Parting Shot

Forty-nine

Once Barry Duckworth was behind the wheel, he got out his phone. Cal Weaver was already in his list of contacts. He brought up the number and tapped it. The phone rang eight times before going to voicemail.

“Cal, it’s Barry,” Duckworth said. “I’ve just been at the Plimpton house and know Jeremy Pilford is in your care, which is a good thing, but there’s something you need to know. Despite all the various threats made against the kid, I think there’s one very credible one. A guy named Cory Calder. He could be armed. The guy’s a whackjob, Cal, and you need to take this one seriously. I don’t have any reason to believe he knows where you are — Ms. Plimpton filled me in, by the way — but you need to be on guard just the same. Call when you get this, and in the meantime, I’ll send you a picture of this guy in case you should happen to run into him. Take it easy.”

As he drove away from the Plimpton house, Duckworth realized he was only a mile from Brian Gaffney’s parents’ place. He wanted to see how Brian was doing. The young man might have been released from hospital and gone to stay with his family for a while, which would give Duckworth a chance to ask him whether the name Cory Calder was familiar to him. He had his doubts that it would, but it was still worth posing the question.

As he pulled up in front of the Gaffneys’ house, his gaze went to the opposite side of the street. A rental cube van was backed up to the open garage of Eleanor Beecham’s place. The front door was propped open with a stick.

A short, heavyset guy with curly hair who Duckworth did not recognize came out holding a chair from a kitchen dinette set. He put it in the back of the van, and as he re-emerged, Harvey Spratt, the man Duckworth had spoken to the previous day, exchanged a few words with him.

Maybe there was time for another quick chat with the folks looking after Mrs. Beecham. Norma, in particular. Duckworth had what he would call a lot of balls in the air right now — a tattooed man, a murder, a missing woman, an Internet target — so he didn’t really have time for this, but since he was here, he decided to follow up on what had been bothering him since his first visit.

He got out of the car and approached the house. Harvey spotted him and said, “Back again?”

Duckworth nodded amiably. “That I am.”

“We’re kind of busy at the moment,” Harvey said as the man helping him stopped to see who he was talking to.

“Just like to talk to Norma a minute,” Duckworth said.

“Well, she’s pretty busy too.”

Duckworth stood there. “I’ll wait while you get her.”

Harvey mumbled something under his breath, then poked his head into the house. “Norma!”

From inside, “What?”

“Get out here!”

“What is it?”

“That policeman’s here again.”

Silence.

Then Duckworth heard someone stomping through the house, and seconds later, Norma was at the door.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Good day, Ms. Lastman,” he said. “Do I have that right?”

Norma’s right cheek twitched. “You can call me Norma.”

“But your last name is Lastman? That’s what you told me the first time I was here. That’s what Eleanor — Mrs. Beecham — said your name was, too.”

“Yup, that’s right,” she said, stepping out of the house and onto the lawn.

“She was telling me,” Duckworth said, “that after you’d been working here a while, you discovered that the two of you are actually related to each other. That she’s your aunt.”

Norma nodded slowly. “She said that?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Well, yeah, we did find out there was a connection.” She smiled nervously.

“She said your father was her brother. What was his name?”

Norma didn’t answer immediately. Duckworth could almost see the wheels turning. “It was Sean,” she said. “Sean Lastman. But I never really knew him.”

“That’s quite something,” Duckworth mused. “Must have brought you closer together. I mean, you weren’t just employee and employer any more. You were niece and aunt.”

“You could say that,” Norma agreed.

Duckworth asked, “You ever been married, Norma?”

“Sorry?”

“I said, have you ever been married?”

“No. Me and Harvey, we’re probably going to get married.”

Harvey, coming out of the house carrying a couch with the other man’s help, smiled in their direction.

“Soon!” he said.

“Harvey doesn’t like to rush into anything,” Norma said, laughing and shaking her head.

“Yeah, some men are like that,” Duckworth said. He tipped his head toward the van parked in the driveway. “That’s yours, right?”

“Hmm?”

“Not the big rental, the regular van. Harvey said yesterday that it’s yours.”

She nodded. “Yeah, it’s mine.”

“What’s funny,” Duckworth said, “is that I ran the plate to see who it was registered to, and you know what name came up?”

Norma said nothing.

“Norma Howton. So what I’m wondering is, if you were born Norma Lastman, and you’ve never been married, why’s your van registered in the name Norma Howton?”

Norma struggled with a response. “Um, maybe you called it in wrong. There could be a mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

Harvey emerged from the big cube van. “What was that?”

“Just asking your girlfriend if her last name is Lastman or Howton,” Duckworth said.

Harvey and Norma exchanged a nervous look.

“Tell you what,” Duckworth said. “Why don’t you see if you can come up with an answer while I go across the street and talk to those folks? When I come back, we’ll see what you’ve thought up. And then we can also talk about what appears to be going on here.”

“What would that be?” Harvey asked.

“Charming an old lady out of her money and possessions,” Duckworth said. “Maybe you can work on that story, too.” He smiled. “Be back in a bit.”

