by Dan Ames
The one I ended up buying is what they call a “shady lady.” She’s gorgeous and she’s got good bones. She was also being way undersold because of a heap of cosmetic issues.
Call me a bit of a snob, but it takes the piss right out of me when people don’t treat a well-made house right. These historic homes were built to last. Especially the ones that were around before things like central heating and electricity.
Give me one of those over a fancy new state-of-the-art piece any day.
People get daunted by it. They see only how much renovation they might have to do. But if you treat a historic house the right way, it’ll keep you warmer and safer than any modern one. Historic houses are far more interesting too, if you ask me. There’s craftsmanship everywhere. Nowadays you walk into a house and even worse than the obvious signs of shoddy construction, they’re just plain boring.
To me, anyway.
The house I bought needed a little fixing up. All right, a lot of fixing up. But I was never one to back away from a challenge.
Most of the work I try to do myself. It’s therapeutic and helps me relax. The really big stuff, I’ll hire someone to take care of.
Now, I took off my uniform, slipped into some jeans and a sweatshirt, and poured myself a glass of wine.
Murder in Good Isle.
Who would have thought?
Even more amazing, was the kind of murder. Mutilation. Someone leaving a message. Heaving myself up, I shuffled over to grab my laptop. I did a quick internet search for ‘Congressman Charles Holloway.’
There were a lot of results. Most of them were about Holloway’s retirement. Everyone had an opinion on that, apparently. Some were about the death of his wife from cancer a couple of years ago. When I did a little more digging, though, I started to get the kind of results that Maddie had been talking about: rumors of taking bribes.
It couldn’t have been a coincidence that a year after these rumors surfaced, Holloway retired. It was just enough time that it wouldn’t be obvious that it was the reason he was quitting.
After a few tries, I managed to get the information on who this eye doctor was. It didn’t help that I didn’t know how to spell ‘Khatri.’ But sure enough, there he was, listed as one of the world’s leading experts.
There were some articles talking about how Holloway and this Dr. Khatri were buddies, but it looked like nobody had anything substantial. Then I clicked on some searches for Khatri alone, without Holloway.
Apparently, this guy had done surgery for tons of important people. There were two movie stars on his client list. There were also a few boxers. One of them, I knew. And not just ‘knew’ as in, oh hey, I recognize that person. ‘Knew’ as in, my brother nearly got himself shot trying to save the guy’s ass a few months ago.
Billy ‘Dynamite’ Dawkins.
And what did you know?
He lived only two blocks from Holloway’s place.
5
Billy ‘Dynamite’ Dawkins liked to wake up early.
He’d grown accustomed to watching the sunrise over his backyard. Plus, if he got up earlier he had more time for a workout. He didn’t really like doing it when other people were up and about. No reason to remind people of who and what he’d been, as he’d learned when he’d gotten kidnapped by a bunch of bloodthirsty rednecks.
Not to mention, although he hated to admit it—he wasn’t as young as he’d once been. It’s a little hard on the pride when someone walks by and they hear your joints creaking.
He stretched out in the basement, where most of his workout equipment was. He’d had a good morning run and he was already thinking about breakfast. Maybe he’d go out instead of cooking at home. He kind of felt like seeing people today, even if it was just in passing. Most of the time, he felt the opposite.
Dawkins switched positions, wincing a little. He wasn’t that old, but a professional fighting career did not do favors for the body. There was also that pounding he’d taken a few months back courtesy of said rednecks. He relaxed into the stretch and wondered if there was something to that whole yoga craze.
He was just about to switch into another stretch when the doorbell rang.
Dawkins frowned and checked the clock. It was a little early for the letter carrier. And his address was private.
He’d made sure of that.
Wary, he climbed the stairs up towards the front door. The last time he’d had someone unexpectedly come up to him he’d ended up in the middle of nowhere and fighting for his life. He wasn’t looking forward to a repeat of that.
He peered through the peephole and felt some of the tightness in his chest ease. It was just the new chief of police. An attractive woman, dark-haired and fit. She lived just a few blocks down from him, if he was remembering correctly. He grinned and opened the door.
“I can’t do the time, so I didn’t do the crime,” he said. “Whatever crime you’re here to talk about.”
Ellen Rockne raised an eyebrow, and sensed she had a quick retort at the ready, but held back on.
“What crime is that?” she asked.
He looked at her. “I was just joking. The main crime here is when someone forgets to edge their lawn.”
“Interesting, Mr. Dawkins.”
“Please, call me Dynamite,” he said. “Or Bill. Whatever works for you.”
“I’m afraid I’m not here for pleasantries, Mr. Dawkins,” she said.
“No?” he asked. “Then why are you here?”
“Because you’re under arrest.”
6
Unless, that is, you’re willing to answer some questions,” I added.
“Conversation is always better than jail,” Dawkins said. “Come on in.”
I already knew what his place looked like, because my brother John and I had searched it when Dawkins had been kidnapped. It was a perfect home, neatly restored and glowing with the care of a loving owner.
