“I can’t tell you how much your good opinion means.”
“Speaking of good opinions, you, uh, may have some damage control to do with your adoring public.” He scratched behind his ear. “I’m afraid there’s a video of your arrest floating around Youtube.”
Mason grimaced. He’d had a host of messages and texts from his publicist when his phone was returned to him this morning. “Yes, I’m aware.”
Hawbaker glanced toward the house. “Look, I’m going to cut to the chase. I don’t know what exactly went down last night between my sister and Norbert – and it may well be none of my business – but it goes without saying that I don’t like the fact that the man seems to be sniffing around her again.”
Mason wasn’t crazy about it either. But he considered what Allison said. “Being as it isn’t your business – nor mine – perhaps we should butt out and allow your sister to handle it.”
Hawbaker looked like he was tempted to revise his good opinion. “Aren’t you the one who said I don’t trust him and I’d prefer if she wasn’t alone tonight?”
“Yes, but…” Mason scowled. To hell with it. “I’m trying to respect her independence and ability to take care of herself.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Not very well.”
Hawbaker clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to my world. So. Do we have an understanding?”
Mason eyed the other man. Although he hadn’t said it in so many words, clearly he expected Mason to be vigilant on Allison’s behalf. Knowing that Mason was likely going to do so anyway – for his own, purely selfish reasons. Yet by enlisting his aid, Hawbaker somehow managed to change it into something… noble. The King asking the trusted knight to help protect the princess from the dragon. And of course, that meant his sense of honor was at stake, so bedding the princess at the first available opportunity was – theoretically, at least – less likely.
“You’re diabolical.”
“I’m flattered that you noticed.”
Mason shook his head. “Just call me Sir Galahad,” he muttered. Then he glanced at the sky, noting the position of the sun above the trees. “As charming as this conversation has been, I’m afraid I must be going. There’s a matinee performance this afternoon, and I need to wash the jail stink off beforehand.”
“Now, now. Let’s not insult the custodial efficiency of my staff. You gave a fine performance last night, by the way.”
Mason waved a hand, dismissing the compliment. “It’s a good cast and crew with which to work.” And it had felt good to be back on a stage. Theater would always be his first love, though there were certain benefits to film.
Certain drawbacks, also. And some of those were major.
Shoving those concerns aside, he returned his attention to Hawbaker. “I better enjoy it while it lasts. I believe Tommy will be sufficiently restored to resume his role within the next day or so.”
“Glad to hear it. Tommy’s a…” the most unusual look passed over Hawbaker’s face.
“Problem?” Mason asked.
“No. Yes. Shit,” the other man said under his breath. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll catch you later.”
With that, he trotted off toward his police vehicle, which was parked in the circular drive. He started the car abruptly, sending bits of oyster shells flying as he accelerated past Mason. He drove with his phone pressed between ear and shoulder, knuckles white where he gripped the wheel.
Mason sipped his coffee, and raised an eyebrow at the squirrel, which had jumped onto the tree, twitching his tail in annoyance at Hawbaker’s abrupt departure. “I wonder if it was something I said.”
WILL rapped his fist on the front door of Jimmy Owen’s apartment. “Police!” he called out. “Open up.”
This elicited no response, which Will didn’t find surprising. Even if Jimmy was home – and Will wasn’t expecting that to be the case, considering he was pretty sure the man was dead – he wasn’t exactly the type to greet them at the door with a plate of cookies. But on the off chance that he wasn’t, or that he hadn’t, despite all evidence to the contrary, lived alone, they had to announce their presence.
When the door to the adjacent apartment opened, Officer Tolliver whirled around, hand on the butt of his firearm, but Will held up a cautioning hand. The lady who poked her head out was eighty if she was a day.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Chief Hawbaker and this is Officer Tolliver with the Sweetwater Police Department. We just have a couple questions for your neighbor here. No need to be alarmed.”
“He’s not home,” she said succinctly, gnarled fingers gripping her cane as she leaned out further. “Hasn’t been here for days. I know because I haven’t heard that infernal motorcycle of his pulling in and out of here at all hours of the day and night.”
Recognizing a willing source of information when he saw one, Will strolled over, offered a congenial smile. “Can you remember the last time you heard his ‘infernal motorcycle,’ Ms…?”
“Imogene Bushnell. And of course I can. I may be old, but I’m not senile. Twas last Monday at two-forty in the morning. Then he left again thirty-seven minutes later, at three-seventeen.”
“That’s pretty specific,” Will said, trying not to let suspicion color his voice. In his line of work, he’d learned to look the gift horse in the mouth, because if you didn’t, it would likely bite you on the ass as soon as you turned your back.
“I’ve been keeping a record,” she explained, somehow managing to look at him down her nose, despite the fact that she was at least a full foot shorter. “For when I lodge my noise complaint to the management.”
“That seems sensible,” Will agreed, thinking the management was probably going to be relieved that they’d dodged that particular bullet. “And how long have you been having a noise problem?”
