around like a whirlwind.
Sullivan put the can on the floor and the cat plunged its face into it. Sullivan started sifting through the papers that littered the terra cotta tiles, papers that had once been piled on the stone counter or held by magnets to the fridge. "Parents might have left the number of the place they were going," he said, cigarette dangling from his lip. He glanced at front and back, collected in his left hand papers that didn't help.
He was picking up papers and the cat was eating and I was smoking when Burke called from upstairs, "Sullivan! Oh, Jesus, Jim, you better come look at this."
Sullivan and I exchanged looks; he dropped the papers, rose, tossed his cigarette in the sink. I followed as he strode for the stairs, where Burke, white-faced, waited at the top. We worked our way over the debris. The second floor was pretty much in the same shape as the first: wrecked. It smelled worse, though, and the stench got stronger as Burke led us along the hall to a bedroom where we had to step over what was left of a desk to get in the door. When we did, we knew why Sullivan hadn't seen Tory Wesley around town, and why no one would ever wonder where she was again.
* * *
Sullivan and I stood on the lawn, watched the ambulance pull in, the medical examiner's man pull out. Huge trees with golden leaves blazed in the midday sun. The cop at the bottom of the drive was telling the neighbors, the joggers and dogwalkers, to go home because there was nothing to see. I'd given a statement, shown my license to Sullivan and various other people who wanted to see it, asked a few questions myself. Now we stood, watching.
"I've got to go see your sister," Sullivan said.
"I know. I want to be there."
"No. For all I know you knew all about this and came out here to cover it up."
I stared. "Then why did I call you?"
Sullivan considered. "Because you're an idiot?"
"That's true, but it's not what happened. If half the kids in Warrenstown were here, they're all as likely to know what happened to Tory Wesley as Gary is."
"He's the one who ran away."
"He said he didn't run away. He said he'd gone to New York to do something important."
"Yeah," Sullivan said. "Like run away."
"If that's it, why was he still in New York three days after he left home?"
Sullivan nodded thoughtfully, but he didn't answer the question.
"He may not have even been here," I said.
"We'll check that." A cop wearing surgical gloves carried a bag of trash, now evidence, from the house, dumped it in the back of a tech van. It would go to the lab, along with a dozen or so other bags, to be checked for prints. A lab director's nightmare.
"And we're tracking down the other kids," Sullivan said. "Starting with your buddy Morgan Reed. We'll find out who was here."
A fresh fall breeze shivered the leaves.
"I want to work together on this," I said. "You want to find out what happened to Tory Wesley. I'm looking for Gary."
"Could be we're looking for the same thing."
"I don't think so," I said, though a part of me was saying, hell, sure it could.
Sullivan was silent. Then, "No," he said.
"No, what?"
He turned to face me, spoke quietly. "What do you want me to say, Smith? That I don't think Tory Wesley died in her sleep, that I think someone who was at that party killed her and I think it may have been Gary?" He shook his head. "Until someone proves otherwise, Gary Russell's a suspect. You're his uncle. Drop it, go back to New York, keep out of my way."
"You don't really think I will?"
He looked over the lawn again. "You licensed in this state?"
"So far I'm not doing anything you need a license for. I'm just driving around asking questions."
"You carrying?"
"No." I opened my jacket to show him: nothing. I don't have a New Jersey carry permit, so the .38 I usually wear in a shoulder rig was back at my place. I had a .22 strapped up under the dash in the car, but he hadn't asked about that.
"Get out of town," he said.
"Sullivan—"
He shook his
Sullivan put the can on the floor and the cat plunged its face into it. Sullivan started sifting through the papers that littered the terra cotta tiles, papers that had once been piled on the stone counter or held by magnets to the fridge. "Parents might have left the number of the place they were going," he said, cigarette dangling from his lip. He glanced at front and back, collected in his left hand papers that didn't help.
He was picking up papers and the cat was eating and I was smoking when Burke called from upstairs, "Sullivan! Oh, Jesus, Jim, you better come look at this."
Sullivan and I exchanged looks; he dropped the papers, rose, tossed his cigarette in the sink. I followed as he strode for the stairs, where Burke, white-faced, waited at the top. We worked our way over the debris. The second floor was pretty much in the same shape as the first: wrecked. It smelled worse, though, and the stench got stronger as Burke led us along the hall to a bedroom where we had to step over what was left of a desk to get in the door. When we did, we knew why Sullivan hadn't seen Tory Wesley around town, and why no one would ever wonder where she was again.
* * *
Sullivan and I stood on the lawn, watched the ambulance pull in, the medical examiner's man pull out. Huge trees with golden leaves blazed in the midday sun. The cop at the bottom of the drive was telling the neighbors, the joggers and dogwalkers, to go home because there was nothing to see. I'd given a statement, shown my license to Sullivan and various other people who wanted to see it, asked a few questions myself. Now we stood, watching.
"I've got to go see your sister," Sullivan said.
"I know. I want to be there."
"No. For all I know you knew all about this and came out here to cover it up."
I stared. "Then why did I call you?"
Sullivan considered. "Because you're an idiot?"
"That's true, but it's not what happened. If half the kids in Warrenstown were here, they're all as likely to know what happened to Tory Wesley as Gary is."
"He's the one who ran away."
"He said he didn't run away. He said he'd gone to New York to do something important."
"Yeah," Sullivan said. "Like run away."
"If that's it, why was he still in New York three days after he left home?"
Sullivan nodded thoughtfully, but he didn't answer the question.
"He may not have even been here," I said.
"We'll check that." A cop wearing surgical gloves carried a bag of trash, now evidence, from the house, dumped it in the back of a tech van. It would go to the lab, along with a dozen or so other bags, to be checked for prints. A lab director's nightmare.
"And we're tracking down the other kids," Sullivan said. "Starting with your buddy Morgan Reed. We'll find out who was here."
A fresh fall breeze shivered the leaves.
"I want to work together on this," I said. "You want to find out what happened to Tory Wesley. I'm looking for Gary."
"Could be we're looking for the same thing."
"I don't think so," I said, though a part of me was saying, hell, sure it could.
Sullivan was silent. Then, "No," he said.
"No, what?"
He turned to face me, spoke quietly. "What do you want me to say, Smith? That I don't think Tory Wesley died in her sleep, that I think someone who was at that party killed her and I think it may have been Gary?" He shook his head. "Until someone proves otherwise, Gary Russell's a suspect. You're his uncle. Drop it, go back to New York, keep out of my way."
"You don't really think I will?"
He looked over the lawn again. "You licensed in this state?"
"So far I'm not doing anything you need a license for. I'm just driving around asking questions."
"You carrying?"
"No." I opened my jacket to show him: nothing. I don't have a New Jersey carry permit, so the .38 I usually wear in a shoulder rig was back at my place. I had a .22 strapped up under the dash in the car, but he hadn't asked about that.
"Get out of town," he said.
"Sullivan—"
He shook his
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