AHMM, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He pulled the door open a foot, hinges squealing, and a band of yellow light caught me. It wasn't all that bright, but after the darkness, it seemed piercing.

  Blinking and shading my eyes, I retreated a few steps. If bullets came flying, I didn't want to catch one.

  Davy darted inside. I counted to ten. Then ten more. Finally Davy stuck his head out.

  "No one here. Come on."

  I followed him inside, and he pulled the door shut behind us. A bare yellow bulb, maybe sixty watts, dangled from a cord overhead. The hard-packed dirt floor had been swept clean, and the walls had been painted white in the not-too-distant past. Stalls to the left held storage—boxes of all sizes, a stack of rusting bicycles and bicycle parts, wooden pallets. In the center of the room stood a huge riding lawnmower with still-green clippings on its blades. To the right sat a dusty workbench covered with ancient computers, hard drives, cases, and parts.

  Nothing terribly incriminating—about what you'd expect to find in a barn these days. Then I noticed a ladder leading up to the hayloft. I nudged Davy and pointed.

  "Take a look upstairs. Maybe the rifle's there."

  "Okay.” He set down his tools, went to the ladder, and climbed out of sight.

  I wandered around the lawnmower and came to the rear wall. It took a moment, but I realized it wasn't the back of the building. A section of the barn had been fixed up professionally, and two steel security doors, the kind you'd normally find on the outside of a house, faced in at me.

  Both doors had peepholes, so I peeped into the first. Even backwards, I knew peepholes worked, distorting images smaller instead of larger. I saw only blackness though. There was no light source inside.

  I tried the knob, and it turned. Risk versus reward. Taking a deep breath, I pushed into a dark room, switched on my flashlight, and swept its beam across an unmade twin-sized bed, a night table with a 1950s-era lamp, a battered oak dresser with a round Art Deco mirror, and a bookcase holding ribbons and trophies. Posters on the walls showed horses.

  I pulled the door shut, then crossed to the bookcase. Aside from a couple of small soccer cups, the trophies were all horse related. Dates ran back twelve years. The kid must have been born in the saddle.

  Next I moved to the dresser. A half dozen pictures in cheap frames showed Bobby with various horses in the winner's circle, often with his mother and another man I didn't recognize. No pictures of Mitch, but then, Mitch was his stepfather.

  What did Bobby read for pleasure? I poked through a pile of magazines on the floor by the bed. Blood Sport, Equestrian Times, and Fast Ride mingled with tech magazines like Alt.2600, E-mail Today, and Wired.

  No real surprises. I returned to the barn's main room and eased the door shut. When I turned, I saw the second steel door now standing ajar. Seeping around the edges came the bright, flickering glow of a television.

  Cold prickled at the back of my neck. Bobby must have been inside. Had he seen Davy? Had he seen me? He'd almost struck me in the house. What would he do if he caught me here?

  "Don't move!"

  Something hard jabbed the center of my back. I stiffened.

  "Bobby?"

  "Mr. Geller?"

  I shuffled around, leaning hard on my cane, trying to look as old and feeble and helpless as possible. It had worked in the house, even if it cost me the price of an iPod.

  Bobby still wore those red, white, and blue boxers, but with a gray U.S. Air Force T-shirt and flip-flops. And he held a rusted pitchfork leveled at my back. He had poked me with one of the prongs.

  "Are you crazy? Put that thing down!” I said as loud as I could, trying for a parental Voice of Authority. It came out more as a Squeak of Discomfort.

  "Shut up!” Bobby snapped. “I'm sick of you spying on me!"

  The wild look in his eyes alarmed me more than anything else. If he thought I was spying, what would he do if he found Davy upstairs?

  I had to buy more time.

  "There's been another shooting,” I blurted out.

  "Shut up!"

  Then a voice from beyond the lawnmower broke in: “Pit! Where are you?"

  It was Davy. He stood in the doorway, peering at us like he'd just arrived. He must have heard my warning. But how had he gotten outside? The loft doors had to be fifteen feet above the ground.

