Harry said, a little spooked by the inconsistencies in the scenario. “Yeah, but I can’t figure out where all that blood is coming from?”
The unexplainable and excessive amount of blood wasn’t the only thing chewing on his conscious. It was the other thing. Harry had seen the barrel sticking out of the window. If he had seen that, then Mason should’ve seen it too. Another lie.
Tommy ran over in time to keep the media at bay. This newest tragedy literally bled in time to lead the evening news. More beat cops showed up to assist in questioning the bystanders. This latest development would begin a new series of neighborhood knock and talks. Had anyone spotted anything unusual?
Mason ran up from within the house. “Is he dead?”
Ethan said, “Yeah, he’s never going to sing Christmas Carols again.”
Mason rolled up his collar as he sauntered down the porch steps to join them. “The house is clear, but our guy left us some evidence. I called in to Forensics so that a team could give Lucy a hand. They’re on their way. Where is Luce?”
Harry did a scan, but couldn’t locate her in the multitude of activities that surrounded this latest crime. He said, “I know she’s still around.”
Mason said, “While we’re waiting, we can ask for the tapes, take a look at what they caught.”
Ethan said, “I’ll talk to the news crews. They might make copies for us without forcing us to jump through hoops.” He added, as an afterthought, “Just seems pretty crazy that he would take a dive like that instead of giving himself up.”
Harry said, “I don’t think he wanted to jump. See the look on his face?”
Ethan smirked, “Maybe the ground came up too fast?”
Mason stifled a snort. “Don’t do that. We could end up on television laughing over a body. Not good PR. Casey would have hairy balls for breakfast. And I ain’t giving her mine. Go talk to the camera ladies, Preppie Boy.”
“Right,” Ethan said. “Everybody’s got a nickname except you.”
Mason said, “I’ve got one too. I’m Mr. Smooth.” He snickered at his own joke.
Harry mused, so much for decorum.
Ethan made his way through the crowd to the nearest reporter while she and her cameraman crowded around a third person, possibly an eyewitness.
With Ethan gone, Mason and Harry huddled near the body. Harry wasn’t sure about anything except that Mason had spoon-fed him another lie. The tension between them thickened. “You sure you didn’t see the barrel sticking out the window?”
Mason’s good nature iced over quickly. “What’s crawled up your ass today? You’re worse than my wife. I’m not lying to you.”
Harry saw it. The expression on the reporter’s face. He tried to place her name. She was a blonde tousled hair morsel of eye-candy. Poppy – Poppy Stevens, yes that was her name.
Their eyes met. Her blue eyes seemed brighter in a pale and terrified face. Seeing that she had held Harry’s attention, she gestured at her cameraman and then leaned in to whisper in his ear. The beefy Hispanic used his large black umbrella to shield them from Harry’s view.
Harry’s internal workings told him that she knew something. He planned to wait to see if Poppy voluntarily gave up any information to Ethan before he questioned them. Harry suspected that he wasn’t the only one who saw the barrel sticking out of the window.
He finally spotted Lucy.
She was at the side of the school having an animated discussion with the assistant DA, Chelsea Proctor. Harry experienced a twinge of regret followed by a thin slice of memory. He and Chelsea had gone out for drinks, and more, once.
Almost as if she sensed his interest, Chelsea looked over her shoulder at him. She gave him a delicate half smile which provoked Harry with unexpected pornographic images of a long ago tryst. Chelsea had been a recent law school graduate, and they had worked together on theft cases, a series of smash and grabs and breaking and enterings by a gang of wannabe bigshots.
As a newbie, Chelsea had been blind to the nuances of sociopathic behaviors and gang mentality. She had relied on Harry’s instincts to clue her in on true bravado and false followers. He’d zeroed in on the weak links who snitched and provided evidence.
Chelsea was of the opinion that she never wanted to mix business with pleasure, yadda, yadda, yadda. Then one evening she casually mentioned the color of his eyes. That night they ended up on a fake bearskin rug in front of a real fire.
