"Yeah.” Without another word, he turned and ran back to the house. The front door banged. I imagined him throwing the deadbolts.
Davy was just returning from the barns. Perfect timing.
"Find anything?” I asked.
"Nah. The barn by the house has a bunch of horses inside. That old guy, Carl, was cleaning out the stalls."
"What old guy?"
"You saw him—he was at the exercise ring with Mitch when we got here yesterday."
"Thin, fifty-five or so, bib overalls and a Phillies baseball cap?"
"That's Carl. I asked him about the murder. He said he was giving a riding lesson and didn't hear anything. He didn't know anything had happened till the police and ambulance showed up."
"I'm not surprised. I think we can safely cross him off as a suspect. The little girl too. What about the other barn?"
"It's padlocked, so I couldn't get inside to check it out. How about you? Have any luck?"
"Yep.” I grinned and patted my pocket. “I swiped Mitch's address book. Unfortunately, the kid surprised me rifling through the office desk. I thought he was going to punch me out, so I made a strategic withdrawal."
"Ran away, you mean."
"Something like that.” I glanced at the house and noted a shadow at one of the dining room windows. That had to be Bobby. A second shadow drifted over to him—the girlfriend, no doubt.
Wouldn't it be amusing if his girlfriend turned out to be Detective Fifi? Her wedding ring had been recently removed. And with Bobby's tight little body, who could blame her for a little cradle-robbing?
"Well, what did you expect?” Davy chuckled. “I would have punched you out in his position. How come he didn't answer when I knocked?"
"He didn't hear you. He had a girl upstairs, and they were going at it hot and heavy."
"So we've hit another dead end."
"I almost forgot! I have the address book, and I've got a couple of presents for you.” I fished out the Valley Protein bill. “The kid had Bailey picked up this morning. You'd better call the removal company and save Bailey from the dog food factory. You might still want an autopsy, depending on the blood results. I bet they have a freezer where they can store him for you. Of course, it'll cost a bit..."
He pulled out his phone and began to dial. “What next? Are we done here?"
"Not quite.” I handed him the iPod. “Happy birthday."
"Uh. Thanks. But it's not my birthday yet."
"Four months, two days early. Close enough.” Rising, I started for the path around the house. “I want to see the scene of the crime again."
* * * *
Davy talked Valley Protein into putting Bailey's Final Call on ice pending the insurance company's investigation. Apparently it wasn't that odd or unusual of a request. Fifty bucks a day took care of everything.
Bailey might have been carted off, but even without my trick memory, I would have known the spot where he had lain from the flattened grass. A small, rust-colored stain marked where Mitch had fallen.
Closing my eyes, I replayed yesterday's murder.
Bailey on the ground.
Bobby across the horse's neck.
Mitch facing us as blood colored the silver letters of his shirt...
I crossed to Mitch's last standing position and turned around. With Bailey in front of me, the first barn to my right, the second barn directly behind me, and Davy slightly to my left ... a bullet from the woods would have hit me in my side.
But Mitch had been shot in the back.
I turned and stared at Barn number 2, with its dark red paint, the hex sign under the eaves, and the peeling white trim. It had no windows, but this close I noticed gaps between side boards. And the second-story hayloft had doors, one of which sat open a foot. A sniper could have shot Mitch from up there. Maybe even from the roof.
In my mind, I replayed the loud crack of the shot, but couldn't tell where it had originated. Even the slight echo as the sound bounced back from the main house offered no significant help.
Turning, I faced the woods. Yellow crime-scene tape flapped in the faint breeze.
"What's all that?” I asked Davy, pointing with my cane.
"The cops found a rifle shell over there. The sniper lay in the grass to take his shot."
"When did they find it? Yesterday?"
"Yeah. They had twenty people combing the area. Why?"
"Someone planted that shell. The shot came from the barn."
"You're sure?"
"Do you need to ask?"
He shrugged. “Okay. Now what? Back to Detective Fifi? The police should be told—"
I snorted. “For all we know, she was the sniper. What better way of escaping? She could just blend in with the police going over the farm?"
