by Jean Rabe
Piper adjusted her belt and shifted from one foot to the other, turned, and directly faced the old man. “This isn’t the place to—”
“It’s the best place to talk about this. No one comes to the park this late.”
“That’s because the park is closed this late.”
“My point,” he cut back. “No one can see us, hear us. Somebody’s spying on me, Sheriff Blackwell. And if you’re caught with me, maybe they’ll start spying on you.”
“Who do you think is—”
“It’s the Democrats. Probably. Spencer County’s thick with Democrats. You know that. You ran as a Republican. So I know you understand. Your father ran as a Democrat, and he was good despite that. But a Republican, you’d understand.”
Piper ran as a Republican solely to be unopposed in the primary. She personally didn’t claim allegiance to any particular party.
“You do understand, don’t you?” he pushed. “Don’t you?”
She wanted to be angry at Mark the Shark, instead she was sad. Some form of dementia had no doubt hobbled his mind; her grandfather on her mother’s side had died of Alzheimer’s six years ago. She’d visited him, but he didn’t know who she was. He just smiled at her and talked about the midnight bowling alley in the nursing home parking lot and the circus horses that paraded by his door in the middle of the afternoon. Her grandfather had been eighty; Mark had more than a decade on that.
“Can I give you a ride home, Mark?”
He shook his head and grumbled as the lighting and thunder stepped it up and the rain started to fall steady.
“I’ve got my old Chevy, parked it on the side street down that way. Under a broken streetlight so’s no one will notice it.” He pointed to his right. This was a small park; Piper figured he probably had only a block or so walk to get to his car. “I’ll be fine. And you need to wait a bit before you leave. Stick around, watch, just to make sure nobody’s following, spying. Despite all my precautions, someone might have tailed me. I been looking, but I ain’t seen anybody else in this park except me and you. Still, they might be clever and—”
“I’m sure we’re the only ones—”
“But just in case, you stick around a bit.”
“Mark—”
“Can’t be too careful. Can’t ever be too careful.” He levered himself up and reached for his canes. “I gotta go now. So are you going to fix it, Sheriff Blackwell? Get my money back? All on the Q T?”
“How much money was stolen?” Piper should have asked that right away. “How much?” She played along… just like she’d told her grandfather the horses that paraded past his room were pretty, how fine their hooves sounded clacking against the hallway tile floor.
“One hundred and sixty thousand, more or less.”
She whistled. “That’s a good amount of money, Mark.”
“I told you it was. Yeah. Well, it is and it isn’t,” he said. “If I have to go in one of them damn nursing homes it’ll stretch about a year and a half. But they didn’t take everything out of the bank, them robbers—not yet, and they didn’t get the secret stash at my place. I got enough to pay for six or seven years, maybe eight, in one of them damn nursing homes if I have to before I would need to go on the county dole. And I don’t want to do that. Damn Democrats.” He coughed. “Maybe I won’t live long enough to worry about that. Maybe nobody should live to be that old.”
The rain came harder as he ambled a dozen feet away, paused, and called over his shoulder. “I voted for you. Are you going to fix it, Sheriff Blackwell? And keep it all hush-hush? No Democrats? No spies? Just you. Only you doing the looking. I got no family. I don’t trust nobody else.”
“Yeah, I’m going to fix it, Mark.” She raised her voice so she was certain he could hear her. “I’ll fix it. I promise.” Why the hell had she said that? “I’ll stop by to see you sometime tomorrow morning. I’ll call and let you know when I’m coming. You have a good evening, Mark.” What was left of it.
“Mark the Shark,” he corrected. Then the night and the now-driving rain swallowed him.
2
Two
Piper hoped that Mark the Shark had been robbed.
As unfortunate a thing as having “one hundred and sixty thousand, more or less” stolen, it would mean the old man was not suffering from dementia. And it would be an intriguing case that would stretch her skills and definitely make her routine less ordinary.
