What had he done all night? Whine? Fart? Both?
I asked Mrs. Santiago where she had found Mr. Jinks. At first I thought I had connected by the way she smiled and nodded, but when I finished she said, “You take him now. You take. You like.”
I accepted the inevitable.
“I feed him, but tomorrow you more food.” Mrs. Santiago pulled several cans of Alpo from the plastic grocery bag. “I wash last night. Very dirty.” Her face scrunched up. “Stink bad. The leash mine, but you keep. Que mas? Oh, he wear little bufanda when I find...cómo se dice...coat...jacket?” She gestured at her neck, frowned and retrieved a zipper baggie from the bag. Inside the baggie was a crush of faded blue fabric. I had partially unzipped the bag when Mrs. Santiago waved a finger. “No, no, smell bad—I no wash. Smell bad, like him.”
I caught a foul whiff and lost interest in the bufanda or jacket or whatever. I zippered the bag and shoved it into a desk drawer.
“What about the collar, Mrs. Santiago? Is that yours?” I peered at the red leather collar that was curiously bereft of tags. Surely Mel Dick would have his beloved Mr. Jinks properly licensed and tagged.
“Yes, mine. Noche’s old collar. This one no collar, no tag. Only the bufanda. I go. I hope this dog bring good thing.”
“As do I, Mrs. Santiago.”
Mr. Jinks raised his gray face, snuffled loudly, and ripped a good one. Before hurrying away, Mrs. Santiago cast a long, pitying look in our direction.
* * *
Jinks and Pop got along surprisingly well. I had picked up a bag of chow on the way home and Pop insisted on feeding Mr. Jinks so that the elderly dog would feel at home. After eating, the old pug trotted over to Pop, circled three times, and curled into a tight little ball at the foot of Pop’s recliner.
“It’s good to have a dog around again,” Pop said.
“I suppose,” I said absently, wondering if Jinks was incontinent. I twisted the cap off my beer, poured a bit into a jelly glass and handed it to Pop, keeping the rest for myself. Pop had eaten a good bowlful of chicken soup and was now sharing a beer with me. A good day.
“We’ll have to find other arrangements for Jinks next week though,” I said.
“Why?” Pop asked.
“You start chemo next Monday.”
My father wasn’t new to the game—two earlier rounds of chemo had taught him what it did to the immune system. We could check with doctor, but I didn’t think he needed to be around a dog that might not even be potty trained. Pop had deflated like a pierced tire.
“Talk to me, Pop.”
“I’ve canceled the chemotherapy. Enough is enough. I can’t live and do the chemo. I had to choose. I choose to live.”
“But without the chemo, you’ll die.” Somehow I managed to keep my voice level.
“That’s unavoidable, for all of us,” Pop said. “And remember our agreement.”
I bit my tongue to keep the bitterness from spewing out. When I’d moved in I’d promised to accept Pop’s treatment decisions. To the end, his life would be his own. But I loved my father. I wanted to shake him, ask him if his life meant so little that he would not fight for it. If he quit the chemo, the fight was over. But Pop knew this. Better than I.
“Are you sure?” A stupid question. A needless question. But a question I had to ask.
“Yes, Adelajda, it’s time.” He sipped his beer. Such a tiny sip, like a bird drinking from a puddle. “Don’t be sad.”
“It’s hard.” I hated that my voice broke. I liked to put on a tough front, especially to my father.
“Life is hard. Why should death be any different? Now, I want to hear about the investigation.”
I told him everything and then some.
“A mess,” he sighed. “Did the sheriff find the gun?”
“I don’t know. Spooner hasn’t gotten back to me. Though if I were a betting woman, I’d put money that he didn’t find his thirty-eight.”
Pop laughed and asked why.
“The sheriff would have called me if he’d found the murder weapon.”
“Ah, you’re psychic,” Pop said.
