by Jean Rabe
“You’re not going to have enough money to buy that camper,” Piper grumbled. “And now I’m not going to meet Mark the Shark until sometime this afternoon.”
“And my tractor. That’sh your fault. That’sh all your damn fault. If you hadn’t pulled me over, it wouldn’t be in the damn ditch.”
“Ooops. Not shorry,” Piper said.
8
Eight
Oren Rosenberg met his granddaughter for lunch at the Taj Mahal buffet on Tutor Lane. He’d arrived a little early and started with a plate of appetizers—paneer pakora, consisting of cottage cheese and spices dipped in flour and fried, and aloo tiki, potato slices topped with onion, yogurt, and chutney. Oren loved the Indian restaurant and ate here anytime he was in Evansville between the hours of eleven and two.
“Pops!”
“Millie. I’ve already paid for both of us. Go get started.”
She came back a few minutes later with a sampling of batter-fried vegetables.
“You’ve lost weight, Pops.”
“A little.”
“That’ll put it back on.”
“I’ll work it back off.”
She laughed merrily and started eating.
Oren smiled. Annie was right, he was so very proud of his granddaughter. He’d helped her pay for college and bought her a beater-of-a-VW. He’d wanted her in something more substantial, but she’d set her heart on the sky-blue, high-mileage Beetle. His daughter—Millie’s mother—helped when she could. But nearly five years ago, she’d rear-ended a daycare van while visiting friends in the Chicago suburbs. A girl died, a little boy was left a quadriplegic, and she was still paying on the judgment against her—and probably would be for at least a dozen more years. She’d been distracted, arguing with her boyfriend on her cell phone. A Class 4 felony, she could have spent three years in prison, but a savvy lawyer got her off without jail time. Oren had refused to help his daughter financially; she’d killed a child, and the accident had been wholly her fault. He felt that helping her would have been accepting what she’d done.
But Millie? His granddaughter was another matter.
Oren often wondered if Millie was pursuing law school because of her mother’s woes. He’d never asked, and certainly didn’t intend to today. Her t-shirt read I Love the Smell of Torts in the Morning.
“Pops, this is sooooooooooo good!” Millie stuffed an appetizer in her mouth and tried to talk around bites. Oren waved her to finish chewing; he couldn’t understand her. “I’ve been going to classes here five years and never been to this place. Why didn’t you take me here before? How had I not heard of this?”
“You’ve always been too busy when I’ve been in the city at lunchtime. This is the best buffet, I swear.”
“When I go out—rarely—it’s Charlie’s Mongolian Barbeque or the Acropolis. This is awesome, Pops. I gotta come back.”
She continued to stuff her face. Oren finished the aloo tiki, savoring the flavors that had settled nicely on his tongue, and went in search of more ample fare. Tomorrow he’d go back to his diet book. He returned with pepper chicken and a bowl of lentil soup. There were desserts up there. Those cheese balls soaked in honey couldn’t be that bad, right?
“Skinny Bastard the rest of the week.”
“What’d you say, Pops?”
“Nothing.” He sat and tucked in his napkin into the collar of his shirt. He knew it was a juvenile move, but he didn’t want to risk spilling on his shirt.
“So what brings you to the city?” She kept eating and looked at him expectantly.
Oren told her about the bones and the forensic anthropologist. “I can’t say more than that, nothing more than what’s gone out over the scanner and was sent to other departments. Open case, you understand.”
“Sure. I understand. But you working with Doc Natty. Awesome sauce,” Millie pronounced. “I’ll be right back, gotta get me a little more. Is that pepper chicken good?”
Oren nodded, his mouth full.
“I’ll try that, too. I’m not going to want any dinner tonight.”
“Think you’ll be able to figure out who the bones were?” Millie asked when she came back with a heaping plate. “With Doc Natty’s help? He’s dope, you know. I know. I know. Can’t say anything else. Open case. Can only talk about what’s on the blotter or went over the scanner. What you sent to other states. You did send it to other states, right?”
