Broken Promise

by Linwood Barclay

  Slowly, I said, “Okay.”

  “This is very difficult for me.” She swallowed, looked up the street for a second to avoid eye contact. “It’s about your uncle Gill.”

  “What about him?”

  “What I would ask is, anything you might learn about Gill, would you be discreet?”

  “What are we talking about here, Agnes?”

  She released her grip, managed to look me in the eye. “Your uncle and I have . . . we’ve had some issues. I know sometimes I lord it over your mother about how I chose a career and she chose to make her career in the home . . . and I’m sorry about that. I know there are times you must all think I’m a total . . .”

  Agnes almost smiled. “I was about to say control freak, but I can’t help but wonder what word you thought I was going to say.”

  I wasn’t about to share.

  “Anyway, what I’m saying is, for all I may have achieved in the working world, your mother has it all over me in the marriage department. What I’d give for a man like Don. Someone who’s there for you, who you can trust.”

  “What are you trying to say, Agnes?”

  “I don’t know any other way to say this.” She let out a long breath. “Gill doesn’t always come home at night, if you get my understanding. And when you start asking questions, maybe someone’s going to tell you that. If they do, I’d be grateful if you could keep it to yourself.”

  “Whatever’s going on between you and Gill is none of my business,” I said. “I’m sorry you two are having problems.”

  She grimaced. “It is what it is. Let me know what you find out. Not just about Gill, but anything else. Good or bad. I’m wondering whether I need to hire a private detective for this. That’s not to diminish what you’ll be able to do, but if you think I need to bring someone else in, you tell me.”

  “I will. There is something I’d like to ask you right now.” Agnes blinked, surprised, maybe, that I was already at this stage.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Tell me about Dr. Sturgess,” I said.

  “Jack?” Agnes said. “What about him?”

  “I just . . . What’s your take on him?”

  Agnes shrugged. “On a personal level, he’s been our GP for years. For the last ten, I think. And professionally, I have the utmost confidence in him. He’s on the board at the hospital. He’s someone whose opinion I value in a number of areas.” She eyed me with concern. “This is about what happened when Marla was having the baby.”

  “Well—”

  “David, I was there. That man—that man and I—did everything we could to save that baby. It was the worst moment of my entire life, let me tell you. There’s not a minute of any day since then that I haven’t thought about what happened. If there’s anyone to blame for what happened, it’s me. I should never have insisted Marla give birth anywhere but the hospital. We were in the midst of that outbreak and—”

  “I’m not talking about that,” I said.

  She was taken aback. “What, then?”

  “At the hospital last night, when I said I was going to help Marla by asking around, he tried to talk me out of it. Belittled the effort.”

  “He had no business doing that,” Agnes said. “Why would he try to stop you?”

  “I don’t know. There’s another thing.”

  Agnes waited.

  “He’s also the GP for the Gaynor family.”

  Agnes’s mouth opened half an inch in what clearly looked like astonishment. “Are you sure about that?”

  I nodded. “He told me. He was cautioning me against talking to Bill Gaynor. Said the man wouldn’t be up to it. So he must have known Rosemary Gaynor. Has he mentioned that to you?”

  “I don’t . . . I’m not sure.”

  “You’d think, in the last twenty-four hours, that it might have come up,” I said.

  Agnes considered this. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Regardless of what Marla did or didn’t do, there has to be some kind of connection between her and the Gaynors. There may be several out there we don’t know about, but one that we know for certain is, their family doctor is Jack Sturgess.”

  “Thank you for this, David,” she said quietly. “Thank you very much.” Her face hardened. “If that son of a bitch has been anything less than honest with me, I’ll haul him into the operating room and cut his nuts off myself.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  MARSHALL did not go to the ATM for money for Sarita Gomez.

  Once he was a few blocks from his home, he pulled into the lot of a McDonald’s and got out his phone. He entered a number, put the phone to his ear, and waited.

  There were four rings. Then a pickup.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Mr. Gaynor?”

  “Who is this? If you’re some goddamn reporter I have nothing to say.”

  “Is this Bill Gaynor or not? Because I’m telling you right now, you better not fuck around with me. Because if you do, you’re going to be pretty goddamn sorry.”

  Dead air. Then: “Yes, this is Bill Gaynor.”

  “That’s good. Now we’re starting off on a good foot here.”

  “Who is this?” Gaynor asked. “Tell me who this is or I’m hanging up right now.”

  “Now we’re starting off bad again. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen. Okay? Trust me; it’s in your interests.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do I want? I want to do you a favor, that’s what I want. I’m trying to be a good citizen here by keeping quiet about things I know. Things that if they came out could cause you a fucking boatload of trouble.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Gaynor said, but his voice lacked confidence.

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  “Look, I don’t know what kind of crazy shakedown you’re trying to pull, but it’s not going to work. I don’t know who you are, so fuck you. Something horrible happens to someone, and every nut comes out of the woodwork. Jesus, what the hell’s wrong with people? For God’s sake, I’ve just lost my wife. Have you no sense of decency?”

