It was almost five.
Donna usually got home around four thirty from her job at Griffon Police Service. They changed the name on the building a few years back. No longer was it the Griffon Police Force. That sounded a bit too, well, forceful. Too close to the truth, actually. So they changed it to “Service,” which made it sound more like they were gun-toting caterers. The powers that be must have decided that if they sounded gentler, they’d somehow be perceived that way.
Didn’t happen.
And while Donna did work there, she didn’t carry a gun, or ride in a cruiser, or work weekends and nights. She went in Monday to Friday, nine to four, got all the statutory holidays off, and didn’t have to wear a uniform. That’s because she wasn’t a cop. She worked in payroll and admin, making sure everyone’s monthly paychecks got deposited to the financial institution of their choice, sorted out overtime disputes, and remembered to pay the department’s bills so that when a Griffon resident dialed 911, somebody answered.
So it was possible that a Griffon cruiser parked in front of our house was not a cause for worry the way it might be for anyone else. Donna knew every member of the force, if not personally, at least by name and Social Security number. She had been known, on occasion, to bring in baked goods and share them with anyone who walked past her desk. An officer could have been dropping by to return the favor. Donna and one of the town’s two female police officers — Kate Ramsey — sometimes went to the movies together, although not lately. Neither Donna nor I had been particularly social with anyone lately.
But still, I didn’t have a good feeling about this.
Only half a block from home, my cell, sitting on the seat next to me, rang. I glanced down and saw the word. Used to be, Donna called me at least a couple of times during the day. Usually nothing important. Just calling to chat. She’d know there was a good chance I wouldn’t answer, but that it was still safe to try, since I’d have my phone muted if I was someplace where I didn’t want to make my presence known.
I snatched up the phone.
“Yeah,” I said.
“The police are here,” she said.
“I’m just coming down the street,” I said. “I thought maybe it was Kate.”
“No. It’s Haines and Brindle.”
“Haines,” I said solemnly. One of the younger cops on the force, although he still had more than a decade in. He’d been the one who came to us with the news, in August. “I don’t know Brindle.”
“You’re in for a treat, then,” she said.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re not saying. They want to talk to you. At first I thought maybe they’d found out who sold him the drugs, had come to tell us.” Donna could draw pictures of Scott all day, but it was hard for her to write his name out, or say it aloud. “But I think they’d have been willing to talk to me about that.”
I’d have been surprised to learn that tracking down who provided Scott with ecstasy was still a priority for the Griffon Police Service, if it ever was. Not that the cops around here weren’t concerned about keeping the peace. They just went about it differently. If they thought you were a drug dealer, particularly one from out of town, they took you out back of a Griffon snowplow shed, beat the living shit out of you, then gave you a lift down to Niagara Falls and dropped you off in front of some abandoned industry on Buffalo Avenue.
There’d long been stories about excessive force around here, which explained Scott’s take on that officer patting down the girl behind Patchett’s. He’d said there was no reason for it, but for all I knew, the officer had a legitimate suspicion she was up to something. I’d learned long ago, during my stint with a police department, that when you gave someone — male or female — the benefit of the doubt, you reduced the odds that you’d be going home at the end of your shift.
For the most part, no one around here was troubled by rumors of police overstepping their bounds. The citizens of Griffon felt safe in their homes. As long as that sense of security continued, they didn’t need to know the details.
When I was honest with myself, I had to admit that was my attitude, too. I knew that if and when I found the one who sold Scott XTC, X, E — whatever they were calling it on the street these days — I’d handle the matter myself.
“Talk to you later,” I told Donna, and ended the call. I pulled up alongside the police car, saw the two male officers inside. I pulled over to the curb ahead of the cruiser, got out, glanced at the house and saw Donna watching through the living room sheers.
Ricky Haines, the younger of the two, got out on the passenger side and nodded. Early thirties, black hair and moustache, all neatly trimmed. In shape, too. He had the look of someone who might have played football at some point, although he was a little shy of the necessary bulk. Hockey, maybe, although bulk had its pluses there, too.
“Mr. Weaver,” he said, touching his index finger to his forehead in a mini salute.
“Officer Haines.”
“Good memory,” he said.
It’s hard to forget the name of the man who told you your son was dead.
The other door opened. This cop looked to be in his late thirties, and if he’d ever played a sport, he’d long since given it up. I was guessing he weighed two-eighty, and he was carrying a good chunk of it around the middle. There was more hair above his lip than on his head.
“This is Officer Hank Brindle,” Haines said.
I nodded. “Hey.”
“So you’re Donna’s husband,” he said. His voice was low and gravelly.
“That’s right.”
He nodded, thought about that for a second, then said, “Wonder if you might be able to help us out with something.”
“I’ll give it a try.”
Brindle pointed to my Honda Accord. “This car’s registered to you?”
“Yes.”
“Were you driving around in this vehicle last night?” Brindle asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us where you were?”
“It would depend on the time,” I said.
“Say around ten.”
“I was on my way home.”
Brindle nodded. “On your way home from where?”
“I’d been doing some work in Tonawanda.”
Brindle’s head kept nodding. “Ricky here tells me you’re a private investigator. That right?”
I nodded, waiting. I could’ve asked what this was about, but cops had a way of getting to things in their own sweet time, and didn’t like to answer questions. I knew the drill.
Brindle nodded thoughtfully again, then glanced over at his younger partner. “I guess I’ll let you take it from here. You’re more up to speed on this.” I thought I heard a hint of resentment.
I turned my attention to Haines. “Up to speed on what?”
“We’re looking for a girl,” Haines said. “A teenager.”
I waited.
“Her name’s Claire Sanders. Seventeen. Blond hair, about five five. Hundred and fifteen pounds or so.”
“Why you looking for her? She done something?”
“It’s important that we find her,” Haines said, sidestepping the question.
I persisted. “Because she’s done something, or because she’s missing?”
Haines cleared his throat. “She’s unaccounted for. We’d be grateful for your cooperation here, Mr. Weaver. This is kind of an unofficial inquiry, to be honest. Considering who Claire’s father is, we’ve opted to handle this with discretion.”
I had to think a second. Claire Sanders? “This girl is Bertram Sanders’ daughter? She’s the mayor’s kid?”
“I can see why you’re a detective,” said Brindle.
“Our information,” Haines said, “suggests you may have encountered Claire last night.”
“You have a picture of her?”
Haines got out his phone, tapped it a couple of times, and approached me. He held the phone close enough that I could see the screen, but didn’t hand it to me. The photo looked like it had been taken at a party. The girl was laughing, her head tilted back, a martini glass in her hand. I was guessing it was off Facebook.