by Leslie Nagel
Franklin turned to Charley. “With your permission, ma’am?”
She waved a hand, knowing there was no point in postponing the inevitable. The deputy produced an evidence bag from his utility belt and carefully bagged and labeled the lunch box. Then he touched his hat brim politely before following Drummond out the door.
Dale lowered his cellphone. “Well, that was bracing.” He cocked a bushy gray eyebrow. “Do I need to find another carpenter?”
Chapter 14
“I cannot believe that dipshit almost arrested you.” Paul Brixton’s brow furrowed with concern. “Sure you’re okay, Nancy Drew?”
“I’m fine. What I can’t believe is that we’re hiding from your boss.”
Charley, Marc, and Paul were seated around the table in the “murder room,” a small, plainly furnished conference room in the Safety Building that Marc often appropriated as a command center for more serious, complex investigations. At the moment the whiteboards were clean, the countertops clear of everything but a coffeemaker, a small flat-screen TV and a multiline desk phone. The corkboard next to the door held a sad collection of take-out menus and expired coupons.
The advantage of meeting in this room, aside from the fact that both detectives’ desks were currently buried in pointless busywork, was the fact that the door closed. They could discuss the Weller case in private, without fear of being overheard by Zehring or anyone reporting to him.
“I know he’s had issues with you since the mayor hired you for this job, but it seems to be getting worse.” Charley bit her lip. “Please tell me that’s not my fault.”
“Of course not.” Paul sighed deeply. “You’re just the latest excuse.”
After their encounter with Drummond, Marc had whisked Charley across Park Avenue. Paul had patted her shoulder, led them in here, made coffee, and generally fussed like a mother hen. As Marc tersely related the events at Old Hat, Paul became every bit as furious as his partner, fingers raking through his stiff black hair, deep-set eyes glittering with anger.
“Really starting to hate that guy.” He glared at the closed door. “Think he’ll call Zehring?”
“Penwater’s video should curb his enthusiasm.” Marc’s voice went hard. “Although part of me wishes he would. I’ve had just about enough of this shit. You’ve done nothing but assist this department, Charley, and all the Chief does is disrespect you. I’ve no doubt he’s the source of Drummond’s hostility toward you, too. You’re an asset, not the goddamned enemy. If Zehring is too concerned with his ego and perceived slights to his almighty authority to realize that—”
“How did Drummond get onto Oliver?” Charley asked quickly, hoping to divert the conversation onto a less alarming track. The last thing she wanted was to be the cause of a conflict that cost Marc his job. “I only learned his identity an hour ago. And how did you show up in the nick of time?”
Marc hadn’t let go of her since Drummond’s undignified departure. He’d wrapped his arms around her, smoothing her hair and tenderly massaging the handcuff imprint on her wrist. Frankly, she’d expected a lot more yelling. As he gazed at her now, his angry expression softened. “We got a courtesy call informing us they were picking someone up in our jurisdiction. The minute I heard the location, I raced over there.” He grinned at her. “I half expected it to be you.”
She grinned back. “Almost was.”
“After you took off, I called a buddy of mine at the Sheriff’s Department,” Paul said. “They received an anonymous tip that a man matching Duncan’s description was seen exiting the Sharpe house around the time of the murder. The same caller conveniently also saw an unfamiliar truck parked around the corner on Delaine, and also conveniently noted the plate number.”
Marc’s expression turned thunderous again. “An anonymous tip? When did it come in?”
“Within the last hour.” Paul grimaced. “Yeah, I’m not buying it, either.”
“It had to be Judith,” Charley decided. “She’s trying to deflect suspicion away from Paxton. She pretended not to be sure who Oliver was, but Oliver said she’d never liked him when he and Sarah were dating.” Charley had filled both detectives in on her conversation with Oliver Duncan, including the fact that he visited Sarah shortly before she was murdered. “Maybe it’s just me, but Drummond was pretty quick to shift his suspicion from Paxton to Oliver.”
