by A W Hartoin
“Yeah, it was all gone by the time we got here. I wish you would’ve thought to cover it up. Even a jacket over it would’ve helped.”
I walked with serious effort, my hospital booties making sucking noises in the mud. “I seriously doubt it. You’d have gotten Robert’s blood and my grandad’s, but there’s no reason to think you’d get anything off the doer. It’s not like there was a tussle. They never saw it coming.”
“Agreed. I just hate to lose the scene. You never know.”
“Too true,” I said. “Is that it?”
“Not quite,” said Bennett, coming over from the Crime Scene Unit. “I found this.”
He held up an evidence bag with a knife inside.
“Where’d you find it?” I asked.
Bennett pointed to a spot about twenty feet away. “It was between two bikes. An Indian shielded it from most of the downpour. Still bloody.”
“May I?” I held out my hand. Bennett gave it to me and I held the bag up to the light. The knife was an old one with a curved blade and a wicked point. The fancy handle had a wood grip with red and black stripes and a brass guard. There were traces of blood on the blade and handle. “This didn’t come from Wal-mart. I doubt they tossed it. Looks like a family heirloom.”
“We think so, too. Considering the rain and the blood on the handle, I think it slipped out of their hand in the rush to get away.”
I looked again. “I don’t know knives. How old?”
Trevino took the evidence bag from me. “I’d say 60s.”
“Vietnam era then.”
He gave me a slight smile. “Yes.”
“Then this clears my guys,” I said.
“How do you figure?”
“They were huddled around Robert, not running away.”
“It’s not airtight, but I agree. From the statements, they were all together. No one ran off and returned.”
I heaved a sigh. “That’s a relief.”
“You were worried.”
“I like being sure.”
Big Mike walked over, upright and looking like he had no stake in what was going on. “Sure about what?”
“You.”
Trevino showed him the knife and we watched him for a tell. Nothing. No reaction.
“Glad you found it. I guess the blood is Robert’s.”
“And my grandad’s,” I said.
He patted my back. “Yeah, I keep trying to forget that Ace is in the hospital. I hate like hell that he’s in there.”
I noticed he didn’t say the same about Robert. Weird. They were tight. Big Mike was genuinely worried about Robert. He wasn’t faking it any more than Janet or Barney was. But he’d made a distinction between Grandad and Robert.
Trevino asked if Big Mike recognized the knife and he surprised me by taking the evidence bag and really looking at it. “Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bennett.
“It’s a Western W39 hunting knife. My father had one. My brother inherited it. He’s a hunter.”
“Have you seen this particular knife before?” I asked, knowing the answer already.
Big Mike handed the knife back to Bennett. “How would I know? They all look alike.”
“Do you know anyone who owns a W39?” asked Trevino.
“Sure. Ace Watts, my brother, and my barber has one in a display case in his shop.”
They all looked at me and I did a palms-up. “I’ve never seen it.”
“But he might have one?” asked Bennett.
“Maybe, but he didn’t slice open his own back.”
Bennett returned the knife to the Crime Scene guys and they took off. Trevino started asking Big Mike a bunch of pointless questions. He wasn’t going to say anything of use. According to the file Uncle Morty sent me, Big Mike held up well under torture. He gave the Viet Cong nothing. I couldn’t imagine how he managed it under such pain. I wished I hadn’t read Uncle Morty’s bullet points on Big Mike’s imprisonment. It took me thirty seconds, but I wouldn’t get it out of my mind for thirty years.
Impulsively, I gave the man who climbed through fire to save my grandfather a hug.
“What’s that for?” he asked, bemused.
“Just remembering who you are.”
“I’m Big Mike,” he said jovially.
“Emphasis on the big.” Another hug. “I’m going to go back to The Ornery Elk.”
“You have a motorcycle endorsement on your license?” asked Trevino.
“No. Aaron’ll drive me.” I hoped he didn’t ask if Aaron had a license. It seemed like one of those things he wouldn’t bother with, like clothes shopping and hair combing.
