“What’s all the racket?” she asked, a television blaring in the background. It was one of those court shows. That lady judge who tore a strip off everybody.
“I’m with the police, ma’am. Sorry for the noise.”
Duckworth took out his identification and displayed it for the woman. Didn’t flash it, gave her plenty of time to look it over.
“Okay,” she said. “You passed the test.”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Doris Stemple.”
“Are you the landlord, by any chance? Do you rent out the unit next to you here?”
She shook her head. “Landlord’s name is Byron Hinkley. Lives in Albany. Comes by once a week, if I’m lucky, to cut the grass. But if you’ve got a leaky tap or something, don’t hold your breath.”
“I’m looking for Marshall Kemper.”
“Yeah, well, he don’t live here. That’s his place next door.”
“Have you seen him?”
“He in some kind of trouble?”
“I just need to talk to him, Ms. Stemple.”
“Don’t give me that Ms. shit. It’s Mrs. My husband, Arnie Stemple, died fifteen years ago.”
“Mrs. Stemple, have you seen Mr. Kemper lately?”
“Saw him head out early today, I think. At least, I heard his truck take off.”
“Have you seen a woman? Her name would be Sarita. Sarita Gomez. I think she might be with him.”
“The Mexican girl, yeah, I seen her. I think she took off with him.”
“And when was this?”
“Like I said, not long ago. They took off in kind of a hurry.”
“Did they say anything to you?”
“I was only watching from the door here. I doubt they even noticed me.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual next door the last day or so? Odd comings and goings? Strange people dropping by?”
Doris Stemple shook her head. “I won’t lie. I kind of watch what’s going on. But I haven’t seen anything weird lately. There’s a kid up the street, he’s about nine, likes to walk around with his privates hanging out—he’s not right in the head—but other than that, not that much goes on around here.”
Duckworth handed her one of his business cards. “If you see Mr. Kemper, or his girlfriend, would you please call me? And if you see them, don’t tell them I was asking around for them. I’d like them to be here when I get back.”
She waved the card in the air with her bony hands. “Okeydokey,” she said. “I’m gonna go back and watch TV, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure,” Duckworth said. “Thanks very much for your time.”
He got back behind the wheel of his car and decided to return to the station. He was still waiting to hear back from the hotel in Boston where Bill Gaynor had been staying. He wanted to know whether the man had left for home when he’d said he had.
? ? ?
Doris Stemple closed the door of her apartment, locked the door, and called out in the direction of the bathroom, “You can come out now.”
Sarita Gomez emerged slowly. “He’s gone?”
“He’s gone.”
“He was police?”
“He sure was,” the woman said, backing into an overstuffed chair that was, curiously, in a nearly upright position. She settled herself against the cushioning, gripped a small black remote control that was tethered to the chair with a black cord, touched a button, and the piece of furniture slowly descended into its original position, its motor softly whirring the entire time. When it was finished, her eyes were perfectly level with the television.
“Can I use your phone again?” Sarita asked.
“Still trying to raise that boyfriend of yours?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Just don’t be putting any calls to Mexico on there.”
“I won’t do that.”
She used the landline, entered the same number she’d been trying for the last fifteen minutes. Marshall was not answering. It kept going to message.
“Marshall, when you get this, call Mrs. Stemple. Please.”
Sarita hung up, slowly crossed the room, and sat down in the chair next to the old woman. She reached over and patted the young girl’s hand.
“Still no luck?”
Sarita shook her head. “Something’s gone wrong.”
“What’s he off doing?”
“Something really, really stupid.”
“Well, that’s men for you. Anytime they do something smart it should show up on that little ticker runs across the bottom of the screen on CNN. That’d be news.”
Sarita took a tissue from the box on the small table next to Mrs. Stemple and dabbed her eyes, blew her nose.
“Must be bad, the police coming around, looking for both of you,” the old woman said.
Sarita said, “Yeah. But I’m not a bad person. All I wanted to do was the right thing. But now that I did it, I have to get away.”
“You don’t seem like a bad person to me. You seem like a nice girl. And thank you for helping me make my bed and warming up my soup.”
“I needed to keep busy doing something. And it’s what I do. I look after people at Davidson House.”