On Harrow Hill

The young man lowered the phone. “Mrs. Tate would like to know the subject of your inquiry.”

“Tell her I have some questions about her stepson.”

He turned away and spoke into the phone in as low a voice as before. A few seconds later, he turned back to Gurney.

“Mrs. Tate does not wish to discuss her stepson. She says if you dropped dead, you could talk to him yourself in hell. No offense intended.”

The shapeless woman with the straggly hair was taking an interest in this back-and-forth. Or maybe that was just an impression created by the fact that her mouth was hanging open.

Gurney motioned to the young man to follow him to the end of the bar.

“Tell Mrs. Tate that I’m investigating a murder that her stepson may have been involved in. I’d like to close the case, and she may be able to help me.”

The young man raised his phone and passed along Gurney’s message. The response this time was evidently positive. He pointed down a row of high-backed booths running along the wall parallel to the bar.

“Last one.”

The six booths Gurney walked past were dingy, unlit, unoccupied. In the seventh, a small lamp produced just enough light to give him his first impression of Darlene Tate—a battle-scarred version of Lorinda.

She licked her lips. “Murder? For real?”

“Very real.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him. Wouldn’t put nothing past him. Who’d he kill?”

“Mind if I sit down?”

She licked her lips again. There was a glass in her hand and a bottle of tequila on the table. “You want a drink?”

“Maybe later.” He slid into the seat opposite her and smiled. “I appreciate your willingness to speak to me.”

“Nice face. You sure you’re a cop?”

“You have a nice face, too, Darlene.” Actually, it wasn’t a nice face at all. The bone structure was strong, but there was a sourness around the corners of the mouth and a reptilian coldness in her eyes. “Mind if I ask you some questions about Billy?”

She squinted at him sideways as though an odd thought had occurred to her. “What do you care what he did, now that the little bastard’s dead?”

Gurney followed that opening. “You saw him at the mortuary that day, am I right, after he was struck by lightning and fell off that church roof?”

“People always look smaller when they’re dead. You ever notice that?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I seen a lot of dead people, but never one I was happier to see dead.”

She gave Gurney a hard look, as if daring him to say a good word about her stepson.

“Did he have any friends?”

“Friends?” She made it sound as if he’d asked whether Billy knew any Martians.

“Billy was a user. A filthy, lying user. A psychiatrist told us he was a sociopathical psychopath. When he was ten years old. You ever know anyone like that, evil like that from their childhood?”

“Did he get in trouble a lot?”

“He was never out of trouble. He had that impulsive control disorderly thing.”

“How did he end up with Selena Cursen?”

She shook her head, picked up the tequila bottle, and poured a large shot into her glass. She drank it down slowly, then laid her glass back on the table. “Fucking bitch.”

“If Billy were still alive, and I wanted to find him, where should I look?”

She frowned at her empty glass, blinking, as though she couldn’t quite parse what he’d asked her. “He’s dead,” she said finally, picking up the bottle and pouring herself a generous double shot. “Ask Greg Mason.”

“Who is Greg Mason?”

“His gym teacher, coach, who the fuck knows what else.” She downed her tequila in one long swallow. “Ask him.” Her voice trailed off, her eyes half closed.

“One last question, Darlene. Do you think Billy is capable of premeditated murder?”

Her eyes opened and she gazed at him with a drunk’s sudden shrewdness. “He’s dead. Not capable of anything. Why are you asking me that?”

“You did see him at Peale’s Funeral Home, right?”

“You telling me he’s not dead?”

“If he were alive, do you have any idea where he might be?”

She shook her head violently. “Find him! Go find him! Find him and KILL HIM!”

The muscular young man appeared beside the booth, eyes bright with animal alertness. “Everything okay?”

She picked up the tequila bottle. “Fine. Fucking fine!” She slid out of her seat and stumbled against the table. “How can he not be fucking dead?”

As she was guided unsteadily to a door in the room’s rear wall, she cried out without turning, “If he’s with that witch bitch, kill them both!”

19

Sitting in his car outside the Paradise Inn, Gurney called headquarters and asked for Slovak.

He came on almost immediately. “Hey, Detective Gurney, I was just about to call you. We have new information. Video files from security cameras in the village and out near Harrow Hill. A couple of the cameras were covering the streets around Peale’s place, including the access to his parking lot, the night Tate disappeared. At the time Peale’s video shows him leaving the embalming room, there’s no vehicular traffic at all in that area.”

“So he walked to his own car? Do we know where it was parked?”