He had to smile. After all, it did show a certain verve.
In the employees parking lot of the Macklin Company, Herb Harper lounged in the driver’s seat of a Heritage camper. He waved at Lark.
The recreational vehicle’s door stood open as Lark shuffled over. “I have coffee on, Lark. Come on in.”
“That would hit the spot,” Lark said as he stepped inside.
Harper was as effervescent as his quiet manner would allow. “How do you like the layout? Everything’s compact and mostly built in.” He poured two cups of strong coffee and laced Lark’s with a heavy slug of brandy. “Take a swig of this and I’ll give you the tour.”
“I live in a trailer,” Lark said as he sipped coffee and felt the double warmth seep through his stomach. “No tour.”
Harper arched an eyebrow. “You live in a trailer and yet you want to buy a camper? That doesn’t make much sense.”
“Suppose not.”
“I have the feeling that you aren’t what you seem to be.”
“Nobody’s what they seem to be, Herb.” He drank more coffee-brandy and slowly looked over the vehicle’s interior. It was immaculate, as he knew it would be, for Harper was that kind of man. In other ways, it was perfectly ordinary-looking. There were no acoustical walls, and no matter how they were bound, there were no compartments large enough to hold murder victims. It was purely and simply, a recreational vehicle. He finished the coffee. “We’re going to be late punching in.”
Harper smiled. “Does it really matter for you?”
Lark returned the smile. “I guess it doesn’t. This is my last day here.”
“I suspected as much. You’re here to check out campers, right?”
“Got to all of them but one.”
“Martin’s sexmobile.”
“I’m going to have a talk with ol’ Renfroe.”
“Where’s Renfroe Martin?” Lark asked Horse as he passed his partner’s machine with a clipboard in his hand.
“He called in sick; the senior lead man is running the shift. No one believes him, they think he’s got some hot bimbo lined up for a trip in his sexmobile.”
“Come on!” Lark began to run around the floor’s perimeter walk.
“We’ve got to punch out,” Horse yelled as he brought up the rear.
“Christ, Horse, the city pays us, these people don’t.”
“What about my machine?”
Lark pushed through the door to the loading dock and jumped off the platform to take off across the parking lot. He slammed into the pickup and unlocked the glove compartment. He took the Colt Python from its resting place, shoved it into the waistband of his trousers, and started the engine.
The truck was rolling with the passenger side door open as Horse puffed after it and swung inside. “You think it’s him?”
“He made us. Harper did, and I’m sure that Martin did too.”
“I don’t know where he lives.”
The truck screeched out of the parking lot and rocked onto the highway. “The MVD list is in my case.”
Horse fumbled through papers and finally called out an address, “Seventeen-ten Willow, that’s in the north part of—”
“I know where it is.” Lark reached under the seat and picked up the flasher light, which he attached to the roof by its suction cup. The pickup accelerated. “We got him,” Lark said. They pulled into the 1700 block of Willow Street and could see a camper in the drive of 1710. The pickup jumped the curb in front of 1710 and Lark swung it broadside at the rear of the camper, effectively blocking it in the carport. “Call for backup,” he said as he jumped from the truck and reached for the Python.
Renfroe Martin, his face beet-red in anger, slammed through the front door of the ranch house and stalked toward Lark. “What in the hell are you doing driving over my lawn?” He stopped stock-still when he saw Lark take a shooter’s crouch and level the Python. “Holy shit!”
“Turn around slowly,” Lark said as he cautiously approached. “Get your hands up high or I’ll blow you the fuck apart.”
“You’re crazy.”
A heavy woman in tight stretch pants and red hair too brilliant to be natural appeared in the doorway with a drink in her hand. “You ready to leave, Froe?”
“Two units are on the way,” Horse said.
“Cover the woman.”
“I’ll try.” Horse walked over to the redhead and gently took the glass from her hand.
Lark realized that his large partner didn’t have his weapon. “Watch her. If she moves, fall on her.”
“Hey, what’s going on here?” the redhead protested.
There were sirens in the distance. In forty-five seconds half a dozen men in uniform swarmed over the yard, searched the suspects, and waited for orders from Lark.
“I knew you were a cop,” Renfroe Martin said as he was pressed against the side of the house and cuffed.
“How’d you know?” Horse asked out of curiosity.
“You kept calling him lieutenant, for Christ’ sake.”
Lark walked over to the woman in the tight pants. “Do you have any ID?”
“Why should I show identification. I live here, for God’s sake? Ask anybody on the street. I’m Flo Martin.”
“I wonder if you would let me see inside your camper?”
“Screw you,” Martin said. A cop shoved him and he staggered to maintain his balance.
“I can have a warrant in half an hour. If you let me see the camper voluntarily, I’ll see that the prosecuting attorney hears about it.”
“What’s going on?” the woman screeched again. “Froe, you been drinking again?” She looked over at Lark. “Do you have him on a DUI charge?”
“Not hardly.”
More cars arrived and the woman looked awed. “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t have the whole force out here on any drunk-driving charge.”
