“Something I wanted you to know. I’m not telling a lot of people about this, not yet, but I think you’re somebody who should be in the loop.”
“What?”
“I’m gonna run again,” Finley said, then paused for effect. When neither shock nor delight crossed Barry’s face, he continued. “Promise Falls needs me. Things have gone to shit since I was in charge. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I don’t follow politics,” Duckworth said.
Finley grinned. “Don’t give me that. Politics has everything to do with how you do your job. Elected officials fuck up, let jobs disappear; people get desperate, they drink more, get into more brawls, break into more homes. You telling me that’s not true?”
“Randy, really, I have to go.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know; you’re on the trail of a squirrel serial killer. All I’m saying is, when I get back in—”
“If.”
“When I get back in, I’ll be looking to make some changes, and that could include the chief of police. You strike me as the kind of man who’d be good for a job like that.”
“I’m happy doing what I’m doing. And if you don’t mind my pointing this out, the voters may not have forgotten your habit of engaging the services of fifteen-year-old prostitutes.”
Finley’s eyes narrowed. “First of all, it was just one underage prostitute, and she’d told me she was nineteen.”
“Oh, okay. Sure, run. There’s your slogan right there. ‘She told me she was nineteen. Vote Finley.’”
“I got fucked over, Barry, and you know it. I was a good mayor. I got shit done; I worked to save jobs. This personal stuff was irrelevant, and the media made a much bigger deal of it than it deserved. I’m thinking, now that that Plimpton bitch has shut down the Standard and I don’t have to worry about a lot of negative press, I got a real shot. I can control the message. It’s not like the Albany media gives a shit what goes on around here, unless I get caught fucking a goat or something. What I’m trying to tell you is, your being something of an insider for me in the department is something I would look upon with gratitude, and someday I’d be looking to repay the favor.”
“You think being kept up to speed on a squirrel torturer is your key to victory?” Barry asked.
Finley shook his head. “Course not. But I’m just saying, generally, anything that’s going on you think might be in my interest to know about, you give me a call. That’s all. That’s not asking a lot. It’s good to have an ear on the inside. Like, say Her Royal Highness Amanda Croydon, I dunno, gets pulled over for drunk driving.”
“I don’t think our current mayor has the same issues as you do, Randy.”
“Okay, not drunk driving, but whatever. She gets a city road crew to shovel her driveway.” He grinned. “That almost sounds dirty. Anyway, you hear anything about her taking advantage of the taxpayer or cutting legal corners, you could pass it along. Same goes for the chief. There’s got to be stuff on her. Can you believe we got a woman mayor and a woman police chief? They should rename this town Beaver Falls.”
“I have to go, Randy.”
“Because, let’s face it”—and the former mayor leaned in closer— “we’ve all got things we like to keep hidden. Some of us—I mean, I’m the perfect example—have nothing left to hide. It’s already out there. But there are others who’d be happy for the world not to know all their business.”
Duckworth’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Finley smiled slyly. “Who said I’m getting at anything?”
“Jesus, Randy, are you . . . Tell me this isn’t some lame attempt to threaten me.”
Finley moved back as though slapped in the face, but kept smiling. “How could you say such a thing? I’m just making conversation. As far as I know, you have an impeccable record with the Promise Falls police. Ask anyone. It’s an unblemished career.” He leaned back in again. “You’re a good cop, and a good family man.”
He put the emphasis on family.
“I’ll see you later, Randy,” Duckworth said. He raised the window and put the car in drive.
Finley offered up a friendly wave good-bye, but Duckworth wasn’t looking.
• • •
Duckworth headed for Thackeray College.
The campus was close enough to the park that students often walked through it, jogged through it, did drugs in it, made out in it. A Thackeray kid could have killed those squirrels. Or if not, a Thackeray kid might have seen it happen.
Maybe this was a waste of his time and energy. A couple dozen squirrels would get run over on the streets of Promise Falls before the day was over, and the police wouldn’t exactly be going around charging drivers with leaving the scene of an accident.
Duckworth fully expected that when he got back to the station, there’d be a pack of nuts on his desk. If not from Angus Carlson, then from someone else.
After all, it was legal to hunt squirrels much of the year in New York State. A couple years ago, in fact, over in Holley, the local fire department had a fund-raiser that awarded a prize to whoever shot the five heaviest squirrels. Finding the killer of a couple dozen of the critters was not exactly something the Promise Falls police force was going to devote all its resources to.
What troubled Duckworth was, What kind of person found entertainment value in killing twenty-three small animals and stringing them up for all to see?
What inspired him—okay, maybe a her, but most likely a him—to do such a thing?
And what would this person’s next stunt be? The literature was full of convicted killers who got their start snuffing the life out of house pets and other creatures.
He steered the car off the main road and through the gates into the grounds of Thackeray College. Handsome, stately redbrick buildings with imposing white columns, many of them dating back more than a century. There were some architectural exceptions. The chemistry building was five years old, and the athletic center was constructed ten years ago.
