Die Buying

by Laura Disilverio

  “What do you want, Grandpa?” I asked, pulling out my wallet.

  “I think he’s a gingerbread kind of man,” Callahan said.

  I stared at him. “What? Are they teaching some kind of mystic cookie divination at baking school now?”

  Grandpa laughed. “I already told him what I want,” he said.

  Callahan grinned, handing over the cookies with a flourish. A timer dinged and he turned to pull a tray from the oven. As he bent over, the fabric of his slacks tightened against the line of his leg, seeming to bulge just above his ankle. Was he carrying a gun? Surely not.

  I added a coffee to my order and forked over the money, assessing Jay Callahan. He smiled in a friendly way and turned to help a customer with three small children. Escorting Grandpa to a table where we couldn’t be overheard easily, I asked him how he was feeling.

  “I’m an octogenarian, not an invalid,” he said. “I’m fine, EJ. All in a day’s—or night’s—work. I’ve often thought that if Donovan hadn’t recruited me, I would’ve made a good second-story man.”

  “It’s never too late to reinvent yourself,” I said, breaking off a chunk of my cookie. “All the women’s magazines say so.”

  “You should consider it,” he said.

  I stared at him.

  “Come on. Being a mall cop isn’t for you, EJ. Where’s the challenge?”

  “It’s temporary,” I said. “Until I get on with a police department.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” He tempered the brutal comment by reaching for my hand. I pulled it away. “You’ve got to face up to the fact that your injury has disqualified you for police work. It’s stupid, but there it is.”

  “I love being a cop,” I said. “Loved.”

  “Even if you’re not willing to give up that dream, you could do something else in the interim. You’ve got too much on the ball, EJ, to molder away in this mall.”

  “Maybe not,” I said with a feeble attempt at humor. “I’m having to call you in as a contractor to catch a bunch of teenage graffiti artists.” I explained about the cars getting tagged—one per day—at different times and different places around the mall. “They got Quigley’s beloved Karmann Ghia this morning,” I said, “so I’ve been told to shut them down, cost no object. I was thinking that a few of your mini-cameras, something they wouldn’t spot . . .”

  “I have just the thing,” Grandpa said enthusiastically. “Tiny devices no bigger than a ladybug. I can mount them on car antennas, on light posts, and other places where no one will spot them. A friend of mine who’s still in the business on the contract side says that a couple of these babies were planted on . . . well, let’s just say they gave us a lot of intelligence about Saddam’s inner circle. I’ll scout for likely locations this afternoon. Can you get me a diagram showing where and when cars got spray painted?”

  I’d already done one up, hoping to spot a pattern (I hadn’t), and I pulled the page out of my pocket, handing it to Grandpa. “Thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate this. While you’re doing that, I’m going to see if I can’t get a lead on Robbie Porter, the murder vic’s son. He apparently peddles drugs here at Fernglen on occasion; the police haven’t caught up with him since Porter died, and they’ve asked me to help track him down.” I showed Grandpa the mug shot.

  “Loser,” he said trenchantly, studying the photo. “Suspicious, too, that he hasn’t come forward since his father’s death. Unless he’s living under a rock, he must’ve heard about it.”

  “You’re right.” I hadn’t considered that. “Of course, if he partakes of his product, he may be living under a rock, or his brain may be fried so badly he doesn’t remember his own name.” I tucked the photo away.

  “Make me a copy of that, too,” Grandpa said, using the table to push himself upright, “and I’ll come in early and survey the mall walkers. There’s an attractive young woman of about seventy I’ve been wanting to get to know. This will give me the perfect excuse for chatting her up.” With a wink, he headed for the escalator.

  I shook my head, brushed the cookie crumbs off the table into a napkin, and dropped it into the trash can. As I started for my Segway, Jay Callahan waved me over to his counter.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing part of what you were saying,” he said, leaning forward, his forearms on the counter. A sprinkling of light red hairs dusted his sinewy forearms. “Is there much of a drug problem at Fernglen?” His hazel eyes met mine. Despite his serious expression, I didn’t get the feeling that he was tremendously worried. When I didn’t immediately respond, he added, “I’ve put most of my savings into this business, but I can still back out of the deal. If this mall has a reputation as a spot for drug deals, it’ll chase away my customers.”