I hoped my place would look as good when I was done with it.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Sure.”
When he came back, he handed me a cup and we sat down at his kitchen table.
“Does the name Dr. Khatri ring a bell?” I asked.
Dawkins thought for a moment. “I suppose it does.”
“It should, seeing as you’re able to see with both eyes instead of one thanks to him.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dawkins said, putting his hands up. “Hold on. Dr. Khatri wasn’t my doctor. I got treated by a Dr. Goldstein for my eye surgery. You’re welcome to look her up and ask her, she works out of Detroit.”
“Then why are you listed as someone that Dr. Khatri treated?”
“Probably because he’s a shady fu—”
I glared at him.
“—guy,” Dawkins quickly amended. “I saw him for a consultation about my eye when I first realized that something was wrong. We talked about options but I didn’t like him. He made me feel uncomfortable, like he’d ask me to pay him in favors instead of cash.”
“What kind of favors?”
“Who the hell knows? I’m just telling you the impression I got,” he said. “I wasn’t comfortable, so I didn’t go back. I went to Dr. Goldstein, and she performed the procedure.”
“So that was your contact with him?”
“Yeah, that was it. And then I heard he took off somewhere. The Caribbean or something.
I sighed. “Mr. Dawkins…”
“Billy, please. Or Dynamite, if you prefer.” He grinned at me.
I’m not going to lie, Dawkins wasn’t at all bad looking. You could even call him handsome, I suppose, if you wanted to. I did not want to. I wanted answers. “You’re currently a suspect, so Mr. Dawkins will suit me just fine. Mr. Dawkins, are you aware of the murder that happened yesterday?”
His eyebrows shot up. “A murder?”
“Yes indeed.”
“In Good Isle? Well, I’ll be damned.” He shook his head, almost laughed. Like he’d just found out the town was getting it
s first Red Lobster.
“And you think I was mixed up in it somehow?” he asked. “Who died, an eye patient?”
“A man by the name of Charles Holloway.” I slid a picture of Holloway across the table so Dawkins could get a good look. “He’s a—”
“Former congressman, yeah, I’ve seen him around.” Dawkins frowned down at the picture. “I heard this guy was a real piece of work. I didn’t kill him, though.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t know the guy, Chief, and how any of this connects to an eye doctor that I met with once for a consultation…” Dawkins trailed off and he stared down at the picture. His eyes lit up the way I’d seen my brother’s when he got an idea.
“What is it?”
Dawkins raised his head to meet my eyes.
“I know who killed him.”
7
And who might that be?” I asked. I’d heard this same line from people over the years. Everyone has a theory on every crime ever committed. They usually recommend someone they have a grudge against.
Dawkins leaned in, that grin back on his face. “Look, people in Good Isle like to think that their little secrets are just that, but everybody knows what’s going on.”
When Dawkins had gone missing awhile back, the first person who reported it was a woman he’d been having an affair with. Her husband had been the guy who’d tried to get Dawkins killed. I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, yeah, I learned that the hard way,” Dawkins said. “I thought I was being discreet and it turned out half the town knew about what I was up to. I learned my lesson. Looks like our boy here didn’t learn his.”
“Are you saying he was doing the same thing you were?”
“Having an affair with a married woman? Hell yeah.” Dawkins reached for my pen and a paper. I let him take them. “Holloway was sleeping with Maura Heartley. Her husband, George, owns Good Isle Dry Cleaning. Hell, when he was pressing Holloway’s shirts, his wife was getting into the man’s pants.”
He laughed a little.
“That was pretty lame, Dynamite,” I said.
“Some dirty laundry going on here,” he tried.
“Not much better.”
“Maura runs all the deliveries, that’s how she and Holloway met,” Dawkins continued. “Door-to-bedroom service.”
“Did George know?”
Dawkins nodded, emphatically.
“He found out and last I heard he’d threatened to kill Holloway.”
Okay, I thought. A jealous dry cleaner. It could happen.
“You’ve been helpful,” I said, as I stood to leave.
Dawkins shrugged. “Anything for the chief of police.”
Back outside I considered what I’d learned. A husband angry over being cuckolded was a solid motive. The eyes being gouged out, though, the way the person was tied down, was a bit unusual.
Still, it was more likely that an angry husband living right in the same town as the deceased, would be the perpetrator, as opposed to a mysterious doctor who lived in the Caribbean.
At least I knew my next step.
I had to look at the crime scene again.
8
The killer was satisfied.
The box, and its contents, appeared to be good to go.
It was the bubble wrap that was the most important. That, and the ice packs. The killer had chosen the squishy gel packs to line the bottom and sides of the package in order to keep things nice and cool. Their softness would ensure that the contents wouldn’t be damaged.
The address was right, the postage was correct, everything was in place.
The killer changed out the old gloves for a new pair.
One could never be too sanitary about these things.
It was important to be careful as the transition was made from the refrigerator into the small plastic container, already prepped with liquid. Once the containers were sealed it was easy to transfer them into the package, nestling them carefully in between the layers of gel ice and bubble wrap.