Harry remembered how she had howled when he pinned her creamy white thighs next to her ears and sampled her hot juiciness. Their lovemaking had been, well, athletic. The harder and deeper he drove, the louder and longer she’d scream his name. To his surprise and primal delight, Chelsea had proven to be insatiable.
He still remembered how her acrylic nails had torn into his skin until he flipped her over and drove himself between the round firmness of her cheeks. Yes, even now he could still hear her screams as he pounded himself into complete gratification.
Suddenly his memories crystallized and then shattered leaving him in an oasis of pain. He snapped his head back. The ferocity was like having a brick smashed against his forehead.
Mason snapped his fingers in Harry’s face. “Catch yourself, you’re bleeding too close to the crime scene.”
Harry blinked himself back to reality as he pinched his nose and swallowed down a bloody backwash.
Mason stood up. “What’s up with you? Can’t figure out where all the blood came from…his and yours. C’mon over here. Look, no tearing through the skin. I mean a fall from that height…unless he broke his neck, but why all the blood? How many pints in a body? He looks like it all came out of him.”
Harry searched his pockets for a tissue but came up empty. The only thing he could do was backhand and wipe on the side of his trousers like a little kid. He chewed mutely on his accusation until he couldn’t hold back any longer. “How long were you up there?”
Mason got it instantly. “What the hell are you implying?”
“You heard me.”
Mason snapped, “This ain’t us. You’ve been acting crazy ever since we got tapped with this case…no wait, before then. I’ve been trying to let it slide, but the day you accuse me of murder is the day we chitchat with Casey about us gittin’ new partners.”
Harry gave him a noncommittal glare.
Mason asked, “You wanna know what I was doing? I was taking the stairs! I only got the chance to clear the first and second floor before I heard him scream. Where were you, partner? You were supposed to have my back in the house?”
Harry blinked away the memory of freezing his balls off while staring into a pair of hellish eyes. He stayed silent.
“Okay, let’s play it your way.” Mason asked with derisive snort, “Why? Huh? Why would I go up there and toss this guy?”
Mason fished in his pocket for a rubber glove, and snapped it on as he eyed Harry like a stranger. “You’re drifting out in space. I need you to get yourself together so we can hurry up and close this one. You can’t be off your game, Harry. We need you to work your mojo.”
Mason stooped down again and went through the dead man’s pockets. He pulled out a wallet. Harry cautioned, “Can’t wait for Forensics?”
Mason looked up and saw the two women, “Well, Lucy’s all we’ve got right now but I see the ladies are having a heated discussion. Besides, I’m being careful and it’s too late anyway, you’ve bled all over the place. Or did you do that on purpose so that when your DNA shows up you’ll have an alibi?”
Harry said, “Funny.”
Mason shot back at him. “About as funny as you.”
Mason scanned the driver’s license. “First off, we know this guy ain’t no pro. A pro wouldn’t carry any ID.” He squinted in the waning sunlight as he read. “Robert Crenshaw, Jr.” He stiffened up and paused. “Robby?” His tone was incredulous. He leaned in and studied the dead body’s face.
Harry had heard the catch in Mason’s voice. From his vantage, he could see his partne
r’s eyes mist over. “So do you know this guy?”
“No.”
“No?” Harry suckled his outrage. His fury tasted bitter. He decided to concentrate on the job and started patting down the corpse as gingerly as possible. His scrutiny was rewarded when he felt a slight bulge in the dead guy’s right pocket. Moving the body as carefully as possible, he dug inside the pocket and pulled out a stone. Harry held it up in the waning light for closer inspection.
The stone was about the size of a quarter. It seemed made of onyx and was etched with writing that didn’t use the alphabet. He didn’t have an evidence bag, so he slipped it back in the dead man’s pocket for Forensics to process.
Mason peered over at him. “What’cha got there?”
“Nothing.”
The dark blue van arrived and a team of techies spilled out and with enviable precision, they began their meticulous work. The ME made some notes on a clipboard and called for a bus to collect the corpse.
The detectives stayed out of the way. Mason said, “It was a hit.”
“Yeah, but how did he think he was going to get away?”
