Page 15 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)

Charlie

G ordy Jarrett’s hands tremble as he pours coffee into three mismatched mugs.

The clink of ceramic against ceramic echoes through his modest living room, where faded security certification plaques compete with fishing trophies for wall space.

I called Gerald but got his voicemail. I debated leaving a message or trying again later, but even though the case is thirty years old, I feel like I’m on the clock.

Time is slipping away. I left a brief voicemail, asking him to get in touch.

My skirt pinches at my thighs as I perch on the edge of the worn leather sofa, and the designer heels feel wildly out of place for this part of town.

“Fired, not retired,” he says, handing me a mug with a fishing quote that reads, The best way to catch a fish is to let him think he’s escaping .

Huh. Same for criminals. “I was with the Hartmans for sixteen years, and one dead kid later, I’m bagging groceries part-time.

” He settles his substantial frame into a recliner that creaks in protest. “Didn’t get back into security until I took a guard job at a bank. ”

I’ve interviewed enough suspects to know when someone is constructing a narrative that casts themselves as the victim. It’s a classic deflection technique, but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything beyond self-pity. “Why did they fire you?”

“I was head of security. My job was to keep the family safe.” He picks at a snag on the arm’s upholstery. “I failed, but God’s truth, I never thought that girl was in danger.”

“Mr. Jarrett?—”

“Gordy, please. Mr. Jarrett was my father, God rest him.”

“Gordy,” I continue, trying not to make a face at the bitterness of the coffee. “Who do you think killed her?”

“Not a clue, sweetheart,” he says. “Could have been anybody.”

If he had worked for the family for that long, surely he must’ve suspected someone. I switch tactics. “We’re trying to understand what happened the night Tiffany died. Not just the facts listed in the police report but the dynamics, the personalities involved.”

“I saw you on the TV with your mom.” He makes a whirling motion around his temple with a finger. “She’s a crazy ol’ gal, ain’t she?”

She’s been called worse. Doesn’t mean his comment doesn’t annoy me. I sip the bitter coffee in order to hold my tongue.

Mom would be here if it weren’t for the fact that the current number one journalist on YouTube called our office asking for an interview. I don’t know whether to be relieved or horrified that she picked that over Gordy.

Meg chuckles and lays her classic warm, inviting smile on him. “What was Tiffany like?”

His eyes fix on the distance beyond my shoulder. “Don’t like speaking ill of the dead. ’Specially kids. Don’t seem right.”

My gut tightens. That type of disclaimer usually preceded something damning.

“We feel the same way.” Meg gives a sympathetic nod and lowers her voice. “But the truth can’t hurt her now.”

God, she’s good.

Gordy fidgets with his pant leg, brushing away an invisible speck of lint. Or maybe the emotions he’s feeling. “Truth is, she was a bit of a snot. Smart as a whip but mean with it. You know the type? The ones who figure out which buttons to push. That family is full of them.”

Like Phillip, the mean drunk. I nod, keeping my face neutral. “Did you notice anything unusual about her behavior that night? Any notable interactions with the guests?”

He barks a humorless laugh. “Besides taking Alex’s cherished hockey stick and hiding it in the panic room? That was pretty notable.”

Meg locks eyes with me. My pulse spikes. “Tell us about that.”

“Signed by Wayne Gretzky. Gift from his dad. Phillip traveled all the time and brought back outlandish gifts to Alex and Christina to ease his guilt.” Gordy shakes his head.

“Tiff waited until everyone was occupied with the party and swiped it from its prized spot in his room. Then told him she’d hidden it in the new panic room. ”

Why would he need Gordy to fetch it? “He couldn’t find it?”

“The room wasn’t finished.” Gordy sets his mug down on the side table with a thunk. “State-of-the-art for 1995, but the security panel only worked from the outside at that point. Contractor was coming back after the holidays to finish the interior controls.”

“And?” Meg asks.

Gordy spreads his hands like his point is obvious. “If Alex went in, she could lock him inside.”

A safe room turned trap. “Alex was afraid to go after it.”

Gordy’s eyes darken. “Wouldn’t have been the first time she pulled a stunt like that. She locked the gardener’s kid in the pool house for three hours that August. Boy nearly got heatstroke.”

Meg’s face falls. “That’s awful.”

I remember similar childhood stunts between us, the Wonder Twins.

