This was tough and Claudia took her time answering. Easiest, of course, would simply be to say yes. A week or two of tranquility would surely follow. But this wasn’t Little House on the Prairie.
“No.”
“Why?” Robin wailed. She punched a pillow.
“Because you’re still grounded,” Claudia reminded her wearily.
“Yeah, but it’s, like, three weeks come tomorrow.”
“And you were grounded for six.”
“You’re ruining my life! Why can’t you just cut me some slack? Marty would.”
Low blow. With her Mary Poppins’ disposition, Marty Eckelstrom had become for Robin a mentor, the older sister, the benevolent aunt—ready with sympathy, fast with answers, a prestidigitator with words.
“Look, kid,” Claudia said after a moment, “Marty’s not Mother Theresa. She’s also not responsible for you. I am. And never mind that anyway. We’ve been over this before. You did this to yourself.”
“Please!”
“Do I stutter? I said no, and that’s final.”
The movie came back on. Sylvester Stallone flexed muscles as he reached for a machine gun. Why didn’t they ever run anything new?
“I might as well be dead,” Robin muttered. “I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m busting my butt on homework. I’m seeing that stupid geek teacher twice a week for tutoring—”
“Give it a rest, Robin. I mean it.”
“It’s not like I’m ever even going to need algebra.”
Claudia clipped Robin with a look, and they watched the rest of the movie in strained silence. Muscles bulging like diseased fruit, Stallone wiped out a village. Claudia thought of Dennis and considered calling him later. She surreptitiously glanced at the stubborn set to Robin’s jaw and contemplated caving in. But no. She had to tough it out. Robin had to tough it out. Inconsistency hadn’t done anything but merit her daughter’s contempt.
While fire balls blazed around him, Stallone boarded a chopper and hightailed it out of the jungle. Claudia watched without seeing. How the hell did other parents do this?
* * *
When the eleven o’clock news came on Robin went to bed. She murmured a frosty good-night. There were no Disney hugs.
Claudia watched the news up until the sports. Thank God for small favors. There wasn’t a word about Markos.
Then, flicking off the television and rising, Claudia made coffee, pulled files from her briefcase and turned her attention to Donna Overton’s smoking habits.
Chapter 22
The call came at ten-thirty. Claudia had just finished typing the narrative on a vandalism report, one of the nickel-dime cases Suggs had dropped on her desk to show her who was boss. She snagged the phone irritably and barked her name.
When there was no response except the hissing of the line, she said it again. “Hershey.”
And then: “It wasn’t me who did it. I told you that.”
Markos?
Claudia swung from the typewriter to her desk. She hunched over the phone, cupping the receiver with her free hand. “Where are you?” she whispered.
She was answered with a scornful laugh.
“All right, all right, never mind,” said Claudia. She thought rapidly, Markos’ big face looming in her mind. “Uniforms are all over the state like white on rice, Markos. You’re in deep.”
“No shit, cop. I read the papers.”
“Then what do you want?”
Markos’ answer was so long in coming that for a moment Claudia thought he’d hung up. “I didn’t kill Donna, and I didn’t kill that other broad.” A pause. “I know who did—and I got proof.”
Claudia mindlessly doodled clef notes on her desk pad. “I’m listening.”
“Uh-uh. Call off the posse first.”
“Get serious, Markos.” Claudia’s pen danced over the pad. “Even if I wanted to, the machinery’s in motion. And they got you dead to rights. They can place you at the scene.”
“Bullshit. They don’t have anything on me, and you know it.”
“No I don’t know it.”
“You do,” Markos insisted. “If you didn’t, you’d a said ‘we’ got you dead to rights. But you said ‘they.’”
Ignoring his supposition, Claudia said, “Are you telling me you weren’t at Overton’s house the night she was killed?”
“I was there, all right. But I wasn’t there first. I was there too late.”