“Nah, it’s Psych 101, based on the fact that the sheriff is male and a cop. Spooner likes Anita Dick for the murder, and I don’t. You better believe that if Bubba Spooner found the murder weapon in Anita’s possession, he would have called by now, if only to crow that he’d been right. All men like to brag, Spooner more than most.”
“You believe Anita Dick is innocent.”
“I’m not arrogant enough to say that Anita is incapable of murder. On the contrary, I think the capacity to kill is in all of us.”
“All of us? Even the saints?”
“Especially the saints, they’re the fanatics,” I said with a wicked grin. “But saints and sinners alike, we are a murderous species.”
“We Poles know this well.” Pop sipped another drop of beer. “So tell me why Mrs. Anita is innocent.”
“First, she has an alibi, though it may be a little shaky. But I really, really have trouble with the method of Dick’s murder. I saw the crater in Mel Dick’s head. I smelled the gunpowder. I saw the soot, the circle of torn flesh. I cannot imagine that timid Anita Dick calmly aimed the muzzle of a gun at her husband’s head and fired. That kind of killing takes exceptional coldness and viciousness, neither of which Anita Dick possesses.”
“You know the woman well then.”
“No, but I have to trust my instincts. If Anita committed this terrible act then she is not only a brutal murderer, but a consummate actress. That being said, I can’t dismiss her as a suspect.” I’d been down that road before, climbing the ladder of inference with disastrous results. “I just don’t know enough yet. I’d love to get a look at that damned autopsy report.”
My frustration provoked a rumble of laughter from Pop. “This sheriff may regret bringing you in on this case, Adelajda.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like all police, the sheriff wants his murder solved, but you want something more. You want the truth.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Not quite. Not always. If Sheriff Spooner wanted easy answers, he’s asked the wrong woman.”
“I just want the truth, all of it,” I said, getting a little hot. “Anything less than the whole truth is a lie.”
“You’ve never accepted that most people, including many sheriffs, only want the truth that suits them. Remember your first homicide case, the pregnant girl with multiple gunshot wounds.”
“Sabrina Edwards,” I said. She had been all of sixteen years.
“Right—you had the murderer dead to rights, but you wouldn’t let it go.”
“The motive didn’t fit. I wanted the whole story.”
“Yes, and you pursued it until you had the answers, even though many people suffered because of your obsession.”
“I strengthened the prosecution’s case,” I said. To his credit, Pop didn’t call me out on my lie.
“All I’m saying is that you will have your truth, no matter the cost. So, if you want your autopsy results, go get them.”
I drank off my beer in one gulp. “You know, I think I will.”
I tried the sheriff’s office line first, but it went to voice mail. Next I called his cell, which he answered on the first ring. As I surmised, the search at the Dick house had come up empty. Spooner was on en route to his office and agreed to meet me there.
“Don’t wait up for me, Pop. It’s gonna be another late night.” If the meeting with the sheriff didn’t take too long, I planned a late-night visit to the Grub and Grog. Sheila Green had said Marco the busboy was working tonight. Come closing time I planned to be waiting for him in the parking lot. It was a long shot that he had much of anything for me, but the little prick had lied to me an
d I couldn’t let that stand.
“Good hunting,” Pop said, and something else as well, but I didn’t hear the last, having already shut the door.
When I caught up with Bubba Spooner he was pissy. He wasn’t a man who bore disappointment well and he was sorely disappointed. “Hell, maybe I was wrong about Mrs. Dick, but she has such a sweet motive.”
“Sometimes reality doesn’t match up with our expectations.” I brought Spooner up-to-date on what I had learned.
“Interesting,” Spooner said, checking his wristwatch for the third time.
“Look, I know you’re disappointed about Anita, but what about the girlfriend? Speculation is that Mel and Gigi recently broke up, probably at Mel’s instigation. Did Gigi have an alibi?”
“Gigi told Berry that after leaving the restaurant, she went home and stayed there. The next-door neighbors noticed her return, but she could have snuck out later and shot Dick.”
“And the Rands?”