  Marshall pressed on. “I’m trying to do the decent thing here, Mr. Gaynor, if you’d only shut up and listen. And yeah, I know about your wife. And I’m betting you know a lot more than you’re letting on. Am I right? I’m guessing there’s a whole lot you haven’t mentioned to the cops about your perfect little family. The sort of thing I could mention if I wanted to.”

  The other end of the line went quiet. Marshall figured Gaynor was thinking it through. Finally the man said, “What is it you want?”

  “Fifty thousand.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Fifty thousand dollars. You get that to me, and I won’t breathe a word about what I know.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Give me a break. Guy like you? Nice house? Flashy car?” The truth was, Marshall had no idea what kind of car Bill Gaynor drove, but he was betting it was a nice one. A whole lot nicer than his shitbox van, that was for sure.

  “I’m telling you, I don’t have fifty thousand just lying around,” Gaynor insisted. “You think I keep that kind of money under my mattress?”

  “What if I gave you till noon to get it? Would that help?”

  “Goddamn it, who are you?”

  “You already asked me that.”

  “Does this have something to do with Sarita?” Gaynor asked. “Did she put you up to this? Are you working with her?”

  Marshall found that more than a little troubling, that the man put it together that fast. But it made sense. How many people other than Sarita could know what was really going on in the Gaynor household?

  Marshall told himself to stay cool. He could do this. He could squeeze enough money out of this guy to give Sarita a fresh start somewhere else. In fact, if he could really get fifty thou out of the guy, it would be enough for both of them. They could run off together. They could both kiss their shit-a
ss jobs good-bye. Fifty grand, that would be more than enough to set themselves up somewhere else. More than enough to stay off society’s radar for months.

  “I don’t know who this Sarita person is and I don’t care,” Marshall said. “You pay up, or you’re fucked. I make an anonymous call to the cops. If that’s what you want, I can do it.”

  “Okay, okay, let me think,” Gaynor said. “I can probably raise most of it. I’d have to cash in some investments, go to the bank when they open.”

  “You do what you have to do,” Marshall said. “Bank opens at what? Ten? So you should have the money by eleven?”

  “I’m going to have to call you back.”

  Marshall was about to say, Yeah, right, like I’m going to give you my number, then realized Gaynor would already have it on his phone now. “Okay,” he agreed. “If I don’t hear from you by ten thirty, I call the cops.”

  “I get it. I’ll be in touch.”

  Gaynor ended the call. Marshall smiled to himself. This was going to work. He was sure this was going to work.

  Sarita, she’d be upset with him at first when she found out what he’d done. But when she realized it was enough for them to have a life together, she’d come around. He knew it.

  Love would conquer all.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  David

  I decided Davidson Place would be my first stop.

  The nursing home was on the west side of Promise Falls. A low-rise building in that netherworld between the suburbs and industrial land. I remembered from when I was a reporter how neighbors banded together to fight just about anything they believed would impact the quality of their domesticity. Group homes for mentally challenged kids. Halfway houses. Shopping malls. Homes too big for the lot.

  But for the life of me, I had a hard time getting my head around why someone would object to a nursing home in their community. Were they worried about being kept awake at night by the sounds of shuffling feet?

  I parked in the visitors’ lot and looked for reception. That took me to the lobby, where I saw several old souls sitting in wheelchairs, fast asleep. A woman behind the counter asked whether she could help me, and I said I was looking for Sarita.

  “Sarita Gomez?” she asked.

  I didn’t know, but I said, “Yes.”

  “I haven’t seen her today, but I can check whether she’s in. Can I ask what it’s concerning?”

  That was when it occurred to me that the police had not already been here. If Barry Duckworth had been asking for Sarita, it would be all over the building. Was it possible I had the jump on him? The Gaynors’ elderly neighbor had said something about not being able to remember the name of this place when he’d been talking to the police.

  “It’s a personal matter,” I said, then added, in an attempt to make my inquiry sound work related, “It has to do with someone’s care.”

  The woman figured out I was telling her it was none of her business. She picked up the phone, entered an extension, and said, “Gail, you seen Sarita around? Okay, uh-huh, got it.”

  She hung up and looked at me. “Sarita didn’t come in for her shift yesterday and she’s not in today. I’m sorry.”

  “Did she call in sick?” I asked.

  The woman shrugged. “Probably. I didn’t get the details.”

  “Would I be able to talk to her supervisor?” I leaned over the counter and said in a voice just above a whisper, “It’s very important. It’s the kind of thing I think Davidson Place would like to sort out quietly.”

  The woman could read into that whatever she wanted. Maybe I had a loved one here. Maybe I had a complaint about the care of my ailing grandmother. Maybe there was a theft allegation.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. I told her. “Just a minute.” She picked up the phone again. I turned away, only half listening. Then she said to me, “Mrs. Delaney will be down to see you shortly, Mr. Harwood. Have a seat over there.”

