Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

“That’s not my point,” I said.

“What is your point?”

“The point is when he got into it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m still not getting you, Mr. Weaver.”

“Did he get into the car before the crash, or after the crash?”

“What?”

“Let me ask you this. You say five people saw him getting out of the car. No one saw him getting into the car. How many people saw the actual accident? How many saw him hit Sian McFadden with the Porsche?”

“No one,” Finch said without hesitation. “It doesn’t matter. Mr. Weaver, let me ask you something. If someone rams your car in the parking lot, and you get out and see a driver in the other car, do you need to have seen him get into that car to know who hit you?”

“Why do you sound more like a prosecutor than a defense attorney?”

“I’ve had just about enough. I did everything I could for that boy. Jeremy is free today because of the work I did.”

“Are you telling me it never occurred to you or anyone else to look at the whole stick-shift thing?”

“Even if someone had mentioned it, which they did not, it would have been a non-starter. You can’t structure a defense with two wildly divergent strategies. We can’t suggest he was never in the car at the same time we concede he was but was not responsible for his actions.”

I thought about that.

“Are you still there, Mr. Weaver?”

“I’m here.”

“Look, forgive my tone. I can tell by what you’re saying that you’re concerned for Jeremy. Believe me, we all have been, from the very beginning. No one more than Gloria, who was willing to sacrifice her reputation, to be ridiculed, in fact, to save her son. At every step of the way we’ve acted in his best interest.”

“Sure,” I said.

“So I appreciate your bringing this to my attention, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“But how do you explain it? How do you explain the fact that Jeremy could not drive my car? At least, not without a lot of instruction. And that was sober. How did he get behind the wheel of Galen Broadhurst’s car and, drunk out of his mind, instantly master the art of a manual shift?”

“The fact is, somehow he did,” Finch said. “Have you considered that he was putting you on?”

“What?”

“Maybe he was having some fun with you. Maybe he does know how to drive a car like that, but pretended not to.”

When I didn’t say anything right away, Finch said, “Mr. Weaver? You there?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Did you hear what I said? Maybe he was just pretending not to—”

“I heard you.”

“Although I can’t think of a single reason why he would do that,” Finch said. “Can you?”

I was about to say no, I couldn’t.

But then something occurred to me.

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Finch,” I said, ending the call.

Barry Duckworth would have asked his son about why he’d tattooed his badge number onto his shoulder, but his phone rang.

“Duckworth,” he said.

“Hey, it’s Shirley.”

“Oh, hi,” Duckworth said.

“I’ve got that picture of Carol Beakman circulating, but now I’m doing somebody else’s job. You called in wanting info on some guy named Cory Calder? They left it with me since they think I don’t look busy enough.”

“I’m always happy to hear from you,” Duckworth said, his eyes still on his son, who was doing up the buttons on his shirt and rolling down his sleeve.

“Okay, he’s thirty-one, date of birth September twentieth, 1984, he lives at 87 Marshall Way, he—”

“Hang on,” he said. “You sending all this to me?’

“Of course. Nobody writes anything down any more, Barry.”

“Okay. Main thing I want is an address. That a house or an apartment?”

“It’s a house.”

“Thanks. What about a car?”

“I’m finding a 2007 Chrysler van. Black. Plate number in the stuff I’m sending you.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s just official stuff. You want me to google him?”

“Would you?”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Duckworth put his phone back into his jacket.

“I thought I heard Carol’s name,” Trevor said.

“Yeah. There’s nothing new. Her picture’s being circulated.” Duckworth rubbed his hand hard over his mouth, squeezing his lips together. He pulled it away and said, “So, tell me about that.”

He was pointing at his son’s shoulder.

Trevor shrugged. “I was looking for a way to honor my hero.”

Duckworth closed his eyes for a second, shook his head. When he opened them, he smiled. “Gonna be hard to rub off.”

“Yeah,” Trevor said. “I’m thinking maybe I could add some numbers to it and try to get a cell phone to match it. Or turn it into a zip code.”

Duckworth lowered his head. “I’m sorry about the last couple of days. All I’m trying to do is my job. I go where the investigation takes me.”

Trevor looked away and shrugged. “I guess I’ll keep looking for Carol.”

“Okay. And I’ve got places to check out. I’d like to stay here, but I can’t. Can I ask you one more question?”

“What.”

“You ever heard of a guy named Cory Calder?”

“No. Who’s he supposed to be?”

“Dolores Guntner’s boyfriend.”

Another shrug. “Nope.”

“Okay.”

Trevor opened his car door. Clearly this was not going to be one of those goodbyes accompanied by a hug. He settled in behind the wheel, turned the car around, and aimed it for the main road. Duckworth watched him wait for a tractor-trailer to speed by, then turn onto Eastern and head for town. The tires squealed briefly as he hit the gas.

Duckworth put the framed picture of Dolores on the front passenger seat of his car, then went to the trunk and took out a roll of yellow crime-scene tape, which he used on the two doors to the house and all accesses to the barn. Not that tape was going to keep anyone out who was intent on getting in, but it would warn anyone who might have entered innocently to stay the hell away. He then called for a patrol car to come and sit on the property until the forensic team showed up.

He couldn’t spend any more time here.

He got into his car and fired up the engine. He knew Promise Falls well enough that he didn’t have to look up Marshall Way. Maybe, he mused, he should quit police work and start up a taxi service. Become one of those Uber drivers. Uber was already in Promise Falls, although he’d never taken advantage of the service. And while the drivers no doubt faced the same risks as any other cab driver, Duckworth was betting none of them had been nearly beaten to death in the course of their duties, as he had.

The Calder residence was a tasteful two-story red-brick house with simple white columns flanking the front door. The yard was meticulously maintained, not a single blade of grass out of alignment where lawn met sidewalk. One of those small Lincoln SUVs, in white, sat on the jet-black driveway, which shone as though wet. It looked to have been resurfaced very recently.

Duckworth went to the door and rang the bell. Seconds later, it was opened by a slim, gray-haired man in his seventies wearing a plaid shirt with a buttoned-down collar, and perfectly creased slacks.

“Yes?” he said.

Duckworth got out his ID and allowed the man to examine it. “Detective Duckworth, Promise Falls Police.”

The man’s nose wrinkled. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for a Cory Calder.”

“He’s not here,” the man said.

“Who are you, sir?”

“Alastair Calder. I’m Cory’s father. Is there some kind of problem?”

“Where would I find Cory?” Duckworth asked.