“Yeah, I know,” Stone said. “You’d better meet me, Byron, Slausson and Fletcher over at Pumphouse, ASAP. I hope to God we can find an eyewitness. It sounded like you guys were making good progress, but the bodies keep piling up, so you’d better step it up a few notches. The chief just called again to say the mayor’s office is involved now. They’re getting a lot of pressure from the community for an end to this killing spree, not to mention all those damned media vultures, who have sharpened their focus on how we’re handling these murders. . . .Can you give me something to work with, here?”
“Well, we have Walters in custody, but as I mentioned, he can’t be the do-er for all three and I’m still convinced they’re related,” Goode said.
“Yeah, well, maybe your theory is wrong.”
Goode didn’t like the edge in Stone’s voice. “Do you know if Seth Kennedy was down at the bar?” he asked cautiously.
“Not that I know of. But who knows. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Have you heard whether Tania’s tox results are in yet? Or whether the lab has determined for sure what that white powder was in Sharona’s apartment?”
“No, I haven’t, but I’ll see if I can shake some trees.”
“Slausson and I each went separately to Clover Ziegler’s house, but she wasn’t home and she hasn’t gotten back to me,” Goode said. “We’ve got to find the source of all this white powder, among other things.”
“I’m doing the best I can, Goode,” Stone said, and abruptly hung up.
This wasn’t good. Three dead bodies, two strangled and now one shot, in just a few days, all in the same neighborhood. The community was in an uproar and Stone was agitated, which wasn’t like him. They were all feeling it.
Goode knew better than to ignore his instincts about the connection between the murders. Seth was looking like a good suspect again. It was too bad about Keith, though. He had seemed like a nice kid. His death wasn’t good news for the case either. Goode had figured he would turn out to be a good snitch once he’d had some time to think about his priorities.
Could Seth have killed his buddy because he was worried he was about to rat him out about the murders? Or because he’d learned that Keith had revealed his “recreational” drug use? Keith also could have been doing a deal himself in the parking lot, and it had gone bad. There were numerous possibilities. The photos and women’s shorts in Paul’s apartment proved he had to be involved in this whole mess. The question was how.
Goode tried calling Maureen from Paul’s apartment one more time, but got her voice mail again. So he drove to the bar, pushing his weak engine as hard as he could.
The Pumphouse parking lot was a mess of flashing red lights. Four cruisers were blocking the lookie-loos from getting past the yellow tape and mucking up the crime scene. He nodded at Slausson and Fletcher, who had split up to talk to neighbors and some local kids with skateboards. He figured Byron was inside.
Goode approached one of the patrolmen, who was chatting up a young, tipsy blond woman—but not about the case, judging by the grin on her face. “Any sign of a dark-haired guy, late twenties?” he asked.
“Not that I’ve seen,” the patrolman said.
That meant the bartender was first up for questioning. If Goode’s drug-ring theory was true, One-Eyed Jack had to be in on it. Goode walked into the empty bar, and there he was, sitting on a stool behind the counter, drinking a soda, surrounded by half-empty glasses of beer. Looked like everyone had left thirsty.
“We need to talk,” Goode said, forgetting which eye to speak to.
“I already talked to that other detective,” One-Eye said. “Brian or something.”
Goode didn’t have time for protocol. He had some questions for this joker. “What a coincidence. I’m a detective, and you get to talk to me, too. Any idea why Keith Warner got shot tonight?”
“No sir.” He got off the stool, set down his glass, and reached into the sink of soapy water for another one to wash. His hands were shaking.
Goode sat on a stool across from him. “How about you do that later? I’d like your full attention.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever. This has been a pretty weird night. And not too great for business, if you know what I mean.” He went under the sink, and Goode half-expected him to come back up pointing a gun. But when he surfaced, he was wiping his hands on a small white towel.
“What kind of business would that be, pal? A little cocaine action in the bathroom? Or maybe in the parking lot tonight?”
