Helland shook his head. “Weaseled out of all of them.”
Maybe that’s where his nickname came from. I pondered this news while Helland drained his coffee. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. It was a mug shot of a man in his early twenties, white, with limp brown hair and a defeated look in his eyes.
“We haven’t located Robbie Porter yet, the victim’s son. We understand he hangs out here on occasion, maybe dealing.”
“Is that what he was arrested for?”
“Cocaine.”
Great. As if escaped reptiles and a murder weren’t enough, now I had a resident drug dealer to contend with. I studied the photo again, but I was sure I’d never seen him.
“Can you keep an eye out for him, maybe ask around?” He gestured to the food stands and the shops beyond. “I don’t have enough manpower to put someone on this full-time, but since you’re here all day . . .”
I suddenly saw the motive behind his new approachability. “So, I help you locate a suspect and feed you info about Porter’s purchasing history, and you give me nada?”
He had the audacity to smile, showing straight, white teeth. “That’s the way it works in a police investigation. Citizens give information to the police, not vice versa.”
“Sounds like the Gestapo,” I observed. I plucked the photo of Robbie Porter from his hand.
“Don’t try to apprehend him if you spot him,” Helland cautioned. “Just give me a call.”
Not trusting myself to respond to that blatantly insulting remark, I bit out, “Thanks for the coffee,” and strode away, being careful to keep my steps even and not limp. Several of the food court owners and workers waved or said “hi” as I passed, and I acknowledged them on autopilot, more determined than ever to show the supercilious Detective Helland with his “we’re the police, you’re just lowly citizens” attitude that an ex-military cop could detect as well as he could. Better.
Seven
I actually found myself wishing for Grandpa Atherton as I did my last patrol of the day, keeping an eye out for Robbie Porter. I figured Grandpa might have some good ideas about how to locate the young drug dealer. I wondered what he knew about facial recognition software and whether or not we could use it with our cameras to scan for Robbie Porter’s face. Probably not, given the lousy picture quality. I called Grandpa’s cell phone, but he didn’t answer. Presumably, he was following Earl Gatchel around. After doing my turnover briefing and logging out, I hit the Y on the way home for a good swim, pleased to have the pool entirely to myself.
Fubar greeted me on the front sidewalk when I arrived home. No dead rodents in evidence. I stroked his rust-colored head as he butted my calf. “What’s the great hunter been up to today?” I asked, unlocking my door and stepping over the mail to enter the hallway.
Without answering, he dashed past me and ran for his food bowl, as if expecting steak tartare to have appeared since he last checked it. Disappointed with his kibble, he gave me a long-suffering look.
Picking up the mail, I tossed catalogs and grocery store flyers into the trash can I kept near the door for that purpose, and found myself left with a utility bill and an envelope whose return address was the Fredericksburg Police Department. Hardly daring to hope that they were responding favorably to my application, I took the letter into the kitchen and pulled a pomegranate-flavored water from the fridge. Only after I’d twisted off the cap and taken a long swallow did I slit the envelope with a paring knife.
Thank you for submitting your application to the Fredericksburg Police Department. We regret
I quit reading and crumpled the page into a ball, which I fired across the room. Fubar promptly pounced on it, batting it between his paws. “Kill it, Fubar. Tear it up,” I encouraged him in a lackluster voice. He disappeared beneath the table with it and came out a moment later, a tiny scrap of paper decorating a whisker.
“Good kitty.” I sank down onto the floor and patted my leg, thinking that cuddling with my cat might make me feel a little better after rejection number nineteen. Fubar galloped past me as if a pack of Rottweilers were in pursuit and pushed through the cat door. “You can be replaced,” I called after his disappearing tail. This was why people had dogs, I told myself, pushing awkwardly to my feet.
I decided to distract myself from my disappointment by making a cheese soufflé for dinner. The recipe required enough concentration that I couldn’t dwell on how another police department had decided against hiring me. Separating yolks from egg whites and whisking melted butter and flour together helped me push down the disappointment. I put the Broadway cast recording of A Little Night Music in my stereo and sang along. Just as I eased the soufflé into the preheated oven, the phone rang.