The time she pushed me out of the oak tree in the woods because I broke her favorite paintbrush.

Or when I shoved her into a boulder for putting a spider in my hair.

She ended up with a knot on her head; I got two months of laundry duty and a deep-seated fear of bugs.

Kid-on-kid bullying isn’t abnormal. “What happened with the hockey stick?”

“Alex came to me all upset. Asked if I’d get it when I was doing my rounds.” Gordy’s expression softens. “Good kid. Didn’t want to tattle to his parents and make a scene at their fancy party. Just wanted his stick back.”

Meg sips her coffee. How does she drink that without gagging? “And you got it for him?”

“Course I did. Part of the job—protecting what matters to the people you’re paid to look after.

I’d done the same for Christina and some of the other kids when they needed something and their parents were too busy or too drunk.

” His face takes on a wistful pride. “Found the thing propped in the corner and brought it to the boy’s room without anyone being the wiser. ”

The panic room. Orbiting the crime, but never quite touching it. “Did you tell the police?” We know he didn’t, or at least I assume so. If Matt’s theory about dirty cops is true, maybe it was expunged.

Gordy stiffens. “Wasn’t asked about it. They wanted to know about security protocols and who had access to which areas inside the house. Not kid drama.”

“You didn’t think it was relevant that Tiffany had demonstrated knowledge of—and interest in—the room near the spot where she later died?”

His face reddens. “At the time, no. It just seemed like one more mean trick from that girl. Not a...” He trails off, swallowing hard.

Thirty years, and it still troubles him. That says something. I believe him, despite myself. Sometimes the most damning evidence against someone is their conscience.

Meg catches my eye, her fingers tapping against her ripped jeans—a silent signal that I need to tread gently or lose our best lead at the moment.

“Mr. Jarrett. Gordy,” I say gently, “did you see Gerald or Phillip arguing that night?”

His face clears. “Those two? They were always in each other’s faces. Upstairs, downstairs, probably argued in both that night. A lot of society drama, you know. Always was. Gads, I hated those parties.”

“But you didn’t directly witness any argument between them in the basement?”

“Nope.”

“Or between Mary and Gerry?” Meg adds.

“Mary didn’t speak to that scumbag unless she had to. Ever. Why?”

Meg squeezes her cup. “You’re sure?”

“A hundred percent, sweetheart. Gerry went on the patio to smoke a cigarette off and on, but so did half the other guests. Mary snuck out to the cottage.”

I freeze. “Mary left the house?”

“Sure did.”

“You saw her?”

“On that night’s surveillance tape.”

Meg and I exchange a glance. Gordy thinks we don’t believe him. He pushes to his feet, knees popping. “I can prove it. Before they canned me, I took the backup of that night’s tape. Still got it.”

“You have a copy of the surveillance footage?”

“Insurance.” A bitter smile plays on his lips. “Rich folks always need a fall guy. I worked security long enough to know to cover my ass. Wasn’t sure what I might need that video for, but better safe than sorry. You get me?”

Meg frowns and shoots me a questioning look. “Is that…?”

“Legal?” Gordy finishes. “Not according to my employment contract. But wrongful termination ain’t nice, either. I had two kids in school. Sometimes you need leverage.”

Family first. Our dad would have done the same. “Is there anything suspicious on the tape? Anything at all?”

A shake of his head. “Watched it dozens of times. I do feel somewhat responsible, you know? It was my job to keep everyone safe in that house.” His eyes cloud. “That girl died on my watch. I wondered if I’d missed something.”

How many times have I replayed interviews in my head, wondering if I missed a verbal tell, a micro-expression that might have changed an investigation’s outcome? “Did you? Miss something?”

“Nah. Never saw anything that looked like foul play.”

“But you still have the copy?”

Gordy jerks his thumb at another room. “In the basement. I’ll get it.”

Meg rises and sets her mug on the coffee table.

As a forensic sculptor, she deals primarily with physical evidence—bones, tissue markers, facial reconstructions.

But she understands, as I do, what this could mean.

Video evidence from a security system could reveal truths that memories—faded, biased, or deliberately tampered with—can’t.

“You think it’ll show something more than we have?

” she whispers. “He could be the one who erased the footage.”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But if his copy hasn’t been tampered with, we can either cross a few people off our suspect list or narrow that list down.”