“It smacks of desperation,” Marc decided, voice grim. “Drummond’s desperate to make an arrest, but it’s obvious he doesn’t have anything solid. If he did, he’d be trumpeting it from the rooftops.”
“My buddy says most of the guys down there don’t like him any more than we do. There’s plenty of buzz circulating about how Zehring yanked this case from you, pard, none of it positive.” Paul slapped his cellphone onto the tabletop. “As a result, I’ve been promised a call with more information.”
“Hold up.” Marc’s face creased with concern. “I know what I said, but you’re only three years shy of retirement. You can’t risk—”
“Shut the hell up,” Paul said pleasantly. “We’re just talking here. Charley’s had an upsetting experience, and I am helping my partner assist her in sorting through her issues, some of which may or may not concern various matters under investigation.” Charley reached over and laid a hand on his. He beamed at her. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned a spot at this table, young lady.”
After a short silence, Marc asked abruptly, “You know what I hate about anonymous tips? Everything. The convenient timing, the motive of the caller, the inability to verify. This entire thing smacks of a setup. I cannot believe Drummond doesn’t see that.”
“Especially when there are two far better suspects,” Charley declared. “Brandon and Paxton. And you can throw Judith in there, too. She’s done nothing but lie to everyone in her life for years, including this latest whopper about Sarah’s baby.”
“While it demonstrates a shocking lack of judgment, that particular lie gives Sarah motive to hurt Judith, not the other way around,” Paul pointed out.
“Yeah, that’s what Frankie said,” Charley conceded. “But even if Oliver is the baby’s father, that doesn’t mean Paxton didn’t touch Sarah, or at least try to. Both father and son had ample opportunity to stab Sarah after Oliver left. If they knew he’d been there, either one could be framing him.”
“What do we think about Brandon?” Marc asked. “Yes, he had opportunity, but you’ve got the same problem with motive. If he was angry over some kind of involvement between Sarah and Paxton, he’d want to hurt his father, not Sarah.”
“He admitted to having feelings for Sarah, and he’s got daddy issues for sure, but there’s more going on with him.” As she spoke, Charley recalled Brandon’s reaction to her questions. “He knows something about that night. I’m sure of it.”
“Hardly grounds for a warrant,” Paul said. She made a face at him. He grinned as his cellphone rang. “At last. Brixton here,” he said, holding up a finger. “What’ve you got, Smitty?”
Marc and Charley watched and waited as Paul jotted notes, grunting occasionally. He ended the conversation with a promise to buy the caller a cold one, then clicked off. “Like you figured, Drummond’s got no physical evidence yet. Labs aren’t back, and they still haven’t found a murder weapon.”
Charley nodded. “They’ve been using metal detectors all over the neighborhood, including the boulevard. Drummond’s men have trampled Lawrence’s flowers, and he’s pretty pissed. They’re going to match Oliver’s prints from that lunch box,” she added glumly. “He was down there, probably touched half a dozen surfaces.”
“How is Bobby taking all this?” Marc asked gently. “Having cops prowling under your window would upset anybody.”
“Are you kidding? He’d be out there with a shovel if he thought Lawrence would let him.”
“Neither Brandon nor Paxton Sharpe have verified
alibis for the time of the murder,” Paul continued. “According to Dr. Krugh, that space heater is going to make it nearly impossible to narrow the time of death beyond a window of roughly ten p.m. to four a.m. Brandon’s story is that he was playing an online video game up in his room until he fell asleep. He was wearing headphones and heard nothing. There are time logs for such games, but you can stay logged in and walk away or doze off, and it’s hard to tell if you simply weren’t scoring points. Smitty doesn’t know if Drummond has subpoenaed those logs from the video game server yet.”
“What’s Paxton’s story?” Marc asked.
“He says he was at the base hospital the entire third shift. Came home about six a.m. and fell into bed for an hour before showering and heading back. Some medical bigwigs in town, apparently. Normally the Wright-Pat boys shut out local law enforcement, but since the murder wasn’t on the base, and all the sheriff’s asking for is verification, they’re cooperating. Turns out Sharpe signed out at one a.m. and then back in at three-ten, leaving over two hours unaccounted for.”