Oren nodded and drew his lips into a line and swallowed a bite of chicken. He decided to add a take-out order for his wife. “Doc Natty. Hah. Seems to know his stuff, but he’s a bit pretentious.”
“Pretentious? He’s a zhlub, insensitive, but brilliant. An ego the size of— Well, a very big ego. He’s been a consultant at the original body farm down by Fort Knox, and an advisor on some TV mysteries. One of the CSI shows, I think. Or maybe it was NCIS.”
“Zhlub. Throwing around the Yiddish. And I suppose you call me a zeyde.”
“Never.”
“Behind my back probably.”
“Never.”
“I am, you know.”
“You’re not that old.”
“My boss is your age. I could collect Social Security. I am a zeyde.”
“Zeyde?” She shook her head. “You’re Pops to me. I suppose I should call you Chief Deputy Pops. Though it should have been Sheriff Pops. Maybe you should run at the next—”
“I’ll be sixty-nine, then. No one is gonna vote—”
Millie waved a fork at him in a scolding manner. “We’ll talk about it in three years, when you’d have to start printing campaign posters. So about the bones—”
“You’re gonna drag it out of me?” Between bites, Oren gave in and chatted a little about Piper finding the bones on the bluff and the work ahead to search for an identity. He didn’t mention any of the items found with the bones; that would be going well beyond the boundaries of proper.
“So Doc Natty says a boy dead sixty or more years.” She paused. “But records back then—none of that is going to be on your department’s computer.”
“Tell me about it. And the boy might not have come from Spencer County. That’ll make it, I dunno, easier if old records are on other departments’ computers. Departments that have everything computerized.”
“Harder if they’re not. Computerized.”
“Yeah. I called in ‘Doc Natty’s’ first impressions right before I got here, and JJ sent it out to departments in Indiana, Kentucky, and Arizona, hoping we get a hit. Eight to ten-year-old boy, missing sixty to sixty-five years. White, right handed. Specific enough it might match something. Sent it to a national database, too. So long ago, though, if the records aren’t computerized—” He let that thought hang.
“Sounds like a mystery that’s wonderful and awful in one fell swoop.” She smiled excitedly, and then looked serious. “At least you won’t get shot with an old, cold case. Whoever killed that boy is long dead. Sad that there is no one to prosecute. A crime with a victim, but no justice for him. I think it would be tough to work. No satisfying end.” Millie had come to visit Oren in the hospital, too, and they’d chatted about the serial killer who would be sent away for life. “But at least no bullets.”
“There is that, not getting shot at. Hey, you want a graduation party? Should have asked you that before now, I guess. This weekend, I know. Saturday. Probably not enough time to put something together. But the next weekend. We could do a party then.”
“Hell no. No, no, no party. Me and some of my peeps from communications are going to Roppongi to celebrate.”
He tipped his head.
“It’s a Japanese steak and sushi place here in town.”
“I don’t like sushi.”
“You’re not invited. It’s a last hurrah before going our separate ways. I’ll let you take me out for my birthday next month, though.”
“Great. Then you’ll be older than my boss. At least you got college under you. Two degrees, and going to be a lawyer. Piper’s only got a hi
gh school diploma.” That was another sticking point he hadn’t been able to let go of. A high school graduate, twenty-three-years-old, was his boss and made more money than he did. He had forty more years of experience on Piper. Forty! Where was the justice? “Your degrees are a hairy big deal, Millie.”
Oren knew Millie had earned top honors with her bachelor of science in criminal justice, and this graduation was for her master’s—in communications—a good combination for the jump into law school. He decided to talk about financial arrangements for law school later, when she came to the house on her move to— “Where are you going to stay before law school? You got, what, two and a half, three months before it starts?”
“I don’t want to talk about more school. Not today. I’ve spent the past five years in classrooms. I want to talk about going out on your boat, and the latest Elizabeth Vaughan romance novel. I adore romance novels. I want to picnic at the lake. I want to—”
“Where are you going to stay?”
