“Maybe you were, too.”
“Maybe. Adam and Clive, they were... they were men’s men, if you know what I mean. One a former biker, the other a former cop. Both sides of the law. Just being in their company, it made me feel like more of a man. And Georgina felt like more of a woman with Miriam and Liz. They were both very sensual. It was like we finally got to hang out with the cool kids. We became so enmeshed in the dynamic that by the time Clive and Adam suggested spicing it up with our... our guests, we just went along.”
“Like Olivia Fisher.”
“That’s right.”
“How long was this before she was murdered?”
“Not long. A few weeks.”
“How did you feel when you heard about her death?”
“Shocked, of course. Stunned. We all talked about it. We all viewed it — I swear — as a terrible tragedy, because she was such a free spirit, a lovely young woman.”
“That you raped.”
“Detective,” said Nate Fletcher.
“Not... in her case,” Blackmore said. “She was getting married soon. I’m not so sure she wanted to go through with it.”
“What did she say?” Duckworth said.
“Just that she’d been going with some guy so long it just seemed to be inevitable.”
Duckworth let that float around in his head for a few seconds before asking, “Did you believe her murder was connected to what had gone on with all of you?”
Blackmore was slow to answer. “It crossed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because of the kind of person Clive was.”
“You thought Clive killed her.”
“I just thought, of any of us, he’d have been the one most capable. He asked Adam once about the disc that had her on it, and all he would say was Clive shouldn’t give it a thought. So he tried not to worry about it. But then when he thought Adam and Miriam were dead, and there was a chance it, and the other discs, might be found, he had to get into the house and find them. But then last night, when he found out Miriam was alive, she told him Adam got rid of them long ago.”
“Tell me about Rosemary Gaynor,” Duckworth said.
“Who?”
“Rosemary Gaynor. Or Bill Gaynor.”
“I’ve never heard of either of them in my life. Who are they?”
Duckworth gave him a brief recap. “It was all over the news.”
“It was exam time,” Blackmore explained. “I had a lot of grading. I wasn’t really following current events.”
“Why are you asking about the Gaynor case?” Fletcher asked Duckworth.
The detective waved the question away and asked Blackmore, “You never heard Adam or Clive mention them? Is it possible the Gaynors were earlier swapping partners with the Chalmerses? Or the Duncombs?”
“I’m telling you, I’ve never heard of them.”
Duckworth strummed his fingers on the tabletop. Clive Duncomb might have had a real reason to kill Olivia Fisher, but there was no apparent connection to Rosemary Gaynor. Dr. Jack Sturgess might have had a real reason to kill Gaynor, but there was no apparent connection to Fisher.
And Bill Gaynor was still off in the wings.
There was a rapping at the interrogation room door. Duckworth shifted around in his chair, saw the stern face of Chief Rhonda Finderman in the small rectangular window.
Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any worse.
Once Peter Blackmore had been returned to a cell, Nate Fletcher had gone home, and Rhonda had been given ten minutes to carve him a new one, Duckworth sat at his desk.
He was the only cop in the entire room. There was someone down at reception, but up here, where the detectives worked, there wasn’t a soul.
Duckworth rested his head in his hands. Even my hair’s exhausted, he thought. So much had happened in the last couple of days — God, the last couple of weeks — that his world was feeling off-kilter, as though the horizon were on an angle, and nothing lined up true.
It was time to go home. Maureen would probably be in bed. He couldn’t wait to crawl in next to her. He’d be asleep in seconds.
His cell phone rang.
He dug into his pocket for it, saw a Boston area code on the display. He accepted the call and put the phone to his ear.
“Duckworth.”
“Hello, this is the detective?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Sandra Bottsford.”
“Oh!” He sat upright in his chair.
“I’m so sorry not to have called you back sooner. I only just found out you’d called the hotel. Is this about Mr. Gaynor again?”
“Right, yes, it is. I know when we last talked, you’d said Mr. Gaynor’s car had never left the hotel garage, that he’d been seen occasionally around the hotel, but I need to take another look at that.”
“You’re still wondering if he could have driven to Promise Falls and back to Boston during the night?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, as I’ve told you, the car never left, and it’s not as if there’s a high-speed train running back and forth between the two places in the dead of night.”
“I know, but—”
“Unless he’s the one who stole the car.”
Duckworth shifted the phone to his other ear. “Say again?”
“It had slipped my mind before, but now, maybe it’s important.”
“What stolen car?”
“We had an incident,” she said. “I didn’t even find out about it for a week. Our concierge didn’t let me know. I might add, our former concierge.”
“Ms. Bottsford, what happened?”
“Someone checked into the hotel late that evening and handed over his keys — to someone. But later, when the front desk was trying to track the car down, no one had seen it.”
“Go on.”
“They were all in a panic, wondering how they’d lost a car, and they kept putting off calling the police, thinking maybe it had been misplaced in the garage, hoping it might turn up before the guest who owned the vehicle wanted it brought up the next morning. And they got lucky.”
“The car came back.”
“As the sun was coming up, they found it on the street, half a block away.”
“So how many hours was that? Between the time the car disappeared and when they found it on the street?”
“At least six hours,” Sandra Bottsford said.
“Whaddya know?” Duckworth said.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to tell you this the first time. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. Thank you for this. I’ll be following this up.”
He ended the call, let the phone drop onto the desk.
Gaynor could have done it.
He could have stolen a car, driven home, murdered his wife, and returned to Boston.
It was possible.
But was it likely?
Duckworth still liked Duncomb for Olivia Fisher’s murder. Maybe there was something that connected the security chief to Rosemary Gaynor, something he hadn’t yet found, something that would make it possible to consider him a suspect in both murders.
He’d get back to it tomorrow. Right now, he had absolutely nothing left. He started to get out of his chair when his desk phone rang.
“God, just let me go home,” he said under his breath, grabbed the receiver, and snapped, “What?”
“Detective Duckworth? Barry Duckworth?”
It was a man’s voice, but it was garbled and raspy, as though coming through an old, badly wired speaker.