The bartender turned around and grabbed a cigarette from his pack of Camels on the counter behind him. He lit one and took a long, hard pull as he stared down at the sink. Then he looked straight up at Goode—as straight as he could with that eye. A stream of gray, acrid smoke seeped out of his nose.
Goode stared right back, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not getting any younger here, and by the way, I already told you that smoking in bars is against the law. But you knew that.”
One-Eye shook his head. “Shit,” he said, taking another puff, then stubbed it out on a plate. Goode planned to nab it when he wasn’t looking.
“I take it that means yes,” he said.
“No, not exactly,” One-Eye said, letting out a long sigh and more smoke, which Goode batted away with his hand. “It’s kind of complicated. After I caught Keith using it in the bathroom a couple times, I told him he had to take his party elsewhere. I thought he did. After that, there wasn’t any ‘business’ here that I knew of.”
It was too easy to pin the crime on a guy who couldn’t defend himself. Goode was leaning even harder toward the theory that Seth was the brain of the operation and One-Eye was his lackey. “Let me be blunt, pal. I know Seth Kennedy is running a drug business out of here, so you have to be involved. If you don’t start pointing me to your stockpile, I’m going to arrest you for distributing narcotics and three counts of conspiracy to commit murder.” Goode pointed his finger at him for emphasis. “Capiche?”
“Now wait just a minute,” One-Eye said, lowering his voice so only Goode could hear. “Just because drugs were being sold here doesn’t mean I was involved. Seth paid me for the rental of some storage space, and a little more to look the other way. That’s all. I had nothing to do with any drug distribution or any murders. I didn’t even know those girls.”
“Well, I’m still finding it hard to believe that you’re telling me the truth. Didn’t you tell me two minutes ago that Keith Warner was the one selling drugs?”
“Yeah, well, my memory changed after you started telling me I was going to prison for murdering him and those girls,” he said. “The poor kid’s dead. He didn’t do anything wrong but pick the wrong friends.”
“That’s for sure. Now, let’s get back to basics. It seems like you’d want a bigger cut for all the risk you’re taking by letting Seth work out of your bar.”
“First of all, it’s not my bar, I’m just the manager. And second, I figured the less I knew about the drugs, the better off I’d be,” One-Eye said.
“That’s a pretty laissez-faire attitude, pal,” Goode said.
“Whatever. That’s how it is.”
“Let’s cut the crap and tell me where this storage space is. You know he’d sell you out in a minute if he was in your shoes right about now.”
One-Eye shook his head with the sad realization that Goode was right. “Last I heard, he kept some stuff in the padlocked shed in the back parking lot. I also know he just got a shipment in from Mexico at his house. The stuff here is just for quick access and convenience.”
“Now that’s more like it,” Goode said, smiling wryly. He turned to walk away, when he thought of something. “Where’s Jake tonight?”
“Damned if I know,” One-Eye said. “He didn’t show up for work.”
By then, Stone had arrived and Byron had resurfaced. His wife had gone into labor and he’d had to run over to the hospital for a bit. The team huddled to come up with a game plan: Stone would handle getting the warrant
s, while Byron, Slausson and Fletcher went through every drawer and cabinet in the bar. Goode would head over to Seth’s to conduct a surprise search.
Goode felt pretty good as he arrested Jack O’Mallory. His theory was in the process of revealing itself. He was sure that after a night in the tank, old One-Eye would be willing to connect some more dots for him. Before he forgot, he had the evidence tech grab the Camel butt from the plate.
One-Eye was right about one thing. Keith hadn’t picked his friends well. Chances were, though, that he was involved somehow in this mess or he wouldn’t be dead.
Goode felt a couple heavy wet drops fall on his head. Within a minute or two, the rain was falling harder and faster. Soon, the drops were hammering like gunfire at the canvas tarp someone had hastily thrown over Keith’s body. The detective watched as a pool of blood, which had formed next to the body, flowed into the gutter and down the street in pink rivulets. He felt a tap on the shoulder.
