“Sorry about that,” I said.
“My kid doesn’t have that watch,” she said, and closed the door.
Twenty-one
Barry Duckworth didn’t have enough on Marla Pickens to hold her. He had no choice but to let her leave with Natalie Bondurant. But he didn’t think it would be long before he had her back in that interrogation room. The techs were at her house, looking for evidence. He’d already heard they’d found blood by the front door, and on the handle of the stroller. A DNA analysis wouldn’t be coming overnight, but if that blood matched Rosemary Gaynor’s, Marla Pickens was going down. And with any luck, Duckworth thought, he’d have something on her even before that.
The fact that she had Rosemary’s baby — Jesus, it just hit him that he’d stumbled into a horror movie — was not in itself proof that Marla had killed the woman. Damning, yes, but not proof. Her story about an angel coming to the door and handing over Matthew was pure and utter bullshit, with no supporting evidence, so it didn’t worry him much. It wasn’t that he had to disprove that story. He just had to prove Marla was at that house on Breckonwood Drive.
And he had to find the nanny.
Sarita.
Bill Gaynor had been no help there, but they had found his wife’s cell phone in her purse, which was sitting in plain view on the kitchen counter. If Rosemary Gaynor’s killer had taken anything from it, and there was nothing to suggest he had, he’d apparently had no interest in her cash or credit cards.
He? Duckworth thought. More likely she.
When Duckworth was finished with Marla Pickens, he checked his own phone, which he’d felt vibrate during the interrogation. An e-mail from one of the officers on the scene informed him that there was a contact listing for “Sarita” in the Gaynor woman’s phone.
No last name.
So Duckworth tapped on the number, automatically dialing it, and listened.
After three rings: “Hello?”
The voice sounded female, so he asked, “Is this Sarita?”
“Sarita?”
“That’s right. Are you Sarita?”
“Sarita who?”
Duckworth sighed. “I’m trying to get in touch with Sarita. Am I talking to Sarita?” Bill Gaynor had suggested Sarita was an illegal immigrant, but the detective did not detect any kind of foreign accent.
“I don’t have a last name. I’m looking for Sarita. She works as a nanny.”
“Who is calling?”
He hesitated. “Duckworth. Detective Duckworth, with the Promise Falls police.”
“I don’t know any Sarita. There is no Sarita here. You have the wrong number.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s very important that I speak to Sarita.”
“Like I said, I don’t know how you got this number.”
“If you’re not Sarita, then do you know her? Because I—”
The call ended. Duckworth had been hung up on. “Shit,” he said. He never should have identified himself as being with the police.
He returned to his desk, and just as he’d suspected, word had gotten around about his first call of the day. Placed in front of his computer monitor was a jar of salted peanuts, with a yellow sticky note attached that read, For paying your informants.
The twenty-three dead squirrels. Was that actually today? It seemed like a week ago.
He cracked the lid, poured out a handful of nuts, tossed them into his mouth. Then he entered the phone number he’d just dialed into the Google search field on his computer. If it was a landline, there was a good chance the name of the person who owned that phone would come up.
No such luck.
But not all was lost, even if the phone was a cell. Unless it was a throwaway, they’d be able to attach a name to it in no time. Duckworth could get someone on that. The Internet abounded with firms offering to track down cell-phone identities for a price, but they often promised more than they could actually deliver.
Duckworth forwarded the officer’s e-mail containing Sarita’s number to Connor Stigler, in communications, with the words: Whose number is this?
Then he phoned his wife, Maureen.
“Did you have one?” she asked him.
“Have one what?”
“On the way to work. A doughnut.”
“I did not.” It was nice not to have to lie for once. “It was a close one, though.”
“You sound like you’re eating something right now.”
“Peanuts,” he said. “What’s for dinner?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” she said. “What are you making?”
“Seriously?”
“Why is it always my responsibility? Maybe you didn’t get the memo. I work, too.”
“Okay. I’m bringing home a bucket of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy.”
“Well played,” Maureen said. “I’m serving fish. Pickerel.” She paused. “And some greens.”
“Greens,” Duckworth said. “Maybe I will pick up fried chicken.”
Maureen ignored the threat. “Will you be late?”
“Maybe. I’ll keep you posted. Heard from Trevor?”
Their son. Twenty-four years old, looking for work. He didn’t live with them, or anyone else, for that matter. Not anymore. The love of his life, a girl named Trish, who’d traveled across Europe with him, had recently broken things off. Trevor, devastated, now had a two-bedroom apartment all to himself. Barry and Maureen didn’t hear from him as often as they’d like, and they worried about him.
“Not today,” Maureen said. “Maybe I’ll give him a call. See if he wants to come for dinner.”
“For fish? Good luck with that.”
“It doesn’t have to be today.”
“Okay, do that. Listen, gotta go.”
He’d noticed that he already had an e-mail back from Connor.
It read: L SELFRIDGE 209 ARMOUR ROAD.
As he was pushing his chair back from the desk, uniformed officer Angus Carlson walked past, glanced at Duckworth and the jar of peanuts, and smiled.
Before Duckworth could level an accusation, Carlson said, “Wasn’t me.” Paused, then added, “I’d have to be nuts to mock a superior officer.”
The Armour Road address was a rooming house, a three-story Victorian home that had been broken down into apartments. There was a buzzer by the front door labeled MANAGER. Duckworth buzzed. Moments later, a short, heavyset woman with little more than a few wisps of hair came to the door and opened it a few inches.
“Yeah?”
“Ms. Selfridge?” he asked.
“Mrs. But the mister died a few years back. We don’t have any vacancies, but you can leave your name if you’d like.”
“I’m not looking for a room,” he said. “That was pretty rude of you, cutting me off like that.”
Her eyes danced. “Huh?”
“On the phone, a few minutes ago. When I was asking for Sarita.”
“How’d you find where I live?”
“You pay the bill on that cell phone, Mrs. Selfridge. There are some things you don’t need Homeland Security for.”
“I told you before, I don’t know any Sarita.”
“I’m thinking you do.”
She started to close the door but Duckworth got his shoe in.
“You got no right,” she said.
“I’m guessing Sarita likes to keep under the radar, so you let her use your phone. That way she doesn’t need to get one in her own name. You tack on a little to the rent every month for the service?”
“I don’t know what you’re jawin’ about.”
Duckworth looked around, like a would-be buyer appraising the house. “When’s the last time you had a fire inspection, Mrs. Selfridge? Someone to go through, room by room, make sure everything’s up to code?”