“Let’s just hurry up and get this over with,” Maeve said. “We’re so conspicuous sitting here.”
I glanced Maeve’s way. She looked so worried as she chewed on her lip.
Keith started to get out before the car was even off. “I’ve got this. I’ll meet you guys back at the house.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?” I asked, jumping out to follow him. “You’re not doing this alone, Keith.”
I walked around to the passenger side and handed my keys to Jonathan. “You guys drive back to the house, get your stuff together. We’ll walk back. Half hour, hour, something like that. And then we can head back to the city together.”
“Are you sure, Derrick?” Maeve asked, looking at me, I swear, like she was seeing me for the very first time.
“I’m sure.”
DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT
SUNDAY, 1:09 P.M.
Dan is waiting for me outside the Falls when I pull up. He’s leaning against the building, talking on the phone, wearing a fresh shirt, light blue and long-sleeved, rolled up above his elbows. Seeing him there, waiting for me, I feel an unexpected pang of regret.
“They’ve got Hendrix,” Dan calls to me as I cross the street, still shaking off the feeling. “They’re bringing him down to the station.”
“Good,” I say, like I’d never doubted they would head him off.
Really I’d been bracing for the possibility I’d have to tell Seldon that I let Finch Hendrix sail out of Kaaterskill and back into the vast ocean of New York City. At least we’ve found him, even if the justification for holding him is thin.
“He’s pissed, though,” Dan goes on. “Apparently he’s screaming about some art exhibit, lost opportunity costs, damages. Lawyers.”
“Just keep him separate from the homeowners. Don’t want them matching notes.”
“I told them that downtown,” he says. “Cartright’s on it.”
“Cartright, great.” I roll my eyes. Dan shrugs. He likes Cartright. Dan likes everybody. “I ran into Lauren Avery at the Farm. You remember her?”
“No,” Dan says. “I don’t actually know everybody.” He pauses. “Or everything.”
I can feel him looking at me. I don’t look back. “She looked . . . rough.”
“That’s too bad,” Dan says, a little tentatively. He’s probably worried that my voluntarily engaging him in conversation is some kind of trap.
It’s a fair assumption. I know there are ways my behavior has left something to be desired. When we stay quiet for a moment longer, I think of thanking Dan for coming to get me after the incident at Home Depot. I should have before. But it feels too late for that now. It feels too late for a lot of things.
“You get any word back about Mike Gaffney’s whereabouts?” I ask instead. “I haven’t heard anything.”
Dan shakes his head. “He’s going to love being rousted, though.”
“Sending a car to confirm he’s been fishing is hardly rousting him,” I say, though I know Dan is right. “We found an Ace Construction hat at the scene. The victims owed him money. Not confirming his alibi would be ridiculous.”
“Agreed. He’ll still be pissed, though. That guy’s always pissed.” Dan points over his shoulder toward the Falls. “What’s in here?”
“Need to confirm Luke Gaffney’s alibi, too,” I say. “He claims he was here all last night. But he’s got some nasty scratches on his neck that suggest otherwise.”
Dan nods. “You want company?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
No— that’s my reflex. But for once, I choose the opposite. “Yeah, okay, sure.”
At 1:00 p.m. on a Sunday there are only three older men sitting separately at the bar, and not one of them even bothers to look our way when we come in. At the far end, the bartender, a young guy, stocky and bright-eyed, is wiping down the counter with an exceptional amount of elbow grease and good cheer.
“What can I get for you guys?” He smiles up at us as we approach, but his face stiffens when I pull out my badge. “There, um, a problem, Officers?”
“Were you working last night?”
He looks down at the bar, scrubbing at an imaginary stain. Part of me just wants to arrest him for looking so fucking guilty. “Uh, yeah.”
“Did you see this girl in here?” I hold up my phone with a photo of Crystal’s driver’s license.