“Ever since that boy got that infernal motorcycle, three months back. Swaggering around like he was king of the hill, covered in all those tattoos. Just a punk, if you ask me. And if it wasn’t the motorcycle it was the TV blaring half the night, and these walls thin as paper.” Her lips pressed together and then she leaned closer. “Porn,” she whispered. “Sounded like I was living next door to a bawdy house after a ship full of sailors got their shore leave.”
Tolliver coughed behind him.
“I can see how that wouldn’t be conducive to getting twenty winks,” Will allowed, and Imogene narrowed her eyes, seemingly unsure as to whether he was sassing her. He thanked God that he’d grown up with Josie and learned to control his facial expression at an early age.
Seemingly satisfied, Imogene gave one sharp nod.
“Do you think we could have a look at your record of Mr. Owen’s comings and goings, ma’am? Just so we can corroborate some information.”
She gave him the fish eye again, and Will tried to look earnest. His job was much more pleasant when he didn’t have to compel possible evidence from people. “I suppose so,” she finally agreed. “I’ve got it written down in my notebook. Of course, people don’t just take your word for things these days, being as most people’s word isn’t worth diddly. That’s why I also took videos on my iPhone.”
Will could only blink. “Your iPhone.”
“Told you I wasn’t senile, didn’t I?”
“Yes ma’am, you certainly did. Would you mind if we had a look at those videos as well?”
She frowned. “You’re not going to take my phone away, are you?”
“No ma’am. Not unless we should have to enter the videos as evidence for some reason, in which case we would make sure that we got your phone back to you as soon as possible. Um, Tolliver?”
“Yes sir?”
“Contact Officer Bascomb and tell her she’s needed, please. Officer Bascomb should be here shortly, and she’ll take a look at your notebook and your videos, Ms. Bushnell.”
“Something wrong with your vision?”
Will’s lip twitched. “No ma’am. But I have a war
rant to search the apartment next door, and despite your assurances regarding your neighbor’s whereabouts, protocol – not to mention common sense – dictates that I have backup, which is why I brought along Officer Tolliver.” And he thought it was prudent to have someone take a look at those videos immediately, before she could change her mind. They might be useful, they might not, but at this point any information they could get regarding Jimmy Owen’s patterns over the last several weeks was worth examining.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what you want with him?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”
She sniffed. “Well, whatever it is, I hope you lock him up and toss out the key so that I can get a decent night’s sleep. I’m too old for this nonsense.”
After they’d gotten the old woman situated with Officer Bascomb and the building super let them in to Owen’s apartment, Will and Tolliver swept it to make certain that it was indeed empty.
“Clear,” Tolliver said, stepping out of the bathroom. He holstered his weapon and looked around at the chaos. “Either this guy is a slob, or he left here in a big hurry.”
“Or both,” Will said, eyeing the bathroom with distaste. A lone bottle of shampoo sat in the corner of the shower, but aside from a dirty towel tossed on the floor, no other grooming accessories were in evidence. Will’d been hoping for a brush or a toothbrush, but the medicine cabinet contained nothing but a bottle of Tums – all that fast food, probably – and a box of condoms. At least the man was conscientious about something.
He turned to look at the unmade bed, the open dresser drawers, a few of which were empty. The closet was in similar disarray, with several shirts hanging half off their hangars or dropped on the floor as if someone had rifled through them, grabbing what they could perhaps stuff in a duffle bag.
The kitchen looked like the domain of the stereotypical single male. Several empty takeout bags and a pizza box stuffed into the trash can, but nary a pot nor a pan in evidence. Apparently cooking also wasn’t among Mr. Owen’s domestic skill set. There weren’t even any dirty plates or utensils in the sink. Will guessed the only food the man believed in was the kind you could eat with your hands. There was a half full bottle of soda in the fridge – still fizzy, Will discovered upon investigation. The cardboard tag around the bottle neck indicated it had come from the same establishment that delivered the pizza. Apart from some bags of chips and an empty Pop-Tart box in one of the cupboards, there was no food to be found. If they could get a look at the man’s phone, Will would bet he had every delivery place around on speed dial.
The living area was basically empty except for a lone sock poking out from beneath the sofa.
And an empty beer bottle on the coffee table. Bingo.
“You think that’ll do it?” Tolliver asked, nodding toward the bottle.
“Well, his fingerprints are on file, so provided they match up with the ones on the bottle, we should be able to get a DNA sample for comparison.” Not that Will harbored much doubt. What were the odds of two men in Sweetwater with the same tattoo in the same spot on the same arm? But they had to be sure.
Will pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and dropped the beer bottle inside.
“Nice TV,” Tolliver commented while Will wrote on the bag with indelible marker. “My brother-in-law has one like this. And the old lady is right. It does have a great sound system.”
“I don’t think that particular feature would rate very high with Ms. Bushnell.” Will glanced at the source – or one of them, anyway – of Imogene’s ire. He’d checked into Owen’s finances after the kid had posted his own bail, and he’d dug deeper while he was waiting for the warrant. Owen’s credit was in the crapper and his bank account balance extremely modest, but he’d somehow managed not only to post bail but to acquire a number of new toys over the past several months, which he’d paid for with cash.
