Parker paid the check, left the diner, and drove to the outskirts of town until he came to Dobey’s. The building was locked up, and a chain prevented access to the parking lot. The letterboard sign outside read BUSINESS CLOSED, and beneath it, ERROL DOBEY RIP. WE’LL MISS YOU.
Parker had read the newspaper accounts of the fire, but the remains of the trailers in which Errol Dobey had lived, and in which he had stored what one report described as ‘among the finest private book collections in the state of Indiana,’ were gone. Parker stepped over the chain and walked around the property. Only blackened grass and scorched concrete marked the site of the fire that had taken Dobey’s life, although Parker spotted signs of minor damage to the rear of the restaurant. Four bouquets of flowers – two wilted, two fresh – lay in the dirt by the service door. He looked for cards or messages among them, but found none.
Parker next paid a visit to the Cadillac PD, but not before making a call to Solange Corriveau.
‘Have you spoken to Moxie Castin?’ he asked.
‘I have, although certain of my colleagues expressed surprise, even skepticism, at his helpfulness – and yours.’
‘Let me guess: Walsh.’
‘I’m not going to name names.’
‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Of course you are. That apart, what can I do for you?’
‘Have you ever been to Indiana?’
‘No.’
‘Ever wanted to go to Indiana?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Then I may be saving you a trip, because I’m in Indiana.’
Parker heard the sound of paper rustling.
‘Cadillac, Indiana?’ said Corriveau.
‘Got it in one.’
‘Errol Dobey.’
‘And Esther Bachmeier, both of whom may have passed our Jane Doe—’
‘Karis, according to the man who got in touch with Castin.’
‘—up the line to Maela Lombardi.’
‘The late Maela Lombardi,’ Corriveau corrected. ‘Dental records gave us a positive ID. Saved us asking the niece to view a body that had been in the water for a while.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Not drowning. I spoke to the M.E. this morning. Lombardi was already dead when she went into the water, but that’s as much as I know for now. We have a recent puncture wound to one arm, though, so we could be relying on toxicology. Now you: Do you have something to tell me, or are you looking for a favor?’
‘A favor, but you’ll benefit. I’m about to pay a visit to the Cadillac PD. If they want confirmation that I’m on the level, can I refer them to you?’
‘Uh …’
‘You shouldn’t listen to Walsh. He’s sore about a lot of stuff.’
‘Still “Uh.”’
‘Maybe you really do want to visit Indiana after all, but I have to tell you, the round-trip ticket was expensive, and there’s not a whole lot to see once you get here, unless you’re a big NASCAR fan. Come on, Corriveau: if I’m not sparing you a trip, I’m saving you some groundwork.’
‘Okay, fine. But you share everything you find out, and you don’t piss anyone off.’
‘Uh …’
‘Yeah, funny.’
Parker thanked her and hung up.
The Cadillac PD was organized along almost identical lines to the Cape Elizabeth PD: fourteen members, of whom five were patrol officers, and one detective. The front desk was staffed from eight to five every day, with lobby telephones directly wired to regional dispatch accessible outside those hours. It employed four reserve police officers, and four reserve weekend clerks, with vacancies currently existing for one of each. Parker knew all this because a large sign informed him of it, and he had half an hour to familiarize himself with its details while he waited for the chief to return from whatever it was the chief was doing – which, as it turned out, was enjoying a late breakfast at the Sunnyside Dine-In, and not the first such breakfast he’d had, judging by the strain his belly was placing on the buttons of his uniform shirt. His name was Dwight Hillick, and he proved cautiously interested once Parker explained to him why he was in town.
‘Trunk of a car, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
Hillick tapped his pen on his desk.
‘We haven’t had a request from Maine for information or assistance.’
‘You will.’
‘So why shouldn’t I wait for them to call instead of talking to you?’
‘Because I’m here, and they’re there. Solange Corriveau at the MSP will vouch for me.’
Hillick put down his pen.
‘I don’t need a reference,’ he said. ‘I know who you are. I looked you up on the Google machine. You planning on shooting anyone?’
‘What day is it?’
‘I do believe it’s Thursday.’
‘No, I’m not planning on shooting anyone.’
Hillick silently regarded Parker for a good ten seconds.
‘Well, all right then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started.’
84
In Ivan Giller’s opinion – based, admittedly, on limited exposure to the subject – Gregg Mullis was not Connie White’s kind of guy. He lived in a dump, worked in a slaughterhouse, and his demeanor was that of someone who woke each morning anticipating only the many ways that life would find to fuck him before he could go back to bed again. He had at least managed to impregnate a woman at last – a boy, according to the expectant mother in question – but Giller believed Mullis could only have done so by keeping his eyes closed. Mullis’s girlfriend might have been described as homely, but only if someone had never actually seen homely, let alone pretty. Also, judging by the ashtrays scattered around their home, the smell from her clothing, and the cigarette dangling from her right hand, her kid, if he survived until birth, would grow up to be the Marlboro Man.
Giller had performed due diligence checks on Mullis before approaching him, and now knew the name of his ex-wife, her home address, the nature of the two jobs she held down, and the school attended by her son – or ‘son,’ as Giller had already begun to think of Daniel Weaver. But Giller needed confirmation from Mullis of the truth of the story told to him by Connie White: that Holly Weaver could not have conceived the boy she was calling her own. This was why Giller was now seated at a thrift store table in a kitchen smelling of grease and boiled vegetables, in a house that would have benefited from a serious clean, or better still, an all-consuming fire.
Mullis was slouched opposite Giller, holding the business card Giller had handed to him at the door. The card identified Giller as one Marcus Light, an employee of the Office of Child and Family Services, a division of the state’s Department of Health and Human Services. Giller possessed an array of such cards: some he manufactured himself, while others – as in this case – he retained when they were presented to him, or if he had an opportunity to steal them. Mullis and his girlfriend had not even asked to see some corroborating form of ID. The card had been sufficient to enable Giller to gain entry to their home – well, the card, and Giller’s assurances that they were not in any kind of trouble, and might even stand to benefit if they would answer a few questions for him.
Giller never ceased to be amazed by just how gullible people could be.
Mullis was five eight, and thin but not scrawny, as though assembled from scraps of wire. He’d probably been considered good looking once, before disappointment began whittling away at him.
‘You said something about benefits,’ said Mullis’s girlfriend, whose name was Tanya. In case there was any doubt about the matter, she had it tattooed on the back of her left hand, contained in the outline of a heart. On the back of her right hand, a similar heart surrounded the name of her partner.
‘Benefit,’ Giller corrected her. ‘I’m authorized to offer a financial reward to anyone who assists in fraud investigations.’
‘What kind of fraud?’ Mullis asked.
‘In this case, supplying false information for the purpose of registering a birth.’
Tanya glanced at Mullis.
‘Someone we know?’ she asked, and grinned, but Mullis wasn’t biting.
‘Shut up,’ he said.
‘Fuck you, telling me to shut up.’