Millie scowled. “Not staying with mom, that’s for certain. Not staying in Evansville. Don’t worry. I already got it covered. I found this month-to-month on Washington in Rockport, a house that’s a hundred and thirty-some years old. Needs some work, and maybe I’ll work on it for something to do. Cheap rent, really, really, really cheap rent, especially for the size ‘cause it needs work. But it’s got four bedrooms, two baths. Good for having company stay over. They have to get the electric and plumbing working before I can move in, but that should be taken care of by Monday. That’s what I’m shooting for. To move in Monday. I’ll get to see more of you and grandma. Go out on your boat. And I’m gonna try to start paying you back for all the college money.”
He didn’t care if she paid him back. Renting a house, he mouthed. He hoped the rent really was cheap. Oren pushed his empty plate away and started on the soup. “Heard from your dad?”
Her scowl deepened. “Just the Hanukkah card. Only ever the Hanukkah card. But this one was postmarked Dutch Harbor. I did some Googling, and he’s on a crab boat in Alaska, something he always wanted, mom says. I’ll watch The Deadliest Catch when its new season rolls around and see if I can spot him on one of the big boats. Speaking of boats—”
“I took mine out last weekend. A tad chilly, but not too bad.”
“Doc Natty’s not too bad either, Pops. Give him a chance. I’m glad he’s working with you. Just ignore the arrogant side of him.”
“There’s another side?” Oren got up to get himself too many cheese balls soaked in honey.
9
Nine
Called Fair Fight when it was established in the eighteen hundreds, Hatfield was basically a “straight shot” over from Rockport and was one of the county’s “suggestions of a town,” as Piper referred to the tiny communities. Population a breath over eight hundred.
Mark the Shark’s immaculate-looking Cape Cod was a single-story frame with a steep-pitched gabled roof, a thick central chimney, and displayed little ornamentation beyond its navy blue shutters. It sat on a corner lot well back from the road. Piper had pulled up county records before she’d headed over. He’d had it built new four and a half years ago, before he’d put his farm up for sale. Most people his age would be moving into a nursing home, not ordering new construction. But he’d been selling off parts of his land—he’d owned a lot of land—and was accumulating plenty of money. Might as well spend it on something, she mused.
Piper pulled into the gravel drive and approached the front door, noting motion-sensor lights, a camera, grates on the windows, an ADT post by the walk, and a BEWARE OF DOG sign at the stoop. A window air-conditioner was in a bracket, had a rust-dotted chain wrapped around it, and an impressive padlock. The satellite dish on the roof also had a chain and a padlock—these looking shiny new.
When she pushed the doorbell, a thunderous “woof” responded. Definitely a big dog. Piper waited, tapped her foot, and knocked. The woofing was louder and sounded vicious. Worried about Mark, she walked around the house, seeing more motion-sensor lights and more cameras, a second window air-conditioner, and a good-sized dog door—probably so the dog could go out as it pleased and terrify people trying to climb the fence. Said chain link fence that ringed the backyard was six feet high. Piper whistled when saw the barbed wire on top. She was pretty sure that was illegal and not intended to keep the dog in as much as intruders out. She made a mental note to check the regulations.
She walked the rest of the perimeter, seeing two more BEWARE OF DOG signs, then came to the extra-deep double-garage. It could easily hold four cars. Piper rose up on her toes and looked into a side window. One long bay was empty. The other had two old motorcycles and a vintage Franklin convertible that she guessed was from the early 1920s. Olive green, it looked mint—except it was on blocks, the wheels probably stored elsewhere to keep someone from driving it away. Mark the Shark’s paranoia was evident everywhere. She noted an alarm rigged to the garage doors and more motion sensors.
“Not home, are you?” Piper growled. She figured the empty garage slot meant the old man had driven somewhere. Should he be driving at his age? She stopped at the side of the house, stood on a cement block planter and looked in between the bars of a window. The room beyond was a den. She saw an old recliner with the stuffing coming out of the arms, an orange tabby curled in the seat staring back at her. Craning her neck she saw a battered desk with a computer on it—big flat-panel monitor, ergonomic keyboard. She idly wondered if it was wireless. Next to it was a police scanner, and on the hutch above it a weather-band. A stand nearby held a ham radio.
