A Tap on the Window

Forty-six

Driving north out of Griffon, I thought I saw the car again in my rearview mirror. That silver Hyundai with the tinted windows. But once I got out of the downtown area, and the buildings began to thin, the car took a hard right and disappeared.

It took me a full two hours to find Dennis Mullavey’s house in the village of Hilton. There were still some signs up, coming into the village, advertising the annual apple festival a couple of weeks back.

There was a cool breeze coming in off Lake Ontario as I mounted the steps of the one-story red-brick house. There was a rusted green Ford Explorer from the last century in the driveway. I rang the bell and waited. Seconds later, a tall, very thin black man in neatly creased white khakis and a red pullover Gap shirt opened the door. His short hair was gray, and a pair of reading glasses were perched on his nose. I put his age at late sixties, early seventies. Retired, no doubt, given that he was home in the middle of the afternoon.

“Yep?” he said.

“Mr. Mullavey?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Doug Mullavey.”

“My name is Cal Weaver.” I got out my license, held it in front of him, gave him enough time to get a good look at it.

“You’re a private eye?” he said.

“I am.”

“What brings a fella like you to my door?”

“I was hoping to have a word with your son, Dennis.”

“Dennis isn’t here,” he said.

“When might you be expecting him?”

The man shrugged. “He doesn’t live here.”

“Would you have an address for him?”

“Nope.”

I smiled. “If you wanted to get in touch with him, how would you go about that?”

“I guess I’d call his cell.”

“His cell doesn’t answer. That’s been my experience, and it’s also been the experience of his former employer.”

“Maybe he’s in a place where you can’t get a good signal,” Doug Mullavey said.

I leaned into the railing that ran down the side of the steps. “Can we speak plainly, Mr. Mullavey?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

“I’m trying to find Claire Sanders. A girl from Griffon. Her father’s the mayor there. Your son was going out with her, might still be, for all I know. Claire’s disappeared, and I’m hoping your son might have information that would lead me to her. It’s even possible they’re together.”

“I wish I could help you.”

“The thing is, Mr. Mullavey, Claire went to some lengths to slip away without anyone following her. She had help from a girl named Hanna Rodomski, and that girl’s now dead.”

That caught his attention. “What happened to her?”

“She was murdered. Around the same time that Claire vanished. I think Claire took off with Dennis. She got into an old Volvo station wagon, driven by someone matching your son’s description. Does your son have a car like that?”

“I’m not sure what kind of—”

“Mr. Mullavey, please. You and I both know no son gets a car without his father’s input and guidance. So you’ve as much as admitted that’s your son’s car. I don’t have any reason to believe Claire or your son had anything to do with that girl’s death, but I’m willing to bet one or both of them know something that could have some bearing on it. And if Hanna Rodomksi’s murder is tied in to Claire’s disappearance, it may very well mean that Claire’s in danger. If Claire’s in danger, and your son is with her, then your son is also—”

“I really don’t think—”

I talked over him. “Is also at risk. So if you have any idea where your son is, you’d be well advised to tell me.”

Doug Mullavey, lips together, ran his tongue over his teeth. His lips parted and he said, “That’s horrible about that girl. Just horrible.”

“Help me,” I said quietly.

He opened his mouth and said, “I don’t know you, Mr. Weaver. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know whose interests you really represent. I don’t know, if I asked you who you’re working for, that you’d give me an honest answer. So I’m afraid that I don’t have anything to say to you.”

I bowed my head wearily, then looked the man in the eye. “I don’t mean your son any harm. I’m trying to keep him, and Claire, out of trouble. What is it you’re afraid of? What is it your son is hiding from?”

“I’m afraid these are questions I can’t answer. Maybe, in time, you’ll be someone I come to trust.”

“Others might come with the same questions,” I told him.

“You think you’re the first?” he said, and came close to a smile.

“Who else has been here?”

“You think if I wouldn’t talk to the police, I’m going to talk to you?”

“The police have been here?” I asked. “Which police? State? Griffon?”

He waved his hand like he didn’t give a damn. “Someone came around looking for Dennis. Said he’d done some things I know aren’t true, that he stole from people’s houses when he was cutting their lawns and they were away. That’s bullshit. I sent him on his way.”

“It must have been a Griffon cop,” I said. “Did you get a name? When was this?”

Mullavey ran a hand over the crown of his head. “You know, I used to work for Kodak. Retired ten years ago. My wife, Denny’s mom, passed away two weeks after I stopped working.”

He looked off in the direction of Lake Ontario, although we couldn’t see it from here. “I’m glad I wasn’t there at Kodak for the end, when it ceased to be, what with people no longer needing film. There’s a phrase I used to say there — maybe it wouldn’t be so applicable these days, what with everything being digital and all, but whenever someone asked me what was going to happen next, I used to say, ‘I guess we’ll see what develops.’ I guess we’ll see what develops, Mr. Weaver, but in the meantime, I have nothing to say to you.”

“I’m not the enemy,” I said.

“Would the enemy say he was?” Doug Mullavey shot back.

“No,” I said. “He wouldn’t.” I handed him one of my business cards and to my surprise, he accepted it. He called out to me as I walked back to the car. “Mr. Weaver?”

I turned. “Yes?”

“Dennis is a good kid.”

“I hope he’s more than that,” I said. “I hope he’s smart. Because it looks like he’s not just responsible for his own safety. He’s responsible for Claire Sanders’, too. I hope I don’t have to come back here and tell you something happened to her, or to your son, and that you could have told me something that would have prevented it.”

I continued on my way and didn’t look back.

On the drive back to Griffon, Donna called to say she’d be home late, probably around nine. If we were really going to try to go away, there was a lot of work she had to get ahead on. She figured she’d stay late today, a Friday, and Monday so that whoever had to do her job in her absence wouldn’t make a complete mess of it. I suggested that when she got home, we order a pizza.

No argument.

I told her I probably wouldn’t make it home much before she did, and that turned out to be true. When I pulled into the driveway at six forty-five, her car wasn’t there. It was dusk, and the streetlights had come on. I felt I’d done about as much as I could today. I was running on empty. I would make a few calls from home tonight, see if I could find out anything about Dennis Mullavey online. Maybe I could track down a Facebook page for him, find out who some of his friends were. If I got lucky, some of them might be right here in Griffon. If I had the energy later in the evening, I’d go looking for them.

A lot of maybes. Everything depended on my being able to stay awake once I went through the front door. I felt a face-plant on the couch coming on.

And then it occurred to me I really owed Bert Sanders a call. If I were him, I’d be waiting by the phone, hoping to hear something, anything. That would be the first thing I’d do.

No. The second. The first thing I was going to do was get a beer from the fridge.

I put the car in park, took out the key, and sat there for the better part of ten seconds.

Decompressing.

Finally, I opened the door, got out.

Behind me, someone said, “Mr. Weaver?”

I turned around, saw the baseball bat a millisecond before it connected, catching me at the back of the neck, just below my skull.

Then things got really bad.