“That time of night, you can take the highway and get between Oakwood and Wright-Pat in less than thirty minutes,” Charley murmured. “Where does Paxton say he was?”
“Says he hit an all-night diner and paid cash. He forgot about it in the stress over the murder and Judith’s medical condition. Drummond has one investigator canvassing area diners, trying to find anyone who remembers seeing him.” Paul’s tone made it clear he considered this a token effort. “But none of that is the worst part. Smitty says that County Prosecutor Lawson has a grand jury seated right now for another capital case. As soon as that anonymous call came in, while they were still en route to Old Hat, in fact, Drummond called his captain and requested a filing for an indictment against Oliver Duncan.”
“No wonder he was so upset when Oliver got away.” That fact gave her a moment of perverse pleasure, even as she contemplated the gravity of a grand jury.
“The evidence is purely circumstantial,” Marc protested. “No prosecutor would run with something this thin.”
“Grand juries don’t need physical evidence to return an indictment. They just need probable cause to bring criminal charges.” Paul sighed. “Which Drummond probably figured he could get once he had Duncan in the box and could interrogate him. And now he’s got fingerprint evidence. That boy didn’t help his case by running away,” he observed. “Grasshopper, you know this is Drummond making things personal with you again.”
“And Oliver Duncan will pay the price.” Marc’s anger and frustration were palpable. “Once a grand jury returns an indictment, the investigators close the case and move on.”
“Marc, he’s innocent, I’m sure of it,” Charley declared. “Oliver loved Sarah. You should have seen him Tuesday morning. He was floating on air. Would he have been so happy if he’d just murdered his long-lost love?”
“Plenty of people kill in the name of love.” Marc stood and started pacing. “Duncan admitted to being with Sarah shortly before she died, a conversation in which he learned she’d hid his fatherhood from him for years. That would drive a lot of men into a rage. He further admitted to the sabotage at Old Hat. Not a felony, but it makes him look like a criminal. Hell, he is a criminal.” He stopped in front of Charley. “But you believe he’s innocent?”
“I do.”
His blue eyes studied her face intently. Then he nodded. “All right. I know you told Judith you’d give her a few hours, but things are getting out of hand. We’ve got to tell Drummond about Pippo, and about Sarah’s letter to ‘Ask Jackie.’ Although I’d rather slam my hand in a door than help that bastard solve this case, especially after he laid hands on you.” His jaw tightened. “If he ever disrespects you again, I swear to almighty God, I will take him down.”
Charley’s heart sank. “It’s just so unfair.” She brightened. “Couldn’t you call Trent Logan? Maybe he can inject some sanity into the situation, like keeping Oliver away from that grand jury until you can figure out what to do.”
“Stall a capital case?” Paul scratched his head. “At a minimum, that would place Logan in a very awkward position, especially if Oliver turns out to be guilty. Not to mention the complication of Logan’s involvement with that advice column.”
“But a young man’s freedom hangs in the balance!” she pleaded. “You’ve got to do something!”
From the corridor outside came the sound of raised voices. Before either detective could react, Charley was on her feet. She pushed past Marc, grabbed a marker, and started scribbling on the whiteboard as the door flew open.
“We’ve got time for one more game.” She turned with a sunny smile. “Hello, Chief! Want to get in on some hangman? It’s a great way to keep the brain alert.”
Public Safety Director Dwight Zehring filled the doorway, his steel gray suit barely containing the antagonism radiating from every pore. A Marine tie was knotted so tightly into the immaculate collar of his starched white dress shirt, Charley wondered how the man could swallow, much less speak. He glowered at her. “It’s the middle of a workday. This is a police precinct, not a coffee shop. Get out.”
Marc stepped into his chief’s personal space, towering over him by several inches. “You’re going to want to watch your tone. Sir.” As Charley laid a restraining hand on his arm, she could feel him tremble with suppressed fury.
