March's Luck (Larry Macklin Mysteries Book 5)
Page 6
There was no Mauser to greet us at the door, but a gruff bark from the living room told me that he’d had his dinner and was off duty for the day.
“He feeling better?”
“Yes, thank God. When he has stomach issues…” Dad shook his head, trying to fend off that horrid memory and thankfully not going into details.
“I really just came over to look at some stuff in the garage,” I told Dad. “I think there are still some boxes of mine out there.”
“They’re in the far back corner. I can open the garage door and you can back your car in. I’ll help you load them up.”
“That’s okay, I just want to see what’s in them,” I said.
“The hell you say. I’ve been moving those boxes around for the better part of a decade. Go get your car,” Dad said, no compromise in his tone.
With the car pulled into the garage as far as Dad’s tools and assorted half-finished projects would allow, I found the five liquor boxes with my name scrawled across them in black ink.
“With all the other stuff you have in here, I wouldn’t think that my boxes were that big of a problem,” I kidded him.
“I should have made you take them when you moved into your trailer. Come on.” He grabbed one of the boxes and took it to my trunk.
With the steady drizzle of rain and as dark as it was, I had to concentrate as I drove home. Pulling up to my gate, I saw that the chain and lock were still in place. There were a couple of other dirt driveways within a hundred feet of mine, but there weren’t any streetlights so I left my headlights on as I got out to open the gate.
I had just bent over and was trying to get the right key inserted in the lock when I heard an odd sound behind me. I started to turn my head when a voice came from beyond the light cast by my headlights.
“Don’t move. I have a gun pointed at you.” The voice was low and deep, but I got the impression that whoever it was had to make an effort to sound dangerous.
“What do you want?” I asked. I was still half bent over with rain running into my eyes, but I held my hands steady where the gunman could see them.
“You know what I want,” was the completely unhelpful answer.
“I’m going to straighten up.” I did it slowly.
“Damn it! Don’t move. I’m not kidding you, I’ll shoot.”
I had my hands up in the air now. My mind was calculating how fast I could draw my gun and fire at the vague shadow twenty feet away. The light from my own headlights was keeping me from getting a clear view of him. On the range I could draw and fire an accurate shot at this distance in a second and a half, but with the rain and the blinding lights, there was no guarantee.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Tell me what you want and maybe we can work something out,” I told him, hoping to get some more information about what was going on and who I was dealing with.
“I can’t believe you’re playing games,” he spat out.
I could hear the sound of a pickup truck coming down the main road toward us, its headlights already lighting up the road.
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you want,” I said, stalling to give the truck time to get closer.
“I swear I’ll shoot you dead if you don’t give me—”
The truck was twenty feet away and coming fast. Now was my chance. As the vehicle whooshed by, I fell to the wet ground and drew my gun. I hesitated a second to allow the truck to pass before I fired a shot, but the dark figure jerked the trigger on his own gun and I fired back. His shot went wild and I was pretty sure mine had too. By the time I got to my feet, he was gone in the rain and the darkness.
I looked up and down the road, trying to decide which way he’d run. The shooter had to have had a vehicle. He wouldn’t have walked the five miles from town. I started running in the direction of the nearest driveway only to get there and hear the sound of a truck start up in the opposite direction. I turned back in time to see the red taillights of a white dually drive away. The tag lights were out, so I didn’t have a chance to get the number.
Panting, I stood in the road as water dripped off my hair and into my eyes. I holstered my gun and went back to my car.
Chapter Seven
By the time I reached the house I’d decided not to call out the crime scene techs. In the rain, any evidence that was out there would be long gone. The bullet he’d fired went high and off into a field, never to be found. I would write up a report, just for the record, but even the shot I fired wouldn’t cause me any problems. I was off duty, on my own property, and the gun was mine. We had the option of carrying our personal guns, and the Glock I used was my own that I’d customized by replacing the trigger and adding night sights.
