"All right. Thanks, Steve," Cathy said, then turned to Kingman. "Is there any possibility of finding out if Bobby really did work on a car for an Andrew Williams?"
Kingman grinned. "Ahead of you there. Whole thing sounded so peculiar, we went and dug out all the invoices for the past two weeks. Couldn't find one for an Andrew Williams."
"That's interesting," Cathy commented.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be any more help," Steve apologized.
"You've been quite a bit of help. We have a description of one of the people involved, and some idea how much they know. Steve—" Cathy looked up at him suddenly.
"Ma'am?"
"Did this Williams fellow look in any air vents?"
Steve's eyebrows went up. "Yes, ma'am, he did. Pretty weird, I thought. There's a vent right above Bobby's work area, and the guy dragged a ladder over, borrowed a screwdriver, and took the cover off. He reached in and felt around, but all he found was dust. He wasn't real pleased."
Cathy thanked both men. Before she left the shop, she called Dave Jackson. He was at home and would be glad to talk to her. She got directions to his house and walked out to a beautiful day that was warming up nicely. The sky was clear, deep blue, and the shadows dark with the knife-edged clarity of a low-humidity day. No blue Toyota appeared in her rearview mirror to cast a pall over her spirits.
- 12-
Monday
Physically, Dave Jackson was as different from Bobby as a heart from a spade. They must've made an interesting pair: where Bobby had been slight and dark, Dave was tall and stocky, with abundant curly, reddish-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a face full of golden freckles.
He met her at the door of the house, opening it before she had a chance to knock, and invited her into a small, cheaply furnished living room. She refused a beer but accepted a glass of iced tea, a move she regretted with the first sip. It was syrupy sweet, but Cathy drank it anyway. Dave brought himself a beer and settled on a sofa that struggled under his weight and threatened to give up if he moved too suddenly.
"I saw you at Bobby's funeral, didn't I?" he asked. "You were with the lawyer. You're Cathy Bennett? Mind if I call you Cathy?"
Cathy nodded, but he hadn't waited for her answer.
"You want to talk about Bobby? I don't know what I can tell you about him. Bobby wasn't the talkative sort, if you know what I mean. Can't really say I knew him all that well. We went around a bit, went to some of the races. Even drove down to Daytona once. Man, that was a trip; rained the whole way—cats and dogs—and we were in my old convertible with the leaky roof. We got soaked sitting in the car, but then it finally stopped just outside Daytona, and the sun shone as bright as you could want for the race. Great race, too, all the cars were—"
Cathy already knew more then she cared to about Daytona. "Excuse me, Dave, but could we please talk about Bobby?"
"Sure. What do you want to know?" The interruption didn't bother him.
"Aside from his family and girlfriend, you were probably Bobby's closest friend."
Dave shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. Like I said, I didn't really know him all that well."
"You knew he was worried about his brother?"
"Yeah, he said the kid was in trouble. Got himself arrested for setting a fire, didn't he?"
"Yes. You know Bobby didn't believe his brother did it? And he was trying to prove it?"
"Yeah." Dave shrugged again and the crouch groaned dramatically. "Thought it was a waste of time myself. Get him out of this mess, he'll just find another way to get in trouble. But Bobby had kind of a blind spot where that kid was concerned. I guess he'd been protecting him all his life and just didn't know when to quit."
"Did you know Bobby thought he had proof his brother was innocent?"
"No," Dave answered.
"Before he died, he claimed he did. He hid it somewhere, and we're trying to find it. It might tell us who killed him."
Storm clouds crossed Dave's sunny face, and he slammed down the beer can. "God, I hope you do find the slimy creep! It makes me so mad! With all the people in the world who deserve to die, why did it have to be Bobby? Why couldn't it have been his no-good brother instead?" Dave picked up the can again and turned it around in his big hands, brooding over it. "You know Bobby's girlfriend's going to have a baby? He was so excited about it, sometimes he seemed to be floating on air; but he was scared, too. He wanted to be a good father to this kid, but his own wasn't much of an example. I think he would've done better, though—"
"Bobby was killed Wednesday night. Did you see him that day?"
