“Oh, this is wonderful,” Jonathan said. “Just wonderful.”
DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT
SUNDAY, 8:45 A.M.
I turn into Luke Gaffney’s driveway— a short three-mile drive from Jonathan’s— and turn off the car. For a second, I wonder if I’ve got the address wrong. I’ll admit, I’d imagined something garish, one of those new McMansions that stick out like ugly sore thumbs between the classy historic remodels. But Luke Gaffney’s house is every bit as elegant as Jonathan’s. Not as grand, maybe— no porches or curved towers or romantic flair. This house is a clean rectangle of white stone with sharp black shutters, but all of it is just as meticulously restored. Even the grounds, filled with well-tended shrubbery and mature trees, are pristine. I probably shouldn’t be so surprised by the sophistication. Like me, Luke Gaffney did eventually leave Kaaterskill for college, a SUNY somewhere upstate, I think.
But then, Mike Gaffney’s totally lovely old farmhouse was also far nicer than I’d expected. I’d gone there first. If there’d been a dispute about payments, as the boss at Ace Construction, the elder Gaffney would probably be the one in charge of collecting. But according to the nervous young guy mowing the acres of grounds, he’d left early Saturday morning for a fishing trip, not returning until Sunday late. Another good alibi.
“I’ve gotta get back to it.” The young guy looked like he regretted even saying that much, before rumbling off on his big mower.
He was wise to be nervous about Mike Gaffney and his short fuse. He’d cornered me once while he was working on our bathroom all those years ago, demanding to know if I’d taken some shirt of his. Like a little girl would ever have wanted some smelly old man’s plaid shirt. But he’d gotten right in my eight-year-old face as I shook my head and tried to disappear into the wall.
I head toward Luke Gaffney’s front steps now, past a brand-new Yukon parked in the driveway. Sparkling black, the SUV has tinted windows and a shiny silver grille. The tires would probably sparkle, too, if they weren’t completely caked in mud— like a car that had maybe been driving across Jonathan’s rain-soaked lawn.
I ring the doorbell. After a long stretch of silence, the polished black door finally swings open, and there’s Luke in the doorway, blue eyes aglow. He glances back toward my unmarked, but unmistakable, sedan. “Yeah, what?”
I flash my badge, then tuck it away. “I have a few questions, Mr. Gaffney.”
“Questions about what?”
“Do you know a Derrick Chism or Keith Lazard?”
Luke frowns as he digs out a crushed pack of Parliaments. He grips one between his fingers without lighting it. He has the door resting against his body so I can’t see inside.
“Nope,” he says.
He isn’t going to make this easy. Of course he isn’t.
“What about Jonathan Cheung?”
He peers at the ceiling. “Wait, now that guy I do know,” he says. “He owes me eleven thousand dollars. Typical. Those fuckers come up here, and fine, it’s a free country. They want to spend a shit-ton of money renovating, who am I to complain? But then they try to steal from us like we’re a bunch of dumb hicks? We’re running a business. We’re businessmen.” He gestures to his nice house. “Successful businessmen.”
“You seem angry,” I say.
“Fuck, yes, I’m angry,” he says. “We’re just trying to take care of our employees. And our employees are just trying to take care of their families.”
When Luke shakes his head, I see them for the first time: two long, angry scratches on his neck. Luke sees me see the scratches.
“Fucking cat,” he offers casually.
“Cat?”
“Fucking cat,” Luke Gaffney repeats, coolly. Like he’s glimpsed the future, and in it he’s already come out clean.
“I hate cats,” I say. This is true. I do hate cats. But we both know the scratches aren’t from a cat. Could be fingers, or branches. Dammit. I’d been writing off this visit as just a box to check, nothing more. “You been in the woods over by the Hemlock place lately?”
The Hemlock place is the closest landmark to the accident scene. Everybody who grew up anywhere in a twenty-mile radius knows the house by name because every Halloween the old couple who used to live there gave out full-size candy bars. It wasn’t until years later that Mr. Hemlock got in trouble for putting his hands somewhere he wasn’t supposed to on one little vampire.