He headed back across the street. As he started up the driveway to the Gaffney house, Constance Gaffney emerged, grim-faced, from a side door of the garage behind the house.

“Hello, Detective,” she said, trying to break into a welcoming smile.

He tipped his head. “Mrs. Gaffney.”

“Brian’s not here,” she said quickly. “My husband’s not here, either. Sorry. Do you want to come back later?”

“Where’s Brian?” he asked.

“He’s back in the hospital,” she said.

“Back?” Duckworth asked. “You mean he was discharged, but he was readmitted?”

She blinked. “Um, he left yesterday. Like, on his own. He just walked out. He shouldn’t have, but he did. And then he got hurt, so—”

“Brian got hurt?”

Constance Gaffney opened her mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out.

“Mrs. Gaffney? You said Brian got hurt.”

“It was nothing. I just meant, his back hurts. You know, from all the needles or whatever went into it.”

“It sounded like you were going to say he got hurt when he left the hospital.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head furiously. “No, no. I meant he was hurting himself by leaving the hospital.”

Duckworth nodded slowly. He was thinking he didn’t need to have been a cop for as long as he had to spot when someone was lying. A patrolman his first day on the job could see that Constance Gaffney wasn’t telling the truth.

“I guess I’ll drop by the hospital, then,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

“Though I might as well ask you what I was going to ask him,” he added.

“I’m sure I won’t know,” Constance said.

“You might want to wait until I’ve asked the question.”

“Well, yes, okay. What is it?”

“You ever heard the name Cory Calder?”

“Cory who?”

“Calder.”

“Who’s that?”

“Do you recognize the name?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t. Should I?”

“Not necessarily,” he said.

“Who is he?”

“I’d really like to ask your husband if he’s heard of him.”

“Well, if I haven’t heard of him, I’m sure my husband hasn’t.”

That prompted a grin from Duckworth. “You’re sort of mentally connected, are you?”

She laughed nervously. “No, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t know who he is.”

“Mrs. Gaffney, are you okay?”

“Am I okay?”

Duckworth nodded.

“Of course I’m not okay,” she said, suddenly indignant. “How could I be okay when Brian is in the hospital, when someone has done something so horrible to him? How could anyone be okay at a time like this? And how are we going to get that mess off his back? I’ve heard they can remove those things, but it must be awfully painful. They use lasers or something. I was looking it up on the Internet. It’s horrible, just horrible.”

She stopped abruptly, as though something had just occurred to her.

“What was the name again?”

“Cory Calder.”

“Do you — are you thinking he’s the man who did it?”

“We want to talk to him,” Duckworth said.

“What does that mean? Does that mean you suspect him? Is that what that means?”

“He’s what we would call a person of interest.”

Constance’s hands were shaking. She linked them together to make them stop. “Are you sure there wasn’t another name? Another person of interest?”

“That’s the only name I have at the moment. Why? Were you expecting me to mention someone else?”

“No!” she said. “Why would I? It’s just, this person of interest, as you call him, he might not have acted alone. He might have had help.”

“That’s possible. As I said, I’d like to bounce that name off your husband, too,” Duckworth said.

“I told you, he’s not here.”

“Does he carry a phone?”

“Why don’t I ask him about this Cal Colby when he gets home, and if he recognizes the name, I’ll have him call you.”

“Cory Calder,” Duckworth said. “Not Cal Colby.”

A nervous titter escaped her lips. “Right.” She was looking over Duckworth’s shoulder at the house opposite. “I guess Mrs. Beecham’s moving out,” she said. “Maybe she’s going into a nursing home.”

“I wonder,” Duckworth said. He was about to turn and look across the street when something else caught his eye.

“Mrs. Gaffney, are you sure your husband isn’t home?”

“Hmm?”

“I thought I saw someone in that window.” He pointed to one of the small, square windows set into the garage door.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I was just in there. I took out the trash.” She forced a laugh. “I think if he’d been in there I would have seen him. Soon as I go into the house, I’ll call him, find out where he is, and have him call you. Would that be okay?”

Duckworth said slowly, “I guess that would be fine, Mrs. Gaffney. I appreciate your—”

That was when they both heard the shrieking. Not from the garage, but from across the street. Eleanor Beecham, struggling to support herself in the doorway of her home, was crying, “No! No! What are you doing? Stop it! Stop it!”

Harvey Spratt and the other man emerged from the back of the van, heading back to the house. Mrs. Beecham had both hands on one side of the doorframe, but it wasn’t enough to keep her from sliding down. Norma appeared behind her.

Duckworth said, “Shit.” He glanced both ways before running across the street, reaching into his jacket for his phone along the way.

When Harvey saw the detective, he went slack-jawed. He said something to the other man that Duckworth couldn’t hear. Norma was struggling to get the woman to her feet, saying, “For God’s sake, Mrs. Beecham, didn’t I tell you to stay downstairs?”