Caller ID told me it was my folks. I sighed and picked up the phone.
“Sweetheart! Have we got a wonderful surprise for you.”
Dad. And his surprises were frequently less than wonderful. Downright embarrassing or awful at times. Like the pink Versace dress he’d bought for me to wear to the Oscars with him the year before I joined the air force. I was only seventeen, but the plunging neckline, skintight fit, and ruffly mermaid flare made me look like a cross between Britney Spears and Ariel before she got her legs. I was pretty sure “Versace” was Italian for “bimbo.” Of course, there was the time he brought a fleet of limos to my fifth-grade class and took us all to the zoo, which he’d reserved just for our use that day. That’d been embarrassing, but in a good way.
“I need to spend about six months in the D.C. area for my new project, so your mom and I have rented a little place in Alexandria”—probably something the size of Mount Vernon with a staff—“to live in this spring. We’ll be able to see so much more of you. I don’t understand why you never make it out to California,” he said, and I could hear the pout in his voice.
“I have a job,” I said, taking the phone out onto my tiny back patio. Twilight hazed the sky, and a pair of cardinals argued near the boxwood hedge that separated my ten-by-ten patch of lawn from the neighbor’s. I shivered in the chilly air. “I can’t just pick up and leave whenever you and Mom throw a party or host a charity event or something.”
“You don’t have to work.”
“Yes, I do.” For my sanity. To feel like I was making a contribution to the world. To not turn into a vapid party girl with nothing to think about other than what trendy night spot to be seen in or how to end up on someone’s bestdressed list. My father and I had had this conversation roughly six hundred twenty-seven times; I knew what came next: “Honey, if money’s an issue—”
“Hon, if money’s an issue, you know I’m more than happy to—”
“Did you read about the murder in my mall?” I changed our script.
“A murder?” Concern and surprise sounded in Dad’s crisp voice.
I told him about the case, pleased by his interest, even though I knew he was mentally sorting through the story elements, testing them for inclusion in a script. “Have you apprehended the perp yet?” he asked.
I sighed, irritated as always by his lame attempts at cop lingo, a habit he’d picked up when his first series, Roll Call, was such a success. “Nope. And I won’t get to,” I said. “The Vernonville PD’s got this case.”
“The stiff in the display window would make a great opening shot,” he mused, “but I don’t think we want him nude. That would pull an ‘R’ rating for sure. Maybe if wardrobe could dress him in a woman’s bathing suit . . . Oh, your mom wants to talk to you.”
“Hi, Mom,” I greeted her.
“Oh, poor baby, did you get turned down by another police department?” Her soothing voice flowed over me, and I pictured her on the lanai at their Malibu house, expertly dyed blond hair slicked back under a sun hat, relaxing on the poolside lounger.
“Yep.” I’d given up long ago trying to figure out how she could know what was happening in my life based on a single word like “hi.” Must be some kind of mom ESP. Maybe Kyr
a had a book about it. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course not.” So we chatted about their upcoming visit to Virginia, my brother’s work—“I think he’s in Malaysia, now,” Mom said. “I do hope he’s careful if he’s interviewing terrorists again”—and her charity work. Mom might look like a typical Hollywood spouse—blond, sleek, and fashionable—and she might come across as a bit ditzy, but she could mobilize volunteers like no one else and had raised hundreds of millions for cancer research over the years after her mother died of ovarian cancer.
“How’s your grandfather?” she asked with a bit of trepidation. “I hope he’s been behaving himself.”
“He’s great,” I said. “And of course he’s behaving.” I crossed my fingers.
“Well, that’s good,” she said doubtfully. “It would be nice if we could get him interested in bridge, or maybe bird-watching. A nice, quiet hobby.” One that didn’t get you beaten up. Or land you in jail. Or require the purchase and use of deadly weapons. She left all that unsaid, but I heard it in her voice.
Yeah, good luck with that.