  I dropped into a nearby vinyl chair. Across from me sat a man who I guessed was in his late eighties or early nineties, dressed in a shirt and pants that he’d probably acquired when he was forty pounds heavier. His neck stuck out of the collar like a flagpole in a golf-green hole. He was holding an Ed McBain paperback mystery, open to about the midpoint, staring at the page, and in the five minutes I waited for Mrs. Delaney to show up, I never saw his eyes move once, and the page was never turned.

  “Mr. Harwood?”

  I glanced up. “Yes. Mrs. Delaney?”

  She nodded. “You were asking about Sarita Gomez?”

  “I was hoping to speak with her,” I said, standing.

  “I’d like to speak with her myself,” the woman said. “I’m afraid she isn’t here, and attempts to reach her have been unsuccessful.”

  “Oh,” I said. “She hasn’t shown up for work?”

  “May I ask what this is concerning? Do you have someone here at Davidson?”

  “I don’t. This concerns work Sarita does outside of this facility.”

  “Then why are you asking me about it?”

  “I’m trying to locate her. I thought, since she works here, I might be able to talk to her, ask her a few questions.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Mrs. Delaney said. “Sarita did not show up this morning. She’s a good worker, and the residents here like her very much, but as I’m sure you can imagine, some kinds of employees are more reliable than others.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That fact that she’s—” The woman cut herself off.

  “The fact that she’s what?” I thought, then took a shot. “Undocumented? Is Sarita working here illegally?”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case,” Mrs. Delaney said.

  “Do you have an address for her?” I asked.

  “Just a number where she can be reached. I spoke to the person at that number and she tells me Sarita’s gone away. I couldn’t tell you whether she’ll be coming back or not. And you still haven’t told me what business you have with her.”

  Time to hit her between the eyes. “She worked as a nanny for the Gaynors. That name mean anything to you?”

  Mrs. Delaney shook her head. “Should it?”

  “Did you watch the news last night? That woman who was fatally stabbed in her home over on Breckonwood?”

  A flash of recognition. She had heard the story.

  “That was horrible. But what does it have to do with Sarita?”

  “She was their nanny.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she said.

  “I’m surprised the police haven’t been here already, but I think you should be expecting them.”

  “This is unimaginable. Are you saying Sarita had something to do with that?”

  I hesitated. “I’m saying she may know something about it.”

  “Who are you, if you’re not with the police?” she asked pointedly.

  “I’m investigating on behalf of an interested party,” I said, which was as artful a dodge as I could think of on the spot. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “It would have been yesterday morning sometime, I think. She probably had the six-to-one shift. She does four shifts a week here, mostly early mornings. I don’t know about these other people she works for, but I think she works there before she comes here. And she can work any shift on weekends. This is terrible. She couldn’t have had anything to do with this. Everyone likes Sarita.”

  “You say you tried to call her?”

  “She doesn’t have a phone. I called her landlady. She said she’s taken off.” She leaned in. “That sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

  “Does she have friends here? Anyone who might know where I might be able to find her?”

  She went mute. I knew she’d thought of someone instantly, but was debating whether to tell me. Finally she said, “There’s someone here I think she’s been seeing. You know, in a relationship.”

  “Who?”

  “Marshall Kemper. He’s one of our
custodians.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  She hesitated. “Follow me.”

  She led me out of the lobby, down a hallway, then down a flight of stairs to the basement, and then through another hallway of pipes and ductwork and the industrial sounds of air conditioners and pumps. When she got to a door marked OPERATIONS MANAGER, she knocked, and a second later a short, stout black man answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Manny,” Mrs. Delaney said, “we’re looking for Marshall. Where would he be this time of day?”

  “Normally he’d be getting the trash pickup ready, but this turns out not to be a normal day. Marshall phoned in sick a while ago.”

  Mrs. Delaney looked at me.

  “I need an address,” I said.

  THIRTY-NINE

  “THERE’S a problem,” Bill Gaynor said, speaking into the kitchen phone while Matthew, in his high chair, stuffed dry Cheerios into his mouth.

  “What kind of problem?” Dr. Jack Sturgess said.

  “I got a call. Someone wanting money. Blackmail. The guy was a goddamn blackmailer.”

  Gaynor turned his back to his son and kept his voice down. He didn’t want Matthew to hear foul language. He worried the kid would be spouting expletives before he could say “Daddy.” A word, Gaynor thought sadly, his son was likely to utter before “Mommy.”

  “Who was it?”

  “It’s not like he said, ‘Hi, I’m Joe Smith, your neighborhood extortionist.’ He didn’t identify himself. But he must be someone who knows Sarita.”

  “Why?” Sturgess asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about this. Rose had been funny these last few weeks. I think she knew the truth somehow. I think it was weighing on her. I can’t say for sure, but it was little things she said, the way she was acting. And I’ve been trying to figure out, if she did know, who might she have found out from? Who might have helped her put it together?”

  “Sarita?” the doctor said.

  “Yeah. I’m wondering if she could have been in a position to know something.”

  Sturgess thought about that. “It’s possible.”