  "Over here!” I waved and started in his direction as fast as I could. Bobby hesitated.

  "Wait!” the kid finally cried. He lowered the pitchfork and ran to catch up. “Who did you say was shot?"

  Too late. He'd told me more with his answer than he'd intended.

  "No one was shot,” I said. “You scared me with the pitchfork. It was the first thing I thought of."

  "Oh.” He actually looked relieved.

  I joined Davy. “I found him,” I said. “He was here, just like his mother said he would be."

  "Did you ask him your question?” Davy said.

  I blinked. Question?

  "What question?” Bobby asked, staring at me.

  Think fast. “About Detective Nunes,” I said. “She told us yesterday morning, after you left, that Davy could get an autopsy done on Bailey. But you said she gave you permission to dispose of him before we got there. It's been bothering me."

  "Maybe it was my second trip to the police station, not the first. I wasn't paying attention."

  "Second trip?"

  "Yeah. I brought papers to my mother at the hospital. She signed her statement for Detective Nunes, then I dropped it off. That was right after lunch. She must have given me permission then."

  "Oh,” I said. “That explains it."

  Davy said, “Come on. Let's get to the motel."

  We left Bobby standing in the doorway, still holding his pitchfork.

  * * * *

  My mouth went dry and I shook all over when we reached the BMW. I could have used a drink—beer, whiskey, anything alcoholic.

  Davy put the car in gear, made a U-turn, and pulled out fast. He flipped on the headlights when we hit the highway.

  "Thanks for the warning,” he said. “I was about to climb down when I heard you talking to Bobby."

  "How did you get outside?"

  "There's a big nail below the loft doors. I hooked my belt onto it and eased myself down. That only left a five-foot drop. Of course, I couldn't get my belt back—I left it hanging there."

  "We'll get it tomorrow."

  "So, aren't you going to ask me what I found?"

  I looked at him. “You found something?"

  "Take a look at this!” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a shell casing with a handkerchief. It was about three quarters of an inch long and shiny brass.

  "Where was it?"

  "In the corner, where the ceiling slopes down almost to the floor. You wouldn't see it normally, but my flashlight picked it out."

  "Good job.” It confirmed my theory about the shooter being in the second barn. “I don't suppose you saw a rifle?"

  "No sign of one."

  It had been a lot to hope for.

  "What next?” Davy said.

  "We speak to Detective Fifi again. First thing in the morning. Then we'll have to attend Mitch's viewing at the funeral parlor."

  "You know who did it, don't you?"

  I shrugged. “My list of suspects is narrowing."

  "Dawson?” Davy probably had visions of his reckless driving ticket being thrown out by a sympathetic judge.

  "I think it was Bobby."

  "No way!” he said. “He was with us when it happened. And he's just a kid."

  "He may not have pulled the trigger, but I know he's involved. As for being a kid...” I remembered the trophies in his bedroom. The dates had gone back twelve years. If he'd started riding competitively at age ten, how old would that make him? “He's in his twenties. Maybe his mid twenties."

  "No way!” he said again.

  "You're only saying that because he's small. But think about it. Jockeys are always small. Give him a youthfu
l face, and I can see how he'd pass for a teenager. Especially when he wants to.” As he'd clearly done for our benefit. And probably for the police's.

  "But why?"

  "I don't know, yet. And the hard part will be proving it. He covered everything pretty well."

  * * * *

  We returned to the Best Western and spent an uneventful night. As usual, Davy was up with the sun the next morning, showering and bustling around our room. Even with the pillow over my head, I could hear his damn cheerful whistling.

  "Will you cut that out?” I snarled.

  He laughed. “Want a Dr Pepper? You need some caffeine."

  I mumbled obscenities into the mattress. But finally I roused myself enough to sit up.

  An hour later, after a truly wretched breakfast of burnt toast, bitter coffee, and runny scrambled eggs at a nearby diner, I borrowed his cell phone. Almost nine o'clock—time to contact Detective Fifi.

  I punched in her number, asked for her extension, and on the third ring she picked up.

  "Officer Nunes,” she said.