"No. He didn't come in to work. Pretty unusual for him, so we guessed he was sick or something. I tried to call him around lunch, but there wasn't any answer. I thought maybe something had happened with Patty, his girlfriend."
"You never talked to him at all that day?"
"No."
"You did see him on Tuesday?"
"The day before, you mean? Yeah, he was at work."
"How did he seem? Happy, excited, unhappy?"
Dave thought for a moment. "Depressed. You could tell because he got even quieter than usual, didn't say hardly a word. I asked him about it. He was upset about his brother; things weren't going well. Bobby didn't worry too much in general, but he was worried about the kid."
"Dave, Bobby went to see somebody on Wednesday and learned something. Something important and dangerous. Do you have any idea who it was he might have gone to see?"
Dave shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry. I wish I did."
"Do you know of any other friends he might have gone to see, any places he liked to hang out?"
Dave drained the beer can while he thought about it. "Occasionally, we'd go up to the Anchor for a beer after work. That's the only place I know he ever went."
"The Anchor?"
"The Golden Anchor. Out on highway 12."
Cathy consulted her note pad. "Bobby hid whatever he found; he said it was 'in the air'. Does that mean anything to you?"
She could almost see the wheels grinding as Dave considered the problem. Finally, he shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
She talked to Dave a while longer; it was harder to get him to stop talking than to get him started. Cathy didn't learn anything else from him, and her stomach was rumbling seriously by the time she extricated herself, thanked him, and said goodbye.
When she passed a Burger King on the way to her next stop at the junkyard, her car turned into the parking lot before she was aware of having made a decision to stop for lunch. She scribbled notes on the conversations with the people at the body shop and Dave while she munched french fries and a double cheeseburger.
The milkshake and food improved her attitude by the time she got back into the car. Her destination was several miles away, but the drive was pure pleasure: the air was clear, the trees glowed with the rich green of spring, and the day had warmed to a pleasant temperature.
Ike Hudson's Repair and Parts Shop wasn't difficult to locate. The operation consisted of a small concrete building surrounded on three sides by a fenced yard. Looking through the gaps in the fence, she could see that the ground was buried under an avalanche of old automobile, appliance, and furniture parts.
She pulled her car into a small paved area in front of the shop. A screened door stood partly open, so she walked in. And stopped, frozen by astonishment. Dozens of pairs of beady little eyes stared at her from the protection of bird cages hanging or standing around the room. She identified the finches and budgies, but there were a few larger birds she couldn’t name. The cacophony she'd just noticed subsided when she entered the room. The birds watched her with suspicious glares.
A creaky voice drifted from a back room. "I'll be with you in a minute."
The room in which she stood must have occupied at least half the building, but the clutter made it seem small and stuffy. There was a lot of rickety, dusty furniture: several shaky tables, two overstuffed armchairs with faded upholstery, a loveseat leaking entrails in more t
han one direction, an ancient refrigerator, still humming, and a marvelous old roll-top desk nearly buried under a blizzard of papers, magazines, and bird cages.
The bird cages impressed by their sheer numbers. She counted fifteen, some housing three or four of the smaller birds. Surprisingly, considering the condition of everything else in the room, the cages had all been recently cleaned.
A few of the birds concluded she didn't pose any threat and resumed chirping. Encouraged, others joined the raucous chorus.
Ike, it must have been Ike, poked a bald head through the curtain that draped the doorway to the other room. Reassured, the rest of his body followed thereafter, until he stood near her, a thin, bent old man with the smile of a mischievous leprechaun. He looked her over again from the closer vantage point.
"Don't know why everybody has to be so tall these days," he muttered. His voice creaked as though his jaws needed oiling. "Oh well, guess you can't help it. I won't hold it against you. Sit down, young lady. What can I do for you?"
"Are you Mr. Hudson?" Cathy asked.
