“So both wounds occurred at or near the time of death,” Pop said, a little puzzled at my intensity.
“Right, but Blanding wouldn’t or couldn’t determine the sequence of infliction, though he does conclude that both shots were fired in quick succession. But I don’t see how that’s possible.”
When Pop asked why not, I dragged two dining room chairs into the living room and placed them side by side.
“Imagine these chairs are Mel Dick’s golf cart. Mel sat here in the driver’s seat when he was shot—hey, what are you doing?” I hurried to Pop, who was struggling out of the recliner.
“Let’s do this properly,” Pop said. “I’ll be Mel Dick and you act out the killer’s part.” While Pop arranged his bones into the chair representing the driver’s side, I scrounged for a suitable stand-in for the gun, settling for the TV remote.
“If Blanding is right about the two shots being fired in quick succession, there are two possibilities—either gunshot A came first or gunshot B.”
“Of course, of course,” Pop groused. “You don’t need to state the obvious.”
“I don’t know about that. Nowadays the obvious is overlooked all the time. We’ll act out both options.”
Pop made a twirling his fingers in a hurry-up gesture.
“The killer approaches, gun in hand.” I crept to the passenger’s side of the cart.
“What does Mel do?” Pop asked.
“Nothing.” Except die, I added silently. “Since Blanding found no evidence of defensive posturing on Mel’s body, he was either unaware of the killer’s approach or he knew his killer and didn’t fear him.”
“Murder between friends,” Pop said softly. “So, fire away.”
From the passenger’s side I placed the remote inches from Pop’s temple. “Bang,” I said. Pop’s head drooped to his left, anticipating the thrust of the gunshot. “That was gunshot A, the mortal wound. Now comes gunshot B and here’s the rub. Gunshot B is fired from a distance of around five feet and hits the outer aspect of Mel’s upper left arm.”
“Of course,” Pop said excitedly, “it would be difficult for the killer to make this shot from the passenger’s side.”
“It would have been impossible—watch.” I backed away and positioned myself on the driver’s side, about five feet away from my target. “Gunshot B would have had to come from this direction and around this distance.” This time I pointed the remote at Pop’s right arm.
“Wait, I have it,” Pop said. “As the killer made his getaway Mel stirred. Realizing the job was not finished, the murderer returned and fired again.”
“I doubt if Mel stirred after such a terrible wound.”
“A moan then,” Pop countered.
I had to give him a moan. “But that doesn’t change anything.”
“Of course it does. The killer was nervous and missed his shot.”
“First of all, this isn’t a nervous killer,” I said. “Remember he had just fired a clean shot directly into Mel’s brain. If he returned to finish Mel off, he would have taken his time and gotten off a good shot, the coup de grâce. Do you see my problem, Pop? It’s almost as if there are two different shooters. One bold and the other tentative.”
“Let’s reverse the order of the gunshots then,” Pop said. “The killer shoots, but the first shot goes awry, hitting Mel’s arm. He comes closer and fires again, this time in the temple.”
“Let’s try it.” I went through the motions, more quickly this time. Standing on the driver’s side I extended my arm and fired the remote. “Bang-bang—Mel’s shot in the arm.”
Pop grabbed his left arm and groaned softly.
“Now for some inexplicable reason the killer moves to the passenger’s side to fire his second shot.”
“Maybe Mel was trying to escape that way,” Pop offered.
“No forensic evidence of that.” I placed the remote into position, inches from Pop’s right temple. “Sit still—that’s what Mel did. After being shot in the arm, he just sat there like a goddamned dummy while somebody plugged a bullet in his brain.” For a moment I saw Mel’s dead eyes staring out of my father’s face.
“Bang-bang, and now you’re dead!” Pop pushed the remote away. His hand was shaking. “This second scenario is even more unlikely,” he whispered.
“It’s impossible. All I can figure is that might the killer had an accomplice or the gunshots weren’t fired in quick succession.”