“Same story, different characters. Mr. and Mrs. Rand went straight home after Mel’s breakdown.” Spooner shot another glance at his watch.
“Am I keeping you from something?”
“Dolores Rio asked to see me before I left for the night, something about Dick’s autopsy.” Spooner gestured at the blue binder in front of him. “I’m wondering what’s keeping her.”
“I thought Coroner Blanding performed Mel’s autopsy.”
“So he did.” His tone told me to drop that line of questioning.
Several seconds ticked off and I said, “You know, we never had a chance to discuss the autopsy results.”
“That’s right. We haven’t.” Another look at his watch and he edged the blue binder toward me. “Tell you what, I’m going over to the morgue and see if I can find the deputy coroner. Entertain yourself till I get back.”
“Take your time, Sheriff.” My greedy hands were already reaching for the binder.
What do you know? Addie Gorsky had got herself an angel.
I had been at it awhile—Spooner had left not only the autopsy report but the entire murder book in my possession—when the sheriff buzzed my cell. It was already past ten.
“You may as well go on home.” Spooner’s voice was tired as dirt and tight as a cramped muscle, his day turned to shit. I asked what he wanted me to do with the package.
“Just put in the top desk drawer and close the door to my office. I’ll lock up later.”
I did as Spooner asked, but not right away.
Poor Bubba Spooner, I thought, as I sped to the Cove. I remembered the excitement in his voice when he’d called me earlier, just after he’d gotten his warrant. He’d been so certain he would find the murder weapon in Anita Dick’s possession and that after that he would just play the table.
But the table had played him.
I could have told him, if he’d asked: only a fool praises the day before the sunset.
Chapter Nine
Blind as a Bat
I parked in the far corner of the Grub and Grog parking lot, hunched low in the driver’s side of the Crown Vic. I had held my vigil for over an hour. The last person to exit had been Sheila Green, almost forty-five minutes earlier. I had expected Marco to be right behind her, but the minutes had stretched with no Marco.
By now the only cars left in the lot were Barracas’s SUV; a couple of beaters, one of which I hoped belonged to Marco; and a silver Lexus parked in the handicapped space near the front entrance, gleaming dully beneath the penumbra of light of a black iron streetlamp. I was bothered that I couldn’t account for the Lexus’s presence. The customers were long gone, but perhaps its owner had imbibed too much and was unable to drive home. A reasonable theory, but it gave me no comfort.
I glanced up and down the empty street and felt a tingle crawl up and down my spine, a foraging spider. My instincts aroused, I saw menace in every dark, still corner of the night. And there were too many dark corners in Mystic Cove. On the drive in I had not passed a single car, nor seen a pedestrian. It was like being in a carnival haunted house after hours, when the real spooks came out. I’d give it ten more minutes, and if Marco didn’t appear by then I would abort this fool’s mission. The ten minutes were nearly done when José Barracas’s angry shout cut through the night.
Two men spilled from the front door of the Grub and Grog. The first man, a tall, stoop-shouldered silhouette, hurried toward the Lexus, with José Barracas zigzagging at his heels, screaming incomprehensible obscenities. At the car door the thin man turned to face his pursuer, whether to implore or threaten, I do not know. Whatever the man hoped to achieve, it failed. The tall man’s back was to me, but I saw José’s angry face in the halo of light cast by the streetlamp. His face was a mask of rage, and his huge hands fisted mallets, ready to work. I had to act.
I opened the car door and yelled, “Security!”
José’s head bobbled like a rag doll’s—deaf, dumb and blind—but the stranger turned toward me. When I saw his face, illumined in the ghostly radiance, I gasped and stepped back into the shadows. The thin figure shrugged off the discombobulated José, fell inside the Lexus and sped away.
Wavering like a clump of pampas grass in the wind, José stared stupidly at the squealing car. His quarry escaped, José muttered a curse and shuffled inside the dark restaurant, too drunk or too angry to notice the woman in the shadows.
But Alan Rand had noticed, of that I was certain.