As he drove along the road to the administrative buildings, past Thackeray Pond, the college’s own miniature lake that was about a quarter mile wide, Duckworth noticed a work crew installing a six-foot post with a red button, and a small sign attached. He was driving by too quickly to make out what it said, but it reminded him of an old-fashioned fire alarm call box.
He parked in a visitor spot and once inside the building consulted a directory to locate the office of the head of campus security.
Heading into the building, he thought about what Randall Finley had said, and what he might have been intimating.
Did Randy think he had something on him? Was he trying to blackmail the detective into giving him dirt on what was going on inside the department so he’d have something to campaign on if he really did take another run at the mayor’s job?
If that was his plan, he could goddamn well forget it, Duckworth thought. Because the man had no leverage. Just like the former mayor said, Duckworth had had an exemplary career. He’d kept his nose clean.
Pretty much, anyway.
Sure, he’d cut the odd corner here and there over the years. There wasn’t a cop in the department who hadn’t. But he’d never taken a bribe. Never planted evidence, or held on to some, like cash from a drug deal, for himself.
Maybe years ago, before he met Maureen, he’d let a couple of pretty girls off with a warning when they’d been driving over the limit.
Maybe he’d even gotten a phone number or two that way.
But he chalked that up to youth and inexperience. He’d never pull a stunt like that now. Surely Finley hadn’t gone back twenty years to get some dirt on—
“Can I help you?”
Barry found himself at a desk just outside the campus security offices. A young man with several studs in one ear who looked as though he might still be a student had just offered to be of assistance.
“I want to see your boss,” Duckworth said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Duckworth flashed his ID, and within seconds he was sitting across the desk from Clive Duncomb, Thackeray College chief of security.
He was in his mid to late forties. Just shy of six feet, about a hundred and seventy pounds, a hard, square jaw and thick, dark eyebrows that matched his hair. Trim, and wearing a shirt that looked one size too small, as if he knew it would draw attention to his biceps. The guy had a decent set of guns. Weights, Duckworth guessed. Probably didn’t have a doughnut every morning on the way to work, either.
“Nice to meet you,” Duncomb said. “What’d you say your name was again?”
Duckworth told him.
“And you’re a detective?”
“Yes.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need to talk to you about an incident last night.”
Duncomb nodded grimly and sighed. He leaned back in his chair, arms extended, palms flat on his desk.
“I can’t say I’m surprised to see you. I’ve kind of been expecting someone from the Promise Falls police. Word gets around; I understand that. Hard to keep a lid on these things forever. But I want you to know, I’ve got matters well in hand here. I run a tight ship, and I’ve got my people working on it. But I can understand your concern, and don’t mind bringing you up to speed on the steps we’ve been taking.”
Duckworth wondered what sorts of steps the college might be taking to protect the squirrel community, and was more than a little surprised to learn this was already a high priority. “Go on,” he said.
“Maybe you noticed, driving in, some of the emergency posts they’re installing on the grounds.”
“Emergency posts?”
“All you do is hit the button; that sends a message to the security team, tells them where you are, and we dispatch someone right away. Kind of like a fire alarm, or one of those panic strips they put in the subway cars in the big cities.”
“And you’re doing this why?”
Duncomb took his hands off the table and leaned forward in the chair. He eyed Duckworth suspiciously.
“You telling me you’re not here about the attempted rapes we’ve had? We got some nutcase running around, got every woman on campus scared half to death.”
SIX
David
“WHAT are you talking about, Mom?” I said. “What do you mean, ‘not again’? Marla’s grabbed a baby before?”
“While you were in Boston,” she said. “There was an incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
“At the hospital. She snuck into the maternity ward and tried to walk out with someone else’s baby.”
“Oh, my God. You’re not serious.”
“It was just awful. Marla almost made it to the parking lot before someone spotted her, stopped her. Probably someone recognized her, given that she’s in the hospital pretty often, not just to see your aunt, but I think she goes there to see a psychologist or psychiatrist or something. I think his name is . . . I just can’t remember it. It was right on the tip of my tongue. Oh, that’s so annoying.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just tell me what happened.”
“Well, the police got called, but Agnes and Gill explained what had happened, that Marla’d lost a child, that she was, you know, mentally unstable, that she shouldn’t be held accountable for her actions because of the state she was in, that she’d been getting help.”
“I never heard a word about this.”
“Agnes didn’t want anyone to know. You know what she’s like. And, of course, she was in a position to keep it quiet for the most part, but things do get out. People at the hospital talked. Even so, your father and I, we never told a soul, except for now I’m telling you. But something like that, you can’t stop the rumor mill. Agnes, of course, made sure the hospital didn’t take any action against her, and the parents were persuaded not to press charges. Agnes made sure the hospital picked up all the costs that their insurance didn’t cover. Thank God Marla didn’t hurt the baby. It was only two days old, David. We’ve been so worried about her, wondering whether she’s pulling herself together. I didn’t think she’d do anything like this again. This’ll just kill Agnes. She’ll go off the deep end for sure. You know how concerned she is about what people think.”