  “You seem like a savvy guy . . . didn’t you check out the mall before you bought Lola’s?” I asked.

  He seemed taken aback by my question. “Of course.”

  “You didn’t hear anything about Fernglen being a haven for the drug crowd, did you?” He shook his head. “Well, there’s your answer. By the way, is that why you’ve got a gun? Because you’re nervous about the drug element?”

  He stilled and his eyes became watchful. “Who says I’ve got a gun?”

  I nodded toward his feet. “Ankle holster. Left leg.”

  Without conceding that he had a gun, he asked, “How long have you worked in mall security?”

  “About a year,” I said. “Why?”

  “And what did you do before that?”

  “What is this—a job interview? I’m not looking to trade up to cookie selling.”

  “Humor me.”

  I couldn’t see a reason not to tell him. Lots of people knew. “I was in the military. Air force.”

  He nodded, as if I’d confirmed his suspicions. “Staff sergeant? Tech?”

  This guy knew a lot more about the military than your average mall merchant. “I made E-7,” I said, “and then I went to OTS—Officer Training School—and got commissioned. I retired as a first lieutenant.”

  “Retired? You’re too damn young.”

  I didn’t feel the need to fill him in on my medical situation. “So, I guess you have a relative in the military?”

  Jay grinned, showing lots of white teeth and the chin dimple. “My brother and my sister. He’s army, she’s navy. You don’t want to be around our house during the annual Army-Navy football game.”

  “And what branch were you in?”

  I slung the question at him, hoping to take him by surprise, but he only laughed and rubbed at a spot on the glass with a rag. “Me? I’m just a cookie entrepreneur.”

  I gave him a “sure you are” look and turned away, aware that I was behind schedule with my patrols.

  Three people stopped me in the next hour to tell me they’d seen Agatha. They didn’t say “Agatha,” of course. They called her “a honkin’ big snake,” “a giant python,” and “a snake big enough to swallow my little brother.” She was in a dressing room at Macy’s, under a Dodge Caravan in the parking garage, and in the back row of one of the movie theaters . . . pretty much simultaneously, if I believed all my informants. I had to follow up on each of their leads—none of which panned out—and I was more than ready to hide out in the office with a sandwich come lunchtime.

  Scanning the twelve camera screens when I came in, I saw nothing of interest. Apparently Joel didn’t either, because he was playing computer solitaire. He started guiltily when I came in.

  “Woskowicz not around?” I asked.

  “Said he had a meeting to go to,” Joel said.

  Hm. Woskowicz usually hung around the office more, making life miserable for all of us. What could he be up to with his frequent absences in the past couple of days? Maybe nothing more than sleeping off hangovers or romancing his new reporter friend. Whatever it was, I was in favor of it.

  I had managed two bites of my turkey sandwich and a swallow of peach-flavored water when the phone rang. Joel answered with, “Fernglen Galleria Secu
rity, Officer Rooney speaking.” He took a couple of notes and slid the page across to me when he hung up. “Shoplifter,” he said. “Rock Star Accessories. She left the store with a pair of earrings she didn’t pay for, heading toward the exit near Macy’s.”

  “What about Tracy or Harold?” I asked, waving my sandwich at him. “Can’t they take this one?”

  “Harold’s helping a guy in a wheelchair change a tire on his van, and Tracy called in sick today.”

  “Great,” I grumbled, chewing quickly.

  Joel scanned the camera screens. “There,” he said, pointing at a young teenager in patterned tights, with a long blond ponytail. “That’s her.”

  I studied the slim figure weaving her way toward the exit near the movie theaters. “I’m on it. Have the Rock Star associate meet us back here.”