The gnome burst into cackling laughter. The chirping suddenly swelled, as though he and the birds shared a private joke. "Mr. Hudson?" he asked gleefully. "Guess I am, though don't nobody call me that no more. Old Ike I am, to all and sundry who calls. You might as well, too."
"All right, Ike. My name is Cathy Bennett. I wanted to talk to you about Bobby Stark."
A frown suddenly cut across the delight on the old man's wrinkled face. "Bobby's dead, ain't he." He almost dared her to deny it.
"Yes, he is."
"Heard that. Shame it is, too. Nice boy. Good with his hands."
"You knew Bobby pretty well, Ike?"
"Guess I knew him about as well as any man can know another. Not very."
"But he used to come here often?"
"Always looking for parts he could use to fix things. Sometimes I'd save stuff for him that would come in, and sometimes he'd help me fix things that had small pieces. My eyes ain't what they used to be; getting old. But ain't it a queer world? Bobby was young, and he's dead, and here I am, old, but still kicking. Don't make no sense." Ike shrugged as though it were beyond any possibility of human comprehension, so he just wouldn't worry about it any further. "What did you want to know about Bobby, young lady?"
"The day he died, Bobby hid something. Something very important. So far, nobody has been able to find it. I was wondering if Bobby came out here last Wednesday."
"You think he might've hid this whatever out here?"
"We're trying to cover all the possibilities. And there are certainly plenty of places to hide something in your yard."
"Well, you could be right, young lady. But I can't help you; Wednesday's my fishin' day. Gone fishin' every Wednesday for the past forty years. Reckon that's the reason I'm still going strong after all these years. Fishin's good for soul and body."
He stopped and scratched his chin. "Course, that don't mean Bobby didn't come here. Gave him a key to the place six months ago, so's he could look around for things any time he wanted. He'd leave a note if he took anything while I wasn't here, and we'd settle up later. Good kid, Bobby. Dang shame."
"Was there a note last Thursday?" Cathy asked.
"Nope. Couldn't tell you for sure if he'd been here or not."
"Ike, would you mind if I looked around the yard?"
Ike frowned at her shoes, with their medium high heels, but said, "Go right ahead, young lady. Just be careful of sharp edges."
He escorted her out a side door into the yard. Cathy's heart sank as she surveyed the extent of the rubble. It was at least a hundred square yards of junk, piled hip deep in places, with narrow paths between the stacks. The assortment was unbelievable. Furniture: tables, chairs, beds, dressers, all were in bad repair, missing legs or stuffing or springs. Parts of automobiles lay everywhere, with tires scattered throughout.
The appliances came in all shapes, sizes, and descriptions: blenders, toasters, mixers, hot plates, vacuum cleaners, frying pans, electric knives, can openers, shavers. Cathy counted three refrigerators, all with the doors removed, six stoves, three washing machines—one, a wringer model—a dryer, and two dishwashers.
Dominating one corner of the yard, the outsized silver bullet shape of an old mobile home sagged despondently next to a pair of ancient bath tubs—the kind with metal claw feet. A broken commode, four sinks, and assorted bits of plumbing lay nearby. One of the tubs had a pair of bird baths sitting ludicrously inside it.
And there were air conditioners, too; Cathy counted at least twelve of them, and guessed that more were buried in the piles. A generous supply of metal duct work and vents added further potential hiding places. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack. Still, if you knew the exact location in the haystack, what better hiding place? If Bobby had stashed his proof here, then he knew exactly which air conditioner or vent he'd put it in.
And finding it again wasn't impossible. The number of hiding places might be large, but it was finite. Cathy considered starting to search right then, but thought better of it. If Bobby's proof was here, it would wait. She didn't have the time, the tools, or the right clothes for the activity. Or the right kind of help, she decided with satisfaction.
It would do Peter Lowell good to spend some time crawling around a junkyard with her. Having heard his ideas on how to spend leisure time, she could hardly wait to see his notion of rough clothes. She thanked Ike as she left and promised she'd see him again.