Her skin tingled, not from the chill of the rain, but from the possibility of investigating what would be a Class C felony. That notion was almost enough to make her forget she was standing on the bluff in the middle of the night, getting soaked. But it wasn’t quite enough to chase away her dispatcher’s warning that Mark Thresher wasn’t all there.
Maybe it was a clerical error on Mark’s part… or wishful thinking he had that much money. She could almost hear the hooves of the horses clicking against the tile floor as they paraded past her grandfather’s room. Or was that just the rain ticking against the patches of mud around her?
Were the spies imaginary, too? Or was someone really shadowing the old man?
“Who the hell would follow you, Mark the Shark?”
And what the hell am I doing here?
Not what was she doing in the park, praying that a lot of money had been taken from an elderly county resident. What was she doing here, as Sheriff of Spencer County?
It was a question she’d asked herself dozens of times since she’d chosen not to re-up at Fort Campbell. She’d come back a little more than a year ago because her father was ill—and only last month he was declared cancer free a second time. He’d encouraged her to run for sheriff—a post he’d held for a long while; campaigning had given them both something to do. She’d won in November, though not by much, using her family name to defeat the man who was her chief deputy, and who she believed was far more qualified for the job. As of today, she’d been sheriff for a whopping four months. Piper wondered what her life would have been like if she’d stayed in the Army. She’d fit in there. This whole sheriff thing… she was still growing into it.
What the hell am I doing here? And why the hell did I promise that man I’d find his money?
She reached into her waterlogged pocket and pulled out a flashlight, fingers slick and fumbling not to drop it. She turned it on and nothing happened.
“Crap.” She shook it and felt the batteries move. “Stick around a bit,” she repeated his words. To make sure he hadn’t been followed. She jiggled the flashlight again and tightened the end. It finally came on. Piper waved the beam around, seeing tree trunks and benches, spreading puddles in the patches absent of grass, and watching the rain splash back up because it was driving so hard. The mud was ample and glistened in the light, evidence the parks department needed to do some serious reseeding. A thick stroke of lightning, a resounding crack! and the streetlights went out, as did the will-o-the-wisp lights in all the houses across from the park.
Power outage.
Awesome.
And all she had was the small flashlight.
She continued to scan where her beam reached. The dispatcher who’d taken Mark’s call had encouraged Piper to ignore it, said the old man had a reputation for his “elevator not reaching the top floor,” suggested she instead send one of the deputies on shift. Piper’d had a slow week and figured she could use a little distraction. This certainly was distracting. A tidy sum maybe stolen and conspiracies involving Democrats—not very likely. She didn’t see a soul in the park.
What the hell am I doing here? Looking for spies? The more she thought about it, the more it became likely that Mark the Shark was missing a few of the fries from his Happy Meal. And how many fries was she short for staying out here?
Another sweep with the flashlight.
There was a break in the clouds near the bluff, the full moon poking through. She slogged toward the edge, around a clump of birch trees, intending to stare down at the river, take a brief sodden stroll before getting t
he interior of her department vehicle all wet. Make sure no one else was in the park. Harry Bosch could wait until tomorrow night.
Harry Bosch would never get a case like this one.
The river was a shiny black ribbon and reflected a piece of the moon. Normally she could hear it, perched even this high above, the sound of it sloshing against the bank, a comforting susurrus. But all she heard now was the angry tat-a-tat-a-tat of the rain.
As a teenager, Piper had loved the stretch along the river, picnicked on the bank with friends—the place called Lincoln Landing to commemorate the spot where Abraham Lincoln set off on a flatboat. This park above was known as Rockport City Bluff. She used to climb these rocks, watch the boats go by; great entertainment for a sparsely-populated county at the southern end of the state. The bluff and the landing below because there wasn’t a single movie theater or shopping mall.
What the hell am I doing here?
She’d passed the Plainfield Sheriff’s Academy fifteen days ago, meaning she could retain her office. She knew her chief deputy had hoped she’d fail. Had she, he would have been appointed to fill the vacancy. Piper had expected him to retire when she nailed a near-perfect score. Maybe he would retire… but he hadn’t yet. And she wasn’t ready to push him out. Oren’s experience with the department, and with the Rockport police before that, was yin to her inexperienced yang.