Claudia’s skin prickled. “Markos, come on. Give yourself up. You can tell your story then—”
“Goddamn it, Hershey! It’s not a story!” An edge of desperation underscored Markos’ tone. “And if I walk into the middle of the street with my hands up, some shit-kickin’ cop with his eyes on that reward money is gonna turn the street into Dodge City. Nobody’s gonna wait for me to tell my side.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Claudia colored in a quarter note on the staff she’d drawn. “You looking for a special invitation?”
“Meet me. Alone. No weapons. I’ll tell you—”
“Are you nuts?”
“—what I know. You get things going in the right direction. Get it in the paper that you have another suspect. When I see that, then I’ll come in. I know I got drug charges against me, but the state won’t fry me for that.”
“Markos, you’re full of crap,” said Claudia. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I don’t what kind of scam you think you’re running, but if you really have a name, you could give it to me right now. We don’t need this cloak and dagger stuff. You can—”
“Yeah? While I make it easy on you, giving you time to run a trace on the line?” Markos’ voice boomed. “You’re probably working on it now. But I’m watching the time. We deal alone, or I don’t deal.”
Claudia scoffed. Another television favorite. In two minutes she’d have the call traced. In another five, someone would be slipping bracelets around the big man’s wrists. Right.
But Claudia knew Markos would never believe that. “All right, look. You’re afraid of the phone? Fine. Then stick this so-called name and this so-called proof in an envelope and mail it to me.”
“Screw you! This is all I got. I’d be nuts to let it out of my hands.”
“All right. Send me a copy. Or fax it.”
“No! A copy wouldn’t mean a damned thing. No, what I need is to be sure you’re getting it, not some cracker who’s gonna toss it aside and then trace the postmark. No way. I want to deliver it so’s I can see you got it, so’s I can see your face.”
“Why should I believe you would trust me, Markos?”
“I don’t trust you. But I trust the rest of ’em less. So I deal with you—just you where I can see what’s coming at me—or I don’t deal.”
Claudia capped her pen, buying time. “I have another question. It’s even better. Why should I trust you?”
“Because I heard you on the radio, Hershey. I heard you say there might be other suspects. And next thing I know, I hear that cracker Suggs on the radio sayin’ you’re full of shit, making you look like a rookie.”
Claudia took a breath. “So what?”
“So I know cops, Hershey. And it has to burn your tail to know you’re the lone ranger on the case, the only one who isn’t buying into the web the rest of ’em are spinning.”
“Not good enough.”
“Well, it’s all I got. Meet me, or I stay low just like I have been, and the guy who did Donna and that other woman, he maybe does another.”
Claudia could hear Markos lighting a cigarette.
“That’d burn your tail even more, wouldn’t it, Hershey?” he said softly.
Sheer lunacy on her part. Desperation on his.
“All right. When and where?”
Claudia scrawled directions and a time. She tapped her pen rapidly against the desk pad. “Markos, don’t underestimate me,” she said quietly. “This is no boat ride we’re taking together. You set me up and I can guarantee you won’t see daylight agai
n.”
“And if you set me up, cop, we’ll die together,” Markos said. He hung up abruptly.
* * *
The meet wouldn’t go down until three in the morning. Claudia cleared a few more reports, her attention so distracted she had to back up on several and make corrections.
Suggs prowled past her desk a few times, glowering at her but otherwise leaving her alone. Their conversations had been sparse and perfunctory since the radio fiasco. Carella, Peters, Moody . . . they held her at arm’s length, taking their cue from the chief. Claudia understood. She was on her own, a fish swimming against the tide.
At noon, Claudia called Victor Flynn. The algebra teacher was polite. Yes, Robin was doing better. Yes, she was showing up for all the tutoring sessions. It was apparent she was studying, and her concentration was stronger.
“Is it safe to assume she’s going to pull her grade up to at least a ‘C’?” Claudia asked. She reread what she’d just typed about a shoplifting incident at Philby’s, and grabbed the bottle of White-Out.
“Well, it’s looking good,” Flynn said, his tone non-committal. “No guarantees, but there definitely is progress.”