“Is it certain that Birnam Wood was the murder scene?”
“Posterior livor mortis proves that Mel died sitting in his golf cart. But in my mind the coroner’s history of incompetence casts doubt on all his findings. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t fit. Maybe that’s why it’s hot and cold.”
“What was that?”
“I’ve always thought of murders as either primarily either hot or cold. I mean, the prototypical crime of passion is white-hot—a husband shooting a faithless wife, or vice-versa—but if a husband hires a hit man to get rid of a straying wife, then the killing is very, very cold. Mel’s murder has elements of both. It doesn’t fit easily into either category. The killer’s method was cold-blooded, but there was deep rage behind it.”
“This murder is a strange business, Adelajda.”
After getting Pop to bed I took Jinks for a quick walk. A light rain fell, but I barely noticed. I was deep in darkness with no way out. Once inside I poured a short bourbon to shake off the cold. Jinks hopped into my lap. I scratched under his neck and drank.
A strange business, Pop had said. Stranger than he knew. I hadn’t told Pop about the personal effects found on Dick’s body. Most of objects were commonplace: a gold wedding band, keys, leather wallet, cell phone—the indispensable but mundane accessories of modern life. But thrust in the pocket of Mel Dick’s shorts had been a dog collar festooned with an assortment of tags. There was the required rabies tag, a vanity medal declaring the wearer to be the World’s Best Dog, and a heart-shaped medal that read in part, Mr. Jinks, property of Melvin Dick.
Some inner demon had provoked Mel to remove Jinks’s collar. Before Mel’s murderer could be brought to light, I first had to unravel the mystery of Mel’s madness.
* * *
Early next morning I was halfway out the door when a piteous cry sounded from behind. I wheeled to face an outraged Mr. Jinks.
“Shhh, you’re gonna wake Pop!” I petted and begged, but the wily pug refused to quiet. Every time I made a move to leave, ear-shattering cries followed me down the hall. I knew the dog would keep it up and Pop would get no rest. What could I do?
As I hooked his leash, I swear the bastard grinned.
Once at the office I set Jinks up in the corner with the nice blanket I’d brought from home. But when I tried to leave, I got a repeat performance, only this one was Oscar-worthy.
If Richt discovered that I was keeping a hysterical pug in security headquarters, I’d be toast. I had no time to make other arrangements so I wrapped Jinks in the blanket, dumped him into a wicker basket I’d found in the storage closet, and drove to the G and G.
I didn’t know about Jinks’s training, but mine was going quite well.
When we arrived at the Grub and Grog, I was relieved when a hungover José Barracas finally answered the bell. He was almost catatonic, sweating in yesterday’s clothes. Which was just as I wanted him. With the cobwebs from last night’s debauch still intact, I figured José would be easy pickings.
I told José to freshen up while I made coffee. He emerged several minutes later, his face and head sopping wet and in a fresh polo shirt. Without a word he slumped into a booth, cradling his head in his hands. When I set the mug of coffee in front of him, he turned a queasy green.
“I...my stomach.” José grimaced and clutched his stomach. “I don’t know...”
�
�Try to drink the coffee. You’ll feel better, but first take these.” I shook out a couple of ibuprofen.
Barracas dry-swallowed the tablets, ignoring the glass of water I had brought.
“Where you keep the chili?”
“Chili?” José croaked.
“You’ll thank me later—so where’s the chili?”
I was nuking the chili in the microwave when I heard a soft cry in the dining room, followed by an angry yelp. I found José staring into the wicker basket, an ineffable expression of horror written on his pale face.
“I saw it move! It moved.” José’s bugged eyes met mine.
I pulled Jinks out of his makeshift carrier. “Don’t be silly—it’s only Jinks.”
José licked his chapped lips. “But how? Why?” From the kitchen the microwave beeped.
“Chill out,” I ordered, putting Jinks on the floor. “You have more important things to worry about.”