  "Good morning,” I said. “This is Peter Geller. May David Hunt and I stop by and see you this morning?"

  "What about?"

  "We have some new information about Mitch Goldsmith's murder."

  She hesitated. “When?"

  "How about now?"

  "Fine. I'm free for the next half hour."

  We made it to the Buckston Police Station in record time. The officer at the window called Detective Fifi for us, and she ushered us to her desk. I settled into my chair.

  "You said you have information?” Nunes moved straight to business. I liked that.

  "Yes,” I said, “but first I have a question. Did you give Bobby permission to dispose of Bailey's Final Call?"

  She looked startled. “Certainly not. Did he—?"

  "He tried. We stopped the disposal company. The horse is being held on ice for us."

  "Good."

  Davy said, “Why didn't you tell us you and your partner were the Fifi and Daws that Mitch referred to?"

  She looked away. “Because we didn't know if you'd murdered him. You insured Bailey's Final Call for two million dollars, after all. That's a lot of motive."

  I looked at Davy, who shifted uncomfortably. A Midas touch indeed.

  "Davy's worth a hell of a lot more than that,” I said.

  "We know now. But we didn't at the time. And it would have wrapped things up nicely if you two had been guilty. Daws pressed to have you picked up and questioned, but Captain Dobbs said we needed more evidence."

  That had to be why Dawson followed us in his car. When Davy gave him the slip, he'd gotten pissed off and staked out our room at the Best Western.

  "So who did shoot Mitch?” Davy asked.

  "Bobby would have been our chief suspect, but he has the pair of you for his alibi."

  "Right,” I said. “Your other investigation makes him the natural suspect, of course."

  Surprise crossed her face. “How—"

  "The same way I know your first name is Fifi and Dawson likes to be called Daws.” Why not embroider the truth a little? I leaned forward and dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have Mitch's diary."

  "Let me have it,” she said.

  "Nothing doing,” Davy said. He picked up fast. “After the way Dawson bushwacked me at the motel, I half suspect he shot Mitch!"

  Nunes sighed. “What did he do?"

  "Camped out and waited for me.” Davy pulled out his ticket and handed it over. “Just because I out-drove him yesterday. For all we knew, he was the sniper and meant to pick us off!"

  She sighed and stuck the ticket in a desk drawer. “I'll take care of it,” she said. “Daws has quite a temper, and he isn't having a great week. I'm sure he didn't mean to take it out on you."

  "Thanks.” I nudged Davy. “Give her the casing."

  He pulled out his handkerchief and passed it over.

  "What's this?” she asked, unfolding it.

  I told her my theory that the shooter had been in the second barn, and Davy told how he'd found the shell casing in the loft. I filled in extra details, like Bobby's reaction when he discovered me.

  "I really thought he was going to run me through with the pitchfork,” I said.

  "You're lucky he didn't. He's been arrested several times for assault."

  No surprise there. “What happened?"

  "The charges were dropped. Bobby paid off everyone he beat up."

  "But where did he get that much money?” I wondered aloud.

  "That's what Mitch wanted to know.” Fifi shook her head. “No visible means of support, and he spends cash like a Saudi prince. Can't be legal."

  At last, a clue to their investigation. If Mitch had tipped off the police about Bobby, would that be enough motive for Bobby to kill him?

  Probably not. Bobby had only gotten violent with me when I'd stepped on his toes, first in the house and then in the barn. It sounded like Mitch had been treading very carefully around him. No, I had missed something. Something big.

  "What about the barn?” Davy asked. “Can you get a search warrant?"

  "Based on one shell casing? Probably not. It could have been up there for months."

  "You will check it for fingerprints though?"

  "Of course."

  "And you do believe me about the shooter?"

  "Yes. But there's a big difference between belief and proof. And Bobby is hardly going to confess, is he?"

  "No.” At least, not without proper motivation.

  "How old is Bobby?” Davy asked.

  "Twenty-six."

  "Huh. I would have sworn he was in his teens."

  I gave Davy an I-told-you-so glance.

