“And her relationship with Billy Tate began when?”
“Right after he got out of prison. At least that’s when Darlene went batshit over it.”
“Okay. Let’s move ahead to the night Tate fell off the roof. You got a good look at the body. Was it your impression that he was dead?”
“My impression?” Slovak ran his hand back over his bristly scalp. “I’m not sure. His head was twisted to the side, and there was a burn line on the side of his face. Jimmy Clapper, one of our patrol guys, tried doing CPR, but that just seemed to increase the bleeding. They used the defib unit, too. Multiple times. Nothing worked. And Fallow making the official pronouncement kind of sealed the deal.”
Gurney decided it was time to talk to Tate’s stepmother.
Following the directions he got from Slovak, he took the two-lane state road up the long hill from the lush Larchfield valley and down into dreary Bastenburg. At the town’s single traffic light, he turned onto Stickle Road and was soon driving through a scruffy area where abandoned pastures, overrun with thorn bushes, alternated with dilapidated trailers and collapsed barns.
Gurney was keeping an eye on his odometer, since Slovak’s directions were based on distances rather than on the often illegible addresses on the tilting mailboxes. At 2.4 miles from the commercial center of Bastenburg, he arrived at the incongruously named Paradise Inn—Darlene Tate’s place of business, as well as her residence—a ramshackle two-story structure with a tavern on the ground floor and an apartment upstairs. According to Slovak, access to her apartment was through the barroom.
Gurney parked in the weedy lot at the side of the building. Two other vehicles were present, both pickup trucks. Inside the rear window of one was a Confederate flag decal. A rifle was on display inside the other.
He got out and walked around to the front entrance. Above the sagging overhang, the words PARADISE INN were stenciled in red letters on a yellow background. A looping garland of blinking Christmas lights hung from the overhang. Rather than adding an element of cheer, the effect in the glare of the midday sun was repellent. He opened the glass-paneled door and stepped inside.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the low light level. There were no windows. Apart from the glass door, the only sources of illumination were a wide-screen TV on the wall at the end of the bar and a few low-wattage light fixtures in the ceiling.
Only one of the barstools was occupied—by a shapeless woman in an oversized flannel shirt and a John Deere cap on backward. Straggly gray hair reached her shoulders. She was leaning forward, elbows on the bar, hands wrapped around an empty glass. She glanced over at Gurney, then up at the TV, where colorfully dressed contestants were shrieking and dashing back and forth in a frenetic game show.
A young man with a shaved head and a bodybuilder’s physique was perched on a stool behind the bar, cleaning his nails with the tip of a narrow-bladed hunting knife. He eyed Gurney with the quiet calculation common to ex-cons.
Gurney spoke with the steely politeness common to cops. “Good afternoon, sir. I’d like to speak to Darlene Tate.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Detective Gurney, Larchfield Police.”
The young man slipped his knife slowly into a sheath on the side of his belt, picked up a phone from under the bar, and tapped a few icons. He put the phone to his ear and turned away. When he spoke, it was in a low voice.
All Gurney could make out was the word “police.”
The young man lowered the phone. “Mrs. Tate would like to know the subject of your inquiry.”
“Tell her I have some questions about her stepson.”
He turned away and spoke into the phone in as low a voice as before. A few seconds later, he turned back to Gurney.
“Mrs. Tate does not wish to discuss her stepson. She says if you dropped dead, you could talk to him yourself in hell. No offense intended.”
The shapeless woman with the straggly hair was taking an interest in this back-and-forth. Or maybe that was just an impression created by the fact that her mouth was hanging open.
Gurney motioned to the young man to follow him to the end of the bar.
“Tell Mrs. Tate that I’m investigating a murder that her stepson may have been involved in. I’d like to close the case, and she may be able to help me.”
The young man raised his phone and passed along Gurney’s message. The response this time was evidently positive. He pointed down a row of high-backed booths running along the wall parallel to the bar.
“Last one.”
The six booths Gurney walked past were dingy, unlit, unoccupied. In the seventh, a small lamp produced just enough light to give him his first impression of Darlene Tate—a battle-scarred version of Lorinda.
She licked her lips. “Murder? For real?”
“Very real.”
“Wouldn’t put it past him. Wouldn’t put nothing past him. Who’d he kill?”
“Mind if I sit down?”
She licked her lips again. There was a glass in her hand and a bottle of tequila on the table. “You want a drink?”
“Maybe later.” He slid into the seat opposite her and smiled. “I appreciate your willingness to speak to me.”
“Nice face. You sure you’re a cop?”
“You have a nice face, too, Darlene.” Actually, it wasn’t a nice face at all. The bone structure was strong, but there was a sourness around the corners of the mouth and a reptilian coldness in her eyes. “Mind if I ask you some questions about Billy?”
She squinted at him sideways as though an odd thought had occurred to her. “What do you care what he did, now that the little bastard’s dead?”
Gurney followed that opening. “You saw him at the mortuary that day, am I right, after he was struck by lightning and fell off that church roof?”
“People always look smaller when they’re dead. You ever notice that?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I seen a lot of dead people, but never one I was happier to see dead.”
She gave Gurney a hard look, as if daring him to say a good word about her stepson.
“Did he have any friends?”
“Friends?” She made it sound as if he’d asked whether Billy knew any Martians.
“Billy was a user. A filthy, lying user. A psychiatrist told us he was a sociopathical psychopath. When he was ten years old. You ever know anyone like that, evil like that from their childhood?”
“Did he get in trouble a lot?”
“He was never out of trouble. He had that impulsive control disorderly thing.”
“How did he end up with Selena Cursen?”
She shook her head, picked up the tequila bottle, and poured a large shot into her glass. She drank it down slowly, then laid her glass back on the table. “Fucking bitch.”
“If Billy were still alive, and I wanted to find him, where should I look?”
She frowned at her empty glass, blinking, as though she couldn’t quite parse what he’d asked her. “He’s dead,” she said finally, picking up the bottle and pouring herself a generous double shot. “Ask Greg Mason.”
“Who is Greg Mason?”
“His gym teacher, coach, who the fuck knows what else.” She downed her tequila in one long swallow. “Ask him.” Her voice trailed off, her eyes half closed.
“One last question, Darlene. Do you think Billy is capable of premeditated murder?”
Her eyes opened and she gazed at him with a drunk’s sudden shrewdness. “He’s dead. Not capable of anything. Why are you asking me that?”
“You did see him at Peale’s Funeral Home, right?”
“You telling me he’s not dead?”
“If he were alive, do you have any idea where he might be?”