“That’s not what Yolanda wants,” he told her. “I mean, yeah, she still wants Carl, but she’s thought of another way to go about it.”
Sam’s chin trembled as the realization set in. “Come on, Ed. You gotta be kidding me. Not even Yolanda would do that.”
Ed Noble grinned nervously. “She’s something else, you gotta admit.” He raised the gun. “It’s nothing personal. I mean, with me.”
From beyond the door, someone shouted: “Sam!”
Fifty-eight
Best to your boy.
Randall Finley’s words were ringing in Barry Duckworth’s ears.
Best to your boy.
Trevor had been at the house, Barry recalled. He’d dropped by to pick up some CDs and then wandered into the kitchen just after Barry had been telling Maureen his concerns about the chief.
The last thing Duckworth could have wanted was for his thoughts about Finderman to become public. Okay, so maybe she should have been keeping a closer eye on the Gaynor murder. She’d have seen how similar it was to the Fisher woman’s slaying. It would have steered his investigation in another direction from the get-go. But he was never going to point a finger. Wouldn’t the chief have been within her rights to throw it back in his lap? Why hadn’t he reviewed earlier crimes himself to look for common elements? Why hadn’t he brought himself up to speed on cases that had happened while he was away?
He’d been venting when he told all this to Maureen. Seeking to place blame elsewhere. Not wanting to have to carry all the weight himself. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, putting any of this on the chief. But now it was out there. If she hadn’t already heard about Randall Finley’s charges, she would any minute now.
Sitting in his car, he wondered whether he should call her. Get ahead of this. Tell her what Finley had said, and where Duckworth believed he’d gotten his information. Fess up. Fall on his sword.
Except Duckworth didn’t know for sure.
So before he called his boss, he had to call his son.
He got out his cell, called up Trevor’s number from his list of contacts, and tapped on it with his thumb.
Three rings later, a pickup.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” Duckworth asked.
“Dad?”
“Where are you, right now?”
“I’m at work,” Trevor said.
“You’re at Finley Springs? Or you’re on the road, doing a delivery?”
“On the road.”
“Where?”
“Greenwich,” Trevor said. A small town east of Promise Falls. “I’m just coming into Greenwich. Got about five drop-offs to do here.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“I’m not going to be here all that—”
“There’s a gas station and a Cumberland Farms on Main Street. You know where—”
“That’s one of the places where I have to make a stop,” his son said.
“I’ll meet you. Twenty minutes.”
“Dad, what’s going on? Has something happened to Mom? Is she—”
“Be there.” Duckworth ended the call.
Ignoring all speed limits, and turning on the flashing red lights set in the front grille, Duckworth made the trip to Greenwich in fifteen. A quarter of a mile away he spotted the Finley Springs van parked in the Cumberland Farms lot, close to the road.
Trevor had been watching for him, and was getting out of the van as the unmarked cruiser pulled into the lot and screeched to a halt. He was standing by Duckworth’s door as he got out of the car.
“What is it?” he asked. “You’re going to make me late for the rest of my run.”
Duckworth got up close to his son, jabbed a finger at his chest.
“You’ll never guess what I heard Randy say today.”
“Huh?”
“At a press conference. Just now. He had all this stuff to say about my boss. How she missed a connection between two homicides. I’m scratching my head, wondering how he could have come up with something like that.”
Trevor swallowed hard. “Why are you asking me about this?”
“I just wondered if you had any idea where he came up with that.”
Trevor averted his eyes. “Who the hell knows how he comes up with anything? He’s kind of a nutcase. Everyone knows he’s full of shit.”
“You heard me talking to your mother.”
Trevor said nothing.
“You heard me talking about this with your mother. You were standing outside the kitchen and heard it.”
“You’re always talking about work stuff. How am I supposed to know what’s private and what isn’t?”
Duckworth placed both palms on his son’s chest and gave him a shove. Trevor stumbled backward, caught himself before tripping onto the asphalt.
“Goddamn it, you really did do it,” Duckworth said, his cheeks flushed. “I was hoping I was wrong. I was hoping maybe he got it from somebody else. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I don’t know!” Trevor shouted.
“Do you realize what you’ve done? That asshole’s going to turn this into a campaign issue. He’s going after my boss. You think this isn’t going to come back to me? You think it’s not going to bite me in the ass? What am I going to tell her when I get hauled into my office? What?”
“I’m sorry!” he blurted, starting to tear up.
“You fucked me over! Way to go! My own son! Is this payback? Is that what it is? Some lifelong grievance you decided to settle by putting my job at risk? You think it’s just me you’re hurting? You think this won’t hurt your mother? Jesus Christ, what were you thinking, blabbing to him about that?”
“I said I’m sorry! You just don’t know what he’s like.”
“I know what he’s like more than anyone. What are you talking about?”
Trevor turned away, head down.
“Trev,” Duckworth said. “Talk to me.”
“I owed him,” his son said, back still turned.
“Owed him what?”
Trevor turned slowly. “It was about Trish.”
Duckworth lowered his voice. “What about her?”
“There was — something happened between us. An accident. A misunderstanding.”
Duckworth reached out, gently gripped his son’s arm, slowly turned him around. “What kind of accident? When was this?”
“Just before we broke up. She was going to slap me and I went to stop her and I... I kind of ended up hitting her.”
“You hit her?”
“And Mr. Finley, he found out all about it because he’s close with Trish’s family, and he talked to her about whether to go to the police, whether she should have me charged, and he kind of made it sound like he talked her out of it, but that could change, depending on whether I could help him out or not. You know, like if I ever heard anything interesting that might help him, like, politically. And when I heard you talking to Mom about those murders, I thought that was something he could use, so I told him. I didn’t want to. But I wanted us to be square, you know, so I wouldn’t owe him anymore.”
“What’d he say?”
Trevor dropped his head. “He said it was a start.”
“He’s a fucking blackmailer,” Duckworth said. “I’ll kill him.”
“He was keeping me out of trouble. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I did a stupid thing. I never meant to hit Trish. I really didn’t. I was just swinging my arm around to deflect her, you know? But my hand, it got her right on the cheek and...”
Trevor began to cry. “I really fucked up. I fucked up huge. I hate this job. I hate working for that asshole. I just. I didn’t—”
“Come here,” Duckworth said. He pulled his son into his arms, patted his back softly.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Trevor said, his face pressed into his father’s shoulder. “You’re in deep shit. You’re in trouble.”