Claudia pictured Flynn pulling on his sideburns. “Is Robin doing well enough that she doesn’t need to continue with any after-class tutoring?”
“Actually, no. I think it would be to her advantage to stay with those for another week or two,” Flynn said.
“Even with the progress she’s making?”
“It’s probably the best time,” said Flynn. We’re approaching some tricky material. I’d just like to make sure she gets a good handle on it before we, uh, part company.”
The guy was a pompous jerk. Claudia understood exactly why Robin hated being around him more than necessary. Still, he was the expert. And another week or two wouldn’t kill her daughter.
Claudia started to thank Flynn, but he interrupted to ask whether the police were confident they would be able to arrest Markos shortly.
“I can’t tell you how nervous it makes all the students, this man being on the loose,” he told her.
“Well, I shouldn’t think it would be that much longer before we find him,” said Claudia.
“You’re sure, then, that Markos is the murderer? I understood from someone who had overheard a radio broadcast that you, uh, had reservations about that.”
Goddamn, what a mistake that had been, opening her mouth. Claudia cursed her own impatience, and assured Flynn that the case was nearing completion. She had, she said, indeed been mistaken.
“Well, the sooner that man’s put away, the better,” Flynn said.
“Right,” said Claudia. She eased Flynn off the phone, then immediately dialed Elaine Kincaid’s number. She’d been meaning to ask about Shayla Kincaid for days.
“I took your advice, Detective, and Shayla’s in a residential treatment program in Tampa,” the girl’s mother said. “The doctors tell me she’s doing much better. I’ll be seeing her this weekend.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Claudia. At least that was one thing she hadn’t fouled up. “The boy who was selling drugs to her will probably get treatment, too. He was really just a small part of it.”
“Yes, well, I’m not so sure I feel as charitable. Although, I hope you get that character who was bringing the drugs into Indian Run in the first place,” said Elaine Kincaid. “Murder, drugs, he sounds like one sick man.”
“Markos.”
“Yes.”
Everyone wanted a piece of Markos.
“I don’t think we’re too far away from him now, Mrs. Kincaid,” Claudia said by rote. “It’s only a matter of time.”
* * *
Hard work and skill were never enough to carry any case. Politics determined priorities. The legal system dictated decisions. Manpower influenced direction. And luck played a role; some cops would say the biggest.
Claudia wasn’t sure about that, but she recognized luck when it came to her, and when she pulled up in front of Mark Yastrepsky’s apartment and found him and the other clerk, Eddie Winn, packing a U-Haul truck, she knew luck had touched her twice: tracking their address through the bureaucracy of the power company; getting to them before they took off.
She recognized the pair from the description the manager had given her. They were both young, Yastrepsky tall and sinewy, Winn short and thick. Mutt and Jeff, Claudia remembered the manager telling her.
Yastrepsky was loading a much-used cardboard box in the truck when Claudia introduced herself with her badge. He wore a blue and white bandanna around his forehead. Sweat stained the material.
After peering at the shield and laminated identification card, Yastrepsky showed uneasy surprise. “Oh, man, a detective? Just for a couple of parking tickets? Man, I thought that was ancient history by now.”
“I told you we should’ve just paid the things,” Winn said dispiritedly. His eyes were round and wide, and level with Claudia’s chest. “We’re not trying to get away with anything. Just moving back up north.”
“Yeah,” offered Yastrepsky. “Wages stink big time down here.”
“I’m not here about tickets,” said Claudia. She pocketed her ID. “I’m here to see what you remember about Halloween night at the 7-Eleven.”
Mutt and Jeff looked at each other, relief and confusion evident on their faces. Neither asked why she wanted to know.
“Not a whole lot to remember,” said Yastrepsky. “It was busier than usual and some of the customers came in wearing costumes.” He shrugged. “Sold a lot of six-packs and lottery tickets—”
“And Cokes and ice and chips and cigarettes,” finished Winn. He plucked at a hangnail. “I think everyone was partying but us.”