Mason shrugged. “Martyr? Suicide by cop? Wasn’t any chance of him offing her and riding off into the sunset.”
Harry mulled the scenarios over. “And no ransom demands on the kid? Do you at least know Robert Crenshaw Senior?”
Mason gave an exasperated huff. “Look, I’m getting tired of your innuendos. I’m going to see what Pammy can tell us.”
Why? Harry thought. We finally have a lead.
Only Mason could get away with calling Pamela Katz, MD, Pammy. Harry could tell that despite his using all his charm, Mason wasn’t able to get Pam to commit to anything. Still, he loved watching the Do-This-For-Me two step.
As the detectives waited for their chance to also thoroughly inspect the crime scene, they huddled to discuss possible leads from the witness statements culled from the onlookers. Harry and Mason were disappointed that Ethan and Tommy had racked up zilch, although eyewitness accounts were usually quite flawed. The only people who had been facing the house were the mother and the police chief. Everyone else had been facing the press conference.
Harry thought, And that reporter.
He mulled over Mason’s behavior for a reasonable explanation, as the group swept the house once the techies finished dusting and cataloging.
Harry noticed that Mason avoided eye contact.
When they were alone in the attic, Harry said, “My mojo is busted. It’s gotta be? Right now it’s telling me that Robbie Jr. had been squatting here for some time.” Despite the encroaching twilight, the snow-bright illuminance provided good lighting. Also a few swipes with his flashlight confirmed the crumbs from his fast food burger, although the wrappings had been collected by Forensics.
Mason said, “Your mojo ain’t busted. That’s what it looks like to me too.” He added with a drawn-out sigh, “Well, Tommy and Ethan talked to the mother earlier, so I guess now it’s our turn.”
Harry felt dread rise up his chest as he strolled over to the broken window and examined grooved lines dug into the sill where the shooter had placed the barrel. He guessed that Robbie had probably been a novice, and needed help holding up the cannon, even with a high-priced stand. The lines showed that he had been there long enough to move around, at least long enough to eat and drink. The cup had two purposes, holding a milkshake and then urine.
Shooter and kidnapper, had they been one and the same? If so, where was the kid?
Harry didn’t have that piece yet. He did know the shooter wanted to be a murderer, and he should’ve been able to perform the act with the range on that rifle scope. That dope couldn’t have missed unless he closed his eyes at the last minute and shifted his position.
Harry fumbled for a logical explanation on how Robbie Jr. squandered a sure shot. That cannon would’ve been able to clip a butterfly’s wing. His mind couldn’t lock that piece of the jigsaw into place.
Harry considered the facts, and he almost laughed at the notion that he actually had facts with any semblance of coalescence. Unless he accepted that he wasn’t crazy. Running out of options, he was dipping again into the crazy bag.
What did he truly know?
He knew that he was suffering from a headache. He rarely had them, but today was one big tiger of a pain that ripped through his grey matter with stainless steel talons. And why was he suffering from nosebleeds like some twerpy teenaged geek? Sure before his mom had died, he had been that twerpy geek, but he’d never had nosebleeds.
He stopped suddenly and castigated himself. Why was he thinking about nosebleeds and headaches when young Victor was probably on the wrong end of a meat-cicle? He needed to get himself together.
He had other needs. Among them, he needed to stop hiding behind bullshit fairy stories. Then, he needed to assess their next steps and be grateful for the new lead that had landed right at their feet. Before Robbie Jr. did his fatal swan dive right in front of them, they had nothing.
But the swan dive didn’t kill him. She did?
She also made him miss his target.
Although Harry’s fingers were numb from cold, he needed help to concentrate. He slid his hand inside his coat pocket and pulled out good old Number 2.
Columbo had his trench coat, Sherlock had his pipe, and Harry had his pencil. He grinned as he manipulated the pencil between his fingers with the practiced aplomb of a majorette wielding a baton, despite the cold. Back and forth, over and over, he wove the pencil along his knuckle line.