Where he’d gotten that cash was the question.
Jimmy Owen had no discernible means of employment, wasn’t part of any official government welfare program – at least under his rightful name – and had no family in town apart from a cousin, who’d conveniently scuttled into hiding like a cockroach caught in the light.
Not that he couldn’t have another source of legitimate income – a generous grandma, a winning lottery ticket, or maybe he’d found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But given what information Will had gleaned so far, he wasn’t betting on it.
Will glanced around. He didn’t think they’d learn anything else from the apartment. Given the fact that Owen was out on bail awaiting trial for Tommy’s assault, it wasn’t out of the question that he would skip town.
But that still didn’t explain how Owen’s severed arm had ended up washing onto the shore of the Sweetwater River. Unless he’d planned to leave town by boat and had experienced some sort of accident.
But if that were the case, where was the damn boat? Or his ‘infernal’ motorcycle, for that matter?
“Chief?”
He turned toward the sound of Bascomb’s voice to see her framed in the open door of the apartment.
“I think you need to take a look at these videos.”
Will nodded. “Go ahead and bag that soda bottle, too,” he said to Tolliver, just to be on the safe side. Will hadn’t noticed any dirty glasses in the sink, so maybe the man had drunk straight from the bottle. Clearly he hadn’t had a Josie in his formative years to curb him of any less than mannerly tendencies.
“What do we have?” he said as he approached Bascomb.
“Aside from one very crotchety senior citizen?” she muttered, and Will’s lips twitched again. He kind of liked the old gal, to be honest. “Several surprisingly clear videos. For her age, she’s got a steady hand. Watch these clips and tell me if you notice anything.”
Will played the videos, which showed the nocturnal movements of Jimmy Owen, accompanied by commentary in Imogene Bushnell’s creaky voice reiterating the date, time, location and a few pithy observations as to her neighbor’s character.
Will played the videos again, muting the sound so as not to be distracted. The last video showed Owen leaving his apartment – the old woman must have slept all day if she sat awake at night just waiting to catch Owen coming and going – with a duffle bag over his shoulder. According to Ms. Bushnell, that was the last time he’d been home, and the timeline fit. Although they couldn’t pin down exactly how long the arm had been in the river before washing ashore, the estimation given by the medical examiner made it safe to say that Owen suffered his accident that same night.
But he didn’t think that’s what Bascomb was getting at.
“One of these things is not like the others,” he said, glancing up at Bascomb.
She nodded. “He’s wearing a helmet, both into and out of his apartment that last night. He wasn’t wearing one – or even carrying one – in any of the other videos. He could have simply been in a hurry. Didn’t want to take the time to remove the helmet, left it with the bike. I asked Ms. Bushnell if she could recall whether or not she’d ever seen him with a helmet, and she couldn’t confirm with any certainty that she had. She suggested that his head was too big to fit into one,” she added with a wry smile.
“We need to see if we can increase the resolution, have a look at those last few videos frame by frame.” Will sighed. “Ms. Bushnell isn’t going to be very happy, but we’re going to have to take her phone for a little while. Let me know if she balks, and I’ll come talk to her.”
“You got it.”
Bascomb left to deal with the crotchety Imogene Bushnell, and Will turned to see Tolliver standing just outside the kitchen area, the bagged soda bottle clutched in one gloved hand and something dangling from a finger of the other. “What’s that?”
“A key,” Tolliver said, his normally passive expression showing considerable animation. “I went through the cabinets one more time, just to be thorough, and I accidentally dropped a bag of chips on the floor. This spilled out.”
“Doesn’t look like the right kind of key for a motorcycle,” Tolliver pointed out.
“No it doesn’t.” Will tossed the key on his palm, considering. “Let’s bag it,” he said. “It might… wait. Hell.”
“What is it?”
Maybe nothing, though Will had been doing this job long enough to be highly skeptical of coincidence. “This ribbon,” he said, glancing up at Tolliver. There were probably millions of yards just like it in craft stores all over the country, he reminded his gut. But his gut didn’t buy it.
“It looks just like the one we found near Eugene Hawbaker’s grave.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALLIE turned the key again, hoping against hope, but since the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, she finally accepted that her car’s battery was dead.
“Crap,” she muttered, slumping back against the leather seat. She loved her Jag, mostly for sentimental reasons – it had been a gift from her father upon her college graduation – but reliable wasn’t the first descriptive word that came to mind. She wasn’t about to get rid of it, though. Not only because it reminded her of her father when things had been good, but also because she couldn’t afford to buy a new car right now. The business was doing well, and they’d managed to pay most of the debts incurred when Harlan bet the family fortune on a development deal that went bad, but things were still a little tight. Especially if they needed to find a care home for their father. He had his judge’s pension, of course, but the prices on the private facilities she’d checked into were eye-opening, to say the least. Not to mention the renovations still needed at the theater, and all of the upkeep involved with living in a historic – read: old – house. All things considered, a new car would have to wait.
Admit One (Sweetwater Book 2) Page 10