“Where is he?”
“On his Flying Flea.” I checked his phone. “He should be here in about three minutes.”
“We can strap the Flea to the sidecar,” said Big Mike.
Trevino took my arm. “Let’s take a look.”
Big Mike started to come with us, but Bennett stopped him. “Can you repeat that knife name? I’m not familiar with it.”
We left Big Mike behind, sloshing through the water-logged ground as the sun slipped behind the hills, casting us in darkness. Trevino flipped on his flashlight and said, “He’s covering for someone.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know why.”
“You were right about Vietnam. Did your grandfather say anything to you about the war? Anything we can use.”
“I didn’t know he’d crashed and literally burned until today. I’ve got nothing.” That wasn’t exactly true. I had Uncle Morty’s research, but let them get their own Uncle Morty. I paid for having mine on a weekly basis.
We reached the bike and heard a staccato little engine in the distance. Aaron came into sight on the highway, going ever so slow.
“You need to tell me if you know something,” said Trevino.
“Need is putting it a bit strongly. I need air.”
“Miss Watts.”
“I don’t know who did it, but I’m starting to get a feeling,” I said.
“Like your father? I looked him up.”
“Sort of. Something happened in Vietnam, but my grandad wasn’t a part of it.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Just a feeling. Aaron!” I started waving, but my partner still bypassed us and went to The Stone House. “Aaron! I’m over here.”
He stopped, got off, and went in the house.
“For crying out loud.” I slapped my forehead. “So help me God, if he starts cooking, I’ll kill him.”
Aaron didn’t start cooking. He came back out, remounted, and rode over, accompanied by a tremendous yapping. The Flea listed to the right as Aaron rode around the cruiser and lost his grip on Wallace. She jumped to the ground and raced around the car. “Oh hell!” yelled Bennett and he took off running. Wallace chased him, weaving around the few remaining bikes and past us.
Trevino pulled out his piece. “I’ll shoot your dog.”
Oh, Lord, why do you tempt me?
“Wallace!” I ran after the pug, who continued to chase Bennett.
“Shoot her!” yelled Bennett.
“Don’t shoot her!” I yelled. “Wallace, you idiot, stop it!”
Bark. Bark. Bark.
We ran in a circuit around three bikes and the cruiser. There was one rock and I stepped on it every damn time we circled a custom Harley with a skull design. My hospital booties were no protection. I could barely see and clipped a Kawasaki, going down in the mud.
“Mercy, you okay?” yelled Big Mike.
“Don’t let them shoot Wallace!”
Bennett did another circuit.
“I can’t see her!” yelled Trevino.
“Shoot her!”
“Do not shoot that dog!” I sat in the dark by the Kawasaki, waiting for my moment. It came as Bennett fumbled with his holster. He was seriously going to shoot the pug. I stuck out my leg and he went flying into the mud. Wallace darted by and I pounced on her. You haven’t lived until
you’ve wrestled with a tiny pug in questionable-smelling mud. I suspect The Stone House’s porta-potties weren’t as popular as one would hope.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
“If you don’t knock it off, I’ll let them shoot you,” I said.
Grrr.
“What is your problem?” I got Wallace in a football hold and struggled to my feet. She thrashed and bared her pointy teeth at Bennett.
He gave us a wide berth as he scraped the mud off his face. Someone in the dark yelled, “Yes! I got it, Bertie.”
“What was that?” yelled Trevino.
I could barely make out a couple with a camera, loading up on a bike and riding away.
“What do you think that means?” asked Bennett as I came back to the lights with a now-snarling Wallace.
“In my experience, it means you’re about to be famous and not in a good way,” I said. “What did you do to this dog?”
“Nothing.”
“Puhlease. She’s crazy, but not this crazy.”
Big Mike took Wallace and squeezed her gently, murmuring. “She’s okay now.”
Bark.
“What happened while I was gone?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said Bennett and Trevino’s eyes shifted to the left.
