A Tap on the Window by Linwood Barclay
“So you saw them out there. Then what happened?”
Sheila said, “I ran into Sean’s room to tell him. He was in bed, but he wasn’t sleeping. He ran out—he was only in his boxers—and I ran after him, in my housecoat. Adam was already outside—he’s dressed and ready for the day before the rest of us.”
He said, “I asked them what the hell they were doing, that they needed a warrant to search a car, and the older one, Brindle, he looked at me and laughed. Then Sean ran out and started yelling at them, too, that they had no right to look in his truck. Brindle, he got in front of Sean so he couldn’t stop Haines from looking in the glove box and under the seats.”
Adam swore under his breath before continuing. “That son of a bitch Brindle actually pushed Sean away. He laid his hands on him. I think we should be able to get him charged with assault. I’ve talked to my lawyer about it, that we should go after this guy. I can’t believe this kind of treatment. I’ve always had a good working relationship with the Griffon police. They get all their cars from me. We’ve got service people over there all the time helping them out whenever they have a problem. How dare one of their people treat Sean like that.”
I shook my head. “You have bigger things to worry about.”
Sheila said, “We just stood there, while they took the car apart, feeling so helpless. We didn’t know what to do.”
“I called my regular lawyer first,” Adam Skilling said. “Right then and there. Got him out of bed. But he doesn’t handle criminal stuff, so he gave me the name—”
“Our son is not a criminal,” Sheila said.
“Christ, I know that,” he said. “But you don’t want a lawyer who normally handles real estate representing your kid on a murder charge.”
At the word “murder,” Sheila put her hand over her mouth again.
“Tell me about what they found,” I said.
Adam said, “The younger one, Haines, he says something like, ‘What have we got here?’ He’s digging around under the passenger seat, and he pulls out this bundle of stuff, which turns out to be a pair of jeans and a pair of . . . you know . . . panties.”
Sheila winced.
Adam continued. “I thought I was going to throw up. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. We’d found out, when we were waiting for the police to be finished with Sean, that the girl, Hanna, that she wasn’t wearing anything from, you know, from here down.” He touched his own belt.
“What’d Sean do?”
“He was stunned. When he realized what Haines was holding up, he started screaming at him, that there was no ‘effing’ way he put those clothes there, that it was impossible. He accused the police of putting it there.”
If Sean Skilling was Hanna’s killer, we had to accept that he was stupid enough to keep the girl’s clothing under the front seat of his truck for an entire day. If he were a murderer, and wanted to keep a souvenir of his crime, wouldn’t he have found a better place to hide it than his truck? Wouldn’t he at least have locked it? And did it make sense, if Sean had already been having sex with Hanna for some time, that he’d feel the need to keep a small trophy from the event?
I asked, “Is Sean the only one who drives the Ranger?”
Sheila said, “I use it occasionally. So does Adam. But mostly, it’s Sean’s car.”
“What I’m thinking is, if your son had done this, and had hidden those clothes in the truck, he’d have been running the risk that either of you might find them. I don’t think Sean’s that dumb.”
Adam nodded. “He isn’t. Kids are pretty good at covering their tracks when they’re up to something they don’t want their parents to find out about.” He grimaced. “And Sean’s as good as any of them.”
“So what happened then?”
Adam said. “Brindle put the clothes into some kind of evidence bag.” A long pause, like he was afraid he might break down before he continued. “And then they arrested our boy.”
“They put handcuffs on him,” Sheila said. “They didn’t have to do that. What did they think he was going to do? Attack them or something?”
Adam sighed. “Like Sheila said, they cuffed him and put him in their car and they took him away. We got to see him later. He’s a complete wreck.”
“You have to get him out of jail,” his wife said. “Anything could happen to him in jail.”
“And that was when they left?” I asked. “They searched the truck, arrested Sean, and left?”
They both nodded. Sheila sniffed.
“The police didn’t search anything else?”
“Like what?” Adam asked.
“Did they search Sean’s room? Look in his closet? Seize his computer? Did they search the garage? Anything else?”
Adam shook his head. “No, just the truck.”
Haines and Brindle had found what they’d wanted to find, and they’d found it remarkably fast. Was the search of the truck part of their overall investigation, and they got lucky? Had they been tipped off that the evidence was there? Was Sean’s accusation, that the evidence had been planted, plausible? And if so, who’d done it? The police themselves?
I was finding it hard to keep all the various aspects of this case straight.
“I want to ask you a few questions, which may or may not be related to all of this,” I said.
Sean’s parents looked like they were waiting for X-ray results.
“Did you know that Sean and Hanna were making money delivering beer and liquor to underage kids?”
“What?” Sheila said. “That’s not true—that’s positively ridiculous.”
“It’s true. Roman Ravelson was able to buy the stuff legally, and then he’d have Sean drive all over the place doing deliveries. There was a markup on the booze, and Sean and Hanna would keep a cut.”