“I don’t think she took this baby from the hospital. It’s not a newborn. It’s probably nine, ten months old. You need to call Agnes, get her over here.”
“Some mother somewhere must be going out of her mind right now, wondering where her baby is. Hang on.” She raised her voice. “Don!”
“Huh?” Sounding like he was in another room.
“Was there anything on there about a missing baby?”
“What?”
“Didn’t you have the radio on? Did they say if the police were looking for a missing baby?”
“Jesus Christ, she hasn’t done it again, has she?”
“Was there or not?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
To me, Mom said, “Your father says he didn’t—”
“I heard. I think I may know where the baby came from. I’m going to go over there.”
“You know whose baby it is?”
“You know anyone named Rosemary Gaynor?”
“No, it doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It might to Agnes. She might know Marla’s friends.”
“I don’t think Marla has any friends. She just stays cooped up in her house most of the time except to go out and run errands.”
“Call Agnes. Tell her to get over here as fast as possible. I want to go over to the Gaynors’ house, but I feel a little uneasy about leaving Marla alone with the baby.” I paused. “Maybe I should just call the police.”
“Oh,” Mom said cautiously, “I wouldn’t do that. I know Agnes will want to try to sort this out quietly. And you don’t really know what’s going on. For all you know, Marla’s just babysitting for someone, with their permission.”
“I asked Marla that. She says no.”
“But it’s possible! Maybe she’s babysitting, and while she’s looking after this child, she’s imagining that he’s her own baby. When you think of what she’s been through—”
The shower stopped. “I gotta go, Mom. I’ll keep you posted. Get Agnes over here.”
I slipped the phone back into my jacket.
“David?” Marla called from behind the closed door. I moved to within a foot of it.
“Yeah?”
“Did you say something?”
“No.”
“Were you on the phone?”
“I had to take a call.”
“You weren’t talking to my mom, were you?”
“No,” I said honestly.
“Because I do not want her coming over. She’s just going to make a big deal about this.”
I didn’t want to lie, or even mislead her. “I called my mom, but I told her to call Agnes. You could use your mom’s help. She knows all about babies. She was a midwife before she went into nursing, right?”
The second I’d said it, I regretted it, thinking it might remind Marla of the day she lost her child. Agnes had been present not only because she was Marla’s mother, but because she had expertise in delivering a child.
Not that it did any good.
“You had no right!” Marla shouted. She threw open the door, wrapped in a towel. “I don’t want to be here when she shows up.” She stomped into her bedroom and slammed the door.
“Marla,” I said weakly. “You need to—”
“I’m getting dressed. And I have to get Matthew into something. We’ll go look for a crib.”
I had no safety seat for an infant. It had been several years since I’d needed any version of one for Ethan. But at this moment, that seemed a minor problem compared to everything else. If Marla was determined to leave the house, but still willing to be in my company, then I’d put her and the baby in the car, ostensibly to go looking for a crib, drive like I had a bowl of goldfish on the front seat, but head for the
Gaynor home instead of a furniture store.
See how Marla reacted.
“Five minutes!” Marla said.
She was out in four, dressed in jeans and a ratty pullover sweater, her hair still wet. She had the baby in her arms. It was hard to see what he was wearing, she had him wrapped up in so many blankets.
“Grab the stroller,” she said. “I don’t want to have to carry him when we’re shopping. Oh, and let me get another bottle from the fridge.”
I didn’t feel I could call my mother back in front of Marla to tell her we were on the move. I figured the moment Agnes arrived and found no one here, my cell would start ringing. I folded the stroller, and as we stepped outside and Marla put her key in the door to lock it, I took another look at the bloody smudge on the door frame.
Maybe it wasn’t blood. It could be dirt. Someone who’d had their hand in the garden. Except Marla wasn’t much of a gardener.
“I think you should sit in the back,” I told her. “If the air bag went off in the front and crushed the baby into you, well, that wouldn’t be a good thing.”
“Just drive real careful,” Marla said.
“That’s what I’ll do.”
I got her settled into the backseat, behind the front passenger seat, with Matthew in her arms. I opened the back hatch, tossed in the stroller, then got behind the wheel.
“Where are we going to look?” she asked. “Walmart? Or maybe the Sears at Promise Falls Mall?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, heading west. Even though I’d grown up in this town, it wasn’t until I was a reporter for the Standard that I really got to know all corners of it. I could find Breckonwood without the help of a navigation system. “Walmart might be a good place to start.”
“Okay,” she said placidly.
It didn’t take long to reach the Gaynors’ neighborhood. Breckonwood was in one of the town’s tonier enclaves. Houses here cost much more than the average Promise Falls bungalow, but they weren’t fetching the same kind of money they might have ten years ago, when the town was prospering. Madeline Plimpton lived around here. She’d thrown a party for Standard staff at her home eight or nine years ago, back when there were things to celebrate in the newspaper business.