“I think there’s something here you ought to see,” Stone said, handing Goode Keith’s open wallet. Inside was a row of four small photos featuring Keith and Maureen, kissing like lovebirds in one of those booths. Goode’s heart started racing and he couldn’t breathe for a minute. Just as he’d feared, it looked like they’d been out on more than a date or two.
“Shit,” he said, sitting on the hood of a cruiser. “Shit, shit, shit.” He jumped up as he felt the water begin to seep through the seat of his jeans. But there was nothing he could do about the drops that were running down his neck and back.
“Want us to send another unit by her house, Goode?” Stone asked.
Goode couldn’t answer for a moment. He pictured Maureen lying on her bathroom floor, her neck covered with purple marks from where this bastard had strangled her. “No thanks. I’m going to see for myself. I was just over there and no one answered the door. I could kick myself for not climbing in an open window.”
Goode started for his van.
“I’ll call the DA and the judge and get the warrants right now,” Stone yelled after him. “Call me in ten.”
A few minutes later, Goode pulled up at Maureen’s house and sprinted up the front path. He rang the bell five times in quick succession and hammered on the door. His mind was still playing tricks on him. He saw her dead on the closet floor. Drowned in the bathtub. Shot in the back of the head, execution-style, like Keith.
“Come on you guys, open up!” he yelled, banging again. His hand was aching but he hardly noticed.
Chris finally came to the door. “What the hell is going on?” he said, looking at his watch. “I’ve got to get up at five, dude.”
“Where is she?” Goode demanded.
“How the hell should I know? I haven’t seen her for three days. You have got to learn how to relax, man, I’m telling you.”
“I don’t have time to relax, you cretin,” Goode said, grabbing him by the front of his rumpled T-shirt. “How do I know she’s not lying dead in her bathroom and you haven’t noticed? Don’t you know that two women and one man have been killed this week in your neighborhood?”
“Dude, you are out of control,” he said, prying Goode’s hand off his shirt. “Listen. I don’t know where she is. She’s an adult. You’re not her father and I’m not her keeper.”
Goode couldn’t think straight. He was so upset he wanted to rip the guy’s lungs out. He tried to calm down, but he just couldn’t.
“Mitch has been gone for three days too.” Chris said. “Maybe they went to Vegas to get hitched.”
Goode had no patience to deal with this smart-ass. “My sister isn’t marrying a pool guy,” he said. “Now, get the hell of out of my way.”
Chris stepped aside as Goode pushed past him. “Fine, whatever.”
Goode headed directly for Maureen’s room and whipped open her bedroom door. The bed was made and her clothes were all put away. She wasn’t lying dead in the closet and she wasn’t drowned in the bathtub. He felt like a fool, but for once, it was a good feeling.
He took a deep breath and walked back into the foyer, where Chris was sitting on the back of the couch, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
Goode put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I overreacted,” he said. “There’s a lot of shit going down and I’m just worried about my sister.” He walked outside into the night and turned around. “Would you let her know I’m looking for her?”
Chris nodded wearily and closed the door. From there, Goode headed back to the Pumphouse.
Chapter 30
Norman
By the time Norman arrived at the murder scene, the rain was coming down in torrents and a guy with a lazy eye was sitting, handcuffed, in the back of a cruiser behind the medical examiner’s van. A virtual fleet of police cars was parked in the Pumphouse parking lot, which was cordoned off with yellow tape. Norman looked around for Detective Goode again, but he wasn’t there.
A man wearing a jacket and tie seemed to be in charge. Norman had figured out by now that cops wearing street clothes were generally detectives. He hoped this one wouldn’t smell the beer on his breath.
“Lieutenant?” he ventured. “I’m with the Sun-Dispatch. You guys got a homicide, right?”
“It’s sergeant. Can’t talk to you right now,” he said as he walked away, leaving Norman in one of the worst states for a reporter—on deadline with no one talking. Norman tried to act casual and stroll into the bar as if he’d been given permission to enter. Several officers were opening drawers and cabinets, tossing paper napkins and bags of chips onto the floor next to two boxes containing plastic bags of a white powdery substance.