Later that afternoon, she had to get back to the work of being a newspaper reporter. She interviewed two candidates running for City Council positions in the upcoming primary, and set up appointments with several others. Most of the evening, she worked on collecting and sorting background material for the candidates.
Her heart wasn't in it, though, and she had a hard time keeping her mind from wandering. She wondered what Lowell was doing. She checked with the police, but they reported no further leads in the murder case. Of course, they were still working on it, the spokesman indignantly informed her, an arrest was expected soon. Cathy mentally translated that to mean they hadn't a clue and she shouldn't hold her breath.
Ed Hammond hadn't returned her call about the meeting with Lowell, so she dialed his number again. She wasn't surprised to learn he was out, but left a message for him to call back. The evening stretched without further word from him, however.
She did get a chance to talk with Ray and fill him in on her efforts. She usually found it helpful to bounce problems around with her editor. His sharp, logical mind rarely missed any point worthy of note, and he often saw angles no one else noticed. He didn't disappoint her.
"You're looking too hard at the drug connection angle," he suggested after listening to her update. She'd edited out her run-in with the men in the ski masks and only mentioned she'd talked to Ed Hammond again. Ray leaned back in his chair and watched the column of smoke rising from the end of his cigarette. "This Hammond guy and the police are covering that one. Why not try a different approach? The fire itself. If Danny's story is true—and that's the hypothesis you're working on—then this fire was a carefully orchestrated affair. If I were you, I'd go back and look into other fires. See if you turn up any similarities. How many suspicious fires have there been in this area in the past couple of years? It's worth looking into."
"Lord," Cathy sighed. "It sure is. And all I've been seeing is trees. Is there any excuse?"
"Pollen?" he suggested. "Get out of here and do your homework."
Once she'd recovered from her chagrin and taken leave of Ray, Cathy called down to the newspaper's staff researcher, who promised to see what she could find. Sometime later, she was at her desk, trying not to doze over a feature on economic development of the area, when the phone rang. She picked it up, eyes and mind still on the screen of the word processor. The voice on the other end was familiar but she couldn't immediately place it.
"Miss Bennett?" it asked.
"Yes."
&
nbsp; "Miss Bennett, this is Danny. Danny Stark." She recognized the voice, now, but there was still something odd about the sound—his words were slurred. Had he been drinking?
"Yes, Danny," she said. "What can I do for you?"
"I need help," he said, punctuating the words with a gasp that sounded like fear or pain.
- 13-
Monday
That claimed her attention completely. "What kind of help?"
"Come get me," Danny requested.
"Where are you? Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Sorta. Please…" There was a moment's silence before he spoke again. "Come get me. I can't explain any more right now."
In addition to the slurring, he was breathing hard; in the back of her mind, she heard quiet echoes of another young man asking for help. "Where are you?"
"Phone booth near the corner of Fourth and Trident." Not the best area of the city. She looked up; the wall clock read ten-twenty.
"Have you tried to call Peter Lowell?"
"Wasn't home. Couldn't think of anyone else."
He was gasping and Cathy heard another disquieting undertone in his voice: the beginnings of panic. She looked down and realized she was scribbling the word "damn" over and over again on a piece of paper. "Stay where you are. It'll take about ten minutes."
"Thanks."
She picked up the paper, balled it, and threw it into the trash can. She went to find Ray and explain, but he was in a meeting, so she left a note for him instead.
The parking lot at the office was well-lit, but when she got into her car, Cathy fished around for the can of pepper spray and moved it to the top of her purse. The location Danny had named was only a couple of miles from the office, and the traffic lights co-operated. She made it in six minutes.
The corner was quiet and appeared deserted. She pulled the car to the curb on Trident, but left the headlights on. Cathy sat a moment, reluctant to get out of the car, yet unsure what to do next. From down the street, she heard music and the ring of voices drifting from the open door of a bar. She looked around for the phone booth and spotted it on the corner diagonally opposite. No one stood there or anywhere nearby that she could see.
A Question of Fire Page 9