Sheila shook her head violently. “No, I don’t believe that.”
Adam Skilling hadn’t said a word.
“Even if this were true, why’s it important?” Sean’s mother asked.
“Everything’s important right now,” I said. “Driving all over the place, making cash deals with people, there’s plenty of opportunities for trouble. People feel they’re getting ripped off, shortchanged. Cash transactions. Maybe someone Sean and Hanna dealt with had some sort of grudge against them. I don’t know. I just need to know everything I can.”
“So you can help Sean,” Adam Skilling said. “So you can prove he’s innocent.”
I hesitated. “I want to see that Sean gets all the help he can, but I’m not working on his behalf, or yours, at this time. I’m working to find Claire Sanders. And when I do, that may end up helping Sean, because Claire may be able to fill in the gaps. What you need is a good lawyer.”
“We have one,” Adam said. “We’ve hired Theodore Belton.”
I knew Teddy Belton. “He’s a good man. You’re in good hands with him.” I stood. “I’ll be in touch. If you hear anything, about Claire, or anything else, please let me know. And if I hear something that could help Sean, I’ll call you right away.”
Then I spoke to Adam. “Can I see you outside?”
I squeezed Sheila Skilling’s hand as I moved toward the door, Adam following. Once we were both out of the house, standing in the driveway, I said, “I noticed you had nothing to say when I mentioned what Sean’s been up to.”
“I admit, I had an inkling,” he said. “I found a couple cases of beer in the bed of his pickup one day, under the cover, and confronted him about it. He said he was just holding it for that Ravelson kid, that he’d bought some beer but had no way, at the time, to get it home, so Sean said he’d take it over later.”
“You didn’t believe him.”
He pressed his lips together. “No. I don’t mean to say anything bad about that poor girl—God rest her soul—but I blame Hanna. That girl was a bad influence. She liked money and d
“Sean could have said no.”
He gave me a withering look. “Can you remember being that age? What would you have done to keep a cute girl like that happy?”
The garage door was halfway open, and I could make out a vehicle in there, a pickup truck. I was surprised the police hadn’t seized it, just as they’d seized my car. There seemed to be plenty more reasons to have taken Sean’s Ranger in, given that they’d found Hanna’s clothes in it.
I said, “They didn’t take Sean’s truck?”
“Huh?” Adam said, and saw where I was looking. “That’s not Sean’s. That’s my vehicle.”
I squinted. Upon closer examination, I could see it was dark gray, not black like Sean’s. And it was a bigger truck than the Ranger. An F-150.
“It’s not exactly mine,” Adam clarified. “Just one I borrowed from the lot for a couple of days. I have a different car every week.”
“Two nights ago,” I said slowly, drawing out the words, “what were you doing?”
“I don’t recall,” he said. “Probably home, with Sheila.”
“You weren’t out driving around anywhere?”
He appeared to be thinking. “I might have been, actually.”
“You weren’t following Sean and Hanna around, were you?”
Adam blustered. “Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because you were at Iggy’s. You were there not long after Claire came in, and Hanna came out and got in my car.”
I caught him speechless. He needed a few seconds. “How—who told you that?”
“You’re on Iggy’s closed-circuit. I’ve seen it. What were you doing there? Seems kind of a funny time to leave the house to go grab a burger.”
“I didn’t get—I only ordered a coffee,” he protested.
“I don’t give a damn what you had. I want to know why you were there.”
“Okay,” Adam Skilling said resignedly. “I’d been driving around. I’d been hoping I might spot Sean, see his truck. I haven’t had a good feeling lately about what he might be up to, so I left the house around nine thirty and started going by places where I know he hangs out sometimes. I never did find him, never saw him anywhere. So as I was heading home, I pulled into Iggy’s for a take-out coffee. Simple as that.”
“Simple as that,” I repeated.
“What, you think—what do you think?”
“I think it’s funny you never mentioned this before. That you were driving around Griffon, looking for your son, while all these other things were going on.”
“There wasn’t anything to mention. The thing is, I didn’t want to worry Sheila about what Sean might be doing, so I told her I was going to the dealership to do some paperwork. That’s all.”
“When Hanna stayed over at your house, that bothered you,” I said. “You mentioned that before. You didn’t like her parading around in her underwear.”
His cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t—I never said ‘parading.’ I just didn’t think it was proper, what was going on. That’s all. Are you trying to make something out of this, Mr. Weaver? I thought you were trying to help us. I thought you were on our side.”
“I’m on Hanna’s side,” I said. “And Claire’s. I don’t think I know yet who else’s to be on.”
FORTY-FIVE
Shortly after leaving the Skillings’ house, I pulled into Iggy’s parking lot. I wasn’t here to ask any more questions. I had a call to make, and possibly some notes, and didn’t want to do it sitting in the car.
And I was hungry.