But maybe she should have sent him to deal with Mark the Shark. To schlep around here and—
The lightning played erratically high above the river, nature’s fireworks. In spaces between the growls of thunder, and accompanying the constant staccato rain, she heard the cry of some night bird, probably complaining about all the water the county had been blessed with. Farther away a horn honked repeatedly.
April showers indeed.
Conspiracies, Democrats, and spies, oh my.
It was a notch more interesting than the steady thread of DUIs—Spencer County’s number one ticketed offense. Dealing with drunks and sifting through applications for a vacant deputy position had not stirred her imagination.
She’d delve into Mr. Thresher’s complaint, see if there was truth to it or get him to realize his bookkeeping was off. She’d drive out to see him, get the name of his bank, and go there with him to iron everything out. Symbiotic-like. Not much else pressing in the office at the moment, she could help the old man.
Piper whipped around, deciding to call it a night and go home. A dozen steps to the minimal shelter of the birch clump and the toe of her Nikes connected with an exposed root. She flailed forward, lost her balance and her flashlight, and splatted stomach-first, her chin bouncing against the soggy ground.
“Shit,” she sputtered, pushing herself up on her knees, spitting a gob of mud out of her mouth. And two is four and four is eight, she added. Piper felt the mud soak all the way through her clothes and to her skin. Her right shoe had been pulled off by the root, her sock soaked. The chill was no longer invigorating. It was awful.
Shit. Shit. Shit. She grabbed the narrowest trunk with both hands, pulled, and stood, stomped in frustration and brushed at the muck that was a frosting-like coating on the front of her pants and jacket. The department vehicle wasn’t just going to get wet; it was going to get filthy. Too dark to see the roots and her absent shoe, but she saw her flashlight and went for it, snatched it up—that took two attempts because the handle was slick.
“Shit,” she repeated turning and aiming the light toward the trunk and spotting the Nike, the toe wedged under a white birch root. Piper retrieved it and froze. It wasn’t a root; it was a bone she’d tripped on. She’d seen enough bodies, pieces of bodies, skeletons from her time in Iraq. She was pretty sure it was human. “Holy shit.”
She held the beam close, just to be sure, and then panned it back and forth around the trunks. All the rains—and before that the winter’s record snow—had turned parts of the park into a slurry-like mix that had eroded. A good measure that had lacked grass cover had slipped away, revealing the roots and the bone.
And on closer inspection the top of a skull.
Piper had been looking for a distraction. But this wasn’t what she’d had in mind.
3
Three
Teegan, the second shift dispatcher, had a pop up canopy. She’d found it on sale at the Walmart Supercenter in Owensboro a few weeks past and intended to sit under it at craft fairs when hawking her fused-glass jewelry. She’d mentioned her grand purchase to everyone in the department. Piper had remembered, traipsed back to her car, and called to borrow it.
They put the canopy up against the birch clump, using the roll down sides to help keep the rain off the bones and the already soggy ground.
“Thanks, Teegan,” Piper said. “This will be a serious help.”
“Not a problem. I wasn’t gonna go out drinking tonight anyway. Power’s out in most of Rockport. I’m not into warm beer by candlelight.” Teegan chewed noisily on a wad of gum and held her umbrella so Piper could share it. Teegan was forty-something but dressed like a teenager and resembled Morticia Addams because of her pale complexion, straight black hair, and heavy eyeliner. She wore a clear plastic raincoat that crinkled with her every move and that seemed incongruous to the Goth attire underneath. Piper had inherited Teegan when she took over the department, and found her nosey but highly efficient.
“Was Mr. Conspiracy with you when you found the bones?” Teegan continued to smack her gum.
Piper shook her head. “He’d left. I just stuck around a while.”
“To make sure he wasn’t followed?” It appeared Teegan was familiar with Mark the Shark. “Did you talk about aliens?”