“You’re an interesting fellow, Mark. Why the hell aren’t you home? I told you I was coming over.” She amended that. Piper had told him she’d be over in the morning, in the neighborhood of ten-thirty. It was well into the afternoon. Dealing with the drunk, cleaning the vomit out of the back seat, filling out the arrest report—and starting the paperwork about damage to her Ford and getting pictures of it—took a big chunk of unintended time. He might have gotten tired of waiting for her.
The dog must have heard her. It came to the window, foam bubbling on the sides of its mouth. A golden retriever that, judging by its white muzzle, was a senior. It didn’t look dangerous, and was clearly happily wagging its brushy tail as it started barking again.
Piper stepped down, returned to her car, and radioed Teegan, who had recently come on shift.
“Hey, Sheriff. Mr. Conspiracy called several minutes ago. I was trying to get you on the radio.”
“I was walking his property.”
“He’s not home.”
“Obviously,” Piper returned.
“He’s at the old fart’s club.”
Piper buckled in and started the Ford. It made a disturbing chugging sound before settling down. Maybe the tractor had caused more damage than she thought. She’d drop it at the garage—she had to at some point anyway to finish the accident report and get it repaired—and catch a ride home with someone. But she’d set aside time to delve more into the boxes of records in her office. The cold case was festering and she wanted to get back to it.
“Why aren’t you asking me what the old fart’s club is, Sheriff?”
“Because I figure you’ll tell me eventually.” Piper turned back toward Rockport and heard the chugging sound again. Then the engine quieted and ran smooth.
“The old fart’s club. It’s the genealogy club. They’re meeting this afternoon in the community room at the library’s Parker Branch, probably not more than a mile or so from where you are. They move from branch to branch each week, and it’s always on a Wednesday to convenience the high school computer class that helps them. You lucked out with it being at Parker.”
“Thanks, Teegan.”
“Hey, Sheriff? The guys found a few more things on the bluff. JJ’s cleaning them up. I haven’t had a chance to go take a look. Swamped with paperwork. Oh, and Oren’s back. He says the bones belong to a nine-year-old, right handed white boy who as a baby had been del
ivered with forceps. Some fancy forensic specialist who took a look claims that T-bone vertebrae, something like that, were broken, a broken hyoid. Those are all in the neck somewhere. Says the broken vertebrae means the boy was likely strangled to death, or his neck snapped. Won’t have the official coroner’s report for days, though, maybe weeks. They’re still doing some tests. Not sure yet just how long the bones were in the park. The bone guy is going over late this afternoon to look at the site. I’m emailing you Oren’s initial report.” The radio made a crackling sound. “Who the hell would strangle a nine-year-old?”
Someone evil, Piper thought. “I’m stopping at the Parker Branch.” After she plugged it into her Garmin. She’d never been there. “I won’t be long.” She hoped. “Then I’m coming back in.” To see what else had been found in the park and to walk the park again. The Ford was sounding fine now. She’d take it to the garage for repairs tomorrow.
“I heard that you and your dad are getting a May Day dinner tonight?”
So nosey Teegan probably looked in her office, saw the basket, and read Nang’s card. Great. If the woman wasn’t so efficient, Piper would replace her.
“Home cooked Vietnamese, Sheriff?”
Piper didn’t reply. If she hadn’t told Nang yes, she’d be spending the entire evening in the office. Instead, she’d let the office come home with her—or at least one of those big old records boxes.
She’d found the bones. This was her case.
Piper used her phone to call up her department email, wanting to see Oren’s notes. They were concise and nothing different than what Teegan had relayed. There was also another message, that had been sent around noon, with a sender address that was an odd series of numbers.
Stay away from Thresher
The air will be fresher
And U will B safer
Drop it bitch