I fed Ivy and told her that she was going to have to up her guard cat game, or we were going to have to get a dog. She gave me a cold, dark look that made me glad that she couldn’t talk.
I called Pete and asked him to bring over a couple of game cameras. I had two that I placed out in the woods, just to see what types of animals wandered by. Sometimes I’d bait them with old apples and end up with dozens of pictures of foxes or raccoons carting off the fruit. I knew that Pete, while not a hunter, kept a few for the same purpose. His girls had enjoyed the footage from the “critter cams” when they were younger.
After using a flashlight to collect my cameras from the woods, I put them up at two strategic spots in the driveway. I was waiting for Pete at the gate when he drove up.
“Can’t you ever have an emergency during business hours?” he grumbled. The sky was still dripping and now a cold wind was blowing out of the north.
Pete perked up after I explained everything that had gone down at the gate. We managed to find the spent shell casing ejected from the ambusher’s gun. Guns leave marks on the cases that can be matched back to them, assuming we ever found a suspect. This casing was from a nine millimeter weapon, which wasn’t a surprise. I bagged it and let Pete take charge of it. Next we set up the two cameras he’d brought on either side of the gate. I figured this was all probably too little too late, but I was tired of having my property disturbed.
“Hopefully if they find one camera, they won’t find all of them,” I said.
“This one is old. It even makes a little noise when it goes off, so maybe they’ll just find that one. Whoever it is, they have to know you’re going to take some precautions. Are you sure that it wasn’t Marcy?”
“I’m sure. I’m even pretty sure that she didn’t have anything to do with it. She’s crazy, but not insane. Nor particularly violent.”
“What about the break-in? Could the guy tonight have been the one who broke into your house?” Pete asked.
“I thought about that, but the break-in fit Marcy’s MO. Especially right after she’d asked me if I had anything of hers.” As I said this, I remembered the boxes in my trunk. I made a mental note to check them when I got back to the house.
“Let’s walk down to where you saw the truck pull out.”
“That’s the Sawyers’ driveway,” I said and realized I’d been an idiot not to check on them and make sure they were all right.
We walked down the road on opposite sides, shining our flashlights on the shoulders of the pavement. There was a bit of litter, but nothing that seemed particularly new or interesting. When we got to the Sawyers’ driveway, we checked around the entrance. Their house, like mine, was set far enough back from the paved road that only a glow from its lights could be seen.
We squeezed through a gap in their gate, easier for me than for Pete, and walked up to the house.
The lights were on and there were a car and truck parked close to the nicely kept mobile home. I’d met the Sawyers a few times—a nice older couple who’d retired up to Adams County from Fort Myers. I could hear the TV going in the living room. I knocked on the door and heard footsteps approach. The porch light came on and I could feel myself getting the once-over through the peephole. Finally the door opened.
“C
an I help you?” asked a friendly gray-haired man with bright eyes and an infectious smile. Mr. Sawyer had been in some type of sales, but I couldn’t remember what.
“Mr. Sawyer, I’m your neighbor, Larry Macklin.”
“Of course, I remember you, Deputy Macklin.”
“This is my friend, Deputy Pete Henley.”
“Right, right come on in.”
“Who is it?” a woman shouted from the back of the house.
“Our neighbor,” he yelled back to her. “Bring a couple cups of coffee.”
“No, I’m fine,” I said.
“I’ll take one, thanks,” Pete piped up. I gave him a dirty look. We were just there to check on the Sawyers, not to settle in for a neighborly visit. Pete just shrugged.
“Come on in here. We can sit at the dining room table.” Mr. Sawyer guided us into the dining room and indicated two chairs. Reluctantly, I sat.
“We really don’t want to take up your time.”
“I figured this wasn’t a social call,” Mr. Sawyer said. “Some kind of trouble?”
“Did you see anyone hanging around your gate this evening?” I asked.