“Democrats.”
Oren arrived with battery-powered lights he set up on tripods and aimed under the canopy.
“Want me to stick around, Sheriff?” Teegan asked. “I don’t mind. I could use the overtime. This is interesting as all hell, a skeleton on the bluff. Wonder how long it’s been rotting here? Who it could have—”
“We’re fine,” Piper cut back.
“Coroner’s on her way,” Oren announced. “Said she wants to be the one to pull the bones. Asked that we don’t touch anything.”
“What about Rockport cops?” Teegan blew a bubble. When Piper didn’t answer, she sucked the bubble in with a pop! “Ah, you haven’t called Rockport yet. You know it’s technically their jurisdiction, right? The bluff is in—”
“Yeah, I know,” Piper said. “The bluff’s in the city.”
“Well… okay. See ya tomorrow afternoon, then,” Teegan said. “But if I have power in my house I’m gonna keep my scanner on in case you all have something interesting to say about Bonesy there. Oh, and Councilman Sampson called again. He wants you to consider his nephew for the open deputy position. I put a note on your desk. Says you should have the resume and application. And take care of my tent.”
“I’ll take care of your tent,” Piper said. “If anything happens to it, I’ll replace it.”
“Cool beans.” Teegan scurried away and Piper felt the rain tat-a-tat-tatting against her again. The lightning still danced.
“Handy thing, that tent.” Chief Deputy Oren Rosenberg made Piper look tiny. He had a foot on her at six-four, and he was built like a linebacker, with curly steel-gray hair that had managed to stay dry under the wide brim of his hat. “I suppose you should think about getting a couple for the department.”
Piper had already added it to her shopping list.
“So you found him, eh?”
Piper nodded.
“You didn’t mention that when you called.”
“Tripped on him, or her, actually.”
“Out here in the park, in the dead of night, and in the rain.” He waited a beat. “What were you doing out in the park so late?”
Piper gave him an abbreviated version of her meeting with Mark the Shark.
Oren whistled in response. “So if you hadn’t come out to meet Mr. Conspiracy, these bones—”
“�
��would have been found by someone else,” Piper said. “A jogger, dog walker, kids.” She shivered at that last notion. “Or someone with the Rockport Police or parks department. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. Somebody would have found him. Or her.”
The ground shuddered with a drumming of thunder.
“That lightning hit close,” Oren said. “The river pulls it down. Nasty electrical storm Mr. Conspiracy picked for your meeting. Ask your dad about the crop circle incident from two years back. Maybe it was three. Paul handled it.”
The “a whack-job paranoid geezer likely visited by aliens” comment Teegan had made to Piper hours ago resurfaced.
Piper edged under the canopy. “All the rain, washing away the ground. That’s why the skeleton appeared. Or at least parts of it. Wonder if it’s all here?”
“The snow before that. A lot of snow we had.” Oren joined her. “No grass under these trees, the earth didn’t have a choice but to give up the dead. Whoever buried him—”
“—or her.”
“Should’ve planted him—or her—deeper.” Oren, apparently not satisfied with the pole lights, pulled a flashlight from his belt, turned it on, and aimed the beam at the trunks. “A dog walker, kids… anybody else discovered it they might have messed with this, poked around. Hell, if you hadn’t found it when you did, this storm might have washed away the tiny bits. Finger bones and such.” He squatted for a closer look and let out a sigh. “Skull’s a little small to be an adult, I think.”
Piper thought the same thing.
“But Annie’ll tell us for sure,” Oren continued. “Helluva thing, this. Who’d go and bury a kid in the park?”
“Maybe the soul who killed him. Or her. Has to be murder.” Piper hunched over next to the skull, her shoulder against the thickest trunk. Water trickled down the papery bark where the canopy wasn’t sufficient to form a seal. “A natural death, you’d bury the body in a cemetery or cremate it. Not a public park.” She pointed to a curl of rusted metal. “A piece of cheap jewelry maybe.”
