by Jeff Siebold
One thousand fifty-five yards, thought Zeke.
“How did Moe react?”
“Man, we all want to play every play, you know?” said the tall man. “It’s what we live for. But I think Moe understood. He wasn’t mad at Brandon.”
“How about the dog. Were you friendly with the dog, Zoe?” Zeke asked.
“Yeah, she was alright. I’m not a real dog person, but Zoe was alright. It’s a shame what happened to her.”
Zeke nodded and thought for a moment. Then he said, “OK, thanks, Bruce.”
Chapter 49
“Tell me again. How did you find me?” asked the woman.
“Your husband told me how to reach you at your sister’s place,” said Zeke.
“And just how are you and Bruce connected?” she asked.
Melody Coffey was an elegant black woman, about five foot four inches tall but with a regal bearing and fine bones. She was wearing a mesh tennis dress, which was primarily Notre Dame blue. It matched her eyes.
Contacts, Zeke thought. Too blue to be real.
“I’ve been hired to protect Angela Hart,” said Zeke, “and to find out who’s threatening her.”
Melody Coffey looked at Zeke skeptically across the threshold of the open front door. “Let me see your ID.”
Zeke handed her a plastic ID card and a business card, and while she examined them he said, sort of open-ended, “Bruce said you knew Angela.”
“What is ‘The Agency’?” she asked, ignoring his comment.
“It’s a group of ex-FBI types who offer personal protection,” said Zeke. Well, that’s a part of it.
She handed him back both cards and waited.
“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her?”
“No,” said Melody. “But I haven’t seen her for a while.”
“Why not?” asked Zeke.
She looked around and behind her. “The reason we’re separated,” said Melody, “is my husband is fooling around on me.” Her control was fragile, brittle.
“How do you mean?” asked Zeke.
“Ask my philandering husband,” she said. “He’s been chasing skirt since we got married. Thinks I don’t know, but I do.”
Zeke noticed her direct gaze and the challenge in her voice. He said nothing but watched carefully.
“Do you know how that makes you feel?” she asked. She looked down. “Violated. Played. Stupid.”
She looked up at Zeke again with major eye contact, challenging him.
“And one thing I’m not is stupid!”
Zeke felt the impact of her personality in the small space between them.
“He didn’t think I knew, but I did. I saw it coming. He denied it, but he’s a liar. But you know what, I’m not going to let him beat me. I’m not going to let him ruin my life. He isn’t going to win.” She was talking in a clear, quiet voice now, full of emphasis and impact. Distinctive words.
“What do you want?” she said and sighed, emerging from her rhetoric barrage.
“Well, I came over to ask you who might want to threaten or hurt Angela,” he said. “But maybe I should ask who might want to hurt your husband. Besides you, I mean.”
“Yeah, I’d like to hurt him, alright. But I won’t. Like I said, he’s not going to get to me. I don’t need the great Mr. Bruce Coffey to live my life. He’s not worth it.”
“Anyone else feel that way?” asked Zeke, following the conversation’s flow.
“Plenty of people want to get even with Bruce. Not so many with Angela. So, no, not really,” said Melody.
“Someone killed her dog, the Shepherd. And she received a threatening phone call just a couple days before that,” said Zeke.
“Don’t know anything about that,” said Melody.
“Are your girls here with you?” asked Zeke.
“Yes. This is just temporary. My sister doesn’t have room for all of us here. I’m looking for another place.”
“I see,” said Zeke. “Have either of you filed divorce papers yet?”
“I’m talking with an attorney,” she replied.
He nodded.
“Can you think of anything else? About the threats on Angela?” he asked.
“You’re with the FBI?” she said, confirming.
“We consult with the FBI, and a few other government agencies,” said Zeke.
“So if you heard that Bruce Coffey was involved with a sports betting group, shaving points in the games, you might be able to do something about it? Legally?” she asked.
“Do you think that has anything to do with the threats to Angela?” asked Zeke, calm, quiet.
“Hell, yes,” said Melody. “That’s the whole thing. Bruce told me about it before I caught him cheating this last time. Said some guys in Las Vegas were talking with him and Brandon about point shaving.”
* * *
“So Sally found the connection to the Johnson-Matthey employees,” said Zeke into the secure smartphone.
“Who was it?” asked Clive.
“Dylan Jones’ older brother, Luc. He’s worked at Johnson-Matthey for four and a half years,” said Zeke.
“Stealing drugs from them?” asked Clive.
“It seems so,” said Zeke. “He’s probably been stealing some of the raw opiates, probably after they’re combined with lactose but before they’ve been fully processed. We’ll need to go back through the records to see exactly what’s been happening, but he’s the connection.”
“What about their controls?” asked Clive. “They monitor closely, don’t they?”
“They do,” said Zeke. “We need to figure out how this was done.”
“Do we want to arrange for his arrest?” asked Clive.
“No, I think we should watch him for a while, follow him and monitor his activity. He should lead us to the others involved, and maybe we can catch him with the drugs in his possession. It’ll make for a stronger case,” said Zeke.