He seemed to think hard about this. “Well, I just got home about half an hour ago.” He thought some more. “I didn’t see anyone, but I thought the area out in front of my gate looked a bit tore up. I figured it was those kids with the four wheelers. They ride down the right-a-way and a couple times it’s looked like they’ve been doing wheelies or something in my drive.”
“You know, I told you I thought you’d come home early,” Mrs. Sawyer said, bringing in the coffee. “From the living room I can see the glow of headlights when someone turns into our drive, and I saw them about forty-five minutes ago and thought Fred was home.”
“That’s right, you asked what took me so long down at the gate.”
“But you never listen to me,” she kidded him.
“Guilty,” he said, winking at her. Then he turned back to us. “Who was it?”
“I think someone’s stalking me. I’ve had a couple of problems at my place lately.” I saw the concern on their faces and rushed to reassure them. “I don’t think these people are anything for you to be worried about. Just be extra vigilant for the next week or so.” I took out a couple of my cards and gave one to each of them. “Call me anytime if you see or hear something out of the ordinary. If you see a stranger at your gate or at your door, don’t approach them or let them in. Just give me a call. If you can’t get me, call 911 and tell them that I told you to call.”
They both nodded solemnly. “I’ve got a gun,” Fred Sawyer blurted out.
“Don’t even think about it, Fred,” his wife scolded him. He pursed his lips, but didn’t say anything else.
“Try not to confront anyone,” I said to both of them. “Seriously, just call me. At night I’ll be just down the road and across the street.” They nodded some more and I looked over at Pete.
“The coffee is very good,” he said to Mrs. Sawyer, who then went off on a five-minute explanation of how to brew a great cup of coffee. She poured Pete a cup to go, then we finally headed out the door back to my place.
“Why didn’t you call Darlene?” Pete asked suddenly, after we’d managed to squeeze through the Sawyers’ gate again.
Taken by surprise, I had to think for a minute. “I didn’t know if she’d have any game cams,” I said reasonably.
“Bull. Did you even consider calling her?”
“If it was too late to call you at your house, I’m sorry,” I said, a little irritated at the turn of the conversation.
“That’s not the point. She’s your partner,” he stated flatly. Luckily, Pete couldn’t see me roll my eyes.
“And you’re my friend.” I hoped this would end the conversation.
“Again, not the point. Look, I really appreciate the fact that your father still pairs up investigators,” Pete said. “He could just randomly put investigators together when a case requires more manpower.”
“I’ve heard his lecture. If we’re used to working with someone, then we won’t waste time when we have to team up. Okay, I get it. You think I need to work on my relationship with Darlene. That’s easy for you to say.” I was really not in the mood for this.
“Just sayin’.”
“Maybe she and I just aren’t a good fit. Maybe Dad screwed up putting us together.” We had reached Pete’s car now and I was getting more annoyed by the second.
“Bullshit. More likely you’re just pissed off at yourself and at your dad, so now you’re taking it out on Darlene,” he said.
“Did she complain to you?” I asked loudly, letting my frustration with the entire situation boil to the top.
“I can see you aren’t in the mood to talk.” Pete opened his door and squeezed himself behind the wheel. “To answer your question, no, she didn’t. But everybody at the office can see you’re acting like an ass.” With those words he put his coffee in a cup holder and closed his door.
He drove off, leaving me staring at his taillights. Grumbling to myself, I headed up the driveway to my house. The boxes, I remembered and went straight to my car.
Once I had all five of the boxes sitting on my living room floor, I started to open them and found myself sorting through memories. There were pictures, college textbooks, old receipts and other miscellaneous bits of a life that seemed very distant. I found a picture taken at my high school graduation. My parents were standing on either side of me. I felt a strong tug at my heart seeing Mom. Her smile was bright and pure, without any foreshadowing of the aneurysm that would take her life just two years later. Dad was smiling too, but his eyes were looking past whoever was holding the camera. What was he looking at? I wondered. With his arm around my shoulder, his coat was hitched up and you could see his old Smith and Wesson revolver and his gold badge. Dad was always on duty.