He gaped. “You don't really think—"
"No, I'm just babbling. But nothing would surprise me these days."
"So what's our next move?"
"I want to go shopping. I want a real shirt with buttons.” As I said it, I studied the second barn. Davy hadn't gotten a peek inside. But now I wanted to see its contents. “After dark, we'll come back with a bolt cutter. That will be breaking and entering."
"Pit...” He shook his head.
"No one will press charges if we're caught."
"When we're caught, you mean."
Movement from the house caught my eye. Bobby, still in his patriotic boxers, had stepped onto the small back porch. He leaned on the railing and stared at us.
"We've got an audience,” I muttered. “Quick, act natural."
Davy glanced over his shoulder and waved. Bobby gave a curt nod, turned, and stalked back inside. A not-so-subtle hint for us to get out.
Then, from the front of the house, I heard the roar of a motorcycle engine.
"Let's get out of here,” I said, starting for the front yard.
When we reached the BMW, the purple bike was gone. Somehow, I couldn't picture Detective Fifi on it.
* * * *
We spent the rest of the afternoon running errands. Doyles-town didn't have a hardware store, or we couldn't find it, so K-Mart supplied two small but powerful flashlights and a bolt cutter, which Davy thought would nip off the padlock with little difficulty.
Muttering, “Now for a shirt,” I started for the clothing department.
"Are you out of your mind?” Davy caught my arm.
"Forget designer labels.” He had been fussy about his appearance in college, and dating a model had only made things worse. “Clothes are clothes. Let's get ‘em while we're here."
"Bad enough I'm wearing a grocery-store T-shirt. No way am I buying the rest of my wardrobe here."
I shrugged. “It's your money."
"Damn right!"
* * * *
We paid for the tools and left. To the annoyance of drivers behind us, Davy stuck to the speed limit on Route 202. That probably attracted more notice than speeding would have. Not that I could point it out.
As we neared the outlet stores and whatever garments Davy considered suitable for an evening of crime, I watched the road. Twice police cars cruised past in the opposite direction. Neither slowed to check us out.
Fifteen minutes later, we came to our Best Western. Davy kept going, and soon a couple of strip malls appeared. I took in the signs. Orvis ... Bose ... Mikasa ... Davy would be in his element here.
We parked in front of an Urban Safari. After my usual moans and groans from being cramped up, which Davy ignored, I followed him in.
The place had a weird retro-safari vibe going. Images of lions and giraffes superimposed over skyscrapers, while yuppies and dinks fished from the roofs of Audis. Yep, Davy's sort of place.
Skirting high-tech silver mannequins, I made a beeline for the clearance rack. Sometimes it pays to be small and thin. Sure enough, I found a bunch of markdowns in my size. Soft fabrics and earthy colors suited me, so I picked out three presentable shirts in various shades of brown and two pairs of brown pants. I left them at the c
heckout counter with a bubblegum-chewing girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen, then wandered over to check on Davy. He could pay for everything and haul it out to the car.
"What would Cree say?” I asked. He was holding up olive green shorts covered with what must have been two dozen pockets with heavy steel zippers. “Are pockets ‘in’ this year?"
"I do fashion fine by myself.” He put the zippered pants back quickly though. “What about you? Find any clothes you want?"
"Lots. My stuff's waiting at checkout. I'm done."
"But you haven't tried anything on!"
"Everything will fit."
He shook his head, turned to the rack, and pulled out a pair identical to the last, only dusty blue. Then he put those back and pulled out burnt-orange shorts with coils of chains hanging from every seam. A Goth nightmare. Did he intend to go through every garment? Better him than me.
I said, “I'll be sitting out front. Call me if you need me."
"Okay."
I pushed through the door and into the heat again. The sun had moved enough to put the bench in shadow. The deep warmth of the wood felt soothing against my back.
Settling down as comfortably as I could, I flipped open Mitch's black address book. It contained little more than names and phone numbers, beginning with “Abramson, Eli and Faye” and ending with “Zensen, Jon.” I started from the beginning.
