“I said, wouldn’t it have made more sense to go to the hospital?”
“Well, in retrospect, I suppose so. But Rosemary really wanted to be home, and the doctor was already on his way, so . . . that’s what happened. Is there some sort of problem? I mean, I have a proper birth certificate for Matthew, signed by Dr. Sturgess.”
“I’m sure you do, Mr. Gaynor. Listen, it sounds like you’re on the road, and I don’t want you getting a ticket for talking on your cell. I’ll get back to you later today.”
“But I don’t understand the point of your questions. I’m happy to help if you’ll just enlighten me about—”
“No, that’s fine, Mr. Gaynor. I’ll be in touch.”
Duckworth hung up.
The lying son of a bitch.
He sat at his desk, staring at his computer monitor without actually seeing anything. Thought some more. So Dr. Sturgess was not only present for the delivery of Marla’s child, but Rosemary Gaynor’s, too. Even signed the birth certificate.
Except Rosemary Gaynor did not give birth.
He needed a coffee. He went into the station kitchen, poured a cup for himself, and when he returned Carlson was at his temporary desk, a cell phone to his ear. When he saw Duckworth he ended the call, put the phone away.
“Sorry,” Carlson said. “Just my mom.”
Not caring, Duckworth shrugged.
Carlson said, “I checked out all those things you wanted me to. Struck out on the squirrels. No one saw anything. And I couldn’t interview those Thackeray students. But I had some luck at Five Mountains. Found where someone cut a hole through the fence. The more I think about it, though, the whole day was a waste of time. No one gives a shit about dead squirrels, Thackeray’s security chief took care of that would-be rapist, and there was no real harm done at Five Mountains, except for a fence they have to fix, which they may not even bother to do, since they’re planning to sell off everything that’s there. If I’m going to work in this department, give me some real work to do.”
Duckworth slowly looked over at him.
“Oh,” Carlson said, “you got a call while you were questioning that Pickens woman. Harwood? David Harwood?”
“He called?”
“Yeah. Total asshole.”
“What’d he want?”
“He said the Pickens woman didn’t do it. Didn’t kill the Gaynor woman. Said we’d made a big mistake.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“I just did tell you. Right now. You were gone, and I went for coffee, and now I’m back, and I’m telling you.”
Duckworth looked through his notebook again, found David Harwood’s number. He was pretty sure it was his cell, not a home number.
He made the call.
It rang twice, and then: “Yes?”
“Mr. Harwood? Detective Duckworth here. You were trying to reach me?”
“Marla didn’t do it,” Harwood said. “Sarita Gomez, the Gaynors’ nanny? Well, she didn’t do it, either, but she was the one who took the baby to Marla’s house. Because Matthew really is Marla’s baby.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I found Sarita, and she told me, and she’s with me right now.”
“And where the hell is that?” Duckworth asked.
SIXTY-NINE
David
“MY parents’ house,” I told Detective Duckworth. “I think you know where that is.” He had, after all, been here a few years ago when I was having my other troubles.
I put the phone away and said to Agnes, “Sorry. The police are coming.”
“Of course they are,” she said wearily.
“You said that you wished deceiving Marla had been the worst of it,” I said. “What could be worse than that?”
“I can answer that,” my mother said. “The lie was just the beginning. It was the aftermath. Look what you did to her. Look what you did to your child.”
Agnes mumbled something.
“What was that?” Mom asked.
“I thought it was the right thing to do. I was trying to look out for her. I was trying to give Marla a future.”
“By driving her mad? Agnes, she tried to steal a baby. You did that to her.”
“I know.”
Mom shook her head slowly, not taking her eyes off her sister. Agnes was still running her palm across the bedspread, studying the nap, but I was betting she could feel my mother’s eyes boring into her.
“You’ve always been hard, Agnes,” she said, “but I never knew you were a monster.”
I said, “But that’s not what you were referring to, is it, Agnes? When you said there were even worse things.”
Her head turned slightly my way. “Jack—Dr. Sturgess—had matters he had to deal with. When things started to unravel. Actions he had to take.”
“Like Rosemary Gaynor,” I said. “Did Sturgess kill her?”
Agnes shifted around so she could look at me directly. “No, he wouldn’t have done that. He . . . would never have done that. It doesn’t fit . . . It’s unthinkable.”