckworth said. “He’s been trying to reach Ms. Beakman since last night without success. Where’s the car?”

She pointed. “Just the other side of that Dumpster.”

“How did we hear about it?”

“The manager here, he spotted the car there this morning, and when he had a closer look he got concerned. He called it in about the same time as you were trying to get a plate for Ms. Beakman’s car.”

“What was he concerned about?” Trevor asked.

Duckworth held up a finger. Trevor went quiet.

“Let’s have a look,” the detective said.

Officer Stiles led them around a rusted open-topped trash container that was a good five feet tall. It had been blocking the view of a silver Toyota Corolla. The driver’s door was wide open.

“That’s the car,” Trevor said urgently. “That’s it.”

“Okay, so I’ll ask Trevor’s question,” Duckworth said to Stiles. “What was it that raised the manager’s concern? Was the car like that when he found it? With the door open?”

Stiles nodded. “That’s right. He thought it looked kind of odd. Plus, it was running.”

“The engine was on?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s not now.”

“He says he turned it off, but left everything else as it was.”

Keeping his hands inside his pockets, Duckworth walked slowly around the car, leaning in over the driver’s seat, noticing that the key was still in the ignition.

“What do you see?” Trevor asked.

Another raised finger.

Duckworth reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He pointed to a spot about ten feet away and said to Trevor, “I want you to stand over there.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Trevor took five steps back. “This okay?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“That’s fine.”

Duckworth went back to the open door and leaned down to flick the tab that opened the trunk. The lid lifted an inch.

“Why are you looking in there?” Trevor asked.

Duckworth said nothing. He came around to the back of the car and, using one gloved index finger, gently lifted the lid.

Even from where Trevor was standing, it was clear what the trunk contained.

“Oh Jesus,” he said, moving forward.

Duckworth quickly turned around. “Do not take a step closer.”

“It’s her! Oh my God, it’s her. It’s Carol.”