“You’ll check his shoes?”
“It’ll be a stretch, but I’ll work it into the search warrant. Anything else, Nancy Drew?”
Lia had that look on her face, the one where she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to say it. Peter raised an eyebrow and waited.
She took a sip of coffee, then held the cup against her chest. It was something she did, for the warmth, or maybe it helped her pull her thoughts together.
“I want to run something by you.”
“Okay.”
“Picture this: You’re this kid nobody pays attention to, but you hear stuff. You hear about this old magician who doesn’t want anyone to know he only has one leg and it reminds you of a story.”
Reasonable assumptions. He’d go along for the ride. “Where’d he hear the story?”
“Who knows. If Jay Overstreet heard it, Dick could hear it. And Overstreet put it together as soon as the bones turned up. The point is, Dick knew about Malachi’s missing loot, and later he overhears Jenny talking about the leg in drama club. You’re a kid nobody notices, so what do you do?”
“You find the treasure and impress all the people who ignore you.”
Lia flipped a palm over in a classic game show hostess gesture. “And how do you do that?”
“You’re young and dumb. You figure you’ve got it all over an old guy with one leg and you’ll make him tell you.”
“Only it didn’t work, or Brewer would still be living it up in Cancun or wherever the big party place was in the eighties. He never would have enlisted.”
“Probably would have moved on to Cabo, but Cancun will do.”
“Something goes wrong. He kills poor Andrew before he finds out where the treasure is and buries him by the creek. He’s smart enough to use the plane ticket.”
“This is some thread you’re pulling. Why does our young killer return to the scene of the crime?”
“It was a seminal experience. It made him a man. He wonders about it, secretly relives it. Maybe he never gave up on finding the loot, and staring at the grave every so often keeps it alive for him.”
“You have been thinking about this. How does the military fit in?”
“You kill someone. You do your best to hide the body, but in your head that shallow grave is flashing neon lights. Maybe you have bad dreams about it.
“You know you’ll trip yourself up and get caught. You enlist in the army to get as far away as you can, so no one connects you when the body pops up.”
“A modern version of Poe’s telltale heart.”
“Exactly. Only the body doesn’t pop up. Nobody is looking for you. After twenty years you feel safe and you want to come home.”
“You just wrote a great movie about an old yearbook photo and the possibility of a size eleven shoe. Even if we can match the shoe print to Brewer, that’s just another B and E. We confront him about high school, and he says, ‘Yeah, I went to Hughes, so what?’
“Neither of those things gets us a murder charge. I’m not saying you’re wrong—though it’s a monumental long shot—but it’s not enough to even ask him about it. If Brewer killed Heenan, he won’t roll over in interview, not after the performance I saw today.”
Lia’s shoulders sagged.
Peter squeezed her hand. “But you’ve painted a fascinating picture of the crime.”
“What tattoos does he have?”
“That’s a heck of a segue.”
“You say he’s cocky. I’m imagining this sly kid with a big secret he’s really proud of. He needs to commemorate the event, even if he’s the only one who knows what it means. Tattoos are great for that.”
An interesting point, but a dead end. “He has a tattoo for his division. That’s it.”
“Military also runs to medals.” Lia’s eyes flew open. “You said Jenny asked if you found a coin with the bones. What was on the coin?”
“It was Irish. It had a harp on it.”
“What was on the back?”
“I never asked.”
“Dammit, dammit, dammit.” She grabbed her phone and hit the tiny microphone on the Google bar. “Irish coin image.”
Tapping impatiently, she scrolled through the results, turned the phone to Peter. “You’ve got him. The son of a bitch was wearing it the day Terry found the bones.”
“I don’t remember seeing this.”
“It was in a mounting, hanging on a chain around his neck. I bet he hasn’t had it on since I saw it. Maybe he was so used to wearing it he didn’t think about it until I said something at Boswell’s.”