“Last offer, Martin. Let me see inside the camper.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Pleasant guy, isn’t he?” Horse said as he walked ominously toward Renfroe Martin, who now had his hands cuffed to a waist chain. Horse began to rub one mass of knuckles with his other hand.
“Don’t you hit him!” the woman screamed as she strained against the officer holding her. “For God’s sake, Froe, let him see the camper.”
Martin watched Horse approach and then croaked that the keys were on a ring in his right-hand pocket.
While Horse obtained the keys, Lark walked to the heavily curtained camper. “Let Mrs. Martin come with me, so everyone knows this is a voluntary admission.” He contemplated the camper’s dusty sides as the redhead scurried to him. “Your husband goes off in this thing alone every couple of weeks?”
“No. Where he goes, I go. I don’t let him out of my sight for ten minutes, except to go to work and back.”
Lark vaguely remembered a case in England years ago where a man and women killed victims on desolate moors and not only tortured them but also recorded their cries. Horse unlocked the camper’s door and they stepped inside.
A heavy curtain that parted in the center separated the driving compartment from the rear of the camper. Lark gingerly parted the folds of heavy velvet and stepped through into the dim interior.
“Jesus Christ!” Horse said behind him.
Having toured a rash of campers of all sizes, models, and makes in recent days, Lark was familiar with the normal configurations of this type. It had been extensively remodeled, and its resemblance to the factory-delivered appearance was not even remote.
Just beyond the driver’s compartment, the galley area had been shortened and now contained only a sink and small refrigerator. A bar had been built and numerous bottles of liquor, of all brands and types in various stages of consumption, were stored in racks that lined the walls. The last portion of the vehicle was filled with a massive bed that stretched from one side to the other. A VCR recorder and television was positioned on the wall over the bed, near where dozens of X-rated tapes were sto
red on a shelf.
“It’s a moving bordello,” Lark said.
“We call it our humpmobile,” Flo Martin said. “Now are you guys satisfied?”
“Will you tell me exactly what you people do in here?” Lark asked.
She raised a deeply penciled eyebrow. “You must get your kicks this way.”
“Answer the question.”
“We ball in here.”
“Your house is five feet away.”
“It’s not the same,” she said. “Listen, I got a problem with Froe out there. He’s like sex-crazy. So, no matter what shift he works, I’m ready for him before he leaves and I’m ready for him when he comes home. Twice, maybe three times a day, I give it to him. He don’t have no energy left to ball any chicks down at the factory or even somebody he might pick up at the supermarket. No way do I leave him enough energy for anybody else.”
“But you take trips in this thing,” Lark said. “You drive through New England during the days off.”
“Hell, we hardly ever get it out of the drive.”
“I think those people are telling the truth,” Horse said.
“I’m having uniforms check it out with the neighbors, but we know what the answer will be. God damn!” Lark pounded the steering wheel with both fists. The truck swerved toward a bus as he fought for control. The bus’s horn sounded in Doppler effect as it faded to the rear.
“What now, Lieutenant?”
“We turn over everything we have to the state police, you go back on traffic, and I put in my papers.”
They were silent. Lark drove without seeing and tried to peer into a blank future. Most senior, officers his age took a job with private industry in large security departments and were glad to have the added income to augment their pensions. Lark didn’t consider himself emotionally constituted to hold a job that required a good deal of public relations and diplomacy. Other men had hobbies: woodworking was popular, the outdoor types took off for Maine with rod and reel. He would probably report to the nearest bar and proceed to irrevocably damage the remaining portions of his liver.
They turned into the lot at police headquarters, where Lark parked in the chief’s reserved slot.
They worked on the files for two hours. Both men were concerned that they be in the best possible shape. Lark kept putting off the requisite calls to the state police and to Frank Pemperton.
“Hey, you got the printout from MVD on the campers registered to our shift?” Horse asked.
“Somewhere.” Lark searched his clothing and located the crumpled list in his rear pocket. He tossed the wadded paper across the room. “What a hell of a wet dream that was.”
“It was the best possible guess we had, working with what we had,” the large officer responded as he attempted to smooth the paper into a semblance of neatness.
“It wasn’t good enough, it didn’t work. We didn’t make a collar, and that’s all that counts.”
“I guess.” Horse looked down at the list. “It was a lead that we tracked down. It will save the state guys some time.”
“Sure.” Lark wondered if there was still a bottle of bourbon in the bottom desk drawer. Recently he had been loosing his appetite for beer because it didn’t take the edge off fast enough.
Horse bent over the crumpled paper. “I can’t read all this. What kind of camper did Harper have?”
Lark was sure the bottle was in the drawer, and all that he needed was the energy to reach for it. “One of those fancy jobs. A Heritage.” He reached for the bottle, found it, and twisted off the cap and began to search for a glass. He would leave Horse out of this party.
“That’s interesting. MVD has him registered with a Diplomat.”
Lark poured half a tumbler of bourbon into a coffee mug he had located. “Dammit, Horse, I’m not a rookie. I checked the marker plate and it matched with the printout.”
“Marker plates can be changed in ten seconds.”