As I headed in, I walked past two parked motorcycles that at a glance looked like the ones that belonged to the two bikers who’d been rousted by Quinn and Ramsey that night in front of Patchett’s after Roman had bonked me on the head.
Once I was inside, I spotted them sitting next to the window, chowing down on burgers, fries, and onion rings. They each had a soda in a cup that looked bigger than the gas tanks on their bikes. They both looked to be in their forties, short hair—not the kind of long locks one might expect on some Hell’s Angels wannabes—and both carried about forty pounds more than they should have.
At the counter, I ordered a chicken sandwich and a Coke, then took a table where I could see them, and their bikes outside. I got out my notebook and wrote down their license plates. I took a bite of my sandwich, got out my cell, and put in a call to Barb at Hooper’s office.
“Oh yeah, hi,” she said. “I’ve been waitin’ for your call. You need some info on Dennis?”
“Dennis Mullavey, that’s right.”
“Okay, hang on, I just had it on my desk here, and then—here it is. So are you hiring him or something? I’ve got his birth date here . . . September 17, 1995. I don’t know if I can give you his Social Security number—”
“Mainly I’m just looking for a way to get in touch with him.”
“Okay, I’ve got a cell number.” I scribbled it down as she read it off. “And his address . . . okay, it’s sort of Rochester, but it’s actually northeast, a dot on the map called Hilton.” She gave me a mailing address and a home number.
“This Hilton address, that’s his parents’ place?” I asked.
“His dad,” Barb said. “Far as I know, anyway. I think he said his mother died years ago, and he lives with his dad, or did when he wasn’t working for us. But I don’t know if it’s going to do you any good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you are trying to get hold of him for a job, good luck. We’ve still got one last paycheck for him, and I was going to send it to his dad’s address, but I called him first to make sure, and he said he doesn’t know where Dennis is. And when we call his cell, it just goes to message.”
“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend in Griffon? Maybe she’d know where I could find him.”
“You talkin’ about Claire?” Barb asked.
“I think that was her name.”
“Claire Sanders. That’s the mayor’s kid, you know. I don’t have a number for her, but of course he would. Just call the town hall. He’s pretty approachable. Dennis, he was crazy about that girl—at least he seemed to be just before he bailed on us.”
“Thanks for all this,” I said.
“No problem. Look, if you see him, tell him Barb said hi. I still like the kid, even if the boss would like to wring his neck for taking off so quick.”
“Will do,” I said. I ended the call and put the phone down on the table.
Took a bite of my sandwich.
Watched the two bikers continue to eat their lunch.
I tried the cell phone number Barb had given me for Dennis. It went straight to message.
I decided not to leave one.
I watched the bikers some more.
When the Griffon police abused their authority by running people out of town, it didn’t mean those people were total innocents. Maybe these bikers were trouble. Maybe they’d ridden up to Griffon to make a few sales.
I hadn’t shown much fear when it came to questioning Scott’s contemporaries. I’d always figured he’d gotten the ecstasy from one of his friends, but I supposed it was possible he’d gotten it from a couple of guys like these. Maybe Scott had been to Patchett’s one night and bought something off one or the other of them, although Phyllis Pearce had suggested kids like Scott who really looked too young were given the boot. Which explained why Scott preferred house parties and rooftops for getting drunk and high.
These two bikers were certainly more formidable-looking than the young guys I’d been putting the fear of God into.
The young men I’d bullied and terrorized.
But these bikers, for all I knew, could be armed.
“Hey, Mr. Weaver?”
It was Sal, the manager who’d been here the night I looked at
“Hey, Sal,” I said. “I thought you worked nights.”
“I’m filling in for the day guy who’s sick.”
“Hope it’s nothing he ate,” I said.
Sal gave me a reproachful look. “Don’t even joke.”
“Sorry,” I said. “You got a minute?” When he nodded, I waved my hand, inviting him to take the seat opposite me.
“I hope you got what you needed the other night,” he said. “You were looking for someone?”
“Yeah. That’s kind of ongoing. I don’t want you to look around, but there are two biker types sitting over that way.”
Sal turned his head anyway. “Oh, sorry. I just couldn’t help it. I’m not used to your line of work.”
“Those two come in often?”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen them before. Sometimes at night. Maybe once a week.”
“Whaddya know about them?”
“I don’t know that much. They just like riding around on their hogs.”
“They ever do any business here? Maybe not right here in the restaurant, but out in the parking lot?”
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of business? You talking drugs?”
I nodded.
He grinned. “Next time you’re at your computer, Google ‘Pilkens, Gilmore’ and ‘state lottery.’ Oh, and add the word ‘gay’ in there. You’ll probably find a story about them.”
“If you know what I’ll find, save me the trouble. I’ll buy a milk shake.”
“They’re one of those same-sex couples. They won the state lottery couple of years back, quit their jobs, bought some bikes, and they just wander around all the time. First time they came in, I recognized them from seeing them on the news.”
“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.