Parker’s phone rang again. Since she was holding it, Miranda answered. This time it was Ballard.
“Good morning, Sergeant.”
“Ms. Steele,” he barked. “I’m standing here at Detective Deweese’s desk. He just got an email from John Fry of your office.”
“I’m aware of that, Sergeant.”
“Deweese just told me he talked to this guy Ulman last night.”
“That would be correct.”
“And that Ulman came into the station to tell you the keys to the house were missing. The house where our vic was found.”
“Correct again.”
“And you didn’t have Deweese arrest him? What kind of frickety-fracking private investigator are you?”
Her stomach churning, Miranda ground her teeth. Good thing she wasn’t at the station. Ballard would look pretty silly when she tossed him over a desk.
She wanted to yell, but she forced her voice to a low quiet growl. “The kind of frickety-fracking private investigator who doesn’t lock up a man without evidence so a judge can set him free again.”
There was silence on the other end for what seemed like a full minute.
She was wondering whether the jerk had hung up, when Ballard came back on the line.
“Okay, then.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sending Hill out to pick up Ulman. I assume you want to be here when we question him?”
“Heading your way.” She hung up, shaking with anger.
Parker glanced over his shoulder to make sure Wesson wasn’t watching, then reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
And then her mood switched to excitement. As annoying as he was, Fry had come through. The hair from the crime scene matched the maintenance man. They might have Josie Yearwood’s killer in custody within half an hour.
If Ulman hadn’t run by now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He hadn’t run.
By the time Miranda walked into the back of the police station with Parker and Wesson, Garwood had already picked up the suspect, and Ulman was sitting in the interrogation room they’d used last night, waiting for them.
“How do you want to handle this?” Parker said to Miranda under his breath.
Her? Wasn’t Ballard in charge now?
Just then the exasperating police sergeant came strolling down the hall toward them. “What’s your strategy for getting him to confess?”
Guess it was her decision after all. If it went bad, Ballard could blame it all on her.
But it wouldn’t go bad. If Ulman killed Josie Yearwood, she’d get him to talk.
“Parker and I will go in with Deweese,” she said. “Wesson, you want to watch through the window?”
“Sure.”
Wesson seemed a tad disappointed, but Miranda wanted Parker with her for this, and she needed police presence, too. Five would be a crowd in that tiny interrogation room. Besides, Wesson would be a distraction for Ulman.
And if he liked to kill beautiful women, she didn’t want to expose her to him.
So the party would be the same as last night.
“Want to join us?” she said to Ballard.
“I’ve got calls to make.” Without further comment, he spun on his heel and disappeared down the hall.
Real courageous dude there.
Smith’s blond head popped up from the work area, as if she’d been hiding from her boss. She hurried over to Miranda. “Steele, I need to tell you something.”
“Can it wait?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“I talked to Marilyn Little at East Seaside Properties today.”
She knew that. “Deweese already texted me and said he was in contact with them.”
“Yes, we both called. She insisted I call her Miss Mae.”
“So I heard.” Miranda resisted the urge to tap her foot.
“She was upset, said the party coming in cancelled after they heard what happened.”
“I can imagine. What about the people who rented in September?”
“A single mother with kids.”
No killer there. “Okay. Thanks.” Miranda moved past her.
“Steele?”
“Yes?”
“I saw that report Deweese wrote up after that guy came in last night.”
“The one we’ve got in custody?”
“Yes. Grover Ulman.”
“So?”
“In the report Ulman said the cleaning crew was at the house where Yearwood was killed on Thursday.”
“That’s right. He told us that last night.”
Smith shook her head. “Miss Mae told me the crew was there on Friday around two. Ulman was there at the same time.”
“Is she sure about that?”
Smith nodded. “I asked her twice. She looked it up in their log.”
So the maintenance guy had lied about the timeframe. “Thanks, Smith. That’s helpful.”
Smith grinned as if she’d handed her a winning lottery ticket.
Mulling over the information, Miranda tapped her fingers on the divider separating the open work area from the hall. As she did, her gaze went to Garwood’s desk. He wasn’t there, but that green apple was still sitting on it. She stepped through the gate, went over to the spot, picked it up.
“You have a knife in your break room?” she said to Smith as she returned to the hall.
“I think so. Why?”
“Get it and bring it to me.”
“In the interrogation room?”
Miranda nodded. “Give us a minute to get settled first.”
“Whatever you say.” She scampered off.
Miranda turned and led the way to the room.
###
Like last night, Ulman sat at the end of table, but today his expression was one of distress. Instead of the blue jersey, he had on a red plaid shirt, jeans and work boots.
Once again Miranda took a seat on the side of the table while Deweese took the end and Parker settled himself in the corner, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
She began with a breezy tone. “Good morning, Mr. Ulman. How are you today?”