Duckworth, panting, said into his phone, “It’s Detective Duckworth, Promise Falls Police. I need an ambulance.” He barked out the address, resisted any further questions, and was slipping the phone back into his pocket as he reached the front door.

“Mrs. Beecham,” he said.

“She’s fine!” Norma said, pulling the elderly woman to her feet, holding her under the arms. “There’s nothing going on here!”

“Who’s that?” the old woman asked, pointing a leathery finger at the man who’d been helping Harvey load furniture.

The man said, “Hey, I’m just buyin’ some stuff.”

Duckworth said to Mrs. Beecham, “Did you give these people permission to sell your things?”

“No! I heard all this racket and I climbed up the stairs and everything’s gone!”

“She doesn’t understand,” Norma said.

“Why don’t you explain it to me?” Duckworth asked her.

“We’re helping her,” the woman insisted. “We’re getting her ready.”

“Ready for what?”

Norma ran her tongue over her lip. “To go to the facility.”

“What facility?” the old woman asked.

“Yeah, what facility?” Duckworth echoed.

“It’s in Albany,” Norma said. “Pine Acres.”

“Show me the paperwork.”

“Paperwork?”

“Give me a name,” Duckworth said. “Whoever does the admissions.” When Norma hesitated, he said, “Okay, I see what’s going on here.”

“Can I load this stuff or what?” the man asked.

Duckworth said to him, “What’d you pay for all these things you’re taking?”

“Two grand,” he said.

Duckworth said to Harvey, “Give him his money back.”

“No way,” Harvey said. “You got no business interfering in a private transaction.”

“Show me something,” Duckworth said. “Emails, paperwork, anything that proves that Mrs. Beecham is moving to a seniors’ residence, and that someone here has been given legal permission to act on her behalf. Do you have a power of attorney for her?”

Norma and Harvey exchanged looks. Norma said, “I’m sure we have that somewhere. Tell the man, Mrs. Beecham. Tell them we’re helping you. But first, let’s get you off your feet.”

She helped the old woman back into the house, but once inside, there was no place to sit. The living room had been cleared of furniture, marks on the faded carpet indicating where the couch and chairs and coffee table had once been. Norma led Mrs. Beecham to the stairs that climbed to the upper level and got her settled on the second step.

In the distance, a siren wailed.

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Beecham said. From her perch on the stairs, she looked into the living room. “Where’s the sofa?”

“We can get those documents you want,” Harvey said to Duckworth. “It just might take a day or two. Give me a card and we’ll be in touch.”

Duckworth said, “Mrs. Beecham, I have some people coming to check you out. That’s the first thing we want to do, is make sure you’re okay. Then we want to sort out what’s going on here.”

“Did you hear what I said?” Harvey asked. He was standing right next to Duckworth now, crowding him as he spoke with Eleanor Beecham.

“Stand over there, sir,” Duckworth said.

“I’m asking, did you hear me?”

“And I said, stand over there.”

“You give us a couple days to get the paperwork you want.”

Duckworth viewed him with undisguised annoyance. “Why don’t we just phone Pine Acres right now and confirm what you’re saying? How about that?”

Norma and Harvey exchanged looks once again, but this time there was a higher level of concern.

“I don’t know if there’s anyone there today,” Norma said.

“Why? It’s not a weekend.”

The siren grew louder.

When Duckworth returned his attention to the old woman, Harvey reached out and grabbed him by the elbow. Duckworth turned suddenly, shook off Harvey’s hand, and pointed a finger in the man’s face.

“Sir! Do not touch me. I’m warning you, if you touch me again, I’ll place you under arrest.”

“This is bullshit,” said Norma, who was behind Duckworth. Without warning, she extended her arms, placed her palms on the detective, and gave him a forceful shove. He stumbled forward into Harvey, who shoved him back in the other direction. Duckworth feared he was going to fall right onto Eleanor Beecham and injure her — he might have lost some weight, but he was still a pretty heavy guy — so he tried to pivot in mid-fall. He landed hard on the step next to her.

Harvey’s face flushed red. He brought back a leg to kick the detective, but Duckworth shifted quickly and Harvey’s shoe connected with the stairs.

“Stop it!” Mrs. Beecham screamed.

Harvey decided another kick was not the way to go. He formed a fist and swung at Duckworth, connecting with his chest as the detective attempted to get back up. He was thrown back onto the stairs again.

Duckworth pulled back his jacket and reached for the gun holstered at his side. The last thing he wanted to do was discharge his weapon in the close quarters of this house. Harvey was causing him a lot of grief, but he was not armed. But Duckworth believed he needed the persuasion that his gun would provide to get things under control.

As he was about to draw his weapon, however, the odds got a little more even.

Albert Gaffney, dressed casually in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, had run into the house. He charged Harvey from behind and threw him into a wall, hard enough that the man’s head dented the drywall.

Harvey went down like a rag doll.

He put a hand to his head. “Son of a bitch!”

Albert looked at a somewhat stunned Duckworth and extended a hand to help him to his feet.

“Constance said you had something you wanted to ask me,” he said.