Die Like an Eagle

by Donna Andrews

  I parked a couple of spaces down from her, grabbed my umbrella, and walked down to her SUV. When I knocked on her door, she started and hit the horn, then jerked back, took a couple of deep breaths, and rolled the window down.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m—” she began, and then stopped herself, as if realizing that “I’m fine” would be not only inaccurate but completely unbelievable. “I can’t go in there,” she finally said.

  “Do you need to?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She nodded decisively—no, convulsively—half a dozen times. And continued sitting.

  “Why do you need to go in there?” I asked.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head as if the notion of explaining was overwhelming. We stayed there for several long minutes, her sitting with her eyes closed, me standing outside the driver’s window.

  “Would you like me to go in with you?” I asked finally.

  She didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then she rolled up the window—that didn’t feel like progress. Neither did seeing her bend over—to hide from me, or merely to get something from the floor of the passenger side of the SUV? I was relieved when she opened the door and stepped out, hauling two canvas Caerphilly Market tote bags full of papers and file folders.

  “Want me to carry one of those?” I asked.

  She shook her head and pulled them closer to her body. I settled for holding the umbrella over her and her file collection and walking by her side across the parking lot, at a pace so slow an arthritic turtle could have lapped us. She stopped at the station door and looked as if she was thinking of bolting, but I held it open and smiled encouragingly. She stepped inside and eyed her surroundings as anxiously as if she had just entered a medieval torture chamber with racks and thumbscrews, rather than a clean, well-lit lobby with vintage molded plastic chairs in festive purple and orange, and an unusually random collection of aging magazines.

  I spotted Caroline Willner behind the desk—evidently Mother had drafted her as one of the volunteers.

  “May I help you?” Caroline asked.

  Gina just stood there.

  “I think she wants to see the chief,” I said. “Isn’t that right, Gina?”

  Gina nodded.

  “Maybe you could tell the chief she’s here?”

  “Can do,” Caroline said. “But she can’t go in with those bags. Not unless we search them. Can you bring them over here so I can do it?”

  Gina hugged the bags to her chest and shook her head slightly.

  “It’s okay,” I said to Gina. “She’s not going to take anything.”

  “It’s just routine,” Caroline said.

  Was it? I didn’t remember ever having my purse or tote searched when I visited the chief. Then again, I was known to everyone on the force and presumably considered reasonably trustworthy. Routine might be different when it came to the wife of a murder suspect, and someone whose ex-sister-in-law had already instigated gunfire here at the station. Especially since, when you came down to it, Gina herself looked a little wild-eyed and unpredictable.

  “Just put them down here for a minute,” Caroline said.

  Gina shook her head again. I glanced at Caroline. She rolled her eyes.

  “How about if I take a quick look,” I said to Gina. “I won’t even have to touch anything—you can take things out and show me. What’s in there, anyway?”

  “Evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” We all looked up to see Chief Burke standing in the archway that separated the reception area from the hallway—evidently he’d overheard our conversation and come out to see what was wrong.

  Gina was frozen again.

  “Gina?” I said, as gently as I could. “You know Chief Burke, don’t you? He’s the one who needs to see your evidence. But—evidence of what?”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and for a few moments I thought she was about to faint—I actually took a step closer so I could try to catch her if that happened. But then a determined expression spread over her face. She opened her eyes, lifted her chin, and threw her shoulders back.

  “Evidence that my future ex-husband is a lying, cheating, conniving son of a—gun,” she said.

  She set the totes down on the floor in front of her, shoved her hand in one, pulled out a fat file folder, and slapped it down on the front desk in front of Caroline.

  “Evidence on how badly he cheated the college when he did that big plumbing project for them three years ago.” She reached down and pulled up another file. “Evidence of how he paid off the building inspector to approve his substandard work on the Clay County High School Annex.” Another file. “Evidence on how he paid off Tolliver Pruitt to keep quiet about his roof caving in.” Another file. “Evidence on where he buys the phony green cards for his undocumented workers.” She picked up both totes, turned them upside down on top of the reception desk, and shook them, spilling another dozen or so fat files onto the pile. “You’ll even find a file about how he cooks the Snack Shack books so no one will figure out that he’s been stealing all the profits for years.”

  Chapter 25

  Caroline and I were staring at the files. You’d think the chief would have pounced on them with glee, but he was also staring at them with a slight frown on his face.

  “May I ask how you came by these documents?” he asked.

  Uh-oh. The answer was probably that she’d stolen them from her husband. Did that mean the chief couldn’t use them? Not even if they contained evidence that could convict Biff of crimes?

  “Shep brought them to me,” she said. “A couple of weeks ago, when he heard I’d filed for divorce. He’d been making copies of anything he thought was hinky for some time now. He called all this his life insurance policy, and said he was afraid Biff was onto the fact that he’d been collecting it and would come to his house and steal it. So he asked me to hide it.”

  “In Biff’s own house?” I asked.