“I’ll be damned. If he was smart, he pitched it down the first sewer grate he came to.”
“You think he’s that smart?”
“No. I think he’s dumb enough to think he’s smarter than everyone else, and he still has it. Which means I need to put it in the search warrant.”
“It’s not evidence of Jenny’s kidnapping. How will you justify it?”
“It would establish a connection between Brewer and Heenan, which would support Jenny’s story.”
“Won’t his attorney laugh you out of court? There must be millions of Irish shillings.”
“We build his coffin one nail at a time, Woman Who Thinks too Much.” Peter looked at his watch. “Two o’clock. I can grab a few hours sleep before I chase down that warrant.”
Lia narrowed her eyes. Peter followed her line of sight to the coffee table where the candlestick sat, now selectively polished to retain Ruth’s fingerprint.
Lia stroked the silver base with her thumb. “I know how to catch him.”
Day 23
Sunday, May 12, 2019
Susan’s Snippets with Ada Belle Davis
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“I’m here with Ada Belle Davis at the DePaul Christo Del Rey High School, where hours ago Cincinnati business owner Dick Brewer hijacked my car after putting a bullet in the side.” Susan placed a soothing hand on Ada Belle’s arm and proceeded confidingly, “Ada Belle was in the passenger seat when he took the car—”
Ada Belle, sporting a neck brace festooned with a dozen strands of beads, stared fiercely into the camera. “He kidnapped me!”
“Due to her quick thinking, the situation was resolved before police arrived. Ada Belle, show our viewers your stun gun.”
Ada Belle brandished a flat, pink box. “It’s a cell phone case. Best ninety-nine dollars I ever spent. I stuck him in the arm and let ‘er rip. Next thing I knew we crashed into that wall.”
The scene shifted to footage of the Caddy with its nose crumpled against the wall.
“Here’s my car before they towed it away. You can see the bullet hole in the front fender.” The camera zoomed in for a closeup of the hole. “Dick Brewer jumped into my car after a woman named Jenny Olson assaulted him, walloping him with a canvas bag full of tools. Makes my head hurt just to think about it. She claims he kidnapped her though she sure didn’t look kidnapped to me.”
The picture changed, now showing footage of Peter walking through the lobby of Quality Inn with Jenny. “Jenny Olson is connected to Detective Peter Dourson, who is in charge of the investigation into the thirty-year-old bones found on Mill Creek recently. As this is a developing situation, I’m sure more will be—”
___________
Lia tapped the screen, freezing Susan with her mouth unattractively open.
Bailey turned her phone face down on the picnic table. “She just doesn’t know when to quit, does she?”
Terry said, “We missed the fun.”
“Didn’t we just,” Steve said.
Gypsy wandered across the tabletop, sniffed the phone, turned around and squatted. Bailey whipped the phone out from under her just in time to avoid desecration.
“Good girl,” Lia said. “Extra biscuits for you when we get home.”
Peter and Cynth stood in the tiny closet they called the vestibule, observing Brewer on the video monitor
. In a replay of the night before, an orange jump-suited Brewer sat, a confident, spread-legged jock, his eyes cruising the room as if he were checking out talent at his favorite bar. Every bone in Brewer’s body shouted, “Try to prove it, assholes.”
Peter had been skeptical when brass pulled conference tables from interview rooms, leaving behind straight backed chairs with small tables at the side. He now appreciated how much body language had been hidden with the traditional setup.
“What an idiot,” Cynth said. “I can’t believe he doesn’t want a lawyer.”
Peter tapped Brewer’s smirking image on the monitor. “That’s an O.J. gotcha grin if I ever saw one. Thinks he’s playing us and doesn’t want a lawyer to get in the way. He isn’t burdened by guilt. We’d never get a confession with the usual techniques.”
Cynth narrowed her eyes at Peter. “I’m only doing this to see if something this stupid will work. You are so going to owe me.”
