Friends Like These(74)

“Have you asked those fucking people what happened to her?”

“I’m asking you.”

Luke Gaffney shakes his head in disgust. “Let me guess, it wasn’t even those fuckers who told you about our supposed argument?”

“We have a witness.”

“A witness to what?” Luke asks. “Those people come up here for the weekend, thinking they own this place.” He looks back at the blond guy. “Thinking they own everyone. You want to know what really happened?”

“Yes, Mr. Gaffney, I would love to know what really happened.”

“Luke . . . ,” the blond guy begins. Nervous speaking up, nervous about what Luke is about to say. Maybe both.

When Luke glares at him, he retreats.

“Crystal is dead,” Luke says. “And those fuckers dumped her body at the Farm like she was garbage.”

The turkey vulture, the smear of blood on the doorframe— Goddammit. At least I was right that Jonathan and his friends were hiding something.

“What happened to her?”

“How the fuck would I know?” Luke asks. “But they were willing to pay me a shitload of money to keep my mouth shut, so you do the math.”

Still, none of this explains the monogrammed corkscrew, and it doesn’t prove Luke isn’t responsible for whatever happened in that car. Or that twenty years ago he wasn’t a pissed-off teenage boy with a well-connected dad willing to do anything to protect him. I feel my hand aching again to move to my gun. My heart is hammering.

“Why don’t you just account for your whereabouts between eleven p.m. last night and four a.m., Mr. Gaffney?” Dan asks when I still do not speak.

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“Well, we’ve got a murder weapon with your initials on it that says otherwise.”

“My initials?” Luke snorts again. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“A monogrammed corkscrew,” Dan says.

“A corkscrew?” Luke scowls. “Who the fuck monograms a corkscrew?”

“If it’s not yours, then I’m sure you won’t mind the officers coming in to confirm there’s not the rest of a matching set anywhere around,” I say.

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that.” Luke smiles and steps confidently toward the door. He opens it and motions us out. “You can go now.”

I shake my head. “Mr. Gaffney, I’m afraid that’s not— ”

“Wasn’t your boss already pissed enough at you for bothering my dad at his cabin?” He flashes a menacing smile my way.

“My boss?” I ask.

“Yeah, you know, Chief Seldon was supposed to be up there fishing with my dad this weekend. And trust me, that bunch does not like to be disturbed. You have any idea how pissed Seldon’s going to be if he finds out you’re still hassling us?”

An officer appears in the open doorway then, holding out a folded piece of paper. I check quickly— the warrant, luckily. I show it to Luke.

“You know what, Mr. Gaffney, I think I’ll take my fucking chances.”

We leave uniforms at the house running the search while Dan offers to go down to the lab himself and see if he can get a manual comparison on the corkscrew prints expedited. We have at least one fingerprint card on Luke Gaffney, for a drunk driving charge last year. The connections to Jane’s case are multiplying rapidly— the similarities in the murder weapon, the smashed faces, Luke Gaffney’s disappearing alibis, his motive. Running the tent stake for Luke Gaffney’s prints will be next. The thought does make me feel sick: all this time, Jane’s murderer was so close by?

In the meantime, I storm back to the station, determined to find out what the hell happened to Crystal. I already have officers headed to the Farm to look for her body. Soon we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with.

“Hey, wait!” Cartright calls as I pass him on the way to Jonathan’s interview room, hopeful that I’ll get him to break if he’s on his own. “Hendrix wants to make a statement. Won’t shut up about it.”

“What exactly did he say?” I ask, skeptical.

Cartright eyes me dumbly. “That he wanted to make a statement.”

I do have a witness now, who can officially poke a hole in Hendrix’s alibi— a uniform found a guy who works the newspaper stand at the train station. He saw Finch Hendrix going into the hotel across the street around noon on Saturday. So much for him being at the train station all night. But none of that matters if Luke Gaffney’s prints are on that corkscrew— unless Finch is responsible for what happened to Crystal. I can’t rule that out. Not yet.

“Did his lawyer show up?”

Cartright shakes his head. “Not that I’ve seen.”

It’s been more than enough time now for a lawyer to get here from the city. Which means Finch has decided not to call one. That seems reason enough to see what this statement is all about.

When I come in, Finch has his head down on the table, eyes closed. For a second I worry he’s bled out internally, but he shifts slightly when I close the door.

“Jesus,” he grumbles into the tabletop. “Took you fucking long enough.”

“I hear you have something you want to tell me?”