“I can call you Thursday?”
“Make it Friday,” Wally countered. “I promise to have some answers by then.”
Disconnecting, Wally pushed aside the lists, maps, and files on top of his desk and took a long drink from the water bottle Thea had placed by his elbow an hour ago. The liquid was now lukewarm, but he didn’t care. His throat was as dry as West Texas and he could swear his tongue had turned to sandpaper.
The police station’s thermostat was set at eighty-five and Wally’s second-story office felt several degrees warmer than that. Air-conditioning was a huge drain on the generator and ComEd continued to warn everyone that the power might be out for as long as a week.
At least the station wasn’t the madhouse it had been last night. Still, there were a lot of people wanting help and only so many employees available to assist them. First thing this morning, after grabbing only a few hours of sleep, all of Wally’s officers, with the exception of Tolman, who remained on the disabled list, had reported for duty and been assigned to search and rescue teams.
The dispatchers were another story. May was with Skye at her appointment, and Char, who, thank the Lord, had decided to postpone her retirement until the mayor’s hiring freeze was lifted, would be here at midnight. Which left the three part-timers and Thea dealing with the multitude of calls and in-person requests.
• • •
Between looky-loos, looters, and the fear that the motorcycle gang that had been breaking into houses all around the county would take advantage of the chaos, access to the decimated neighborhoods had to be tightly regulated. Volunteer police from all over the state were providing traffic control along the major roads into town, as well as in the most devastated areas.
As blocks were cleared, residents who could verify that they lived or had relatives in that section were allowed in to start sifting through what remained of their possessions. But no one else was permitted past the barricades.
Fighting the urge to ignore the paperwork and get out into the field, Wally ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. He felt useless sitting behind a desk when there were so many people missing and so many more buildings to search. Logically, he knew someone had to be in charge, but his gut didn’t buy that excuse. Making lists wasn’t his idea of serving or protecting.
And even if he could persuade himself that he didn’t need to coordinate the efforts, someone had to look into Zeke Lyons’s death. Wally pondered the oddities. The lack of shoes might be explained, although most folks choose not to handle an emergency barefoot. But the position of the body was suspicious. Why was he wedged behind the door instead of taking shelter in the bathtub, which was standard procedure for someone caught in a tornado?
It was frustrating that although there were several fresh pairs of small, round burn marks on the councilman’s chest, which indicated probable foul play, the medical examiner hadn’t yet been able to verify the cause of death. The ME had promised a preliminary report by noon, and without it, Wally was at a loss as to where to start his investigation.
Time of death had been narrowed down to between seven thirty and eight thirty, which was during the height of the storm. It was possible that Lyons had surprised a looter. But the thief would have had to be somewhere nearby to get there so soon after the tornado hit.
Unfortunately, from what Wally had been able to gather, Zeke wasn’t the type of guy anyone would care enough about to bother to kill. He wasn’t wealthy. He didn’t have a glamorous job or a fancy house. And his only interest, outside of his wife, seemed to be his dog.
The sole activity Wally had been able to connect to Zeke had been the city council, and he sure hadn’t stirred up any trouble there. Wally had never even heard him speak at one of the meetings.
Zeke Lyons seemed like a guy who could fade into the background rather than stand out in a crowd. His murder would probably turn out to be a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time rather than a crime of passion.
As Wally finished the bottle of water and tossed it into the recycle bin, he caught a glimpse of his watch and frowned. It was nearly ten o’clock. Skye’s doctor appointments usually were over in less than a half hour. Why hadn’t she called to tell him what the doctor had to say?
Maybe she couldn’t get through on the landlines. Had he accidently muted his cell? Fishing the device from his shirt pocket, he saw he had indeed missed a text from Skye.
He tapped the icon with his thumb and read the message. Everything fine. XXOO.
Narrowing his eyes, Wally stared at the screen. Granted, this was the first ob-gyn visit he’d missed, but why hadn’t she given him any details? For that matter, why had she texted instead of calling?
Was Skye hiding something? Surely if something was wrong, she wouldn’t hesitate to call him. Knowing his wife, she would want him with her, if for no other reason than for him to handle her mother. So what could it be?
Pressing her speed dial number, he pursed his lips when it went directly to voicemail. Maybe she was still in the obstetrician’s office. It was possible Dr. Johnson was running behind schedule. Just because they’d never had to wait in the past didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
He tapped his fingers on the desktop, trying to decide what to do. There really wasn’t any way to reach her if she wasn’t answering her cell. He’d just have to wait for her to return his call.
Staring at the mess in front of him, he started to pull Lyons’s file toward him, then remembered that the mayor had called a meeting for ten thirty. Representatives from the Multi Agency Resource Center, Department of Insurance, and city officials were invited to discuss who would do what as they moved forward.
Shit! Just what he needed. Another of Hizzoner’s endless BS sessions where nothing would really be decided.
Sending Skye a text instructing her to call him ASAP, he made sure his ringtone was loud enough to hear from his pocket, then grabbed a legal pad and marched into the hallway.