He felt a tug at the back of his collar as he was pulled out of the doorway from behind. “What’s the matter with you? You can’t go in there, we’re in the middle of a search,” a man’s angry voice said. Norman was whipped around by his collar to face the sergeant.
“Sorry, I didn’t know,” Norman said, pausing before he dove deeper into dangerous territory. “But I do have a deadline to meet. What’s the white stuff?”
The sergeant gave him a pained expression. “What’s it look like?”
Norman shrugged. “I don’t know, cocaine?”
“Could be. Or meth. Or both. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Thanks!”
Norman called Big Ed to warn him that he had a major story coming, but there was no way he would make the 11 P.M. deadline. It was five till.
“I don’t know,” Big Ed growled. “What do you got so far?”
Norman gulped and went ahead. “Cops won’t tell me much, just that it’s going to be a while before they can say anything on the record. There’s a bunch of officers here and the medical examiner’s van, too. The sergeant sort of told me that he had cocaine or meth in some boxes.”
“What boxes?” Big Ed barked. “And what do you mean he sort of told you? Did he tell you, or didn’t he?”
Norman was starting to sweat. “I peeked inside the bar and they’re going through all the drawers and cabinets. The sergeant said I couldn’t go inside because they were in the middle of a search. I saw some cardboard boxes full of white stuff so I asked him if it was coke and he goes, ‘Could be. Or meth. Or both. You didn’t hear it from me.’ Also, there’s a guy sitting in one of the cruisers, handcuffed. He could be a murder suspect, or a drug dealer, or both. The police won’t say anything official and they don’t care that I’m on deadline.”
“That’s because they don’t know you. So let’s slow down and back up,” Big Ed said. “Who’s the dead guy?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I guess I got kind of sidetracked with the drug search.”
“Well, listen kid, this is an online first-twenty-four-seven-daily newspaper, not a weekly. You need to find out what’s going on. Get the name of the dead guy and the suspect in the cruiser, and do it fast. We can stretch the deadline a little, but I’ve got to have something by eleven thirty at the latest. Maybe I ought to call another reporter in to help you out. This s
ounds pretty big.”
“No, I can handle it,” Norman said. “I swear. I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve got something more. Okay?”
Big Ed paused. “Okay, but, don’t this screw up. We need details, not broad-brush stuff. And this time, don’t forget we don’t print quotes from anonymous sources. Got that?”
“Got it,” Norman hung up the phone, muttering expletives under his breath.
Norman knew he had to take charge of his destiny and push harder. He started writing down what he could see for himself. He didn’t need a news release to say they were searching the bar or that they’d found boxes of white powder. He’d seen it for himself. A rap song with the lyrics “Fuck the police” was streaming out of the jukebox.
“You guys have interesting taste in music,” Norman told one of the other cops.
“Very funny,” the cop said. “It was on when we got here and for some reason, it keeps repeating. Somebody’s idea of a joke.”
Norman stood under the overhang to stay dry, waiting to make another run at the sergeant for a statement. This was a big story and he couldn’t afford to be shut out. Norman touched the arm of the guy with the tie and he whirled around. He looked relieved and a little annoyed to see it was only Norman.
“You again?” he said. “What do you want now?”
“I’m right up on deadline,” Norman said matter-of-factly. “My editor is going to fire me if I don’t give him something in the next few minutes before we put the paper to bed.” Thankfully, the guy softened a little.
“Yeah, yeah, all right,” the sergeant said, reaching inside his coat pocket and grabbed a handkerchief to wipe the water off his face. “Okay. What we’ve got here is a white male, late twenties, shot in the head. Pronounced dead at 10:35 P.M. The case is under investigation as a homicide.”
“What’s his name?”
“Family hasn’t been notified yet. You’ll have to call the ME’s office tomorrow.” The cop turned and started to go inside.
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