“Scram!”
Ty scrammed and Sean scrammed along with him. “How did you learn her name?” Sean asked.
“Kids who found the body went through the glove compartment and looked at the registration.” Ty had a short stride and Sean adjusted his to keep pace.
“How did kids find the body?”
Ty told him about the great car caper.
“Does Egelhoff know about his wife?”
“He’s dead. Weird skiing accident.” Ty shook his head. “Man, that was some unlucky family. First her parents get killed.”
“Recently?”
“Naw. More’n a dozen years ago, I guess. Twister went through and touched down in just the wrong place. The three of them, Gayle’s mother and father and baby sister—I don’t remember where Gayle was. Off visiting a friend somewhere. Parents and baby were sheltering in the bathroom, thinking that was the safest place. Turned out no place was safe. Whole house flattened to rubble. Baby didn’t have a scratch. Parents killed.”
“Sometimes life doesn’t give you a fair shake. What happened to Vince?”
“Liked to go skiing with a cousin lives in Colorado. Big snow fall in September. Vince ended up bashing head first into a tree. Died like that.” Ty snapped his fingers. He offered to drop Sean back at the hotel and Sean took him up on it.
The phone was ringing as Sean came into his room. It was his old friend Jerry at the Wall Street Journal.
“Hey, buddy, you want to know what’s going to be in my column tomorrow?”
A fist pounded on his door; this was not the discreet tap of hotel employee, but the fist of authority.
“Hold on.” Sean put the receiver on the bed and opened the door. Susan and her faithful sidekick, Parkhurst.
Sean picked up the phone. “Call you right back.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Susan. “What’s up?”
“Tell me about Gayle Egelhoff.”
He could tell Susan was pissed, but he didn’t know why, and he didn’t have the vaguest notion why she brought reinforcements in the way of the sidekick. “Gayle Egelhoff, the woman in the car trunk?”
“Yeah, that Gayle Egelhoff,” Parkhurst said.
Susan sent him a shut-up glance. “What do you know about her?”
If it had been anybody but Susan asking, Sean would have said go fuck yourself. He wanted to say that to Parkhurst anyway. “Gayle Egelhoff, married to Vince Egelhoff, former smoke jumper, who helped battle the fire on Pale Horse Mountain. Badly injured, eventually recovered, died in a skiing accident.”
“When did you meet her?”
They were all three standing in the middle of the room and Sean was beginning to feel his space being encroached on, especially by her enforcer who stood around and looked menacing. “You want to tell me what this is all about?”
“You didn’t answer the question.” Parkhurst moved to the credenza with the television, looked at the keys, change, wallet and other junk from his pockets spread across the top.
Sean watched him, wanted to throw the asshole out. “What’s going on, Susan?”
“Police investigation,” Parkhurst said.
“Parkhurst,” Susan warned.
“And that concerns me—how?”
“Sean,” she said.
“You just got bumped up to suspect, pal.”
“Pal?”
Parkhurst folded his arms across his chest, like he wanted to hit the dipshit in front of him who wasn’t answering questions and was making sure his fists were trapped.
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop the pissing contest!” Susan rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “Parkhurst, wait in the lobby. Sean, sit down and stop behaving like an ass.”
Parkhurst clenched his teeth so tight a muscle rippled in the corner of his jaw and sent Sean a warning glance. Sean glared back. Susan sighed. Parkhurst left.
“Sean, just tell me what you know about Gayle Egelhoff and stop acting like an adolescent.”
“I’m not acting like an adolescent, I’m acting like your big brother. I want to know what his intentions are.”
“Stop it!”
“Why are you asking me about her?”
Susan slapped a plastic baggie down on the bedside table.
He glanced at it. “My business card?”
“It was found in the trunk with Gayle’s body. How did it get there?”
“Susan, you can’t think I put her there.”
“How did it get in the trunk?”
He sat on the foot of the bed. “I have no idea. It’s a business card. You hand them out, they get tossed away, they get picked up. It’s a business card.”
“Tell me about Gayle.”
“I’m starting to get really ticked here, Susan. I didn’t know the woman, I don’t know anything about her, I don’t know how the card got in the trunk. The only thing I know is what Ty Baldini told me and the only thing he told me was her name.”
Susan let that hang in the air.
“Susan—”
“You’ll have to come down to the police department.”
“For God’s sake, why? You can’t think I stuffed her in the trunk.”
“I need your fingerprints.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You know, unless you charge me with something, I don’t have to go anywhere.”
“I have a gun. If you don’t get your ass down to the police department, I will shoot you. Don’t forget, I’m the law around here.”
“Ah, since you put it that way…”
16
“Police!” Demarco pounded on the door. The house, single-story wood frame, white with dark blue trim, was owned by the deceased Vincent Egelhoff, who also had owned the blue Mustang with the dead woman in the trunk. Tentative ID, Gayle Egelhoff, wife of Vincent. Grass recently trimmed, flowerbeds holding the remnants of summer flowers.
Isolating what appeared to be a door key from the bunch found on the ring in the Mustang’s ignition, Demarco unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Police! Warrant to search the premises!”