* * *
Pulling into my parking space at the apartment, my heart did a triple somersault. Our apartment on the second floor blazed like a cathedral on Easter morning—every damn light was on! I took the stairs two at a time, imagining all sorts of horrors, but when I rushed inside all I found was Pop in his recliner, a pained expression on his face and a whining Mr. Jinks curled in his lap.
“He hasn’t stopped crying since you left—not for one second.” On cue Jinks leaped to the floor and waddled to me, whimpering.
“You little bastard.” I scooped up the circling dog and he stopped his racket. “Sorry, Pop.”
“It’s all right. I’ll have plenty of time to sleep soon enough. Do we have any of that tea I like in the house?”
I checked. “We have chamomile and Earl Gray.”
“Which is the one I like?”
“I don’t know, Pop. You like them both as far as I know. How about chamomile? You don’t need the caffeine this late anyway. I’ll join you.”
“You’re having tea?” Pop said.
“I drink tea sometimes.” I wasn’t much of a tea drinker—such a tepid drink—but the night’s chill had crept into my bones.
“How was your night?” Pop asked when I handed him his tea.
I told Pop about the drama I had witnessed outside the Grub and Grog.
“You must talk to this Alan Rand.”
“I also need to talk with José again. Obviously he was less than forthcoming. He’s a lot more involved than he let on.”
“Did the autopsy clear anything up?”
“Mel Dick was in excellent health for a man of sixty-two years of age. The time of death was between ten and two o’clock on Tuesday morning, no surprise there. And there were no defensive wounds on the body.”
“But there was a surprise in the report.”
“Several,” I said, taking a sip of tea. “Are you sure you want to hear this, Pop?”
“I can rest tomorrow. Tell me about the autopsy.” Pop and I were alike that way—when it was a choice between what was good for us and what we wanted, desire almost always won the day.
Wordlessly I loped to the side table by the front door, scooped up the stack of papers, and dumped the packet in Pop’s lap. I didn’t answer the question in his eyes but waited for him to examine the papers. When he realized what he held in his hands, his
face drained of whatever color it had.
“What have you done?” Pop waved the pilfered copy of Mel Dick’s autopsy report under my nose. “Did the sheriff give this to you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Never mind, I don’t want to hear,” Pop said, waving his hands. “Why do you always break the rules?”
“It’s not that bad, Pop. Spooner gave me access to the report and I only copied a couple of pertinent pages. No big deal.”
“I can’t believe you were a police. I can’t believe it.”
“So do you want to talk about the case or not?”
Pop slid on his reading glasses.
I dumped my tea down the sink and grabbed a cold one from the fridge. “Mel Dick was shot twice. Gunshot wound A is the close-range penetrating gunshot wound to the right temple, as evidenced by the zone of soot around the entrance wound.”
“The wound you saw,” Pop said.
“Exactly. The bullet entered the right temple, turned left, went backward, and then down, lodging in the left ear canal,” I said, my hands providing directions.
“A grievous wound.”
“A mortal wound.” I took a deep pull from my bottle. “Gunshot wound B entered the anterior left upper extremity and exited posteriorly, no fouling or stippling.”
“Gunshot B was fired from some distance then.”
“Blanding estimated the shooter was five feet from his target, give or take, but the resultant wound was relatively benign—no bone fractures, minimal hemorrhaging along the bullet’s track—relatively minor damage.” For reasons I couldn’t articulate, gunshot wound B troubled me more than the fatal head wound.
“What they used to call a flesh wound in the old westerns,” Pop said with a little laugh. Then he frowned. “But the wound would have bled. You said there was very little blood.”
“That’s right—I saw no blood other than the small amount from the head trauma.”
“Was the bullet from gunshot B found?”
“It wasn’t recovered from the body, nor were any casings or bullets found at the scene.” I took another sip of beer. Now we were getting to the tricky part. “Blanding classified both wounds as perimortem.”
Murder in Mystic Cove Page 10