“Right,” said Clive. “I can arrange for surveillance on Luc Jones. I’ll get a GPS device for his car, and we’ll track his smartphone. See what he’s up to.”
“Good. It shouldn’t take too long to get what we need. According to Kevin McCarthy, a new shipment of drugs is distributed every week to ten days,” said Zeke.
* * *
Detective Featherman was at his desk when Zeke arrived at the Conshohocken station house on Fayette Street.
“Hey, ride with me, OK?” asked Featherman. He lifted his large frame out of the desk chair and started toward the door.
“Sure,” said Zeke. He’d called ahead and asked Featherman if he could spare some time to talk about the Monica Burns murder.
They walked out to a dirty blue Crown Vic with no hubcaps, obviously a cop’s car, and Featherman got in and started it up. They drove it three blocks to Dunnigan’s Boat House and parked on the street in front of the restaurant.
It was three-thirty in the afternoon, and the place was empty. Featherman walked to a booth and sat. Zeke joined him and a young, dark-haired girl approached with two menus. Featherman said, “No, no food, Dory. I’ll have a Bud Light draft.” He looked at Zeke.
“Dory, I’m Zeke.” He looked at the tap handles at the bar. “May I have a Harp draft, please.” He turned to Featherman. “You allowed to drink on duty?” he asked, after Dory had walked away.
Featherman stared at him, very still for a moment. “My shift was over at 3:30.”
“I figured,” said Zeke. “Thanks for staying around to chat.”
“Sure, you’re buying, right?” said Featherman.
“I am,” said Zeke.
“So you said the topic is Monica Burns,” Featherman said.
“Yes, her death. There are a few things that don’t feel right when you contrast it with the kids’ murders,” said Zeke.
“We didn’t have the kids’ deaths to contrast it with, when I was investigating,” said Featherman.
Maybe he’s more of a bureaucrat than he looks, thought Zeke, He’s making
excuses already. But he said, “True. That’s why I wanted to talk through it with you again.”
Nothing from Featherman.
“So as best I recall,” said Zeke, tongue in cheek, “Monica Burns was shot during a home invasion. In her bedroom, after returning home from shopping.”
“That’s what we concluded. Did you find something different?” asked Featherman. His black hair moved on his head like a hairpiece as he raised his eyebrows.
“Not yet,” said Zeke. “And she was shot sometime between one forty-five and three fifteen in the afternoon, right?”
“Yes, it was a weekday, a Thursday, actually,” said Featherman.
“How many killers?”
“We think there were at least two people in the house when she walked in,” said the cop.
Dory returned with their beverages in cold pint glasses and asked if they wanted to order food. Featherman dismissed her and indicated he’d let her know when he needed anything else. She walked away happy, not put off by his abruptness.
“How do you know?” asked Zeke.
“A neighbor saw them park their utility van and go to the front door. Thought they were workers, plumbers or something.”
“Why?” asked Zeke.
“They had some sort of coveralls on, dark blue,” said Featherman. “And hats. They walked up to the front door, knocked, and went in. The neighbor assumed they’d been let in by the victim.”
“Any name on the utility van?” asked Zeke. He sipped his beer and nodded to himself.
“Yeah, it was a fictitious company, like ‘Acme Plumbing’ or something.”
“Where was Monica Burns’ car parked?” asked Zeke.
“It was in the driveway, next to the house,” said Featherman. “She parked it and went in the kitchen door, in the back.”
It’s not a huge house, thought Zeke. Wouldn’t she have run into them? “Then what happened?”
“Well, she must have walked to the bedroom and set her packages down on the bed. By then, we figure, the killers knew that she’d come home, and they followed her to the bedroom. When she turned around they shot her, probably from the doorway.”
“Once in the heart,” said Zeke. “Small caliber bullet, like the kids.”
“Right,” said Featherman.
“You think the killers heard her come in and hid until she went into the bedroom?” asked Zeke.
“Yeah, probably in the bathroom, or one of the other bedrooms, we figured.”
“That’s a pretty good shot,” said Zeke.
“Depends on how far they were from each other,” said Featherman, neutrally.
“No GSR, right?”
“Right,” said Featherman. “None.” He turned and caught Dory’s eye and signaled for another brew.
“Lots of parallels to the kids who were shot, Susie and Will.”
“Yeah,” said Featherman. “I thought so, too. When Harrison called from Lower Merion and asked for a copy of the Monica Burns file, we talked about that. I think he’s looking for the similarities.”
“Anything indicate that Monica Burns knew her assailants?” asked Zeke.
“Well, at the time it looked like a robbery gone bad...”
“But who would rob the Burns’ house?” asked Zeke. “They’re not wealthy. When I was there, I didn’t see anything worth stealing. At least not in an organized effort like that one.”
“Yeah,” said Featherman. “They’re not rich.”
Dory appeared and set another cold beer in front of the detective. He nodded at her.
“Did you want another one?” she asked Zeke, her look lingering on his blue eyes for an extra moment.
“Not yet, thanks.”
“OK.” Dory retreated toward the kitchen.
“If you were going to rob them,” said Zeke, “wouldn’t you park the utility van in the driveway, for easy access and privacy from the neighbors? That way you could step out the back kitchen door and load things right into the van with no one seeing you.”
