But I also knew Bert Sanders had his number. My brother-in-law was a great believer in expediting the justice system. Why go to all the trouble of a trial to encourage a troublesome out-of-towner to stay out of Griffon when a good swift kick in the nuts could accomplish the same thing in a lot less time?
But the men and women under Augustus Perry’s command were careful. They covered each other’s asses. They didn’t teach someone a lesson in front of witnesses. And the corners they cut, they cut with their heads held high because they believed, in their hearts, that they were making Griffon a better place.
I’d entered the number for Augie’s cell, not his home phone. He always carried his cell. It rang several times before it went to message.
“Augie, it’s Cal. I need to talk. Call me when you get this.”
I wasn’t going to spin my wheels waiting for him to call back. I was going to take another run at Sean Skilling. I wasn’t through with that kid.
I drove back to the Skilling place, an expansive two-story house with a triple garage and three different models of Fords out front, although none of them was the Ranger Sean had been driving. I parked around the corner, walked back, and pressed my thumb hard on the doorbell.
It didn’t take ten seconds for someone to answer. A small woman with porcelain skin and light blond hair to match. Without makeup, she gave the appearance of having had all the blood drained out of her.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Skilling?”
“Yes? I’m Sheila Skilling.”
“I’m Calvin Weaver.” I flashed my license. “I’m a private investigator.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s about Sean.”
Alarm consumed her face. “Sean? Is he okay?” She turned her head. “Adam! The police are here about Sean!”
I didn’t see the need to correct her yet.
“What’s happened?” a man shouted, his voice muffled. A moment later, a door swung open and Adam Skilling emerged from the basement. Running up the stairs had winded him, which wasn’t too surprising, given that he looked to be at least two hundred and fifty pounds. He had a round face, his cheeks currently crimson, a moustache, and a full head of brown hair.
“What’s going on?” he asked between breaths.
“Something about Sean,” Sheila said. Both sets of eyes were on me. “Has there been an accident or something?”
I shook my head. “More like an incident.”
“Good heavens, what?”
I went authoritarian. “In the execution of my duties, I was attempting to elicit some information from your son, when one of his friends assaulted me. Then the two of them fled.”
“Jesus,” said Adam. “Where the hell was this?”
“At Patchett’s.”
“You’re a cop? You don’t look like a cop.”
“I’m an investigator. Private. My name’s Cal Weaver.” I did him the courtesy of showing my license again. “It’d be my preference not to involve the police in this, but that will depend largely on your cooperation. And Sean’s.” I was hoping they wouldn’t see through me as easily as Phyllis Pearce had. I peered beyond them into the house. “Is he home? I don’t see his truck in the drive.”
“He’s— he’s out,” Sheila said. “I don’t know where he is.”
Adam Skilling, no longer winded, dug into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone. “I’ll get him. I’ll get him over here right—”
“No, not yet,” I said. “I have some questions for you first. Maybe we can iron a lot of this out before we bring your son into it.”
“Who assaulted you?”
“I don’t know. I was struck from behind.”
“But Sean, he didn’t hit you,” Sheila said.
“I think that fact may help mitigate things,” I said. “May I come in?”
They led me into the living room and motioned for me to take a seat on the couch. Sheila and her husband took chairs across from me.
“Is Hanna here?” I asked.
That one caught them both off guard. “Hanna Rodomski?” Sheila Skilling asked.
“Is there another Hanna?” I asked.
“No, of course not. And no, she’s not here. I mean, she’s probably with Sean. Is Hanna in some kind of trouble, too?”
“I told you that girl was no good,” Adam Skilling said. “Didn’t I?”
“Does she stay here?” I asked.
Sean’s mother flushed. “Well, I know maybe it’s not proper, but yes, the odd night, she does stay here with—”
“That girl sleeps here more than she does at her own house,” Adam said. “It’s not right. She’s a bad influence on the boy. Some days she parades around here in her underwear like she owns the joint.”
His wife shot him a look. “She was just going into the bathroom. And you don’t have to look.”
The man’s cheeks, which had settled down some since his run up the stairs from the basement, flushed again.
“And anyway,” his wife continued, “she wasn’t here last night. I know that for sure. I think both of them might have... slept someplace else, because I don’t even think Sean was here last night.”
“You never know where the hell they are,” Adam said, puffed up like a blowfish. “You can’t afford to take your eyes off them for a minute.”
Sheila shot him another look, which this time he seemed to take to heart. Some of the air was let out of his chest, and he shrank a size. “All I’m saying is, they take years off your life.”
I was troubled by Sheila’s comment that Hanna hadn’t stayed here last night, because I had the impression from her parents that she hadn’t slept in her own house in the last twenty-four hours.
“When’s the last time you saw Hanna?” I asked.
“Yesterday,” Sheila said. “Around dinnertime?” She looked at her husband, but he shrugged. “But I don’t understand. Are you here about Sean, or Hanna? Was Hanna the one who hit you?”
“I’m pretty sure she wasn’t,” I said. “But I am here about Sean, and Hanna. And Claire Sanders, too.”
“Oh, Claire, we know her,” Sheila said. “Don’t we?” she said to Adam.
“And her father,” he said wearily.
“I was trying to ask your son about her when I was struck,” I said. “I’m trying to find Claire, and I think Sean and Hanna know where she is.”
“Why are you looking for Claire?” Adam asked.
I ignored the question. “I think Hanna will know where she is, and I’m hoping Sean can put me in touch with her. Sean’s looking for Claire, too. He was asking around at Patchett’s. Sean may think he has something to fear from me, but he doesn’t. My interest is in finding Claire. If he helps me with that, I can let everything else slide.”
“Have you talked to Bert?” Adam asked. So he and the mayor were on a first-name basis.
“Yes,” I said. I looked at the cell phone in the man’s hand. “This’d be a good time to invite Sean to come home. Don’t mention I’m here.”
Adam hesitated, then placed the call. Sean’s phone probably rang three or four times, and then his father spoke. “Hey, where are you?... What do you mean, driving around? Driving around where?... Okay, listen, I don’t care where you are. Just get your ass home pronto... You’ll find out when you get here... If you’re not here in five minutes you can forget driving around in that Ranger. I’ve got a fifteen-year-old Civic on the lot that’ll suit you just fine... Yeah? Fine, five minutes.”