Friends Like These(41)

“Where were you last night, Mr. Gaffney?” I press.

“At the bar downtown,” he says finally, his voice now surprisingly devoid of hostility. “Check it out if you want.”

“Which bar?” I ask.

“The Falls,” he says. “There some other bar in downtown Kaaterskill you know about?”

“What time did you get to the Falls?”

“Nine maybe, I don’t know exactly. But I was there all night.”

“Were you with anybody who can confirm that?”

“Yeah, I was with people. Bartender saw me, too. I was there until two a.m., then I came home to fuck my girlfriend.”

Male suspects love to do this with female officers— talk about sex. Like we are fragile flowers who will wilt at the mere mention of a penis. I make a point of keeping my eyes locked on his. I can feel my irritation about to flame into something a whole lot worse.

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Crystal,” he says.

Luke Gaffney’s girlfriend was in Keith Lazard’s bedroom? Luke doesn’t strike me as somebody who would take kindly to sharing a girl with a weekender.

“And what’s Crystal’s last name?”

“How would I know?”

“You don’t know your girlfriend’s last name?”

“I was being polite,” he says. “Girl that I’m fucking, okay? She’s a junkie. I wouldn’t have a junkie as a girlfriend.”

“But you would fuck one?”

Luke almost smiles. “Didn’t say I was proud of it.”

“Is she still here?” I ask, motioning to the house. “Can I speak with her?”

He shakes his head. “I never found her. I said I came home to fuck her, not that I actually did fuck her.” For sure, he’s enjoying this. “Last I heard, she was at the Farm. Now if you don’t mind, it’s only nine a.m. and I’d like to go back to sleep. I think I’m still drunk.”

“Okay, Mr. Gaffney,” I say. “But if you’re not going to voluntarily come down to the station, you know that I’ll have to come back with that warrant.”

“You do what you have to do,” he says. “And so will I.”

Luke Gaffney is about to slam the door in my face when a calico cat appears, threading itself through his legs, then sitting protectively on his foot. She eyes me, then hisses.

“See: fucking cat,” Luke says. “I’d go now if I were you. She’s the real jealous type.”

Dan calls as I’m getting back into the car.

“Dogs finally picked up a blood trail. Back in the woods, hundred yards from the road,” he says. “Looks like whoever it is could be headed back toward the house. Uniforms are on their way there just in case.”

Dan’s genuinely worried about my safety. I can hear it in his voice.

“Okay.” I try to ignore the tightness in my chest. I don’t miss Dan, but I do maybe miss that feeling. “Thanks. But I’m not there at the moment.”

“Oh, good. Good. Also, word just came in that there’s a guy at Hudson Hospital who’s pretty beat up and trying to leave against medical advice.”

Word just came in, he’s trying to breeze past that like it’s not relevant— but people are calling him and not me with critical information. Already they’re acting like he’s in charge, probably because Seldon suggested as much. I can’t imagine Dan wants to be the one letting me know, but someone needs to.

“Is he our missing driver?” I ask.

“I don’t think so. He’s six foot three. Our two missing friends are both under six feet. But he is refusing to give his name, so— I said you’d be down.”

“Okay, yeah,” I say. “No luck on the ID yet, huh?”

“ME won’t even venture a guess from the pictures,” Dan says. “Guys don’t look different enough and with the rain and the facial damage . . .”

“Friends are getting antsy for an ID.”

“I’m sure,” Dan says.

“Could you do me a favor and ask the ME to look for track marks on our John Doe?”

Track marks would point in Keith’s direction, although the absence of track marks won’t prove it’s not him. I don’t know for sure that it was even his kit. After all, it’s Jonathan’s house.

“Weekenders with track marks, huh?”

“Could be,” I say. “And thanks, by the way. I know you could have just gone down to the hospital yourself. I’m sure that’s what Seldon would prefer.”

“I’m here to do what’s best for the case, not what Seldon wants,” he says. “Besides, we’re still friends, right?”

“We are,” I say, and it feels, unexpectedly, like the truth. “I’ll see you later.”

I quickly google Crystal Finnegan before starting up the car. I’ll have them run her license back at the station, pull any record. But for the moment some basic information, even just from social media, would help. Results pop up immediately. Turns out Crystal Finnegan was a straight-A biology major and track star at Syracuse. That is, up until two years ago, when she got into a car accident. Drunk driver left her with a knee injury that ended her running career. And, I’m guessing, also turned her into a junkie.