Ignoring the question, Ulman glared at Deweese. “What’s this all about? I was getting into my truck to go to a job site when your officer came and said I had to come down here. I told you everything I know last night.”
“Are you sure about that, Mr. Ulman?” Miranda said as if he’d been speaking to her.
Ulman turned to her, his rugged face filled with defiance. “Of course, I am.”
“Why don’t you tell us what you said last night again?”
“I thought you made a report. I signed it.”
“We just want to verify some of the details.”
His gaze went from Miranda to Deweese to Parker. “Which details?”
Just then the door opened and Smith came in with the knife. “Here you are.” She set it down on the table next to Miranda and hurried out again.
It was a small paring knife that might have been a little dull, but it would do.
Miranda put the apple she was holding on the table beside the knife and watched Ulman’s face.
He eyed her warily. “Like I said last night, I went to the house on Wednesday, found a toilet needed repair, got the part, and went back Thursday to fix it.”
Miranda picked up the apple and set it down in front of Ulman. She did the same with the knife. “Why don’t you peel that for me?”
He looked at her like she was crazy. “Excuse me?”
“That apple. Peel it.”
“You want me to peel an apple? Why?”
“Humor me.”
Looking disgusted, he took the fruit in his large hands and picked up the knife. He studied it a moment and then began. Definitely wasn’t a chef. Instead of digging out the core or cutting off the stem, he jabbed the edge of the knife into the meat. He didn’t get the blade under the skin and make the standard circular move
ments. He just lopped off large chunks, leaving a lot of the fruit with the peel.
Not the artistry of the gouges in Josie Yearwood’s body. He lacked the finesse.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.”
No, he wasn’t. But they had evidence.
“How did you get that cut on your thumb?”
He took a breath that sounded a little nervous. “I don’t know. Like I told you, I work with my hands. I get cuts all the time. It wasn’t from peeling apples.”
“Maybe you got it when you changed that toilet part on Thursday?”
He focused on the apple, cut off another chunk and set it on the table. “Maybe.”
“Funny about that, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Deweese here spoke to your boss this morning.”
“So?”
“Miss Mae said the cleaning crew was at the house on Friday around two. Not Thursday.”
Ulman lopped off another slice of apple. “She got it wrong.”
“You were there at that time, too.”
He shrugged. “It’s a mistake.”
“She looked it up in her logbook.”
“Somebody entered it wrong.”
“Funny thing about that, too.”
“What?”
“Deweese here found a hair in the living room where Jose Yearwood’s body was found.”
“Oh?” Fear rippled over his features, but he focused on mangling the apple.
“We had it tested for DNA. Results came in this morning. We got a match. Somebody with a record. He was arrested for possession of drugs six years ago.”
Ulman stopped peeling. He put down the apple and the knife and wiped his hands on his work jeans. Without saying a word, he stared down at the table.
She leaned in. “But maybe somebody entered that information wrong, too. You think?”
Ulman’s big chest expanded as he took a big noisy breath. “Okay. I was there Friday. Miss Mae’s logbook is right. I took a nap on the couch. The cleaning crew woke me up when they came in.”
“Resting up for your date with Josie Yearwood Friday night?”
His eyes taking on a glazed look of terror, Ulman glowered at her. “I didn’t kill that girl. I knew I’d get framed for it. That’s why I lied about the day I was at the house. Plus I didn’t want Miss Mae to know I was sleeping on the job.”
Miranda sat back. Was he afraid of losing his job or his freedom? “What happened after the cleaning crew came in?”
“I left right away. I didn’t go back there.”
“What time did you pick up Josie Yearwood?”
His jaw moved up and down as he made a coughing noise. “I didn’t go out with that woman. I didn’t even know her. The drug thing was a long time ago. I’ve cleaned up my act since then. I wasn’t there that night. I wouldn’t do that to that girl. All I did was take a nap at that house. I swear it.”
“You didn’t have a date on Friday night?”
He straightened his big shoulders. “Oh, I had a date, all right. But it wasn’t with Josie Yearwood.”
Miranda glanced over at Parker. His face was stony.
“Who was it with?” he said.
“A girl I’ve been seeing. Her name’s Delores. We went to The Spotted Dolphin along Oregon Inlet. We were there until midnight. Ask Hank. He works there. He knows me. I’m a regular. Ask anybody who was there.”
Deweese looked like Ulman had just punched him.
Miranda felt pretty punchy herself.
She slid back her chair and got to her feet. “Let’s go check that out.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Miranda left Wesson at the station again with Smith, mostly to make sure Ballard didn’t go after her.
“If the sergeant has any questions,” she said, “tell him to call me.”
Parker followed the Nissan’s GPS through another residential section with the two- and three-story investment properties that seemed to grow like beachgrass in the area. The small yards had little landscaping, and Miranda noticed the sides of the road growing sandy as they moved farther south.
After about eight miles or so, they reached the rustic tin-roofed structure that had been built on a pier overlooking the ocean. The sun had come out and the surrounding water had turned a magnificent teal blue.