No patterns emerged, though I learned the names and addresses of their priest, their church choir director, and dozens of friends and relatives. As an added bonus, it had all the companies with which Mitch did business: feed stores, hardware companies, racetracks, horse trailer rentals, that sort of thing. He even knew a blacksmith.
Then I stopped cold. Fifi Nunes's name almost leaped off the page. Mitch had listed her under P for “Police.” And he had two numbers for her, the office number and a cell phone number.
I could have slapped myself for not checking under P first. Her listing came before “Det. Arthur Dawson.” She had extension 127, and Dawson had 128. Adjoining desks? Partners?
"Tell Fifi Dows” could have meant, “Tell Fifi and Dawson.” Mitch had barely been able to speak. Or maybe “Daws” rather than “Dows” ... “Daws” could have been a nickname.
But tell them what? That he'd been shot? Or something more?
I looked up, gaze unfocused, trying to think it through logically. Mitch ... Bobby ... Missy ... too much didn't make sense yet.
A motorcycle roared down the highway right in front of me. A metallic purple motorcycle.
My attention snapped to it. I scrambled to my feet.
It was the same one I'd seen next to Bobby's convertible. I would have sworn to it. And the rider wasn't a girl, it was a young man—very thin, like Bobby, almost elfin. His unbuttoned shirt hung open and flapping in the breeze, leaving his bare chest exposed.
There was no mistaking his sex.
I sat. No wonder Bobby had reacted so violently when he found me in the house. I'd almost outed him. His reaction made a lot more sense now. And so much for Detective Fifi being his girlfriend.
I peeked in the Urban Safari's window. Davy browsed past, a blood-red shirt in one hand, but nothing else yet. He had such an intense expression, I almost laughed. If little old ladies got in his way, he'd mow them down.
Returning to my seat, I finished reading through the address book. No more Fifis. No Dows. It came back to the two detectives, Nunes and Dawson.
Maybe Mitch knew them socially—through church, or the Elks Club, or the Rotarians. But he'd put them under “Police.” All his social contacts went in under their last names.
Returning to the P section, I studied the entries. Every other P name had been alphabetized, from Sara Paul to Tom Purdom, as though copied from a previous address book. Fifi Nunes and Arthur Dawson came last, added more recently than the others.
* * * *
Half an hour later, in the car heading back to the Best Western, I filled Davy in on the purple motorcycle.
"Huh,” was all he said.
Then I told him what I'd discovered in Mitch's book. He pursed his lips and nodded.
"Detective Fifi knows a lot more than she's saying,” he added. “She's been lying to us all along."
"Not technically. She doesn't know any Fifis. She is a Fifi. And there probably aren't any others in the area."
"Lying by omission is still lying."
"Kinda.” I yawned. “What time is it?"
He glanced at his watch. “Almost six."
"It should be dark enough by eleven to hit the farm. Assuming they keep early hours..."
"How about dinner?"
"Maybe a nap first, then dinner. I'm exhausted."
The Best Western appeared. Davy turned into the parking lot and circled to the left.
I sat up straight. Parked directly in front of our door sat the white Mustang that had followed us from the Buckston police station. The driver with the crewcut and the sunglasses leaned against the passenger side, arms folded, face expressionless. He stood as we neared.
"Want to bet he's Fifi's partner?” I whispered.
"No.” Davy pulled into the space on the other side of the Mustang. He didn't cut the engine.
Sunglasses Man stalked around the car.
"David Hunt?” he asked. He pulled a badge from his pocket and held it up. “Buckston Police."
"Detective Dawson?” Davy countered.
"Yes.” Dawson reached past Davy, turned the key in the BMW's ignition, and pulled it out. He dropped it into his breast pocket. Then, in an emotionless voice, he said, “May I see your operator's license and vehicle registration, sir.” It was not a question.
Davy blanched but pulled out his driver's license. The convertible's registration was in the glove compartment. I retrieved it.