The police station, city hall, and library were all housed in the same building. The city hall and PD shared the ground floor. The town’s small library took up the back half of the second story, with the chief’s and mayor’s offices sharing the remainder of the space.
A couple of years ago, Dante had ordered that an opening be cut in the wall between the city hall and the police department. While Wally wasn’t fond of Hizzoner’s ability to stroll over anytime the urge hit him, Wally had to admit it was a hell of a lot easier to walk through the archway rather than go downstairs, out the PD’s door, enter the city hall, and climb the steps to the mayor’s office.
A few seconds later, when Wally strolled into Dante’s lair, he was surprised that no one else was there. Hizzoner was on the phone and, by the looks of it, wasn’t getting the response he wanted from whomever was on the other end of the line.
“I have nothing to say to you.” Dante’s voice vibrated with outrage. “You misquoted me last night. I never said that anyone who was too stupid to take shelter deserved whatever happened to them.”
Wally took a seat and settled back to enjoy the show. The mayor was more proficient at the sidestep shuffle than Dante’s wife, Olive, who had been a professional dancer.
“Shit,” Dante said under his breath, then cleared his throat and barked, “I did not give you permission to record our conversation. That comment was off the record.”
Wally chuckled and the mayor glared at him.
“Leave me alone!” Dante screeched. “You’re all out to get me.” Banging the handset into the holder, he scowled at Wally. “What are you staring at?”
“I’m trying to imagine you with a personality.” Wally crossed his legs.
“I have a damn good personality.” Dante thrust out his chin. “Maybe you’re confusing it with my attitude and that depends on other people.”
Wally just stared, knowing his silence would drive the ma
yor crazy.
Less than a minute later, Dante caved and demanded, “What do you want?”
“I’m here for the meeting.” Wally shrugged.
“It’s been canceled.” Dante shoved his chair back so hard it hit the wall behind him. “I’ve got better things to do than listen to everyone’s plans. I told ’em all just to do what they’re supposed to do.”
“Great.” Wally stood.
“Wait.” Dante leaped to his feet and demanded, “What’s this I hear about Councilman Lyons’s death not being an accident? And why wasn’t I informed?”
“I’m waiting for word from the ME before I make any official announcement.”
“Screw that!” Dante advanced on Wally. “From now on, I want to be kept informed of anything like, like”—he flailed his arms—“like dead people.”
“Gotcha. You want to know about any stiffs that turn up.” Wally barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Anything else?”
“One more thing.” Dante puffed up his chest. “My very good friend Hollister Brooks owns various buildings around Stanley County. He’s been able to reach all of his renters but one. I want you to check out that property. It’s an old farmhouse on the east side of town.” Dante dug in his pants pocket and withdrew a slip of paper, read off the address, then threw the Post-it Note on the desktop.
“I suppose this is something you want me take care of myself,” Wally drawled. “Not have one of my few officers handle it?”
“Of course.” Dante glowered. “I told Hollister you’d contact him personally before noon today.”
“I won’t do it.” Wally crossed his arms, waited for Dante’s face to turn the shade of a ripe tomato, then added, “Unless you give me a signed statement allowing me to hire an officer to replace Zuchowski.”
“You’re blackmailing me!” Dante squawked. “At a time like this?”
“Yep.” Wally handed the mayor the legal pad he’d been holding. “You better get writing if you want me to get to the house by noon.”
Bellyaching the entire time, Dante scribbled the agreement Wally dictated. He signed the paper, shoved it at Wally, and ordered him to leave.
“Why can’t this Brooks character inspect his own property?” Wally asked, tucking the agreement into his shirt pocket.
“He’s enjoying a well-deserved retirement.”
“Where?”
“He has an amazing waterfront estate in Tampa.”
“I should have known that he’d be living in God’s waiting room.” Wally walked toward the door. “You know Texas is a much better place to retire.”
Hizzoner glared, then before Wally made it over the threshold, Dante yelled, “You’ll be sorry you forced me to sign that paper.”
Ignoring the mayor, Wally headed to the garage, slid behind the wheel of the squad car, and backed out, making a right onto Maryland. As he drove, he realized Skye still hadn’t called him. What could be taking so long at the doctor’s office?
Hell! If he didn’t hear from her by the time he’d checked out the Brooks property, he’d try May’s cell.
Worried about his wife, Wally nearly missed his turn onto Basset Street. Shortly after crossing one of Scumble River’s three narrow plank bridges, he made a left onto Harvester. There were no buildings along the dirt road, and even the cornfields looked neglected. The land on the north was in Wilson County and out of the Scumble River police’s jurisdiction, but just his luck, the Brooks property was on the south side.
The place was easy to find, one of only two structures on Harvester Road between Basset and the next intersection. The other building was an abandoned barn across the road from the Brooks place that was leaning to one side as if a giant had given it a good shove.
Pulling into the driveway, Wally studied the old farmhouse. The two-story, gray asphalt-shingled dwelling had seen better days, but it didn’t appear to have suffered any recent damage. The tightness in his chest eased. This might be a wild-goose chase, but at least he wouldn’t find another body.