Perfect.
The killer peered into the box just before the final ceremony of taping it back up, adding another layer of bubble wrap and heading for a mail drop thirty miles away. The kind that didn’t have security cameras.
It was a pleasant sight, looking into the box.
Because of what was looking back.
Two beautifully preserved eyeballs.
9
My first stop was back to my office where I read the crime scene report to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. The gouged eyes were pretty gruesome, but they could have been a distraction. Something like that… it’s hard to focus on anything else. Perfect if you’re a murderer worried about the police finding any trace evidence.
There had been no signs of residue. No sign of forced entry—it seemed the back door had been unlocked. Nothing in the kitchen. There was some trace amounts of a substance but when the lab had run a check, it turned out to be perchloroethylene.
Apparently, it’s known as PERC, and it’s used as a metal degreaser and to help make other chemicals. However, it’s also used in about 85% of a certain service.
Dry cleaning.
Maybe Dawkins was right.
Maybe instead of cleaning the sheets, Maura Heartley had been heating them up.
Just looking at the pictures wasn’t doing it, so I drove over to Holloway’s house. It was a quick drive and when I got there, I saw I wasn’t alone. No less than three cars were parked in front.
Through the open front door I could see people walking around. Did the yellow “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape mean nothing to them?
“Hello?” I called.
“Yes?” Someone, a male voice, called out in response. A moment later I heard some clomping feet and a tall man appeared. “Can I help you?”
He looked like a younger version of Holloway except that his eyes were blue and not brown. I’d only seen Holloway in a few pictures and then as a corpse. If this was his son—and it had to be—then if I just aged him up a little, I could see why a married woman would be willing to have an affair with Holloway.
“I’m Ellen Rockne, Chief of Police here in Good Isle.” I gestured inside toward the dining room. “Do you realize this is an active crime scene?”
“Yeah, but it’s also my house. Or, it was…my Dad’s.” The guy said it with the tone of someone who’d grown up getting his way. The vibe was one of entitlement. Not my favorite kind of person to deal with.
“You could be compromising evidence,” I pointed out. “Next time you see a yellow “Do Not Cross” tape, I suggest you pay attention to it.”
Two more faces appeared—another man and a woman. The second man looked older and more worn out. I could see a bit of Holloway in his jawline and his brown eyes, but he was shorter and stockier. The woman looked the least like her father, and it wasn’t just because of her gender. She had blue eyes, and her hair was a soft, downy brunette. Holloway’s hair had been blond before it went gray. Her face was also softer, rounder than her father’s. She was very pretty, actually.
“You all are?” I asked, gesturing for them to introduce themselves.
The woman squeezed past her brothers and came out onto the porch with me. She shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Leslie. These are my brothers. That’s Junior and that’s Wallace.”
Wallace was the one who most resembled his father. Junior was the stockier one. I kept the irony to myself.
“I’m sorry if we disturbed anything,” Leslie said.
Wallace made a noise that suggested he wasn’t very sorry at all, which I ignored.
“It’s just that we have to get going on dividing his things and getting the funeral started.” Leslie cleared her throat. “We didn’t realize we might be ruining anything.”
“Well, since I have you here,” I said, pulling out my notebook. “Can you guys tell me how your Dad was recently? Did he seem upset, was he having an argument with anyone?”
The three kids looked at ea
ch other. Then Junior shook his head. “No, in fact, he seemed excited.”
“Excited? Dad?” Wallace rolled his eyes.
“Our father wasn’t known for getting enthusiastic about anything, other than the sound of a martini shaker,” Leslie explained.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Wallace said. He turned to face me. “Our mom died of cancer a few years back. It was hard to judge Dad’s reaction, because there was none.”
“Wallace,” Leslie hissed. I knew that tone. It was the not in front of company tone. She turned back to me. “Dad was always very stoic, that’s all.”
“He was excited about something though,” Junior said.
“About what?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No idea. He always kept most of his life off-limits.”
Perhaps Holloway was excited because Maura was coming over to fluff his pillows, sexual innuendo intended.
Or maybe he had a business venture that was going to pay off. Whatever the reason when one person’s excited you can bet there’s someone else who isn’t. Maybe this other person was willing to kill over it.
“How’d you know he was excited about something?” Wallace asked. Testy guy.
“He told me he was planning a big celebration of some kind,” Junior replied. “He was asking me for the name of the person who’d done the food for my rehearsal dinner.”
“Junior just got married,” Leslie explained.
I nodded politely.
“Any idea what cause he would have for celebrating?” I asked.
The three of them shook their collective heads.
“Okay then,” I said. “Thank you so much for the information. And I’m sorry about your loss. Let me know if you think of anything else, all right?”
My notebook closed with a snap and I handed all three of them my business card.
Heading back to my squad car, I thought about Holloway’s big celebration.
A caterer who’d done a wedding.
An unusual amount of excitement.