  “Which I’d kicked him out of,” she said. “Shep carried the box up to the attic, and I moved the files into another box that had been there forever, one of a bunch full of old letters and photos from my side of the family—not something Biff would ever have any reason to look at even if I let him back into the house long enough to go up to the attic. And we knew Biff knew that Shep and I never could stand each other, so he’d never expect Shep to give them to me to hide. And Biff is looking for them—ask the Clay County sheriff. Shep and his ex-wife both had break-ins two weeks ago, and last week Shep’s old fishing buddy had one. I’d bet anything it was Biff, or someone helping him, looking for those.” She gestured to the files. “And Shep told me if anything happened to him, to make sure they got to the sheriff. I figured he actually meant in Clay County, but since Sheriff Whicker is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg and in Biff’s pocket to boot, I brought them to you.”

  By the time she got all that out, she looked more than a little wobbly, so I pulled over an orange plastic chair and eased her into it. Caroline brought her a glass of water which she gulped gratefully.

  The chief had stepped over to the counter and was examining the files.

  “Some of these, if they contain evidence of crimes that took place in Clay County, may be out of my jurisdiction,” he said. “But I will review all the files carefully with the county attorney before sending copies to my counterpart there. And Mr. Brown may find that defrauding the college was a particularly bad idea.”

  “Caerphilly College carries a lot of weight here,” I said.

  “And I believe their recent plumbing project was at least partially paid for with federal grant money,” the chief said. “Never a good idea to rile the Feds. Mrs. Brown—”

  “Ms. Crocker,” she said. “I’m going back to my maiden name.”

  “Ms. Crocker,” the chief said, with a nod. “May I suggest that you could recover yourself more easily in my office? I have more comfortable chairs, and you would not be subjected to the prying eyes of anyone who
happens to walk through the station.”

  She nodded. I gave her a hand up from the chair, but once up she seemed steady on her feet.

  “Meg, if you could help me with some of these files,” the chief said. “Before you go,” he added, no doubt to make sure I didn’t misinterpret the request as an invitation to take another of those comfy chairs and kibbitz on his conversation with Gina.

  “Happy to,” I said.

  I helped get Gina settled and deposited my share of the files on the chief’s desk.

  “You just relax,” he said to Gina. “Let me refill your water.” He took her glass, then followed me out into the hall.

  “It would be better for Mrs.—Ms. Crocker if this matter of the files were kept discreet for now,” he said as we strolled down the hall toward the lobby, where the water cooler was.

  “I understand,” I said. “But someone may have seen her. She seems to have spent quite a while dithering out there in the parking lot before I came along and helped her get up the nerve to come in.”

  “And I will be advising her to tell people that she came down at my request for a routine interview about her brother-in-law’s death,” he said. “I actually was planning to talk to her today anyway. I’m relieved that we were able to get her out of the reception area before Ms. Peebles came back out. I get the distinct impression the two ladies aren’t on the warmest terms.”

  “Callie’s here?” I asked. “And you’re letting her go again?”

  “Well, she is the victim today,” he said, with a ghost of a smile. “Alleged victim, at least. She does seem to have it in for Mr. Brown, so we’ll be considering the possibility that she invented the story of being run off the road to cause trouble for him.”

  “I was surprised to see her at the meeting last night,” I said. “Wasn’t she in jail?”

  “Once she sobered up we let her out on bail,” he said. “And as expected, over a dozen hard-core denizens of the Clay Pigeon will swear that she didn’t leave the premises until nearly dawn the night of the murder.”

  “And you believe them?”

  “I’m keeping an open mind.” He had grabbed a paper cup from the dispenser by the cooler and was filling it. “If the gun she pulled on Sammy and Vern should turn out to be the same one that killed Mr. Henson—well, I don’t think the testimony of a few barflies would be that hard to impeach. Especially since it could turn out that half of her alibi witnesses were already in the Clay County drunk tank by midnight. On the whole, though, I don’t think she’s a very plausible suspect.”

  “You don’t think she’s capable of shooting someone?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “No question. I can absolutely see her shooting him. But I think if she’d done it she’d have left him lying wherever she shot him. I have a hard time figuring out how she could possibly have transported him from the crime scene—wherever that was—without getting a speck of blood on herself or her vehicle. And he’s a big man, and she’s—well, not tiny, but not exactly very athletic—do you really think she’s capable of lifting over two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight? And the same applies to Ms. Crocker, incidentally. Although however dubious I am of her ability to have hefted her brother-in-law’s corpse into the porta-potty, the fact remains that she is not alibied for the murder and I don’t discount the possibility that in the dark she could have mistaken Mr. Henson for the husband she is so eager to be rid of.”

  “Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake,” I said. “She did say Shep had collected those files she’s turning over to you. What if she found out he was collecting information that might implicate her along with Biff? She could have killed him, stolen his files, taken out anything that pointed to her involvement, and then turned over the files to you to ensure that you knew Biff had a motive to kill Shep.”

  “It’s a thought.” And not one that made him happy, to judge from the look on his face. “I will keep my eyes open for any suggestion that she might be more involved in her husband’s business than she admits. But in the meantime, the evidence she brought in could shed a very fascinating light on the crime.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “First time anyone’s suggested a reason for Shep to be the real target instead of just a sad victim of mistaken identity. That I know of,” I added hastily. “You probably already thought of it.”