I returned with the steaming bowl and a bottle of hot sauce. José’s jaw dropped as I doused the chili with the sauce and slid the bowl over to him. “Eat as much of this as you can. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Why are you torturing me?”
“Just try a few spoonfuls—the hot spices will speed up your metabolism and burn off the hangover.” I’d had more than my share of rotten hangovers in my day and swore by my chili remedy. And I needed José weak, not incoherent.
Mumbling that at this point he’d try anything, José shoved in a spoonful of the fiery stuff. I let him eat and drink coffee for a couple of minutes while the dust cleared.
José pushed away the empty bowl. “I do feel a little better.” He looked me in the eye for the first time that morning. “I guess now I get to learn why you’re playing Florence Nightingale.”
“I just had an interesting conversation with Alan Rand.”
José started, muttered something under his awful breath, a toxic cauldron of booze, desperation, and fear. What foul secrets bubbled inside?
“I know about your meeting with him last night.”
José wiped his forehead with a napkin and drank his coffee, spilling some on the clean white shirt. “Has...has he gone to the police?”
“Not yet.” I kept my face impassive.
Cornered, José went on the attack. “Rand has no right to say what he did. I don’t care if he is a lawyer, I’m...I’m gonna sue him for libel.”
I think he meant slander, but I let it pass.
“You didn’t level with me before, but I’m giving you a chance to clear things up now. I urge you to take advantage of it.” I hoped the vague statement would draw him out.
Malice hardened his features and he hissed, “How can you help, Chief? Who the hell are you?”
“Nobody,” I admitted, “but I have friends who are somebodies. If you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll call the sheriff and let him handle it.” That was a threat I meant to keep.
“No,” José said, all the fight knocked out of him. “I’ll talk to you. I gotta talk to somebody so why not you? And I didn’t lie to you before, Addie. I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“Let’s start with last night.”
“Funny thing,” he said mournfully, “last night was one of the busiest nights in months. All day long people wandered in for a drink or a bite, but what they really wanted was dirt on Dick’s death. I never thought murder would be good for business. Gosh, people are rotten.”
I didn’t disagree.
“Alan Rand showed up right before closing. He said he needed to talk to me in private. I tried to put him off, but he insisted. I told him I’d talk to him after closing.” José wiped his face with a napkin. “So after everybody cleared out, I got myself a scotch and asked Rand what was up.” He looked at me, anger flashing in his eyes. “I gotta say the old fuck didn’t pull any punches. He came right out with it!”
“With what, José?”
“Rand looked me straight in the eye and said he knew I murdered Mel Dick! In my own restaurant he accused me of murder. ‘I know you did it. You have motive, means and opportunity. It had to be you.’ I gotta tell you, I saw red.”
“I can understand why that pissed you off.”
“Right! So I told Rand to get the fuck out of my restaurant, but the old man didn’t budge. He said he’s going to get a confession, even if he has to beat it out of me!” José’s eyes bulged with disbelief. “What is it with these old guys lately, Addie? All of ’em wanting to fight me.”
“You deny that you killed Mel then.”
“Well, sure I deny it...” He stopped short, stared at me with new eyes. “I get it now. You think Rand is right, that I killed Mel! Well, I didn’t—there’s your fucking denial!” He stabbed the table with his finger.
“I don’t think any of those things,” I lied. I had a hunch. If I was wrong, the interview was over, but if I was right... “I don’t know about means or opportunity but, according to Rand, you have a hell of a motive, José. Like I said before, this is your chance to explain things. To tell your side.”
“All right,” José said. “I’ll come clean, but you got to believe me—I may be a pimp but I’m no murderer.”
* * *
“Chief Gorsky!”
I turned. Fairley Sable’s silver-blue eyes smiled up at me.
After hearing José’s wild tale of crime and punishment, I had taken Jinks for a walk on Long Pier before heading for our next destination. I was at pier’s end when Fairley waylaid us.
