Orchid Beach hb-1

by Stuart Woods

  “Unless he knew them. I see your point.”

  “There was a fight,” Holly said.

  “I didn’t see any evidence of that,” Hurst said.

  “The hood of the car was deeply scratched. I think the scratches were made by the chief’s handcuffs, on his belt. I think somebody hit him, knocking him onto the car, and that he fought back.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “The chief had bruises on his face and torso, as from a fight. He had two broken fingernails on one hand. You don’t get broken fingernails from hitting somebody with your fist. I think he probably grabbed hold of some clothing during the struggle.”

  “Why didn’t he use his gun?”

  “Because he knew them and didn’t expect trouble.”

  “You’re pretty sure there were two, then?”

  “You knew the chief. Do you think one man could have fought with him and shot him as easily as that?”

  “You’re right,” Hurst said, looking sheepish. “He was a pretty tough customer.”

  “I talked with the chief at seven-thirty last night. He told me he was on the way to meet somebody.”

  “Why would he have a meeting on the side of the road?” Hurst asked.

  “Doesn’t make much sense, does it? Maybe he was on the way to his meeting, and somebody flagged him down—somebody he knew.”

  “Could very well be,” Hurst admitted.

  “Then I think they got the shotgun out of the chief’s car, came over here and killed Hank Doherty.”

  “Could be.”

  “Bob, can you think of any reason why somebody would want to kill the chief?”

  Hurst shook his head. “No, I can’t. I don’t know of any problems he was having with anybody.”

  “Do you know of any investigation he was involved in that might have been dangerous?”

  Hurst shook his head again. “The chief was pretty closemouthed when he was working something of his own.”

  “Is there anybody he might have told about it?”

  “Maybe Hank Doherty,” Hurst replied.

  “Right,” Holly said. “Okay, you go on back and write up your report. I’ll take a look at it later and add anything I think is important.”

  “See you later, then,” Hurst said, and left.

  Holly picked up the letter from Hank Doherty’s daughter and dialed the number on the letterhead.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice said.

  “Is this Mrs. Warner?” Holly asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is Hank Doherty your father?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Deputy Chief of Police Holly Barker, in Orchid Beach, Florida. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  H olly went back to the station, taking Daisy with her. The dog sat at attention in the backseat, gazing out the window; Holly thought she seemed sad, but who knew? At the station, Holly got out of the car. “Jimmy, will you stay with Daisy for a while? She seems comfortable with you, and I don’t want to leave her alone in the car.”

  “Sure, Chief, glad to,” Weathers said. “I’m comfortable with her, too.”

  She had hardly sat down at her desk when Jane Grey and Hurd Wallace were in her office. She gave them a rundown of the scene at Hank Doherty’s place. Hurd nodded and went back to his desk; Jane sat down, practically in tears.

  “What a terrible day,” she said. “I just can’t believe all this has happened.”

  “I know,” Holly said. “Have you heard anything on the ballistics?”

  “Oh, no. I expect it will be tomorrow, probably late in the day, before we hear anything.”

  “Anything from Dr. Harper yet?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You know the number at the hospital?”

  “I’ll dial it for you,” Jane said. When they were on the line, she handed Holly the phone.

  “May I speak with Dr. Green, please? This is Deputy Chief Barker from Orchid Beach Police.” There was a pause, and the doctor came on the line.

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “I just wondered if there had been any change in the chief’s condition,” Holly said.

  “Not as yet; to tell you the truth, I’d be surprised if there had been. He’s still in a coma. Certainly the anesthetic wore off a long time ago.”

  “Thanks, Doctor. Please keep me posted.” She hung up.

  “Anything?” Jane asked.

  “Nothing yet. He’s still the same. Jane, will you type up a press release and fax it to all the local media, saying that we’d like to hear from anyone who passed along the relevant part of A1A between eleven and eleven-twenty last night, who might have seen two cars at the side of the road?”

  “Sure. Oh, I forgot—Charlie Peterson called. He got the city council to put up a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to arrest and conviction.”

  “Great, put that in the release, too, and get it out as soon as you can.”

  “Hank Doherty had a daughter,” Jane said.

  “I’ve already talked with her; she’ll be here tomorrow. If she comes in while I’m out, find me. I’d like to talk to her.”

  “What’s happened to Daisy?”

  “She’s out in the parking lot with Jimmy Weathers. I’ll take her home with me tonight. I’d hate to put her in the animal shelter. She seems like such a sensitive creature.”

  “She’s a marvel. Lots of people know her, especially around here. Hank used to bring her into the station, but he hasn’t been around for months.”

  Holly glanced at her watch. “I think I’m going to call it a day, and so should you as soon as you get that release out.”

  “I will, don’t worry.”

  The phone on Holly’s desk buzzed, and she picked it up.

  “Chief, Dr. Harper’s on the phone for you.”

  “Thanks.” Holly pushed the flashing button. “Doctor?”

  “Evening, Chief. I’m done.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “He was killed late last night or early in the morning, say between eleven P.M. and three A.M. Death would have been instantaneous.”

