Linwood Barclay: Parting Shot

Duckworth rang the bell, and seconds later a heavyset woman in her fifties opened the door.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Gaffney?”

“That’s right.”

“Your first name?”

“Constance. Who’re you?”

He showed her his police ID. She looked at it warily as he introduced himself. Most people, Duckworth thought, viewed his ID with some degree of alarm — cops at the door did not usually mean good news — but Constance Gaffney’s reaction struck him as more cautious.

“Is your husband home?” he asked.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

“If your husband is home I’d like to discuss it with both of you.”

She called out over her shoulder, “Albert? Albert!”

Moments later, Albert Gaffney appeared. Balding, also heavyset, broad enough in the shoulders to obliterate his wife when he edged in front of her.

“What’s going on?” he asked, loosening the tie around the collar of his white shirt. He took a quick glance at Duckworth and his ID and suddenly looked as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“What’s this all about?”

“It’s about your son,” Duckworth said, adding, “Brian.”

“What’s happened to him?” Constance asked, stepping aside to let the detective into their home.

“He’s okay,” Duckworth said quickly. “He’s at PFG for some tests.”

“Tests?” Albert said. “What’s happened?”

“He was... assaulted,” Duckworth said. “And possibly confined for a period of time.”

“What’s that mean?” the man asked. “Assaulted? Was he... I mean, did someone...”

Duckworth guessed what the man was trying to ask. “He was rendered unconscious and...”

How did one describe what had happened to Brian? It wasn’t enough to say he’d been knocked out and tattooed. It was worse than that. One had to see him to fully comprehend the crime that had been committed against him. Duckworth supposed he could show them the photos on his phone, but somehow that didn’t seem appropriate.

“The best thing to do would be to go see him,” he said.

“For God’s sake, Albert, get your keys,” Constance Gaffney said. She shot him a stern look. “I hope you’re happy.”

Albert started to say something, but the look in her eyes told him to keep whatever it was to himself. Instead, he turned to Duckworth.

“Who did it?” he asked. “Who hurt my son?”

“The matter’s under investigation,” Duckworth said. “I have a question for you.”

Albert waited.

“Do you know anyone named Sean? Someone with a possible connection to your son or your family?”

“Sean?” Brian Gaffney’s father asked. “Is that who did it?”

Duckworth shook his head. “No. Does the name ring any bells?”

“No,” said Albert. He glanced at his wife, then asked, “Did this happen at his apartment? At his place?”

“No,” Duckworth said. “Brian says it began at a bar. At Knight’s.”

Albert said to Constance, with a hint of vindication in his voice, “You see? It could have happened anyway. He went there even when he still lived with us.”

But something in her face said she was still blaming him for something. “I’m getting my purse,” she said.

“Keys,” Albert said, patting his front pockets. “Where the hell are my keys?”

While they both retreated into the house, Duckworth walked back toward his car as an old green Volkswagen Beetle — one of the originals, not the remake — came up the street and pulled over to the curb in front of the house. A young woman behind the wheel killed the engine and got out.

Duckworth remembered Brian telling him he had a sister.

“Are you Monica?” he said as she approached the house.

She eyed him warily. “Who are you?”

He told her, quickly, what he’d told her parents. Once she was over the initial shock of learning her brother was in the hospital, he asked, “When was the last time you spoke with Brian?”

“I tried to call him yesterday, but he didn’t answer. I saw him last week, I guess. I popped into his work.”

“Monica, do you know anyone named Sean? An acquaintance of your brother’s?”

“Sean?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know any Sean. A man or a woman?”

“Don’t know.”

“Because if he’s seeing someone, I wouldn’t necessarily know about it.”

“This Sean might no longer be with us.”

“Dead?”

Duckworth nodded. “Does that jog any memory?”

She started to shake her head, then stopped. “No, it couldn’t be that Sean.”

“What Sean?”

She tipped her head at the house across the street. “That was old lady Beecham’s dog. Right after Brian got his license, he backed over him.”

“He killed her dog?”

Monica nodded. “It was years ago, and even though it was her own fault for letting the dog run loose, she was pretty mad about it. But she wouldn’t care now.”

“Why’s that?”

Monica shrugged. “Mrs. Beecham has pretty much lost her marbles.”

Ms. Plimpton led me out of the dining room, through a kitchen that was bigger than my entire apartment, and out to a screened-in porch that overlooked an expansive backyard with a working fountain. The porch was decked out with white wicker furniture decorated with plump flowered cushions. Four of the chairs were occupied.

I’d been given the impression I’d be meeting just two people, not an entourage.

I figured the woman sitting in the closest chair was Ms. Plimpton’s niece, Gloria Pilford. Fortyish, decked out in white slacks, a coral-colored top and high-heeled sandals. Her blonde hair seemed to be inflated, making her head look too big for her slender body. She sprang to her feet when Ms. Plimpton and I entered the room, and those heels allowed her to look me right in the eye. When she smiled, her face wrinkled like crêpe paper, as if the muscles used to convey happiness might end up tearing her face apart.

She extended a hand and I took it.

“This is wonderful,” she said. “I’m so pleased you’re going to help us.”

Before I could say anything, Ms. Plimpton raised a hand of caution. “He’s agreed to meet you, Gloria. Nothing more than that, for now.”

The smile retracted immediately, and Gloria struggled to restore it. She turned to the three people — all male — who were still seated.

“Mr. Weaver, this is my good friend, and partner, Bob Butler.”

The first man stood. Just over six feet, silver-haired, barrel-chested and strong-jawed, blue eyes. Pushing fifty, or maybe he’d recently pushed past it. Tailored slacks, open-collared white dress shirt, plaid sport jacket. He put out a hand too. The grip was firm.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Madeline has had good things to say about you.”

“And this,” Gloria Pilford said, as the second man stood, “is Grant Finch.”

He was the only one in a suit, and I was betting the Rolex on his wrist was the only one in the room. He’d be the one who owned that Beemer in the driveway. He was slighter shorter than Bob Butler, but his grip was just as firm when we shook hands.

“I’ve also heard good things,” he said, giving me a smile worthy of a game-show letter-turner. Those perfect teeth probably cost as much as his car. “I expect you already know why I’m here. I acted on Jeremy’s behalf during the trial.”

“Most famous lawyer in the country,” I said.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Or infamous, depending on one’s point of view. That’ll last a week or two, then I’ll be forgotten until HBO decides to make this all into a miniseries twenty years from now.”

The way he said it suggested he was counting on it.