Claudia ran them through the drill. She showed them a picture of Overton. She showed them the mug of Markos, and an old news photo of Matheson without naming either of them.
The pictures of Markos and Matheson drew blanks. In fact, what they knew about the murders themselves would fill a thimble; neither read past the sports sections of the papers. But after a lot of prodding, Winn said he thought that yeah, the medium might have been the same lady who stopped in for cigarettes. See, he remembered only because she wanted a whole carton, and they were out. So okay, she was going to settle for a pack, but then she wanted the boxed kind and they were out of that, too. The woman fussed a little, but settled for one soft pack.
Naw, he didn’t remember exactly what time, only that it was before midnight.
“Was she by herself?” Claudia asked, already making a mental note to find out whether Overton generally carried boxed packs of cigarettes. It was exactly the small sort of detail that could establish her presence in the store.
Winn shook his head. “I don’t know. I think so, but there were other people in the store. I just remember she was holding up the line, carrying on about how we didn’t stock what she wanted.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s—wait a minute!” Winn looked excited. “I remember one other thing about this lady, yeah. She paid with a fifty-dollar bill.” Winn slapped his forehead. “I don’t know how come that didn’t register right away, but at the time it really irritated me because I was running low on change.”
Winn nudged Yastrepsky. “Remember me saying something about that?”
Yastrepsky nodded, but Claudia didn’t put much credence in the gesture. Friends automatically tended to agree with each other on what seemed to them like inconsequential matters. But it was another thing to check. The video from the seance wasn’t clear enough to show the denomination of the bills Lucille Schuster had handed Overton when the medium was leaving. But Claudia recalled that Overton’s wallet was just a few dollars shy of one-hundred. Yes, she very likely had broken a fifty for that last pack of cigarettes.
She had Overton at the 7-Eleven and it would hold up in court. She needed to put the killer there, too.
Claudia looked at Yastrepsky and Winn. They weren’t rocket scientists, but they
were her best bet.
“Fellas, I need you to think harder.” Claudia gave them her best no-nonsense look. “I want to know about every customer you remember that night, mostly those who came in between about ten-thirty and eleven, and anyone else you might’ve spotted hanging around outside.”
“Oh, man,” said Yastrepsky. “You know how many people pop in and out? This is, like, impossible.”
“Then make it possible,” said Claudia. “Think now and think hard, or you can come with me and think at the station while you’re paying your tickets and whatever late fees go with them.”
Winn winced.
“On the other hand, if you think well enough, I can probably overlook the tickets,” Claudia continued. “I don’t think anyone will follow you up north to make good on them.”
What she didn’t tell them was that she would want signed statements before they left town.
Yastrepsky sighed elaborately. He jerked the bandanna off his head and ran a hand through his hair. Winn stared off vacantly. Claudia could see the wheels turning.
“Look,” she said, “think about customers the same way you did to remember Donna Overton. You said some of them were in costumes.”
Slowly, with Claudia guiding each step, the roommates regurgitated faces. They’d seen Little Bo Peep. A gorilla—no, two gorillas. One dude made up to look like Fred Flintstone. A woman trying to look like Madonna, only she didn’t come close—a “heifer,” Yastrepsky said, giggling. Another guy in an all-black costume with buffalo breath. One dressed as a Keystone Kop. Still another in a tuxedo and just a black mask.
Claudia fired questions at them: Did any of the customers—think hard now, she said—did any of them come in around the same time as the medium? Did any of them stare at her? What all did these people buy? Did any of them just come in and not buy anything?
“Man, my brain’s worn out,” Yastrepsky complained. “Mind if I grab a beer while we talk?”
Claudia shrugged impatiently, then waited while Yastrepsky dug one out of a Styrofoam ice chest in the front of the truck.
“The guys in gorilla suits—I think they bought beer,” said Yastrepsky, looking at his own.
The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries Page 18