He stepped inside and stood listening, letting his senses absorb whatever the house might tell him, then pulled on latex gloves, covered his shoes with paper slippers and did a quick walk-through. Living room, red brick fireplace, large window looking out at the street, hallway leading to bedrooms. Master bedroom, bed made, paperback mystery on a bedside table, lamp on, closet door closed. He opened it. Clothes hanging on a rod, shoes lined up beneath. Second bedroom, empty, guestroom. Third bedroom, kid’s room, mess, like the kid jumbled everything around periodically. Blue plaid bedspread and curtains, boom box on top the bookcase, pictures of male actors Demarco didn’t recognize tacked to the wall.
Retracing his steps, he went back along the hallway and through the family room into the kitchen. Window broken from the inside. Looked like a large object had been thrown through it. Nothing identified the object. Cabinets and counter tops in 1950s style apple green ceramic tile. Thumps at the front door had him backing up against the wall in the family room as he eased his gun from the shoulder holster.
The door slammed open, a clunky black shoe kicked a backpack inside.
“Put your hands over your head!” he said.
“Aaaaahh—!”
“Hands on your head!”
Hands flew up and fingers laced over dark spiked hair colored lime green.
“Keep your hands over your head and turn around slowly!”
She did as told. Kid, dressed like a hooker. Five five, brown and brown. Red leather skirt barely covering her butt, tight white halter thing, bare mid-section. Scuffed black shoes with thick soles. Fingernails painted black, embedded with glittery stones.
“Who’re you?” he asked.
“This isn’t going to be like one of those rape things, is it?”
“Name?”
“Moonbeam.”
“First or last?”
“Melody.”
“First or last.”
“Moonbeam Melody,” s
he snapped.
“Got any identification?”
She grabbed at the backpack.
“Slowly!”
“Stop yelling at me! You’re making me nervous!” She unzipped the backpack, rummaged around inside and brought out a purple wallet. When he held out a hand, she reluctantly dropped it in his palm.
He glanced through the wallet, noted her name was Arlene Harlow, and handed it back.
“What are you doing here?” She jammed the wallet inside the backpack and hugged it to her chest.
“Cop.” He showed her his ID.
“You creep! You scared the shit out of me! I got mugged in the library last week! Where were you then!”
He put his ID back in his pocket. “What happened?”
She hesitated and he could see her busy little mind making up a lie. “Now’s your chance,” he said. “Carpe diem.”
“Carpe your own diem. Some sleaze stole my backpack.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?” He touched the toe of his boot to the backpack on the floor.
“I found it in the parking lot.”
“Yeah? If I see him I’ll shoot him. What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” She flounced to the living room, threw herself in an easy chair and crossed her arms. “Don’t you have anything better to do than break into people’s houses and scare them the fuck to death?”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Eighteen,” she snapped.
“Try again.”
“Why?” She eyed him darkly.
“Bus pass is for a minor.”
“Sixteen.”
He waited. Two beats went by. “Fourteen,” she admitted sullenly.
“Fourteen,” he repeated. “Going to a Halloween party?”
“No.”
“Then why you dressed like that?”
She rolled onto one hip and tugged on the end of the skimpy skirt. “Don’t you know anything? This is fashionable.”
“For a hooker, maybe. That what you’re trying to look like?”
Her pixie face reddened with anger. “What do you know?”
“Well, Ms. Moonbeam, being a cop, not too much, but I figure you’re not old enough to own this place, so that must mean you’re related somehow to the person who does. What’s his name?”
“Vincent Egelhoff.”
“You live with him?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“You don’t know anything, do you? He’s dead.”
She was right about that.
“A truck slid across the road and smashed into him,” she said. “His car went over the cliff and when they got there he’d bled all over the inside and blood spilled out in rivers when they opened the door.”
Demarco wondered if slasher movies were this kid’s favorite. The one thing he did know about Vincent Egelhoff was that he’d died in a skiing accident. “You don’t seem very upset by his death.”
“What do you know?”
Right. Sometimes the pain went too deep for the usual show of grief. Sometimes it buried itself and ate at you from the inside.
“Big dumb cop like you came to the school and told the principal and she called me out of class and led me into her inner office and she told me. Unlike you, she had feelings.”
“Who’s this Egelhoff to you?”
“He’s married to my sister.”
Okay, Demarco thought, now we’re getting somewhere. “What’s her name?”
“Gayle.” She looked around. “Where is she?”
He could see apprehension start to stir just under the surface. “You live with your sister.”
“So?”
“Where are your parents?”
She shrugged. “Tornado flattened the house when I was two days old. It’s just Gayle and me.”
Ah Christ, he thought wearily. “Your sister is Gayle Egelhoff.”
“I just told you that.”
“What other relatives do you have?”
She kicked a heel against the carpet. “Just Gayle and me.”
“Were you home Friday night?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Where were you?”
“Kansas City.”
He sent her a look, wondering if she was lying. “What were you doing there?”
“Music Festival. I’m in the Choral Society. We performed. Got a first place.”
“And last night?”
“I just told you,” she yelled. “Kansas City.”
