I was tempted. But I hadn’t brought my gun with me today.
“And Mr. Weaver is not a bodyguard,” Bob said. “He’s a private investigator.”
“Oh, are you now?” Broadhurst said. “What are you investigating? You gonna find out who’s making all these threats against Jeremy?”
“No,” I said. “You’d need every police department in the country to deal with those.”
“Mr. Weaver’s going to keep an eye on Jeremy till things settle down,” Bob said. “Just an hour ago someone went by and threw a rock through the window.”
Instead of looking back at the house — Broadhurst had probably already seen the broken glass — he glanced at the Porsche, then up and down the street, probably worried about whether his recently repaired car would get caught in the crossfire of the next act of vandalism.
“That’s terrible,” he said. “It’s terrible, and my heart goes out to you.” His tone softened. “God, all the things that get triggered from one incident.”
“Hardly a minor event,” I said.
“True, true,” Broadhurst said. “A great many lives impacted, especially the family of that poor young girl.”
“If it was me,” I said, “I don’t know that I could ever drive that car again, knowing what happened.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” Galen Broadhurst said. “To be honest, now that it’s out of the shop and good as new, I’m thinking of selling it. It’s got a tragic history, and I suspect I’ll be reminded of that fact every time I get behind the wheel.” He gave me a smile for the first time. “Interested?”
I shook my head, tipped my head at my aging Honda. “In my line of work, I’m better off with something that blends into the scenery.”
He laughed. “Yeah, like, remember Magnum, driving around in that red Ferrari? Great car for detective work, that.”
“What’s a vehicle like this worth?” I asked.
“You’re looking at a 1978 911 Targa, excellent condition. It’d probably run around fifty, sixty grand, maybe a little less. All depends on the market. A car’s really only worth what someone will pay for it, regardless of what the book says. Am I right, Bob?”
“That’s for sure, Galen,” Bob said.
“I would have thought it’d be even more than sixty,” I said.
“Plenty of classic Porsches out there that could run you a quarter-mill.” He smiled “And I’ve got a couple. But I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for this one.”
“It was Galen’s wife’s car,” Bob said.
“That’s right,” he said. “Amanda. She passed away six years ago. Big C. This was her pride and joy, and it’d be hard for me to get rid of it. I’m a sentimentalist, but sometimes you have to accept that things are the way they are and move on. Am I right, Bob?”
“You’re right, Galen.”
Bob seemed to have the starring role here as Galen’s yes-man.
“Anyway,” Broadhurst looked at me, “if you should change your mind and think you might want to buy it, or know anyone who might, here’s my card.”
He handed it to me. I slipped it into my front pocket.
“Well,” he said, “in spite of things going a bit sour here, the documents I needed to have signed are signed, we’ve done our business, and I can be on my way.”
“The two of you work together a lot?” I asked.
“We’ve done a few deals,” Broadhurst said, smiling. He laid a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Just doing what I can to make Bob here a rich man. Isn’t that right, Bob?”
Bob offered up a smile that looked as genuine as a spray-on tan. He said, “Last year Galen bought several blocks in downtown Albany. It’s part of a proposal for some new state government offices.”
“Well,” I said. “I’m sure it’s all over my head.”
“I would imagine so,” Broadhurst said. He reached out a hand to Bob for a farewell shake, but did not bother with me.
He got in behind the wheel of the Porsche, fired it up, then eased it into first and pulled away from the curb. We listened to the car work its way through the gears until it reached the end of the street, turned, and disappeared.
Bob said, “He’s kind of an asshole.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I said.
Seventeen
Duckworth did not need to look up Craig Pierce’s address.
He knew where he was living, and it wasn’t at his own apartment. He’d given that up after the incident, and now — like Trevor — was back living with his parents. Thank God that was the only thing about their situations that was similar.
He didn’t see any point in calling ahead to ask whether this was a good time to drop by and talk to Pierce. There’d never be a good time.
Pierce’s parents lived in the west end of Promise Falls on an older, tree-lined street. It was a two-story home that, while not run down, needed attention. The grass was overgrown, the shrubs crying out for a trim. The woodwork around the doors and windows could have used a coat of paint.
Duckworth parked at the curb, walked up to the door and rang the bell. It took Pierce’s mother — Duckworth remembered her name was Ruth — nearly a minute to come to the door. She peered through the window first, then opened the door a crack.
“Ms. Pierce, it’s Detective Duckworth.”
“Oh, yes, hello,” said Ruth Pierce. She opened the door far enough to admit him, as though opening it wider would allow unseen forces to invade the house. “Forgive me. You wouldn’t believe the people that show up. Awful, awful people. Not quite as many as there used to be, but they still come.”
“I’m sorry,” Duckworth said.
“People can be so cruel. The ones that want to make fun of him, to laugh at his misfortune. They’re no better than whoever did this to him.”
“They can be pretty awful, it’s true.”
As he stepped into the house, he sniffed the air.
“That’s scones,” Ruth Pierce said. “They just came out of the oven. Craig loves my scones and I try to do whatever I can to make him happy. Would you like one? With some jam?”
Duckworth felt his resolve weakening, not unlike that time, on another investigation, when he arrived to question a woman just as she’d finished baking banana bread. There were some things one could not say no to.
“That sounds wonderful,” he said.
“It would give us a chance to chat before you go upstairs to talk to Craig,” she said. “That’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Talk to Craig.”
“I do, yes.”
“He probably knows you’re here. He sits and looks out the window a lot of the day.”
Her eyes drifted northward. If Craig kept an eye on the street, his bedroom had to be right above their heads. It occurred to Duckworth that there wasn’t a sound coming from up there.
As if reading his mind, his mother said, “I’ve got the TV hooked up in there but he almost never turns it on. Mostly he’s on his computer. Come to the kitchen.”
Duckworth followed her, and the scent of scones. He took a seat at the kitchen table as Ruth transferred the scones from a cooking sheet to a plate. “I love them when they’re still warm,” she said.
“Absolutely,” he said.
“You look like you’ve lost some weight.”
“A little.”
“Isn’t your wife looking after you?”
Duckworth chuckled. “It’s because she is looking after me that I’ve managed to lose it.”
She shook her head. “That’s no way to live, denying yourself the pleasures of life.” She briefly froze, and then her chin began to quiver. “Oh my poor, poor boy.” Her body shook with one brief sob. “There are so many pleasures he’ll never know.”
Duckworth contemplated whether to get up and comfort her, but she saved him the trouble, suddenly standing up straight and saying, “We have to move forward. That’s all we can do.”