  “Any sign of a struggle? Anything under the nails?”

  “Just dirt. No injuries, except the shotgun—that was enough.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Not much. He had an alcohol level of point two two, which would not have been unusual for Hank. He had a liver the size of a watermelon, and as hard as marble, which doesn’t come as a surprise. He’d have been dead in a few months anyway from cirrhosis.”

  “Thanks, Doctor.” Holly hung up. “Nothing of use from the autopsy. Jane, do you know Hank’s cleaning lady?”

  “Sure, she worked for the chief, too.”

  “Would you give her a call and break the news to her, then ask her to go over to Hank’s house and clean up his office? I wouldn’t want his daughter to see it as it is.”

  “Of course.”

  Holly stood up. “I’m off. Tell the front desk to call me if anything comes in on either shooting.”

  Holly stopped by the manager’s office on her way in and introduced Daisy to Jerry Malone. “All right if I have a dog here tonight?”

  “Sure, I’ve got no problem with pets,” Malone said. “Lots of my people have them.”

  Holly waved good night and drove to her trailer. Daisy hopped out and showed some interest in the area, sniffing at bushes and at the river. Holly got the dog food she had brought from Hank’s and set out a dish and some water for her. Grief had not hurt the dog’s appetite. The phone rang.

  “Oh, God,” Holly said aloud. She’d hoped she could get through the night without a call, in spite of her instructions to the front desk. She sat down on the bed and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hiya, kiddo,” her father said.

  “Hello, Ham,” Holly replied.

  “So how was your first day?” he asked.

  “Oh,
Jesus, Ham, you’re not going to believe it. Are you sitting down?”

  “Yep.”

  “Both Chet Marley and Hank Doherty were shot last night, probably by the same person. Chet’s in a coma, and Hank is dead.”

  There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. “Do you know who did it?” Ham asked finally.

  “No, not yet. Don’t know why, either.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Holly launched into a detailed description of both crimes, finishing up with Hank’s autopsy report. “And that’s all I know,” she said.

  “What about this detective, Hurst? He any good?”

  “I think he’s all right, maybe a little short on imagination. Of course, he’s got a new boss breathing down his neck, too, and he may be reacting to the pressure, holding back a little to avoid making a mistake.”

  “You think these shootings have anything to do with what Chet talked about at dinner last month?”

  “I think it has everything to do with it, but as far as I know, he didn’t discuss it with anybody. When I talked to him last night, he said he’d brief me this morning, tell me everything. He was going to meet somebody, and that may have been the shooter.”

  “I wish I could help in some way,” Ham said. “Those guys were my friends.”

  “I know how you feel, Ham; I feel the same way, though I didn’t know Chet well nor Hank at all. I’m going to bust a gut clearing this one.”

  “You got all the help you need?”

  “I think so.”

  “Can you trust the help?”

  “I don’t know about that yet. I’ve hardly had time to form impressions of these people.”

  “Chet had a secretary, Jane. He trusted her, I think, from the way he talked about her.”

  “Right, she’s been a big help, got me off to a good start.”

  “What about this guy who wanted your job?”

  “Hurd Wallace. I don’t know about him yet. He’s a hard one to read, a real cold fish.”

  “You watch your back, you hear?”

  “I will, Ham.”

  “I’m going to let you get some rest now.”

  “Thanks, I’m bushed.”

  “I love you.”

  “You, too.” She hung up, surprised. Ham was not one for expressions of affection. She fell back onto the bed, and Daisy came and nuzzled her hand.

  “Oh, Daisy.” She sighed. “I could really use a beer.” She struggled to sit up before she fell asleep in her clothes. She watched, puzzled, as Daisy went into the kitchen, looked around, went to the refrigerator, took the door handle in her teeth and opened the door. She stuck her muzzle inside and came out with a bottle of Heineken, holding it by the neck in her teeth, then she brought it to Holly and placed it in her hand.

  Holly stared dumbly at the dog. “Wow,” she said, half to herself. “You want a job, Daisy?”

  CHAPTER

  9

  H olly lay in a deep sleep, dreaming of nothing in particular. She was in her office and the phone rang, but before she could answer it there came a sound that didn’t belong. She listened, and it came again, a short, urgent, nearly inaudible, plaintive grunt. She opened her eyes and looked around her. Daisy sat by her bed, an expression of concern on her face. She made the noise again, then stuck her nose under Holly’s arm and lifted it off the bed.

  Holly laughed. “And what do you want, Daisy? To go out?”

  She looked at the clock, which read seven A.M. “Oh, good thing you woke me. I forgot to set the alarm.” She wondered if that was why Daisy had awakened her, but dismissed the thought. “I’ll bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  Daisy emitted a low, gruff woof that had an affirmative ring to it.

  “Okay, okay.” Holly got out of bed, threw on a robe and fed and watered Daisy, then let her out of the trailer and stood in the door and watched. The dog ranged around the little clearing, her nose to the ground one minute, in the air the next. Then she disappeared behind a bush and a minute later came bounding back to the trailer.

