“So they’re not dealing?”
He chuckled. “If you had, like, six million dollars in the bank, would you risk all that selling dope to kids in Griffon?”
I called up the map app on my phone and found Hilton. I figured I could drive there in about an hour and a half. Normally, going to the Rochester area, I’d head south and pick up I-90 and take it east. But Hilton was on the north side of Rochester, and it looked as though I’d make just as good time going northeast and taking Lake Road, which would turn into the Roosevelt Highway, and finally the Lake Ontario State Parkway. Slower roads, more stops, but a more scenic route, to be sure.
I called Donna.
“I’m heading Rochester way. Not sure when I’ll be home.”
“Okay.”
Donna often didn’t ask where I was going. She knew my work could take me almost anywhere unexpectedly.
I didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.
“Cal?” she said. “You there?”
“We should go away,” I said.
“What?”
“We should take a trip.”
“Take a trip where?”
“I don’t know. Where would you like to go?”
“I–I have no idea,” she said.
“What about Spain?”
She half laughed. “Why would you say Spain?”
“It was the first place I thought of. We could do Australia.”
“Just because we go to the other side of the world doesn’t mean everything will be okay,” Donna said.
“You said something when we had our midnight breakfast,” I said. “You said we’ll never be happy again.”
“Cal, I’m sorry. I—”
“No, wait. You said we’ll never be happy again, but maybe we could be happier.” I felt a lump forming in my throat. “I want to be happier. I would settle for that for now.”
Now the silence came from the other end of the line. I waited a few seconds before saying her name.
“I’m here,” she said. Another pause, then, “San Francisco.”
“What?”
“I’d like to ride on a cable car. I want to stand on the side, holding on. That’s what I want to do.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
“When?”
I thought. “I think — and I could be wrong — but I think I’m getting somewhere, trying to find Claire. When this is wrapped up, we’ll do it. If you can get the time off.”
“I can get the time off,” Donna said.
“You can start looking up hotels and stuff when you get off,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Maybe one of those small boutique hotels.”
“Okay.”
Each time she said the word, she sounded more sad.
She said, “I won’t be able to not think of him.”
“I know. Neither will I.”
“I want to think about him. I just don’t want to think about him...”
Falling.
I could never stop thinking about Scott falling.
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.