“When did you get back?”
“Duh? I just walked in the door.”
“Sit tight.” He went into the kitchen.
* * *
She could hear him muttering into his radio. Something really, really bad was going on. Her hands started to shake and she jammed them down between the cushion and the arms of the chair. She felt something and pulled it out. Sunglasses. Gayle was always losing things. She tried to swallow and choked. When he came back, she said, “Something happened to Gayle, didn’t it?”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at her with cop’s eyes.
Oh God, she didn’t like this. “What happened?”
“Someone’s coming. She’ll tell you.”
“You tell me! What happened! Is she hurt? Bad? Where is she? In the hospital? Is she dead?”
Nothing went on in the cop’s face, but she knew. Something really really bad happened to Gayle and she was—Gayle was—
Roaring started in her ears and rushed over her. The edges of her vision got kind of fuzzy and then—
Next thing she knew, the cop had his hand on the back of her neck and she was folded double. She couldn’t get up. Oh God, oh God. He’s going to kill me. Oh God, please help me. I promise I’ll be good. I promise—
He let go. She straightened, took a breath and screamed.
“Take it easy,” he said. “You’re all right. You just fainted.”
“I did not.” She clamped her teeth. Cold, it was really really cold in here. Her teeth had started to chatter. “My sister! What happened!”
“Another officer is on her way. When she gets here—”
“I’m fine. See. I’m calm.” She sucked in all the air she could find and blew it out slowly. “Tell me now! She’s dead, isn’t she? Gayle’s dead and you won’t tell me. What happened to her? Is she dead?”
His cop’s eyes bored into her like X-ray vision to read the inside of her brain.
“Yes,” he finally said. “She probably died of a head injury.”
“What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Where is she? Should I—?” She jumped up and started for the door.
He caught her around the waist and plopped her right back in the chair. “You need to stay here for a little bit.”
“Why? ’Cause something’s wrong about how she died? Tell me!”
So he told her and it was like her mind started making all this static and she couldn’t hear. One thing was really really clear though. Gayle was dead. Somebody had hit her and shoved her in the trunk of the car.
She had to get away. She didn’t know what the cops would do with her, but she knew they wouldn’t just go away and let her stay here by herself, even though she was perfectly capable. They’d make her go someplace. Not to jail, she wasn’t so dumb she believed that, but someplace that would be the same. They’d make her stay there. She wouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere. She couldn’t see her friends.
“I need some water.” She started to get up.
“Stay. I’ll get it.”
How was she going to get away from Dipshit in there? Meanest-looking cop she’d ever seen. Face probably made by an ax hacking away at stone. She considered crying and nixed it. Probably wouldn’t reach the heart of Dirtbag in there. Probably didn’t have one.
“You mind if I let the dog in?” He was at the sink filling a glass with water when she darted past, fumbled the door open and too
k off running.
17
Fucking son of a bitch! Moonbeam slithered under the wooden fence next door, her scarf caught on a jagged board. It ripped when she yanked it free. She moved, not so fast somebody’d think she was running from something, but fast enough so she’d leave space behind her. Beef-brained cop! No way she’d let herself be jerked around by children’s services. Line up foster homes. Shit, make her an unpaid servant or a punching bag for some rapist pervert. She upped the pace.
Holding herself tight on no running, she cut across Birch Street and made a right on California. Row of televisions in Nathan’s Electronics all flickering with the same thing. Ducking her head, she walked along by the window, until a picture of Gayle came on. She stepped inside. News program, talking about Gayle. She stood there watching until the sales guy gave her a look and started her way, then she lit out.
Only when she heard the sounds of the river doing its rushing, sloshing roar thing, did she realize how far she’d come. She heard something else. Car? She listened. Coming up behind! She slid off the road into the ditch alongside.
Cop car. Pressing up against the dirt, she kept her head down until it was way past. When she figured she’d be permanently deformed if she didn’t move, she poked her head up. Coast clear. She clambered up the embankment, dusted mud and dead leaves and shit off her skirt, wincing as she gently brushed over the scrape on her side where her top had slid up when she dived in the ditch.
The wind had picked up and she was way out here and all without a coat. Still headed toward the river, plodding slowly, she kicked around her brain cells to think where she might flop for the night. It wouldn’t get dark for hours yet, but it was getting awfully cold.
Hypothermia would set in if she didn’t think of something. Stupid cop. Think. Anybody walking around on a day like this without a coat would be picked up for a loony. She was always good at taking care of herself, why wasn’t she getting a flash? Brain freeze.
Library? Nah. They probably searched before they locked up. Ladies room? Not a fab plan, but, at least, something. She trudged along the edge of the road as it curved around and then clambered down the embankment to the river’s edge. The water looked dark and cold. Her nose started to drip.
Rubbing it vigorously, she clamped her teeth. She never cried. Okay, so she did when Vince died, but that was last month when she was only thirteen and she had Gayle and Gayle had cried. On October 14, she’d turned fourteen and she still had Gayle. Now it was October 26 and she didn’t have Gayle. She didn’t have anybody.
Up in Smoke Page 9