  “You’re a real lady, aren’t you? Very discreet,” Holly laughed, rubbing the top of her head. “Well, today, your, ah, sister is coming to take you to Atlanta, and you’re going to have some very nice kids to play with.” She felt a pang as she said it; she was finding Daisy good company. She took a quick shower, dressed in her uniform—in trousers, this time—and had breakfast, listening to the local news on the radio. She was pleased to hear her press release read on the air and to hear the mention of the reward for information.

  At eight, she put Daisy into her Jeep and drove to the station, this time taking her inside on a leash. She had to stop half a dozen times on the way to her office for people to say hello to Daisy and pet her—a very popular dog. In her office, she told Daisy to lie down, and her instruction was immediately complied with. A moment later, Holly was startled to hear a deep growl from the dog, and she looked up to find Hurd Wallace standing in the doorway.

  “Daisy! Quiet!” she commanded, and the dog put her head on the floor again and was quiet.

  “We’ve made an arrest in the chief’s shooting,” Wallace said.

  “What? When? Who?”

  “Last night we had a call from a citizen who said he’d seen an old van parked near the spot where the shooting took place. One of our patrolmen knew the van. It belonged to two people, a man and a woman, who have been squatting on a piece of vacant land between the highway and the river, very near where the chief was shot. He went to the campsite and found these two sitting in front of a fire. The man was cleaning a weapon; it was the chief’s Beretta.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Bob Hurst is interrogating them now, in room one. There’s a two-way mirror, if you want to watch.”

  “Let’s go.” Holly followed Wallace down a corridor and into a small room. Two bedraggled kids in their late teens or early twenties sat at a table in the adjoining room. Bob Hurst sat opposite them, and a policewoman stood in a corner and watched.

  “It’s S.O.P. to have a woman present when a woman is being interrogated,” Wallace said.

  “I know. How long has the questioning been going on?”

  “Since midnight.”

  “Has somebody read them their rights?”

  “Yes, at the very beginning. They’ve signed off on that.”

  “Have they asked for a lawyer?”

  “I suppose not, or they’d have one.”

  “Okay, let’s listen.”

  The voices came through clearly over a small speaker:

  “All right, let’s go over this again,” Hurst said.

  “I told you what happened,” the young man said.

  “Tell me again; I want to be sure I understand. What was your van doing parked beside the road late the night before last?”

  “We had been to a movie, and we had a flat, right before we got back to our camp. I changed the tire and drove on home.”

  “What time did you have the flat?”

  “Between ten-thirty and ten forty-five.”

  “And what time did you drive on?”

  “It took me fifteen or twenty minutes to change the tire, so I guess between ten forty-five and eleven o’clock.”

  “Where did you go to the movies?”

  “At the multiplex on the mainland.”

  “What movie did you see?”

  “Air Force One, with Harrison Ford.”

  “What time was the movie over?”

  “Around ten o’clock, maybe a little after.”

  “And why did it take you forty-five minutes to make the fifteen-minute drive back to your camp?”

  “We stopped at McDonald’s and got some fries and a Coke. I told you that already.”

  “And how did you come to have the Beretta in your possession?” Hurst asked.

  “I told you, our dog found it.”

  “Your dog has a personal interest in firearms?”

  “He didn’t exactly find it. I let him
out early the next morning, and he wouldn’t come when I called him. I found him sniffing around the fence that separates the highway from the property where we’re camping. I went to take hold of his collar, and I stepped on the gun.”

  “How close to the fence?”

  “I don’t know, six or eight feet, maybe.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “What for?”

  “The gun didn’t belong to you. Why didn’t you turn it in to us?”

  “Look, man, it was a free gun, you know? Finders keepers. I had no idea who it belonged to.”

  “You like guns, do you?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so.”

  “What other guns do you own?”

  “I’ve got a little six-shooter, a thirty-two.”

  “And where is it?”

  “In the van, maybe.”

  Wallace spoke up. “We found the thirty-two Smith and Wesson in the glove compartment of the van; it’s going to the state lab this morning. They don’t have a license for it, and there was a little over a gram of cocaine powder hidden under a seat.”

  “Tell me about when you got back to your camp, after changing the tire,” Hurst said.

  “We didn’t go straight back to the camp. I drove down A1A and left our flat tire at a filling station to be fixed. The Texaco station.”

  “The station was open that late?”

  “No, I left the wheel on his doorstep with a note. I went back there yesterday afternoon and picked it up. I know the guy. We buy our gas there.”

  “We’re checking out that story right now,” Wallace said.

  “And what time did you get back to your camp?”

  “Must have been eleven-thirty.”

  “They just missed the shooting,” Wallace said. “Very convenient.”

  “Look, man,” the suspect said, “I’m tired. I haven’t had any sleep, and I don’t know what this is about. I’m sorry I didn’t turn in the gun, okay? Is it a crime not to turn in a gun you found? What’s going on here?”

  “Okay, I’m going to let you get some sleep, and we’ll talk about this later.”

  “What’s going on, man? This isn’t about a lost gun, is it? There’s something else going on.”

  “You tell me, Sammy,” Hurst said.

  “Tell you what?”