Dawson took everything to his Mustang, climbed inside, and spoke into a radio handset. Slowly, Davy sank in his seat as though trying to disappear.
"Don't worry,” I said. “It's not like this car is stolen."
Davy didn't answer.
"Is it?"
"Oh, shut up!"
When the detective came back, he held a small clipboard. The kind that held traffic tickets.
"Mr. Hunt,” he said, “were you aware of an oncoming truck when you made a turn across traffic on Route 202 this morning?"
"Yes,” Davy said. “I didn't know who you were, and—"
The detective cut him off. “I am issuing a citation for reckless driving. You endangered the lives of other motorists. I suggest you take more care on our roads in the future. Sign here."
"Can't you let us off with a warning, officer?” I asked.
"Not this time."
"Where do you want me to sign?” Davy asked.
Dawson jabbed a finger at the bottom of the clipboard. Without another peep, Davy scrawled his name. Dawson tore off the ticket and handed it over, along with Davy's keys.
I wouldn't have thought it possible, but Davy sank even lower in his seat.
"Excuse me,” I said.
"What?"
"Are you Fifi Nunes's partner?"
"We sometimes work together. It depends on the case."
"On Mitch Goldsmith's case?"
"We are both assisting Captain Dobbs with that investigation, yes."
"No, Mitch's other case."
He hesitated, studying me. I wished I could have seen his eyes.
"I cannot discuss ongoing investigations,” he said.
Interesting.
"I understand—and I'm not trying to interfere.” I paused. “It's just that beforehedied,MitchGoldsmith gave me this message—"
"What message?"
"He said, ‘Tell Fifi and Daws,’ mumbled a few words I couldn't quite understand, and passed out.” Partly a lie, but it ought to catch Dawson's interest. “He called you Daws?"
"My friends do."
So Dawson considered Mitch a friend. Interesting.
"Do you have any more news about Miss
y? Is she still in the hospital?"
"She should be home now. Mitch's viewing is at ten o'clock tomorrow morning at the Himmelbach Funeral Home."
Davy asked, “That's in Buckston?"
"On Route 202. You won't have trouble finding it."
"Thanks."
Dawson stepped back. “Drive safely, sir."
* * * *
It was closer to eleven thirty that night when we reached Black Fox Farm. Davy cut the headlights as he pulled into the driveway, coasting through the poplars and birches, then onto the grass. Crickets burred in the grass, and something small to our left made a rustling sound in the bushes. A raccoon, or maybe the eponymous fox.
"I can go alone, if you want,” Davy said.
"Not a chance."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
I twisted in my seat, but couldn't see Route 202. We'd be safe from Fifi or Daws if they happened past. Anyone leaving the house would spot us at once, of course, but it was late enough that everyone should be in for the night.
Davy passed me a flashlight. I didn't turn it on; my eyes were growing used to the dark. With the moon up and a faint glow shining in from streetlights on the highway, I could get to the barn.
Davy climbed out, and I did the same. The clicks of our doors shutting sounded like gunshots in the night. As we walked up the driveway, feet crunching softly on the gravel, I spotted two dim lights in the farmhouse windows, one on the second floor—probably a bedroom—and one deep in the ground floor. The kitchen? A yellow bug light cast a dim glow across the front porch.
Like a cat, Davy padded down the path between the house and stables, making no sounds at all. I clunked along after him. Between my shuffling walk, gasps for breath, and occasional loud tap as my cane struck something hard, I felt like the world's most incompetent burglar.
At last, panting, I caught up with Davy at the second barn. He pulled out the bolt cutter.
"Light?” he said.
I thumbed on my flashlight and aimed it at the door. I found a handle and two metal brackets for a padlock, but the lock itself was gone. We exchanged a glance.
"We should come back in an hour,” I whispered. “Might be someone inside."
"Shh!” He pressed his ear to the door. I strained to listen. Nothing.
"Risk versus reward,” he muttered. “Isn't that what you keep saying?"
AHMM, July-August 2008 Page 26