  “Actually, I hadn’t,” he said. “I’ve been pretty busy investigating the dozen or so people Mr. Brown has either sued or been sued by over the last several years, here or in Clay County. Some of them could well have benefited from Biff’s demise. But if Shep was planning to inform on his brother—this should be interesting.”

  “And I’ll leave you to it,” I said, turning to go.

  “One more thing,” he said. “Is there anything you can tell me about your meeting with Mr. Brown that would help us track him down?”

  “No,” I said. “But I might know someone who does know something about his whereabouts—let me check.”

  He frowned slightly, then nodded.

  “I’d appreciate knowing anything you find out.”

  Then he took a deep breath and walked back toward his office, carefully carrying the cup of water.

  I hurried back out to my car, waving in passing to Caroline, and pulled out my cell phone. Then I called the number Caroline had given me when I wanted to check on Biff’s whereabouts. The same perky young woman answered—or maybe being perky was a job requirement in Zoo Security.

  “Hey, Meg—you want the location on those two tracking devices?”

  Two? I’d almost forgotten the device we’d removed from Biff’s car—only yesterday afternoon, though it seemed ages ago.

  “Yes, please,” I said aloud.

  “Hang on.”

  As I waited, I felt around in my tote and retrieved the tracker, thinking what a shame it was that I’d been so ingenious about retrieving it. Having it still on Biff’s car would have made short work of this morning’s manhunt.

  “Got them,” the cheerful young voice said. She rattled off the locations. One was, of course, my location—nice to know the trackers were so accurate. And the other was more or less where it had been spending most of its time since Thursday night—out at Biff’s scrapyard. Evidently the windbreaker had not made the cut when Biff packed for his great escape.

  “Thanks,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage.

  I hung up the phone and looked back at the front door of the police station, feeling a distinct sense of being let down and left out. Inside, the chief was sifting through the files Gina had brought, learning everything possible about Biff’s misdeeds—including misdeeds against the baseball league I was supposed to be running. Inside, Callie had already made her hit-and-run accusation against Biff, and the chief was already trying to sort out how much of her story was true and how much was the result of her patronage of the Clay Pigeon. Even now, the chief might be getting word back from the crime lab in Richmond on whether the test bullets from Callie’s gun matched the one they had taken from Biff’s body. Or news that Biff had been spotted or even apprehended. For all I knew, the chief was already investigating the alibis of Samuel Yoder, Adolph Pruitt, and the rest of those dozen people who’d been in legal battles with Biff.

  And here I was on the outside looking in. Of course, as a civilian this was exactly where I belonged, but that didn’t make it feel any less frustrating.

  As I reached to start my car, I realized my original goal in coming to town—working on the revised town square renovation project—might be entirely useless. If Biff was on the run, what were the odds he’d show up for that Tuesday morning meeting?

  Of course, I could still pick up the contract and work on it at home, just in case.

  Or I could avoid the creepy, deserted halls of the courthouse and go home to spend time with my family.

  I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to the county attorney about the need to revise the contract.

  And then another thought hit me and I called Cous
in Festus.

  “You’re going to hate me,” I said, when we’d finished the usual greetings.

  “Probably not,” he said. “But why would you think so?”

  “I got you all excited about buying Mr. Yoder’s farm, and now it’s all tangled up in a murder case—well, you knew that going in—but what if Biff killed Shep Henson because Shep was going to blow the whistle on his brother’s financial crimes, and what if one of those crimes involved cheating Mr. Yoder? I mean, I don’t wish Mr. Yoder ill, but I know you want the farm, and if he gets his money back from Biff—”

  “It’s okay,” Festus said. “I already knew Biff Brown had cheated Mr. Yoder. And frankly, even if Biff hadn’t come along, Mr. Yoder would have lost the farm eventually. His wife died last year after a decade of debilitating and expensive illness. Biff was just the last straw. Although Mr. Yoder’s plenty angry with Biff—not just for cheating him, but also for making his wife’s last days even more stressful than they had to be. To tell you the truth, Mr. Yoder’s so over-the-top angry with Biff that I’ve been a little worried.”

  “That he might be the killer?” I asked.

  “Not really,” Festus said. “Okay, maybe a little bit, but more worried that people will start to think he’s the killer even if he isn’t. Because he really isn’t rational on the subject of Biff.”

  “Do you know if he’s alibied?” I asked.

  “No idea. And speaking of alibis, I thought Biff had one.”

  “The theory is that he subcontracted out the actual murder,” I said. “If he’s responsible. Even if he’s not the murderer, he’s probably going to have some legal entanglements before too long.”

  “He already does.” Festus chuckled slightly. “Though I gather you’re referring to the criminal side of our justice system. He’s already neck deep in the civil side. I did my due diligence before starting to bargain with Mr. Yoder. I not only checked him out, I checked out Biff. Pretty amazing—the man is either suing or being sued by twelve different people in Caerphilly and Clay Counties.”