  I hopped onto the Segway and sent it gliding toward the movie theaters in the next corridor, wishing I had lights and a siren, not because I needed them, but because they were fun. Nothing like responding Code Blue to a situation. The girl was walking quickly when I spotted her, her short, blue skirt flipping with every step. Passing her, I curved the Segway around to block her path. “Miss?” I said, stepping down. “Let’s chat.”

  Only fourteen or fifteen—why wasn’t she in school?—she had a smattering of freckles across a pert nose and light brown eyes fringed with mascaraed lashes. Blond bangs hung to her brows. About my height, she looked like a cheerleader or a soccer midfielder: athletic, clean-cut, from a middle-class background. But if I had learned only one thing during my time at Fernglen, it was that shoplifters came in all shapes and sizes and from all economic backgrounds. Her gaze flicked past me to the doors that opened temptingly to the parking lot. She edged forward, as if gathering herself to run, and I took a step toward her.

  “I’m not in school because it’s a teacher workday,” she said with a “gosh, aren’t I precious” smile. Maybe it worked better on her parents than it did on me. “In fact, my mom’s waiting for me in the parking lot.”

  She made as if to move again, but I put out an arm. “That’s great. Then you can have her join us in the security office.”

  “What!” Her mouth dropped open, showing expensive orthodontia. “Why?”

  “Or, you could just show me what’s in that Rock Star bag”—I pointed at the pink plastic bag she clutched in one hand—“and the receipt.”

  “Are you accusing me—?”

  “The salesclerk at Rock Star saw you put some earrings in your bag,” I said. “You have two choices: come with me now and see if you can persuade them it was an accident, or wait with me while I call the police.”

  She weighed her options for thirty seconds, and then her shoulder slumped. “Can I ride that?” She gestured at the Segway.

  “No.”

  We arrived at the security office as the clerk from Rock Star hurried up. I thought her name was Carrie or Casey. Long, brown hair framed a narrow face. A black tunic with a scalloped neckline fell to midthigh over a pair of red leggings. Unfortunately, she wore far too much of the Rock Star stock to look pulled together; several pairs of earrings dangled from her lobes, two metallic belts wrapped her waist, a variety of barrettes and hair combs restrained her long hair. Bracelets and necklaces jingled with every step. “That’s her,” she said, nodding.

  “Jerk,” the girl by my elbow muttered.

  “Let’s go in and talk this over,” I said, motioning to the security office. “What’s your name?”

  “Julia,” the girl said, trying to hold onto her bravado. “It was no big deal.”

  “We want to prosecute,” the Rock Star clerk said. “I’ve already called the police.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Rock Star always pressed charges. Along with the music/DVD store, Rock Star Accessories suffered more losses than almost any other merchant, probably because they attracted the tween and teen clientele who mostly didn’t have a lot of money to spend and who thought it was “cool” to shoplift. Also, their merchandise was eminently “liftable,” unlike, say, a coffee table from the Macy’s home store.

  “The police!” Julia looked as though she’d just realized the consequences of shoplifting might not be pleasant. “But I didn’t mean to take them. Here, you can have them back.” She plunged her hand into the bag and pulled out a pair of chandelier earrings that probably cost all of $4.99. She thrust them at the clerk, who put her hands behind her back and shook her head.

  “Our policy is to prosecute,” she said snippily.

  Julia looked wildly from the clerk to me, ponytail swishing across her shoulders. “Look,” she said, “if you can overlook this just this once—I swear I’ve never done anything like this before—I can tell you who killed that guy in Diamanté.”

  I worked on keeping my expression neutral. Joel was less successful; his brows soared toward his hairline.

  “The police have closed that case,” I said.

  “Well, they’ve got the wrong guy,” the girl replied. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  I didn’t mention that they didn’t “have” anyone, that their suspect had killed himself. “What makes you think so?”

  “Will you let me go?”

  I sent a glance to the Rock Star clerk, who was listening avidly. She shook her head. “No way.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, beginning to dislike Miss Rock Star. Holding people to standards is one thing, being rigidly inflexible another.

