“That’s not true,” Maureen said.
Then, out of the blue, Duckworth said, “Victor Rooney.”
“What?”
“I dropped by Walden Fisher’s house today, asked him a few things about his daughter’s death. He brought up Victor Rooney.”
“Who’s that?”
“I just thought of him again because he and Trevor, they’d be about the same age. Rooney and Olivia were going to get married. Walden said Victor’s never gotten over it, that he’s been acting weird lately, what with the third anniversary of Olivia’s murder coming up.”
“Have you talked to him? To this Rooney person?”
Duckworth shook his head. “That’s what I’ve been thinking I should do.” He pushed the beer away. He’d had about a third of the bottle. “If I’m gonna go back out, I can’t have that.”
Maureen smiled. “I’m going to hate myself for this.”
“What?”
“There’s a cupcake in the fridge. One. Chocolate, with chocolate icing.”
He wondered whether he should tell her about the pain he’d had when he was at the Burger King. But not only would it get Maureen to worrying; it would mean admitting that he’d had lunch at Burger King.
“I love you,” he said.
Before Duckworth left the house, he put in a call to Clark Andover, the lawyer Bill Gaynor’d hired to defend him against a slew of charges, including the murder of Marshall Kemper.
“I’m going to drop by and see your client tonight,” Duckworth said, “and I figured you’d want to be there.”
“Tonight?” Andover said. “You can’t be serious.”
“In about an hour,” Duckworth said.
“I can’t just drop everything and—”
“I’ll bring the coffee.”
It was dark by the time the detective tracked Victor Rooney to a house in an older part of downtown. These were mostly postwar — World War II — homes. Modest, but built to last. Rooney rented a room from a retired schoolteacher named Emily Townsend, whose husband had died several years ago. Hers was a small white two-story house with black shutters. There was a rusty old van in the driveway, parked next to a shiny blue Toyota.
“I’m pretty sure Victor’s in,” she said after Duckworth showed up at the door and told her who he was. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“No,” he said. “I’m just hoping he can help me with something.”
“He’s a good boy,” she said. “Well, he’s not a boy, of course. He’s a man. He’s a great help to me. Most days.”
“What do you mean, most days?”
“Oh—” She waved a hand. “Nothing, really. He just has his ups and downs. He’s looking for a job. Do you have any openings at the police department?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It wouldn’t have to be as a policeman. I know you have to get special training for that. But maybe something looking after the police cars? Victor’s very handy with machinery. He’s got a real knack for it. That’s one of the reasons I like to have him around, as a boarder. Ever since my husband, Virgil, died, he’s looked after things around here. Cuts the grass, replaces the furnace filter, changes the batteries in the smoke detectors. Even knows how to fix electrical stuff. All the things Virgil looked after. I give him a real break on the rent because of that, and just as well, because some months he can’t pay it at all.”
“Sounds as though you’re very good to him.”
“And vice versa. Let me get him for you.” She called up the stairs. “Vick! Vick! There’s someone here to see you!”
A door could be heard opening, and Victor Rooney appeared at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a T-shirt, running shorts, and sneakers. He was glassy-eyed, and Duckworth wasn’t sure if he was heading out for a run or had just come back.
“What’s that?” he said.
“This man wants to talk to you,” Emily Townsend said. “He’s from the police!”
Slowly, Victor descended the stairs, not taking his eyes off Duckworth. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” the detective said.
“What do you want?” he asked, reaching the step one from the bottom, so he could look down at Duckworth.
“Why don’t we step outside and talk for a minute. Mrs. Townsend, thank you for everything.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said.
Duckworth led Rooney outside, ambled over toward the driveway, near the rusted van. A nearby streetlight and a light on Emily Townsend’s front porch were more than enough for the two men to see each other.
“A bit chilly tonight,” Duckworth said. “But it’ll be summer soon enough.”
“I don’t mind if it’s cool. Once I start running, I warm up.”
“You do marathons?”
“God, no. I’m just getting back into it. A mile, maybe.” He rolled his head around on his shoulders, stretching his neck muscles. “I’m trying to improve myself.”
“Good for you.”
“People seem to think I need to do that.”
Duckworth let that one go. “I’m still looking into Olivia’s murder,” he told Rooney. “I was talking to her father earlier today.”
“That guy,” Rooney said, blinking slowly.
“Yeah. That guy.”
“Why were you talking to him? You got some news? You and your buddies finally get off your collective asses and arrest someone?”
“No,” Duckworth said. “We haven’t. Mr. Fisher told me that what happened still weighs pretty heavily on you.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “No one has to worry about me.”
“I was wondering if, even after all this time, maybe something new has occurred to you. Something that might help us make an arrest. Someone who might have had a fight with Olivia. Were there any men who were interested in her, maybe an ex-boyfriend who was upset she was going to marry you?”
“No other boyfriend,” he said.
“So she wasn’t involved in any other relationship?”
Victor hesitated, then said, “No.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“... I don’t know. I don’t think it’s anything.”
“That’s often what people say later. They say they didn’t think it was anything. But it turned out to be something.”
“She was kind of — it’s hard to describe — but sort of distant for a while,” he said.
“When was this?”
“Like, a month before it happened? Maybe three weeks. Just... she acted like she had something on her mind. I thought maybe it was the idea of getting engaged to me, but she swore up and down it wasn’t that. She said one time she wondered if she was a good person. Like she’d done something she felt bad about.”
“What did you think it was?”
Victor shrugged. “I thought maybe she’d spent the night with another guy. A one-night-stand thing. I might have pressed harder, but I guess I just didn’t want to know. But what happened to Olivia? In the park? That was some fucking maniac — that’s what that was. So I don’t even know what the point of your questions is. They’ve got nothing to do with what happened to her.”
“You might be right.”
“This, what you’re doing? You just want me to think you’re getting somewhere, but you’re never going to catch the guy. Why don’t you go after the others? The people who did fuck all? The ones who listened while she screamed.”
“It must be hard to get over,” Duckworth said, his eyes scanning the house and the property, the detached garage in the backyard. “How long was it before you started seeing anyone else?”
“Are you for real? You honestly came by to ask me when I started dating again?” Rooney turned away, spit onto the driveway.