“Did you hurt my dog?”
Bark. Bark.
“I mean, this dog,” I said and then pointed at Wallace. “You’re not my dog.”
Grrr.
“You’re not my dog. I’m a cat person. Cats. Not dogs.”
Grrr.
“Whatever. Someone talk to me,” I said.
“Nobody hurt your stupid dog,” said Trevino.
Maybe they didn’t hurt her, but they did something and Wallace knew it.
Aaron ambled up. “You hungry?”
“I ate at the hospital. How’d you know where Wallace was?” I asked.
“Candy told me.”
“Who’s Candy?”
Nothing.
Bennett straightened up and tried to look dignified as a couple of bikers passed him, snickering. Bennett wasn’t the dignified cop he was when I met him, what with being splattered with mud and losing his hat. “She’s one of the cooks. Now we’ve got some more questions.”
“I’m done,” said Big Mike. “It’s time to get Mercy back to The Ornery Elk.”
No. No. No.
“I think you have a few minutes to discuss Hal and Robert. Give them insight into the guys. You can help.” I shot a look at Trevino.
“Yes, yes,” he said, pulling out a notebook. “What are their full names again?”
“Again?” asked Big Mike.
“I forgot to write it down.”
Big Mike gave Trevino the names and numbers and I whispered to Aaron. “Stick the Flea in the sidecar. I gotta get outta here.”
“Done.”
I looked back at the BMW. Sure enough, the little weirdo had wedged the Flea in, not well, but I couldn’t afford to be picky. “Get Wallace and let’s bolt.”
Wallace was putting out little snores in Big Mike’s arms. I hated to disturb her. Mostly, because it was disturbing to me to have her around.
“He took Wallace’s knife,” said Aaron.
“What?”
“He took Wallace’s knife.”
I turned to Aaron to see if he’d finally gone round the bend. He certainly looked it with his helmet askew, mud splattered glasses, and a Sturgis tee that I’m pretty sure was made for women. It had flowers on the skull. “Wallace had a knife?”
“The knife.”
The cops went quiet and Big Mike was beaming.
I walked over and popped Bennett on the shoulder. “You didn’t find the knife. Wallace did.”
“I would’ve found it,” said Bennett. “Right, Trevino?”
“I got nothing for you, man.”
“I would’ve found it.”
“Okay,” said Trevino.
“I’m a cop. She’s a dog.”
Bark. Bark. Bark.
“I should’ve let her bite you,” I said, taking Wallace from Big Mike. “Did that big, mean cop take the dog’s evidence?”
Bark.
“Should we bite the cop?”
Bark. Bark.
“I would’ve found it!” yelled Bennett.
“You already searched the area,” said Trevino. “Just admit it.”
“Admit defeat to a dog?”
Grrr.
Big Mike laughed. “You can’t win this one. The pug kicked your ass.”
I got the backpack out of the toe of the BMW and stuffed Wallace in. “I’d move away if I were you, Bennett. Angry pug over here.”
“I’m going with Mercy,” said Big Mike.
“Just a few more questions,” said Trevino with a quick nod at me.
Aaron and I got on the bike super fast and were out of the field before Big Mike had a chance to protest. Aaron turned right and I tapped his shoulder.
“Huh?”
“We’re going to The Rack and Ruin. I’ve got to see a man about a fight.”
I was in no fit shape to be seen in public, covered in mud, dog hair, and things best left unknown. I wasn’t sure The Rack and Ruin would even let me in. They weren’t what you’d call a classy joint, but I was kinda disgusting.
I tapped Aaron. “Park there by that clothing tent.”
“Yeah?”
“It has to happen.”
The tent was the only one with lights still on. Its sign proclaimed “Sexy Stitches for Hot Bitches.” Perfect. Maybe I’d get something for Mother’s Day.
We walked in and the sales girl, wearing what can only be described as a full-length body thong turned around, saying, “Sorry, we’re closing. Oh my god! What happened to you?”
“Oh, so many things,” I said.