Peter gave Cynth a once-over. Uncharacteristically, she wore makeup and her unbraided hair fell in loose waves to her waist like a third millennium Lady Godiva. She’d dug up a skirt from somewhere, tucked in a tailored shirt, and undone an extra button. The combined effect showcased her amazing figure. He doubted Brewer would recognize her.
“You’ll be famous. Departments all over the country will fly you in to teach seminars. Where’d you find lipstick?”
“Family Dollar. Parker paid for it out of petty cash.”
Peter retrieved his phone. Before Cynth realized what he was doing, he snapped a photo. “What’s Duff’s number? I want to send this to him.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Your mother, then.”
“I’m taking a hammer to your phone.”
He switched the phone to Do Not Disturb, and shoved it back in his pocket. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Peter turned on the recording equipment and opened the door. He knew the moment Cynth stepped into the room behind him. Brewer sat up, chest expanding. His tongue slipped out and quickly withdrew as he curbed an unconscious attempt to lick his lips. He covered by leaning back and folding his arms.
Didn’t expect her, did you big guy?
Peter took a seat, maintaining cop face so he wouldn’t laugh. He’d told Cynth to cross her legs and let some thigh show. At this moment, he was sure she was repressing the urge to kick him.
“Detective McFadden is joining me for this interview.”
Brewer grinned, happy hour at the meat market. If Cynth was performing according to plan, she’d just dropped her eyes and allowed herself a hint of a smile.
Too bad she can’t blush on cue.
A pitcher and glasses sat on the little table next to Peter. He poured himself a glass of water, held it up.
“Want some?”
That tongue, unable to help itself, flicked out again while the eyes tracked Cynth as she did one of the hundred subtle things women do to distract men.
Brewer’s eyes returned, focused. “I’m good. Look, I told you what happened. When do I get out of here?”
Peter heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Man, you’ve been cooperative, but we have discrepancies that have to be resolved. One way or another, you’ll see a judge tomorrow morning.”
Brewer’s eyes turned mean. “That’s bullshit.”
“That’s the weekend. No court on Sundays. But if we can resolve these discrepancies, maybe we don’t need court.”
The chair next to Peter creaked, Cynth shifting. Possibly the skirt riding another inch up her thigh. Brewer’s eyes darted over to check her out.
“What discrepancies?”
“Ms. Olson tells a different story about your date.”
“Bitch is lying. I told you, she’s nuts.”
“I hear you, but we have to treat everything as valid until we know otherwise. So we sent a team to your house—”
Brewer jolted forward, hands on knees, ready to launch himself at Peter. “You what?”
Peter didn’t flinch. Cynth made a faint, ladylike snort of disdain.
“We have a he said/she said situation. Gathering physical evidence is the only way to show Ms. Olson is lying. We analyze that, and Bob’s your uncle.”
“I didn’t consent to a search.”
“Didn’t need to. We have probable cause and a warrant.”
“What did you take?”
Peter patted his pockets, came up empty. “Cynth, you bring that search warrant return?”
“I left it on the kitchen counter, like we always do.”
Peter flipped his hand palm up, an apology. “Sorry, man. It’s there, waiting for you. It lists everything. We took stuff like bedding so we can look for her DNA. That will tell us what we need to know.”
Peter took a sip of water—a manufactured pause to allow the thought of DNA to sink in—before he continued in his best, earnest voice, “It helps that you were so detailed in your report of the incident. We knew exactly where to look.”
“What if she didn’t leave any DNA.”
Cynth spoke, a hint of amusement in her voice. “You always leave something.”
Another pause, another sip of water. Out of the corner of Peter’s eye, Cynth leaned over to pour a glass for herself, rolling her shoulders forward to let her neckline gap, just a little.
Peter directed his comments to Brewer while the man’s eyes continued to slide over Cynth. “I don’t have a crystal ball. I can’t see into the future. But you already know what the outcome will be. Right now, before we have the certainty of physical evidence, you have an opportunity.”