We said our good-byes, and I ate my soufflé in front of the television with a bottle of Potowmack Ale. Afterwards, I strummed on my guitar for a while, practicing the Rodrigo Fantasia I’d been working on for some weeks. I concentrated ferociously enough to push all thought of the murder from my head. Fubar still hadn’t returned when I was ready for bed, but that wasn’t unusual. I left a light on in the hallway for him—yeah, I know cats can see in the dark, but it just seemed friendlier—and went to bed. Some time later—my clock said almost midnight—I was awakened by a thump. Caught in the throes of my recurring nightmare, with the whump of the armored Humvee next to mine exploding as it rolled over an IED in Aghanistan, it took me a moment to orient myself. The thumping came again—definitely not part of my dream. I sat up in bed. “Fubar?”
Thump-thump-thump! I recognized it as knocking. Pulling a robe on over my nightgown and easing my Beretta nine-millimeter from my bedside table, I headed for the front door, only to realize the knocking was coming from the back. Stranger and stranger. I cut through the kitchen, leaving the lights off so I didn’t silhouette myself as a target. Skirting the pallet of tile on the floor, I flicked on the patio light and illuminated a tall figure pressed up against the window. Hastily, I set my weapon on the counter and unlocked the door. Grandpa Atherton stumbled in, almost tripping over Fubar, who shot past him, eager to be in on the unusual midnight activity.
“Hello, Emma-Joy. Hope I didn’t wake you.” He gave me a smile that turned into a wince and pressed a hand to his forehead.
A cut on his forehead was dripping blood, so I grabbed a paper towel, dampened it, and pressed it to the wound as I led him to the kitchen table. “Grandpa! What on earth—?”
“The operation didn’t go exactly as planned,” he said.
I shushed him while I cleaned the cut—not very deep—on his forehead, swiped it with antibiotic ointment, and stuck a Band-Aid on it. “There. I think you’ll live.”
“Thank you,” he said. He leaned back in the chair, looking tired and old. His all black clothes—windbreaker, turtleneck, and slacks—drained the color from his skin. “Could I bother you for a spot of whiskey?”
Pulling a bottle of Jim Beam, which Clint had left when he visited six months ago, from the cabinet over the stove, I poured a healthy slug into a juice glass. “Chin-chin,” he said, knocking back half of the amber liquid. His hand was shaking slightly, and I looked away, pretending I hadn’t noticed.
Fubar leaped onto the table and sniffed at the glass, wrinkling his muzzle with distaste. I shoved the cat off the table and sat beside Grandpa, my arms crossed on the table. “Now, would you like to tell me what’s happened?”
“You know the target was Earl Gatchel,” he said, recovering a bit as he told his story. “Address: 1338 Churchill Place. Divorced. Two grown kids. No pets. A million-four plus change in his checking account.”
“Suspicious,” I said, not wanting to know how he’d come by that piece of data.
“Especially considering his salary as a councilman wouldn’t pay for the gas in his Mercedes, and his flooring business has been losing money for three years.” Grandpa took another sip of his whiskey. His hand was steady now. He might be aging, but he was still sharp as a tack; he didn’t once refer to notes while reciting Gatchel’s activities. “I picked him up at his council office, where he argued with a woman, another council member, and then left with a box he placed in his trunk. I followed him to his home, where he spent most of the afternoon making phone calls to his ex-wife, his sons, the bank, a couple of friends, and a restaurant.”
“You tapped his phone?” I asked incredulously. I held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me.”
Grandpa just smiled. “At nineteen thirty he left the house to have dinner with his lawyer at the Shrimp Factory. I followed him there and then returned to his house.”
“You broke in. Oh my God.” I reached for the whiskey bottle and poured myself a shot. I knocked it back and coughed. Nasty stuff. Give me a good beer any day.
“Child’s play,” he bragged, clearly pleased with himself. “The alarm system—well, never mind that. I had just about finished downloading files from his computer”—he held up a thumb drive—“when I heard the garage door opening. Apparently, he didn’t sample the Shrimp Factory’s crème brûlée or stay for an after-dinner drink. In short, he returned much sooner than I had anticipated. Perhaps he received bad news from his lawyer and it ruined his appetite. At any rate, I was trapped upstairs.