He would’ve looked more macho if he placed the end of the pencil between his teeth like a recovering cigarette smoker. He looked up from his annoying habit and found Lucy staring at him. She regarded him oddly. Harry thought that she acted squirrelly like a perp ready to pop.
Mason said, “Don’t feel right, does it?”
Harry jumped which caused the pencil to hop off his knuckles. His reflexes were fast and he caught it before it fell onto the floor. By then Lucy was gone.
Harry asked, tersely, “What doesn’t feel wrong? Everything is wrong here!”
“Like what?”
Harry started the pencil on a fresh twirl. “Like I’m thinking the same thing you’re thinking. Why does Mom hold a press conference outside? Did she get some kind of ransom request to lure her out here in the open? Did she make a drop already? If there was more than one kidnapper, then where’s the accomplice? Something’s not right. All around me, something is not right.”
His green eyes pinned Mason with silent accusations.
Mason appeared mystified at the unsaid allegations. He remarked, “I have my own questions. Why does this guy just fall out the window?”
He stood next to Harry and leaned out. The crowd was gone. The new crime scene was covered up by a fresh inch of snow.
Mason said, “I can’t wait to see Pammy’s report. I just wanna know how’d he break apart like that from a short drop? And how did he bleed out?” He smiled, “You think if I ask, she’d put a rush on the autopsy?”
This was the part where Harry usually chuckled his skepticism while simultaneously admiring his partner’s ability to get the ladies to do things for him, especially Pammy. This evening was different. Tonight Harry realized that his partner was a lying bastard. Even his usual self-depreciating smirk couldn’t force Harry’s lips to up-curl into a halfway decent smile.
Harry said, “I have a feeling higher ups have already demanded a rush job. I think we’re done here, let’s go chat with Ms. Adamson for a bit and maybe talk to Mr. Crenshaw Senior.”
Mason didn’t say anything.
Harry couldn’t evade his notion that his partner knew much more about everything, but wasn’t sharing squat. His calmness was an illusion. The pair wandered through the house in endless silence.
Once they were outside, Harry tried to piece together the events as methodically as possible. He was physically and emotionally in a blizzard. Mason took a few cautious steps down and when he saw tha
t Harry wasn’t following, he said, “I’ll be in the SUV.”
Harry grunted a tepid response. He lingered on the porch too deep in thought, and frankly he was a little fearful too. He gazed up at the sky. Only then did he truly realize that somehow the snowstorm wasn’t benign. It was like an entity. It was meant to subdue the sprawling city. This strange notion had him grabbling for logic.
Maybe it was only happenstance that the fiercest snowfall began right after the kidnapping. But with the airplanes grounded, trains and bus services cancelled and the interstates impassable, it also seemed that no one was going to get into the city…or out.
How does a snowstorm recognize city borders? That was another thing that haunted Harry. The confessions, the snowstorm and the kidnapping all took place too close together to be coincidental. His squirming guts told him the bizarre events were all related…to her.
And damn it, he saw what he saw!
Lucy crept up to him. She was still toting the monster camera that was almost as large as her arm. She shivered in a thick blue coat. A blue knit cap covered her dark hair. She saw his interest and after what seemed like an internal debate, she sidled up next to him.
She asked, “What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know yet.” Harry stared through her, and asked, “You called me earlier?”
Lucy watched him with a mixture of wonder and adoration. He was a little confused but dismissive. Her eyes were too expressive. He was then drawn to her small mouth. In another life he would’ve imagined shoving his dick in that mouth just to stretch her lips.
“Yeah, I wanted to talk?” Lucy dropped her gaze. Her sudden laughter distracted him. She said, “You really don’t remember us, do you?”
Harry suspected they may have dated before his accident. That was his only explanation for some of their past encounters that ended in her lingering looks, idle but penetrating conversations, and the suggestive cards on his birthdays. She always remembered his birthdays. He had never probed and she had never offered any explanations. But today she wanted to talk?
A thread of pain wove from his right ear through grey matter and hooked just inside his inner left ear. The pain was sharper than the headaches. He said, somewhat apologetically, “I don’t remember us. I’m guessing we dated, right?”
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