  "Here.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out Mitch's little black book. “It's not quite a diary, but you might as well have it.” I could remember every entry on every page, anyway.

  Nunes took it, leafed through, then sat back and laughed. “You're sharp,” she said. At least she was a good sport; Daws probably would have pounded me into the floor. “You bluffed me completely. Did you get the information you wanted?"

  "Yes."

  "Who do you think killed Mitch?"

  "I don't think, I know. Bobby set it up. I'd bet money his boyfriend pulled the trigger.” I thought of the man on the metallic purple motorcycle. If only we knew his name.

  Nunes stared at me. “Boyfriend?"

  "Didn't you know? Bobby's gay."

  "No, I didn't know. But that's not a sign of guilt these days. The courts need proof. Physical evidence, or a confession."

  I nodded at the shell casing. “There you go."

  "We already have a well-documented crime scene with another shell casing, a body impression, and a clear line-of-sight to the crime scene."

  "All planted,” I said. “I'm an eyewitness. The way Mitch was standing, the bullet couldn't have hit him in the back unless it came from the barn."

  "Don't get me wrong—I believe you. But that's not enough for me to act."

  "I see.” I bit my lip. How much more did she need?

  "Mitch's viewing starts at ten o'clock,” she went on. “I thought I'd make an early appearance. Want a ride over?"

  "We'll follow you,” I said. I looked at Davy, who nodded.

  When she turned to get her purse from the bookcase in back of her chair, I scooped up the shell casing. The way things were going, I didn't want to let it out of my sight just yet.

  * * * *

  The Himmelbach Funeral Home was a sprawling Victorian mansion with additions to both sides. It was just after ten o'clock, and mourners had already begun to arrive. Good thing I had dressed in dark colors. Davy looked out of place in his yellow shorts and shirt.

  Mitch's coffin sat in the back of a large room. He must have been well liked; dozens of wreaths, vases of flowers, and floral displays surrounded him. Missy, dressed all in black, sat up front and wept. Bobby had his arm around her shoulders. His dar
k suit looked fresh from the tailor.

  We joined the line of mourners passing Mitch for one last look. The woman ahead of me crossed herself, then turned to Missy, whispering condolences. Davy and I followed Detective Fifi to the second row of seats.

  That's when Bobby spotted us. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave a nod in our direction. Then he excused himself from his mother and made his way over to us.

  "Thanks for coming,” he said. “It means a lot to my mother. She's very religious."

  I said, “That's what makes this so much harder."

  "What?"

  "You remember Officer Nunes?"

  He nodded to her. “Of course."

  "She's here to arrest your mother for Mitch's murder."

  "Are you crazy?” His voice rose, and heads began to turn in our direction. Missy wept on, not listening, not caring.

  "Mr. Geller—” Nunes began quickly. I hushed her with a gesture.

  "You see,” I continued, “I found this when I was in your house yesterday.” I produced the shell casing. Bobby stared at it. “This one came from the bullet that killed Mitch. Officer Nunes already had the crime lab do a match on it. And since your mother was the only one in the house at the time—"

  "Shut up!” His voice dropped to a whisper, but his hands balled into fists. I could see that rage building inside him. “Shut up! It wasn't her!"

  "It couldn't have been anyone else."

  "Shut up!"

  Nunes must have picked up on what I was doing. She said, “Your mother was too smart for her own good. She must have been planning it for a long time. After all, she set up a fake blind for the sniper, complete with a fake shell casing. That's premeditated. All that insurance on Mitch—quite a motive. It makes us wonder about her first husband's death too."

  "My dad died of cancer!"

  "That's what we were told.” Her voice hardened. “But now we're not so sure."

  I added, “Wasn't he insured too?"

  Bobby pressed his fists to his ears. His eyes flicked from one of us to another.

  "She's looking at life in jail,” I added, “if she doesn't get the death penalty."

  With a shriek of rage, he leaped at me.

  "Look out!” a man's voice shouted from somewhere behind me. “He's got a knife!"

  Only Bobby didn't have a knife. It was a lie.