Ivy came over and helped me open the next box. This one was filled with clothes. I made sure there wasn’t anything else in there, then gave it over to Ivy to play in.
The next one held old bank records and magazines. I started to push it away, then noticed that there was also a small cosmetics bag, a pair of women’s tennis shoes and a book. I opened the bag, but there wasn’t much in it other than dried mascara and a tube of lipstick that had oozed out all over the bag.
Picking up the book, I turned it over in my hands, trying to remember if it was one of mine or one that had belonged to Marcy. It was an ancient copy of Treasure Island and appeared to be a special edition prepared for schools. The back cover indicated it was printed by Southern Educational Publishers.
Everything else in the boxes was simply junk. I picked up the book and was going to sit down and thumb through it when my phone informed me that I’d received a text. It read: Too much to text or tell you over the phone. Can you meet me at our usual place in 30 min? It was Eddie. I wanted to tell him to go jump off a cliff, but I needed information on Marcy’s motives now more than ever, so I said okay.
I looked at the book again. Something told me that I didn’t want to just leave it sitting around in plain view so I took it to my gun safe and stashed the book inside before I left the house.
I drove to Rose Hill Cemetery. We’d started meeting there months earlier so that Eddie’s family wouldn’t know he was working with the sheriff’s department. The Thompsons were deep into the drug trade and a number of other marginal or downright illegal businesses. Eddie held a strong grudge against most of them for their less than accepting attitude regarding his lifestyle choices. They didn’t have a problem with him doing drugs, but they drew the line at him wearing women’s clothes. Having a proclivity for abuse, Eddie’s father was particularly cruel to him. Eddie got his revenge by supplying me with leads. A couple of months ago our department, with some assistance from the DEA, had put a serious dent in the family’s operation and indicted several family members, including Eddie’s father. Eddie had decided to take an extended vacation in Miami, but now he was back.
“Good to see you, man,” Eddie started.
“Cut the crap, Eddie. What’s going on with Marcy?”
“She said you still had a thing for her.”
“You have got to be kidding me. That statement just goes to prove how delusional she is. Do you know she broke into my house the other night?”
“Oh, yeah,” Eddie said, as though he was proud of his vast knowledge of events.
“I’m not even going to ask if you knew about it ahead of time, because if you said ‘oh, yeah’, I’d have to beat the crap out of you.”
“Hey, man, you can’t do that.”
“Sure I can. I’m pretty sure that’s part of the CI contract. Don’t you ever watch TV?” He stared at me, trying to determine if I was joking or not. “Eddie, the drugs are eating your brain.”
“You got that right. I spent a lot of time messed up in Miami. Fun as hell, but might not have been too good for my sobriety.”
I rolled my eyes. The jerk had a way of always making me feel sorry for him. Maybe I just felt bad that someone could make as many bad decisions as he had. The remarkable thing was that, once in a blue moon, he did something right. He’d managed to pass on information as well as saving my life twice now. So I took a deep breath and started over.
“I need to know what kind of craziness Marcy is up to. She’s doing things that are going to get her, and those she’s hanging out with, in trouble. The latter includes you,” I told him in a fatherly way.
He looked down at the ground and did his best “aw, shucks” routine. “I know. She was bartending on South Beach. We hung out a little and then she got the word about her father.” He shrugged and tossed his cigarette on the ground.
He started to speak again, but I stopped him. “Pick that up.” I pointed at the cigarette butt.
“What?”
“Show some respect. Do you want to be haunted by one of these guys?” I asked, waving my arms at the tombstones. Right on cue, a gust of cold wind whipped past us. Grudgingly, Eddie picked up the cigarette butt, but then looked confused about what to do with it. Finally, he wet his fingers, put it out and stuck it in the pocket of his hoodie.