Featherman was silent. Then he said, “Do you think they were there to kill her?”
“Combined with the kids murders, it seems possible, doesn’t it?” said Zeke.
“Well, now that you mention it, it does seem possible,” said Featherman.
“What was missing from the Burns’ house?” Zeke asked, knowing the answer.
“Some cash. And a gun, a Glock, Chet Burns said.”
“No TV’s or electronics missing? No computers or small kitchen appliances?”
“Not that Burns said.”
“No coin collection or art or anything that can be easily pawned?”
“Just the gun and some cash,” said Featherman.
“So assuming that the killers were in the house for a bit before Monica Burns got home,” said Zeke.
“They were,” interrupted Featherman. “The neighbor said they arrived about one forty-five.”
“They could have been there waiting for Monica to come home. Had they piled anything up to take with them? Was there a sheet or a blanket filled with small stuff they intended to steal?”
“No, we didn’t find anything like that,” said Featherman.
“So another scenario might be that the killers went to the Burns’ house and waited for Monica to come home. And then they killed her.”
“For what?” asked Featherman.
“Did anything turn up in your background check of Monica Burns? Anything that seemed odd or unusual?” asked Zeke.
“Not really,” said Featherman. “You think she knew her killer?”
“Seems very possible,” said Zeke. “Or someone close to her did.”
“Not random?” said Featherman.
“Not likely,” said Zeke.
Chapter 50
“So, if the killer was known to Monica Burns, what’s the motivation? And then, who is the killer?” asked Clive from the other end of the phone line in Washington, DC. They had been talking through Zeke’s meeting with the detective.
“Exactly,” said Zeke.
“Love or money, you know,” said Clive, under his breath.
“This was planned pretty well,” said Zeke. “Planned to look like a robbery. Disguises, a utility van with a fake name on it, the timing of the whole thing...”
“Right,” said Clive. “Was it a hit? A planned assassination?”
“Well, that would indicate a very strong motive,” Zeke said.
“So probably not love,” said Clive. “It was too cold and calculated for that.”
“And two killers,” said Zeke. “That would be unusual.”
“So, follow the money.”
“Probably,” said Zeke.
“What else?” asked Clive.
“Well, who do we know that has those skills with a pistol?” asked Zeke.
* * *
“Hey, stranger,” Sally said. Zeke had called her on a secure phone line.
“Can you work up some history for me?” he asked.
“Yes. What are we looking for?” she asked.
“Going back, say thirty years, we need to know who in the Lower Merion area has excellent pistol skills. Sharpshooter, target shooting, winning competitions, like that.”
“What type of gun are we looking for?”
“The pistol is probably a small bore gun, a .22 or thereabouts,” said Zeke. “Probably something like a Ruger MK model. Maybe a competition-grade pistol, or close to it.”
“Can do. Should I look for gun sales, too?” she asked.
“Probably not going to help,” said Zeke. “But we could check for guns registered to our small circle of suspects. The Jones boys and Chet Burns and the McCarthys and the Gordons. We also want to check the college kids that were arrested last year at UPenn, as well as their families in case they were involved somehow.”
“Cast a wide net,” said Sally.
“Yep. This killer has skills,” said Zeke.
* * *
“I’m sort of caught up in the idea that th
e murders were related,” said Zeke. “The same type of weapon, the lack of GSR, the fact that two of the victims were from the same family. Unusual circumstances.”
“It seems so,” said Kimmy.
“So who would kill them? And why?” asked Zeke.
“Maybe the killings are connected,” she said. “If you triangulate it, the killer could be Chet Burns.”
“Sure, but why?” asked Zeke.
“Jealousy? Control? Maybe the secret about the drugs was coming out...” said Kimmy.
“So Chet sent a couple of his boys to kill his wife last year?”
“Very possible. We only have his word that they were so in love that he’s heartbroken,” she added.
“That’s true,” said Zeke. “You think Chet’s important in the drug ring?”
They were exploring possibilities, challenging each other to look at the situation from different perspectives. Kimmy and Zeke were eating lunch at Kathy’s Café before Kimmy’s shift protecting Angela Hart.
“Might be. But he’s looking pretty devastated,” said Kimmy.
“He’s not faking all of that,” said Zeke. “I just think he may be involved with the drug thing.” He paused. “Didn’t someone say that he was a chemistry teacher?”
“I think they said he’s a science teacher,” said Kimmy.
“No, when I first visited Catrin Davies she told me that he’s a chemistry teacher. He may be involved in processing the raw materials.”
“In that case,” said Kimmy, “the killings could have been to keep him in line.”
“Or to clean up a mess he made. Say, for example, he let slip something about the drug ring. Maybe told his wife about it, and she threatened to take it to the police,” said Kimmy.
“Could be that,” said Zeke, “or possibly they did it to control him or threaten him, like, ‘Behave or we’ll kill your family.’”
“That could be, too,” said Kimmy. “You should share that with the cops.” She looked at her watch. “Gotta run,” she said, and jumped up. “See you later.”
* * *