  “Depends on what you know about the murder,” I told Julia. I seriously doubted that she knew anything—what connection could she possibly have with Jackson Porter?—and was making a desperate bid for freedom.

  Sensing that my “we’ll see” was the best she was going to do, Julia said, “It was my mom.” She promptly burst into tears.

  Ten

  Reactions to Julia’s accusation were mixed.

  “That is the lamest thing I ever heard,” said Miss Rock Star with a sniff.

  “You would rat out your mom?” This came from Joel.

  I thought she sounded just scared enough and tragic enough to be telling the truth. Or, at least what she thought was the truth.

  Julia sobbed on, mascara beginning to track down her face.

  “Why don’t you call your mom?” I suggested, handing her a box of tissues.

  “Uh-uh,” she managed between sobs. “I can’t.”

  “Let me see your cell phone.” I held out my hand.

  Swiping the back of one hand across her cheeks, Julia pulled the phone from her pocket and handed it to me. I found “Home” in her call list and pushed the button.

  “No, don’t!” the teenager said, realizing what I was doing. She lunged for the phone, but I held it above her reach.

  “Sit,” I ordered.

  A voice said, “Hello. Hello?” from the phone, and I lowered it to my ear.

  “Hello, ma’am,” I said, then introduced myself. “We have a situation involving Julia here at Fernglen Galleria, and we need you to come by. You know where the security office is? On the second floor, near Sears.”

  After a moment’s stunned silence, she said, “I’ll be right there.”

  I gave her big points for not sputtering, arguing, or chewing me out. Handing the phone back to Julia, I asked, “What makes you think your mom had anything to do with Jackson Porter’s death?”

  “She hated him,” Julia said. Her tears had dried up and sullenness had taken their place. “Him and that development he was building. I thought it would be cool to have new shops and a resort with a pool right around the corner, but it turned my mom into a raging bitch.”

  “That’s no way to talk about your—” Joel started, his southern sensibilities affronted, but I stopped him with a glance.

  “Maybe you could walk Cassie here—”

  “Carrie,” Miss Rock Star said.

  “—back to her store and get her statement. I’ll keep an eye on the screens and get the phone,” I said.

  “Sure thing,” Joel agreed.<
br />
  I waited until they had left the office before turning back to Julia. “So you live near here?”

  “Across the way. The hotel’s gonna back up to practically against our fence. I’m sure my mom wouldn’t have been so pissed off if we’d been gonna end up on one of the golf fairways,” she said cynically. She scraped at chipping blue polish on her thumbnail, not meeting my eyes. “She organized the whole neighborhood to protest the development and get a court order to stop it. Had a meeting with that Mr. Porter and everything.”

  “Really?” I let her momentum, and what I suspected was typical teenage-daughter resentment of her mom, carry her on.

  “Yeah, he even came to the house. I heard her say that if he were dead there wouldn’t be an Olympus to ruin our property value.”

  “And that’s what makes you think she killed him?”

  “No. It was the blood.”

  Now she had my attention. “What blood, Julia?” For the first time, I was glad I wasn’t a cop. If I had been, I’d’ve been obligated to make sure one of Julia’s parents was present, and to jump through a lot of other hoops before questioning the girl. As it was, we were just two private citizens having a conversation.

  “In the backyard.. He was at our house on Sunday afternoon, and then he was dead on Monday and there was a whole lot of blood in our backyard.” Tears trembled in her voice again.

  “Did you hear a gunshot?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I spent the night at Taylor’s house.”

  I thought for a moment as Julia watched me anxiously. “Do your folks own a gun?”

  She nodded, ponytail bobbing. “Yes. My dad gave it to my mom when they got divorced.”

  What a thoughtful guy. Before I could ask anything else, Julia volunteered, “The blood’s not there anymore. I saw it Monday morning when I came home to get ready for school. When I got home that afternoon, it was gone. I mentioned it to Mom at dinner and she got all edgy, told me not to worry about it. Do you think she did it?” she finished in a whisper.

  “Did what?”