“I’m getting on in years, you know,” Grandpa said with the air of someone sharing a confidence, “and my bones are a bit brittle for a jump from the second story. So I hid in a closet. It reminded me of that time in Bratislava—but that was a woman, not business. Anyway, I’d been up there an hour and seven minutes, getting stiff, when I heard a gun go off. I knew immediately what had happened.”
“A gunshot?” My eyes widened. “Please tell me the police didn’t find you.”
He frowned at me. “Really, Emma-Joy, give me a little credit. I ran downstairs and discovered that Gatchel had, as I suspected, killed himself. He’d blown his brains out in front of the television. There was nothing I could do for him. So I left the same way I came in, unfortunately bumping my head on the window frame.” He touched the bandage gingerly.
“Did you disturb the scene at all?” I leaned forward and searched his lined face. “Fingerprints? Shoe prints? Did anyone see you?”
“No one saw me,” he said testily. “I wore gloves”—he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and dropped them on the table—“and I didn’t contaminate the scene; it was clear from the doorway that Gatchel was dead. You know,” he said, “it’s been a damn long time since I saw a body. At least, one that wasn’t laid out in a four-thousanddollar coffin and surrounded with lilies and carnations. East Berlin, 1982.” He lapsed into silence.
The outline of his skull showed beneath his skin, the dent where his temple curved in, the line of his nose that seemed sharper now than it had a few years back. Grandpa Atherton was getting old and I didn’t like it. I also didn’t like the way I felt protective toward him, like I needed to take care of him. He was the grandpa and I was the granddaughter, damn it—grandpas take care of grandkids, not vice versa. When I realized I was the catalyst, if not the reason, for him being at risk, I couldn’t sit still. I rose to pour him a glass of water.
“Here.” I put the glass in front of him. “You can stay here tonight. I’ll drop you at your place in the morning. Grandpa—”
“Oh, don’t be a worrywart. I haven’t had this much fun in decades.”
The impish smile he gave me almost persuaded me that housebreaking might be a better way to stave off old age dementia than crossword puzzles and sudoku.
I slept fitfully the rest of the night, waiting for the police to knock on the door and demand that I turn over Grandpa. Nothing of th
e sort happened, however, and I dropped Grandpa at his cottage in the Serendipity Heights retirement community Wednesday before reporting to work. He was none the worse for his night’s adventures; in fact, he was scrambling me some eggs and toasting a bagel when I got up. He promised to sift through the data from Gatchel’s computer and let me know if anything interesting turned up.
“Anything interesting in the news?” I asked Joel when I got to the office. I didn’t get a paper delivered and hadn’t had time to check online. I sincerely hoped Grandpa hadn’t made the headlines.
“Well, there’s a short article about snakes being loose in the mall.”
Just what we needed. Quigley would be livid if our customer traffic went down.
“And Earl Gatchel was killed last night,” Joel said, his brown eyes avid. “Maybe someone offed him to keep him from spilling the beans. Maybe it was the same person who snuffed Porter.”
“What beans? Didn’t you think Gatchel killed Porter?”
“Well, yeah, but what if the conspiracy is bigger than the two of them?”
“Unlikely,” I said, trying to discourage Joel’s theorizing. “It’s more likely Gatchel committed suicide.”
“Yeah, that’s what the reports say,” Joel admitted, scrolling down with his mouse. “ ‘Probable suicide . . . pending autopsy . . . no note . . . distraught over financial reversals and his role as central figure in murder investigation’ . . . yada-yada.” He rolled back from his desk, lacing his hands over his stomach. “So, I guess that’s it for our murder. Case closed.” Disappointment sat heavily on his young face.
“Case closed?” I asked, surprised. “Why would you say that?”
Joel shrugged. “It seems obvious. Whatever bribery or kickback scheme Porter and Gatchel had going, it was about to blow up in their faces. Gatchel killed Porter to keep him from testifying about it and then shot himself when it looked like the police were closing in.”
Die Buying Page 8