The absence of vehicles in the driveway and the rundown condition of the house’s exterior made Wally wonder if Brooks’s tenants had flown the coop. Getting out of the squad car, Wally walked toward the ramshackle machine shed out back. The harsh sunlight showed every rust spot and dent in the ancient metal building.
Noting that the shed’s only window was in the pedestrian entrance, Wally approached the door cautiously. When he couldn’t see anything, he leaned closer. That was odd. It wasn’t apparent at first glance, but something had been set up on the other side of the glass to block the view inside.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of Wally’s neck rose and he whirled around. Shortened shadows and washed-out colors created an eerie picture. Something was off about this setup.
He examined the various tire tracks in the muddy ground. More than one type of vehicle had driven between the driveway and the shed. And the marks were fresh. Several people had been in and out since last night’s storm.
As Wally headed toward the squad car, he checked his phone. Still nothing from Skye. He scrolled through his contact list, frowning when he didn’t find May’s cell number. Why didn’t he have her number? Probably because she rarely thought to turn her phone on. Still, maybe with everything in such turmoil, she would remember.
Thea might have it. But Wally didn’t want to tie up either the radio or the police station line with a personal call. He’d wait until he returned to the PD to ask her for the number.
But first he’d check the house’s perimeter. Sweat dripped down Wally’s back as he walked around the dwelling. There was no wind, and the heat felt like a branding iron pressed against his spine.
Wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, he continued his inspection. Warped flower boxes clinging to the bottom of the windows were filled with rusty beer cans rather than summer blossoms. Several cracks in the glass were sealed with duct tape and it looked as if mold was growing between the panes. Heavy curtains were pulled closed and sagged on their rods.
The lawn was badly in need of mowing, and dandelions had all but taken over. Around back, next to the boarded-up kitchen door, enormous piles of black, plastic garbage bags were strewn around a huge generator chugging away on the concrete pad.
Returning to the front, Wally took out his cell and tapped in Hollister Brooks’s number. When the guy answered, Wally identified himself, described what he’d observed, and assured the man that there was no visible tornado damage to his property.
Brooks thanked him and asked, “Chief, since you’re on the scene, would you check to see if my tenants are still there?”
“Sure,” Wally agreed. If he didn’t find out now, Dante would probably demand he come back and do so. “Should I let you know at this number?”
“Thanks. But I’m about to get on my boat and won’t have cell reception for a while,” Brooks explained. “I’ll call you sometime next week.”
Disconnecting, Wally approached the front door. A couple of weather-beaten two-by-fours, resting loosely across stacked cinder blocks, functioned as the front steps. He tested the wood, and although they squeaked loudly in protest, the boards held his weight. Gingerly easing past a variety of rusty folding chairs and an old sofa that decorated the porch, he rapped on the weathered wooden door.
When no one responded to his polite knock, Wally banged harder. Suddenly, the door was yanked open and a scrawny-looking guy in his late teens stood in the doorway.
“Shit!” the skinny teenager squeaked, then turned his head and screamed, “5–0’s here!”
In the blink of an eye, the teen grabbed a gun from his waistband and pointed it at Wally.
“Whoa there.” Wally held his palms up. “Put down your weapon.”
The young guy’s hand was shaking and it was clear he wasn’t a stone-cold killer. Unfortunately, Wally wasn’t as sure about who
ever had come up behind him and yanked some kind of sack over his head.
The teenager with the gun spoke to the person behind Wally. “Tin, look what I caught.”
“Give me the gun, Boo-Boo,” Tin ordered the teen, then pushed Wally through the door and said, “Go get the duct tape.”
“Listen, man,” Wally said, keeping his voice even, “this doesn’t have to get ugly. I’m only here checking out the place for your landlord.”
There was no response, and a few seconds later, Wally’s arms were jerked behind his back and tape was wrapped around his wrists. He felt his duty belt being removed. Then a gun was pushed into his side and a hand around his biceps dragged him forward.
Wally listened closely as he was marched through the house. He could hear feet shuffling and someone cursing, but nothing else.
When they came to a stop, hinges squeaked and Tin commanded, “Down.”
Wally slowly shuffled from step to step. It smelled like the devil’s room service and he figured they were descending into a dank basement or cellar that had been used to store food and whatever remained had been left to rot. When they reached the bottom, Tin pushed Wally onto what felt like a wooden chair. He taped Wally’s feet to the legs, then he looped more tape around Wally’s chest, securing him to the chair’s back.
Suddenly, whatever had been placed over Wally’s head was whipped off and he blinked in the dim light of the overhead bulb. His pulse raced. If the guy wasn’t worried about revealing his face, that meant he didn’t intend to allow Wally to leave the place alive.
His captor stood frowning down at him and Wally quickly said, “Seriously. If you let me go right now, no harm, no foul.”
Tin was a big guy, over six foot and well muscled, with long, dark hair held back by a skull-and-crossbones do-rag. Strangely enough, his eyes narrowed slightly, as if he might actually be considering it.
“Wish I could, man. But that will be up to Veep.”
“You’re not in charge?” Wally was surprised. He would have sworn Tin was giving the orders.
“Nah. I’m the sergeant-at-arms.”
Dead in the Water Page 8