“I thought it was you. I’ve wanted to speak with you since the other day. And is this who I think it is?” Fairley sing-songed to Jinks, holding an open palm under the pug’s quivering nose.
Not impressed, Mr. Jinks shrank from the hand, hunched and defecated.
“I’m sorry. He’s an old dog.”
Fairley backed well away while I scooped the mess into a plastic sandwich bag I’d brought for such an eventuality. After dropping the package into a nearby trash receptacle Mrs. Sable rummaged a hand wipe from her purse, offering it to me at arms’ length.
“Can we talk a few minutes?” Fairley asked. Although anxious to confront Alan Rand ASAP, I might as well take advantage of the serendipitous meeting. I had some questions for Fairley Sable, particularly concerning the events at the G and G on Mel’s final night. We sat on a concrete bench facing Mystic Bay, just past the entrance to Long Pier. Jinks hopped into my lap.
“I feel awful about what happened the other day at my house,” Fairley said. “The sheriff was quite upset to find you talking to Anita, and I can’t help feel responsible. You were only there because of me.”
“Forget it.” I asked how Mrs. Dick was coping.
“As well as can be expected,” Fairley said. “I wish she would let me help her, but Anita is intensely private. Yesterday I stopped by with a chicken pot pie—she accepted the pie, but wouldn’t let me inside.”
“Mrs. Dick needs her friends—you just keep trying.”
“Oh, I will. You know I believe you’d like to help Anita as well. Oh, have I said something out of turn?”
“Not at all,” I said, irritated that she read me so well. “Mrs. Sable, could you clarify a few things for me?”
“Of course!” Fairley’s face held an avaricious eagerness and I wondered what skin she had in this game.
“On the night of Mel’s murder you and Gigi dined at the G and G. Tell me about that.”
Her account jibed with what I already knew, but added little. I pressed for details about Mel and Gigi’s affair, with even less success.
“I’m sorry,” she said, holding up her hands, “but I don’t know anything about the affair. I tried to ignore it, for Anita’s sake. You must talk to Gigi. Gigi knows all of Mel’s secrets.”
I moved on. “What was Mel wea
ring at the G and G?”
The thin lips pursed and she looked at me with a disquieting avidity. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“It’s an odd question, but I’ll answer. Mel wore navy blue slacks, a checkered shirt and that old blue jacket of his.”
“Did his clothes fit?”
“Of course they fit.” She laughed. “Mel wasn’t overly vain about his appearance, but he dressed well enough. He didn’t go about like a rag bag.”
Except on the night he died. Sometime between leaving the pub and dying in that small clearing in Birnam Wood, Mel had exchanged his sensible clothes for fool’s motley.
“Can you think of anyone who’d want Mel dead?”
“Only his friends,” Fairley said with a smile. “Oh, I’ve shocked you. I tend to speak bluntly. It’s just that Mel had a way of getting under people’s skin. I was the newest member of his little group, you know. Perhaps I was more sensitive to his shortcomings. Mel has—had—the emotional maturity of a five-year-old. He demanded constant attention.”
“Why did people put up with him?”
Fairley laughed. “Five-year-olds can be quite entertaining, but I think it was his power that kept the moths circling the flame. If knowledge is power, then he was the Mafia Don of Mystic Cove. We all kissed his ring.” She looked around and leaned close, “Just between us, there are some in Mystic Cove who think Mel Dick got his just deserts in Birnam Wood.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Absolutely not, Chief,” Fairley said, voice resonating with real shock. “I put my trust in the rule of law.” A frown creased the gamin face. “But I also believe in karma. For the most part people write their own endings.”
Maybe, I thought, but sometimes others helped them along. “Who were some of the people who had a problem with Mel?”
“Well, Mel and Alan hadn’t been on good terms recently, but I can’t say for certain what started the disagreement.” Fairley sighed and looked out on Mystic Bay. The sky was overcast, more rain coming.
“Take a guess.”
Murder in Mystic Cove Page 11