Lark slowly turned to face his partner. The bourbon was forgotten. “It wasn’t the murder camper,” he said. “It was a perfectly ordinary vehicle. The murder room has to have soundproofing. You heard the tapes. There’s no way you could perform that crap without … I checked out a different camper, didn’t I?”
“Looks that way.”
“He put off bringing it in. He had us made, and he knew damn well what we were looking for.”
“He rented a camper and switched license plates with his own plates.”
“Jesus Christ!” Lark said as he looked at his watch. “It’s been two hours since shift rotation and the bastard has four days off.”
18
Herb Harper lived on an ordinary street of ordinary homes. The development was twenty years old, which meant that the shrubbery and trees were beginning to stretch into maturity and give the area a permanent aura. The only distinguishing features to separate one home from another were the lawn plantings and the presence or lack of carports.
Their objective was midway down the block, where a small sign on the front-lawn spelled out THE HARPERS in reflecting beads of glass. A Vega station wagon was the only vehicle in the drive.
“You want backup?” Horse asked as his finger reached for the transmitter button of the radio.
“We may be too late or we may be wrong.” Lark swerved to the curb and began to walk toward the house. The front door opened before he reached the stoop.
The diminutive woman behind the latched screen had bangs across her forehead that gave her a gaminelike look. She wore a blinding white apron below a peasant blouse. She was not so attractive or pretty as much as she was neat. She gave a small smile. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Mrs. Harper?”
“I’m Rada Harper.”
“Is Herb home?”
“He left a few minutes ago for a few days of fishing.”
“Oh, shit!” Horse whispered behind Lark.
Rada Harper looked uneasy and began to edge away from the door. “What do you men want?”
Lark flipped his identification from his back pocket. “I’m Lieutenant Lark of the Middleburg police. May I talk to you?”
She looked dubious, but the door’s latch fell away. “I don’t know.”
Horse stepped forward. “It’s really all right. We are police and the lieutenant is my boss.”
Still a brief hesitation, and then the front door snapped back and she unlatched the screen. “Please come in. Has there been some trouble in the neighborhood or at the factory?” She faced them with wide eyes and held one small hand to her lips. “Has Herb had an accident?”
“No, it’s just a routine investigation. We’re checking on campers and we understand that Mr. Harper owns one.”
“Yes, he does.”
Horse looked at the blank page of a pad he pulled from his pocket. He didn’t need any reference material; he knew the names and makes by heart. “We understand he owns a Diplomat?”
“I think that’s what it is.” She relaxed at the mundane questions. “Would you men like some coffee?”
“That would be fine,” Horse answered in a soft voice.
Lark was uneasy and he whispered to Horse as Rada Harper went to the kitchen. “He’s gone.”
“Don’t you want firm info this time, Lieutenant?”
“Okay, but hurry it up.”
Rada Harper returned carrying a large glass tray containing a coffee percolator, cups, saucers, and cream and sugar. With a self-satisfied motion she placed it on the coffee table between them and poured. “I keep coffee going all day. I know they say it’s not good to drink too much, but my goodness, we all need a pick-me-up around this time.”
Lark agreed with that and missed his bottle of bourbon. He took the cup she offered and stirred in a dash of cream. “Does Herb often go off like this?”
“Oh, yes. During fishing season he goes on a trip after each shift rotation.”
“Do you ever go with him?” Horse asked.
“Oh, no. When we were first married, I went fi
shing with him once, but putting those scriggly worms on hooks—ugh. Herb goes by himself.”
“Then you never travel in the camper?” Lark asked.
She sipped coffee and smiled over the rim of her cup. “Once in a great while. Last winter Herb took me on a trip to Florida. We had a grand time. That was his regular vacation.”
The living room was of the doily variety. Carefully crocheted doilies covered every arm and headrest of every available chair and sofa in the immaculate room. The front picture window with its side panel sparkled. A glass cabinet in the corner contained dozens of small ceramic animals that were meticulously arranged. “I bet you have to clean his camper after Herb returns from one of his trips?” Lark asked.
Rada Harper shook her head. “Herb never lets me inside. He says it’s a man’s world in there and he knows how upset I get when I see dust.”
“But you went to Florida in the camper,” Horse pressed.
“Yes, and that’s the only time I’ve been inside. But that’s all right, Herb never goes in my sewing room either.”
“The camper never leaves the yard except when Herb takes it fishing? He never takes it to work?”
“No. It was here all day until he came home and rushed off to his fishing.”
Lark was afraid that his clenched grip would shatter the fragile cup he held in his hand. Their suspicions were confirmed. Harper had switched vehicles and marker plates. The renter had been returned and now he was off in his own camper. “Mrs. Harper, when you were in Herb’s fishing camper during the trip south, did you notice any changes he had made in the vehicle?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I think I should know why you are asking all these questions.”
“It pertains to a minor accident investigation, but if you assure me that Herb hasn’t moved his camper for the last several days, he can be marked off our list.”
“I’m positive that it wasn’t moved until he left just a little while ago.”
“Out of curiosity,” Horse said, “has he done any interior work that altered the insides?”
Her hand fluttered to her chin and brushed across a cheek. “I don’t know what you mean, unless you’re talking about his stereo room.”
Lark Page 18