After parking in the sandy lot, they climbed a noisy wooden ramp to a screen door where the smell of French fries greeted them.
Inside a crusty looking bearded man in bib pants and an oilskin hat sat at a long bar talking to a hefty dark-haired man who was drying a glass mug with a towel.
“Had a good run this morning. Caught some speckled trout and sea mullet.”
“Good for you, Joe.” The man behind the bar set the mug on a shelf behind him, then frowned at Parker and Miranda in their dress clothes. “Can I help you?”
Miranda considered pretending to be a tourist, but she didn’t think this guy would buy it. Instead she slid onto a stool.
“Beautiful spot you have here. You must do a lot of business.”
“We get a lot of tourists in the summers. Usually there’s a line out the door. Keeps us going through the offseason.”
She glanced at the crusty guy. And the regulars made up for the rest. “My name is—”
“Miranda Steele,” he finished for her, then pointed a finger at Parker. “And you’re Wade Parker. You two are investigating that horrible murder that happened down the road a couple days ago, aren’t you?”
“We are,” Parker said taking a seat beside Miranda.
The crusty bearded man let out something that sounded like a croak. “Damnedest thing I ever heard of. We don’t have killers in these parts. Do we, Hank?”
“No, sir. We don’t.”
Miranda cleared her throat. “So we’ve heard.” So this was the Hank Ulman had mentioned.
Parker turned to the bartender with his usual smoothness. “We’re interested in a certain patron of yours.”
He laughed. “Patron? You mean a regular?”
Funny Hank had used the same word Ulman had. Miranda forced a smile. Go easy, she thought. “That’s right. His name is Grover Ulman. Do you know him?”
He nodded. “Yep. Is he involved in that murder case?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Well now, I’m not sure what I can tell you.” He rinsed another glass in a nearby sink.
Miranda watched Hank dry the glass with his towel. “Tell us what you know about Mr. Ulman. Does he frequent your place?”
“Sure. He’s a regular, all right. He’s here most Fridays and Saturdays. Works up north a ways for a property management company.”
“Sounds like you know him well.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I know him by sight. I pick up details about customers. Part of the job.” He set the glass on a shelf next to the mug.
“What we need to know, Hank, is if Grover Ulman was here three nights ago.”
“You mean last Friday? The night that girl was killed?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Let me think a minute.”
“Of course, he was here.” The answer came from a door leading to the pier on the other side of the building.
Miranda turned and saw a woman holding an empty glass mug in one hand and a red plastic food basket in the other. She was dressed in sandals, black-and-white striped beach pants, and a tie-dyed blouse knotted at the front to show off her lean tan midriff. Light red curls were piled on top of her head and held in place with a clip shaped like a fish. The sun and the water behind her gave her a kind of ethereal look.
“And you are?” Miranda said, though she could guess the answer.
“My name’s Delores.”
Just as she thought.
“Can you verify Mr. Ulman’s whereabouts last Friday night?” Parker said.
Delores stepped inside and set the basket and mug on the bar. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty-f
ive. Ulman liked them young.
“Yes, I can. He was here.” She pointed to a nearby table.
Miranda glanced at Parker. “You waited on him?”
“We came here on a date.”
“You go to the same place where you work when you go out?”
She shrugged as if she’d never considered that. “Grover likes it. We met here. He comes here every weekend, like Hank said.”
“How long have you been with Mr. Ulman, Delores?” Parker asked as if he were asking for the time.
“A while. I started working here a few months ago. I waited on him a few times, and he asked me out. I said no, but he kept asking until I said yes.”
Miranda folded her arms. “Demanding sort?”
Her eyes grew large with surprise at the question. “No, not at all. Anyway, Grover was here Friday. With me. We were here until closing and then we went to my place. He stayed with me all weekend.”
Miranda took a step toward the young woman. “Can you prove that?”
She looked lost for a minute, then pulled a cell out of her pocket. “I took a video of us and posted it online.” She scrolled around for a bit, then held the phone out to Miranda.
Miranda looked down at a video of the same big-shouldered man she’d seen in the interrogation room. His nose and leathery skin were red, and he was singing some Jimmy Buffet song a live band was playing. He had a lazy arm slung over Delores’s shoulder and was pecking at her cheek while she giggled and tried to keep the phone steady.
“Stop that, Grover. I’m trying to film us.”
“For posterity,” he mumbled, though it sounded more like “postery.”
The guy was drunk as a skunk.
Miranda glanced at the time stamp. Nine o’clock Friday night. She handed the phone back to Delores.
She gazed down at the phone sheepishly. “Grover can be a little lazy, and he likes his beer, but he’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’d never do something—something like what happened to that woman.”
Like everyone else in the area, Delores had heard the details of Tremblay’s broadcast.
Roses from My Killer Page 12