She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Like I said, we’re closed.”
Bark.
She leaned to the right. “Is that a pug in your backpack?”
“As a matter of fact, it’s Wallace the Wonder Pug.”
She ran around me to a flurry of barks. “You’re so adorable and so dirty. Did you bite that cop? Did you, wooda wooda be a good dog and bite the cop?”
“Is there a video up already?” I asked.
“Hell to the yeah. It is freaking hilarious.” She pulled Wallace out of the backpack. “Why’d you want to bite that cop? Wooda be a bad cop?”
“He took credit for something she did,” I said.
She kissed Wallace on the top of her wrinkly head. “You’re a smart girl. You are.”
“I guess she is.” Smart and crazy didn’t seem to go together on a pug, but Wallace knew a stinker when she saw one. “So can you help a girl out? I really need some clothes. Preferably some that would piss off my mother. She’s the reason I’m on this trip.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To get information from people who probably don’t want to give it to me.”
Her rather vacant eyes got larger. “Is Wallace investigating that murder?”
“Er…yeah. The pug is investigating the murder. I’m her wingman.”
She gave me a thumbs-up. “I’ve got exactly what you need.”
I doubted that she had anything that anyone needed, but I had to have clothes and she had stuff that could technically be called clothes. Lacy was her name and she loaded me up with the sluttiest clothing I’ve ever seen and Mickey Stix had dressed me. Latex, leather, and vinyl were just the beginning.
“Do you wear panties?” she asked.
Doesn’t everyone?
“Yeah. Do you have panties? I lost mine at the hospital.”
“Oh, that is hot.”
“It really wasn’t. I was soaking wet.”
“Sweet. Who was he?”
“Nobody. Do you have panties or not?”
“Leather work?”
“Ew. No. Don’t you have actual fabric?” I asked.
“I have edible, cherry or grape,” she said through the dressi
ng room curtain.
“Leather.”
It took twenty minutes to find something that wasn’t too painful or basically nudity. I came out in latex pants that were so low they made me nervous, a leather vest with cutouts pretty much everywhere except the nips, and a pair of witchy pleather booties with a stiletto heel.
“What do you think?” I asked with a twirl, lurching sideways and running into the counter.
Aaron blinked and Lacy said, “What do you usually wear?”
“Not this. Why?”
“You look like you’re embarrassed.”
Accurate.
“Well, these aren’t normal clothes.”
Lacy posed. “I go everywhere in this.”
“Walmart?” I asked.
“Sure.”
Now I knew where The People of Walmart got their clothes and now, so did I. This was becoming a worse idea by the second. “I guess I’ll take it. I don’t want to have to take these pants off.”
“You know,” said Lacy, putting on a pair of round, black-framed glasses that looked like they belonged to a physicist, “you look like that girl who’s with that old band, Double Black Diamond.”
“You look like Erwin Schrödinger.”
“Is he in the band?”
“He’s on my Uncle Morty’s wall in a frame.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
I paid for the clothes and hoped they were worth it. Maybe I should’ve just gone to the bar in muddy scrubs. “Thanks,” I said to Lacy and picked up Wallace. “Did you clean her?”
“Yes, I did,” she said, scratching the pug’s noggin. “I cleaned the Wonder Dog. She has to look good to solve a murder. Yes, she does.” Then she looked at me. “You can’t go yet. Your makeup is terrible.”
“I’m not wearing any makeup.”
Lacy gasped and insisted on making me look the part. Since she thought I was playing the part of dog assistant, I couldn’t imagine what makeup would help with that, but she surprised me by doing an ornate purple and black butterfly around my right eye and a simpler version on my left.
“Holy cow! You’re a genius,” I said.
Lacy blushed. “I’ve been practicing.”
“It shows. What about the hair?”
She decided that to show off the eyes we’d slick it back and pin it. I suggested she post my eyes on her Instagram and I linked to mine.
“It’s blowing up,” she squealed, her thumbs flying.