“Remember who you’re speaking to, boy.” But Zehring took a half step back. A dull red flush spread across his rugged face and up into the brutal buzz cut. “Do you think I was born yesterday? Sergeant Drummond attempts to take a suspect into custody in this woman’s shop. Then you and Brixton go AWOL, and I find the three of you lurking in here. You’re meddling in the Weller case against my explicit orders, aren’t you?” he demanded. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not plotting something with this woman.” Each time he pronounced the word “woman,’ ” it sounded like an expletive.
Marc scowled, but before he could speak, Paul chimed in. “We have made no plans whatsoever relative to that case, sir. You have my word of honor as a sworn police officer.”
Zehring pinned him with a glare, pale eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then he turned on Marc. “And do I have your word of honor as well? You are not violating a direct order?”
Marc’s posture remained equally rigid as he stared back. “My word of honor. We have made no plans to interfere with Sergeant Drummond’s investigation. Ms. Carpenter and I haven’t seen one another in a week. She stopped by. To say hello.”
“I need to get going anyway.” She sent Zehring another brilliant smile. “When Marc works a double shift, I try to pop in for his union-mandated coffee break. All work and no play, am I right?”
The ensuing silence crackled with hostility. Finally, Zehring huffed and turned on his heel. “My office. Ten minutes.”
When he was gone, Paul collapsed back in his chair. “ ‘Union-mandated coffee break’? Dick’s almighty hatband.”
As if there had been no interruption, Charley turned to Marc. “What are you going to do about Oliver? There’s got to be a way to prove he’s innocent. Judith, Brandon, Paxton—they all know more than they’re telling.”
Marc was frowning at the empty doorway. After a moment his face cleared. He turned to Paul. “We are not going to do anything, are we, Paul? We are barred from investigating.” As he spoke, he placed just the slightest emphasis on the word “we.”
Paul said slowly, “That is correct. As we just told the Chief, as of this moment, we have made no plans relative to the Weller case.” He stood. “In fact, we’re so busy, that call to Drummond about little Pippo Sharpe will have to wait until tomorrow.”
The men glanced at each other, then at her.
“Stay safe, Nancy Drew.” Paul winked at her and left the room.
Marc took two steps toward the door. Then he whirled around and pulled her to him in a
savage embrace, kissing her as if he might never have another chance. She wrapped her arms around him, giving herself up to the kiss, the heat, Marc’s pent-up desire matching her own. When he broke away she sagged against the conference table.
“Tonight,” he said fiercely, and he was gone.
In a daze, Charley descended the stairs and exited the Safety Building. What the hell had just happened? It had seemed as if…Did the two detectives want her to keep investigating? Could that be right? Yes, she decided promptly, it could. If Sharon Krugh could practically hand her a confidential report, then anything was possible. Recalling their frustration and anger, she suspected that Dwight Zehring had finally pushed his men too far.
She started walking home, glad for the chance to clear her head and think things through. Paul had always championed her efforts at detection, she mused, being more of a results guy than a stickler for the rules. He had certainly bent the rules just now, despite the risk to his career.
But while she knew Marc’s attitude toward her freelance sleuthing had undergone a sea change since the Mulbridge case, this was a big step for him. She frowned. He didn’t seem all that concerned that his career, too, could be on the line—meaning he must really have faith in her. Charley felt a glow as she recalled his words. An asset.
Well, she was certainly game. Despite his deceptions, she just knew Oliver was innocent. She’d be damned if she’d stand by and watch Drummond railroad him for a crime he didn’t commit.
All the major players in the case were lying, which meant they each merited another conversation. Luckily, conversations in the pursuit of information were her specialty. The question was, whom should she talk to first? She wanted to look into the mystery of Sarah’s baby, but Marc had a point—learning she’d been robbed of her daughter would give Sarah motive to hurt Judith, rather than the other way around. She’d already questioned Judith, for all the good it had done. She’d have loved to talk to Oliver again, but as he was on the run, that would have to wait. That left Paxton or Brandon, neither of whom had any reason to speak to her, now that the police had turned their focus on a suspect outside their family circle.