Brewer leaned back, folded his arms again, suspicious. “Yeah?”
“We ran across something that suggests you might have information that could help us solve Andrew Heenan’s murder. You help us, the prosecutor will look more kindly on a low-profile kidnapping that maybe didn’t happen and a carjacking that lasted less than two minutes. He might decide the charges aren’t worth his time. If that’s the case, you could be out of here today.”
“I saw the bones. That’s all I know about Andrew Heenan.” Brewer’s left leg jiggled as he said this. Nerves, and possible deception.
“You’re a solid citizen without a smudge on your record. If you knew anything about Andrew Heenan’s death, you would have come forward. We know that. We think you’re connected and don’t realize it.”
“And how did you work that out?”
“Your bull medallion. You wore it the day you found the bones.”
“What does my taste in jewelry have to do with the price of beans in China?”
Cynth cleared her throat, smiled. “It’s not jewelry, exactly. It’s a 1933 Irish shilling, and we’re wondering where you got it.”
That leg kept going. “I forgot. Why do you care?”
Cynth continued, “There aren’t many Irish shillings from 1933 floating around this part of the world. Andrew Heenan carried one. We believe the person you got it from either killed him or knew his killer.”
A vein throbbed in Brewer’s jaw. “That bitch tell you that? She’ll say anything. You can’t prove it belonged to him.”
Peter kept his tone neutral. “Funny thing, coins pick up finger prints. Metal—especially silver—is vulnerable to etching from skin acids. Once a fingerprint sets in, it changes the metal and it’s there forever. The etching may not be visible to the naked eye, but we can pull it out in the lab. It’s a big deal with collectors because handling devalues coins. We have Heenan’s prints from a background check in the eighties. Once we pop the coin out of the mounting, I’m betting we’ll find a match.”
Cynth leaned forward, sympathy oozing from her voice. “We know you had nothing to do with Andrew Heenan, but you can lead us to the person who killed him.”
“If I tell you where I got the coin, you’ll drop the charges?”
Peter shrugged, hoping his indifference was getting under Brewer’s skin. “You know the drill. The prosecutor won’t make an offer unless he’s
sure he’s not getting a pig in a poke.”
Brewer sneered. “What makes you think I didn’t off the old man and take the coin?”
Cynth gave Brewer a pitying look.
Peter kept his voice friendly. “You were, what, fifteen in 1987? Fat, too. You can’t expect us to believe you killed a man.”
Jiggling leg, throbbing vein. Right hand balled into a fist, knuckles white. Brewer was turning into a regular one-man band. Nothing worse than having your man cred obliterated in front of a sexy lady. One more push, two, and Brewer would blow.
“Screw that. I’m not saying I killed the old man, but I could have.”
Cynth folded her arms and smirked.
Peter huffed, signaling disbelief. “No way you pulled this off. You couldn’t even drive.”
Brewer thrust his face forward, nostrils flaring. “I knew how to drive when I was eleven.”
Peter smiled sadly, shook his head. “You were a wimp. You can’t convince me you carried Heenan down that gully.”
Saliva sprayed Peter’s face as Brewer roared, “I didn’t have to, moron! I rolled him down the hill!”
A Friend Appears
Tuesday, March 12, 1940
The lock at the top of the steps rattled, pulling Mal from uneasy sleep and waking the bruises covering most of his body. He stifled a moan as pain speared through cracked ribs. No sense letting Stu’s goons know he was awake.
Cold seeped into his body from the dirt floor and he shivered. He breathed shallowly, trying not to inhale the stench of his own waste in the corner slop bucket. His leg twitched, knocking into the heavy leg iron.
That damn manacle—they’d poured lead into the lock so he couldn’t pick it. That was the first clue he wasn’t leaving this basement on his feet, a suspicion confirmed when Stu showed up. Stu, who was Pete’s head of security and his main man until Mal came up with his grand plan.
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