A Tap on the Window by Linwood Barclay Read Free Book Online Page B

excessive force around here, which explained Scott’s take on that officer patting down the girl behind Patchett’s. He’d said there was no reason for it, but for all I knew, the officer had a legitimate suspicion she was up to something. I’d learned long ago, during my stint with a police department, that when you gave someone—male or female—the benefit of the doubt, you reduced the odds that you’d be going home at the end of your shift.
    For the most part, no one around here was troubled by rumors of police overstepping their bounds. The citizens of Griffon felt safe in their homes. As long as that sense of security continued, they didn’t need to know the details.
    When I was honest with myself, I had to admit that was my attitude, too. I knew that if and when I found the one who sold Scott XTC, X, E—whatever they were calling it on the street these days—I’d handle the matter myself.
    “Talk to you later,” I told Donna, and ended the call. I pulled up alongside the police car, saw the two male officers inside. I pulled over to the curb ahead of the cruiser, got out, glanced at the house and saw Donna watching through the living room sheers.
    Ricky Haines, the younger of the two, got out on the passenger side and nodded. Early thirties, black hair and moustache, all neatly trimmed. In shape, too. He had the look of someone who might have played football at some point, although he was a little shy of the necessary bulk. Hockey, maybe, although bulk had its pluses there, too.
    “Mr. Weaver,” he said, touching his index finger to his forehead in a mini salute.
    “Officer Haines.”
    “Good memory,” he said.
    It’s hard to forget the name of the man who told you your son was dead.
    The other door opened. This cop looked to be in his late thirties, and if he’d ever played a sport, he’d long since given it up. I was guessing he weighed two-eighty, and he was carrying a good chunk of it around the middle. There was more hair above his lip than on his head.
    “This is Officer Hank Brindle,” Haines said.
    I nodded. “Hey.”
    “So you’re Donna’s husband,” he said. His voice was low and gravelly.
    “That’s right.”
    He nodded, thought about that for a second, then said, “Wonder if you might be able to help us out with something.”
    “I’ll give it a try.”
    Brindle pointed to my Honda Accord. “This car’s registered to you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Were you driving around in this vehicle last night?” Brindle asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Can you tell us where you were?”
    “It would depend on the time,” I said.
    “Say around ten.”
    “I was on my way home.”
    Brindle nodded. “On your way home from where?”
    “I’d been doing some work in Tonawanda.”
    Brindle’s head kept nodding. “Ricky here tells me you’re a private investigator. That right?”
    I nodded, waiting. I could’ve asked what this was about, but cops had a way of getting to things in their own sweet time, and didn’t like to answer questions. I knew the drill.
    Brindle nodded thoughtfully again, then glanced over at his younger partner. “I guess I’ll let you take it from here. You’re more up to speed on this.” I thought I heard a hint of resentment.
    I turned my attention to Haines. “Up to speed on what?”
    “We’re looking for a girl,” Haines said. “A teenager.”
    I waited.
    “Her name’s Claire Sanders. Seventeen. Blond hair, about five five. Hundred and fifteen pounds or so.”
    “Why you looking for her? She done something?”
    “It’s important that we find her,” Haines said, sidestepping the question.
    I persisted. “Because she’s done something, or because she’s missing?”
    Haines cleared his throat. “She’s unaccounted for. We’d be grateful for your cooperation here, Mr. Weaver. This is kind of an unofficial inquiry, to be honest. Considering who Claire’s father is, we’ve opted to handle this with discretion.”
    I had to think a second. Claire Sanders?