Sarita.
Bill Gaynor had been no help there, but they had found his wife’s cell phone in her purse, which was sitting in plain view on the kitchen counter. If Rosemary Gaynor’s killer had taken anything from it, and there was nothing to suggest he had, he’d apparently had no interest in her cash or credit cards.
He? Duckworth thought. More likely she.
When Duckworth was finished with Marla Pickens, he checked his own phone, which he’d felt vibrate during the interrogation. An e-mail from one of the officers on the scene informed him that there was a contact listing for “Sarita” in the Gaynor woman’s phone.
No last name.
So Duckworth tapped on the number, automatically dialing it, and listened.
After three rings: “Hello?”
The voice sounded female, so he asked, “Is this Sarita?”
“Sarita?”
“That’s right. Are you Sarita?”
“Sarita who?”
Duckworth sighed. “I’m trying to get in touch with Sarita. Am I talking to Sarita?” Bill Gaynor had suggested Sarita was an illegal immigrant, but the detective did not detect any kind of foreign accent.
“I don’t have a last name. I’m looking for Sarita. She works as a nanny.”
“Who is calling?”
He hesitated. “Duckworth. Detective Duckworth, with the Promise Falls police.”
“I don’t know any Sarita. There is no Sarita here. You have the wrong number.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s very important that I speak to Sarita.”
“Like I said, I don’t know how you got this number.”
“If you’re not Sarita, then do you know her? Because I—”
The call ended. Duckworth had been hung up on. “Shit,” he said. He never should have identified himself as being with the police.
He returned to his desk, and just as he’d suspected, word had gotten around about his first call of the day. Placed in front of his computer monitor was a jar of salted peanuts, with a yellow sticky note attached that read, For paying your informants.
The twenty-three dead squirrels. Was that actually today? It seemed like a week ago.
He cracked the lid, poured out a handful of nuts, tossed them into his mouth. Then he entered the phone number he’d just dialed into the Google search field on his computer. If it was a landline, there was a good chance the name of the person who owned that phone would come up.
No such luck.
But not all was lost, even if the phone was a cell. Unless it was a throwaway, they’d be able to attach a name to it in no time. Duckworth could get someone on that. The Internet abounded with firms offering to track down cell-phone identities for a price, but they often promised more than they could actually deliver.
Duckworth forwarded the officer’s e-mail containing Sarita’s number to Connor Stigler, in communications, with the words: Whose number is this?
Then he phoned his wife, Maureen.
“Did you have one?” she asked him.
“Have one what?”
“On the way to work. A doughnut.”
“I did not.” It was nice not to have to lie for once. “It was a close one, though.”
“You sound like you’re eating something right now.”
“Peanuts,” he said. “What’s for dinner?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” she said. “What are you making?”
“Seriously?”
“Why is it always my responsibility? Maybe you didn’t get the memo. I work, too.”
“Okay. I’m bringing home a bucket of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy.”
“Well played,” Maureen said. “I’m serving fish. Pickerel.” She paused. “And some greens.”
“Greens,” Duckworth said. “Maybe I will pick up fried chicken.”
Maureen ignored the threat. “Will you be late?”
“Maybe. I’ll keep you posted. Heard from Trevor?”
Their son. Twenty-four years old, looking for work. He didn’t live with them, or anyone else, for that matter. Not anymore. The love of his life, a girl named Trish, who’d traveled across Europe with him, had recently broken things off. Trevor, devastated, now had a two-bedroom apartment all to himself. Barry and Maureen didn’t hear from him as often as they’d like, and they worried about him.
“Not today,” Maureen said. “Maybe I’ll give him a call. See if he wants to come for dinner.”
“For fish? Good luck with that.”
“It doesn’t have to be today.”
“Okay, do that. Listen, gotta go.”
He’d noticed that he already had an e-mail back from Connor.
It read: L SELFRIDGE 209 ARMOUR ROAD.
As he was pushing his chair back from the desk, uniformed officer Angus Carlson walked past, glanced at Duckworth and the jar of peanuts, and smiled.
Before Duckworth could level an accusation, Carlson said, “Wasn’t me.” Paused, then added, “I’d have to be nuts to mock a superior officer.”