Hidden Scars

by Mark de Castrique

  “Sure. Where?”

  “I’m parked under a white pine on the other side of the building. The CR-V with the coonhound in it.”

  Nathan looked at Nakayla. “He serious?”

  “Yes. I guess you could call us foster parents.”

  “Okay,” Nathan said. “I’ll meet you in about ten minutes.”

  When he and Osteen were out of earshot, Nakayla said, “You’re going to ask Nathan about the museum’s security system, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I’d like to get his opinion on how hard it would be to disarm and why a backup battery wouldn’t have kicked in.”

  We returned to the CR-V. Blue was sitting up on the backseat, his nose against the window. With each breath he fogged the glass. When he spotted us, he started barking.

  “He might have to go,” Nakayla said. “I’ll walk him up in the woods since we don’t have any poop bags.”

  “I’ll go with you. Nathan will wait if we’re a few minutes late.”

  I’d kept the rope attached to Blue’s collar so that I could grab it as he hopped out. He sniffed the air a moment to get his bearings. Nakayla started walking up the hill toward the trees and Blue tugged on the makeshift leash to follow. I gave him some slack and let him proceed at his own pace. His quivering nostrils went to the ground as if it were easier to follow Nakayla by scent than sight.

  Suddenly, he stopped, looked back at me and barked as if I would understand. Then he looped around the spot, keeping his nose to the grass.

  “What’s he doing?” Nakayla asked.

  “Tracking something. Maybe a deer. More likely a raccoon, if that’s what he’s trained to hunt.”

  Blue took one more circle and then pulled hard to the right, determined to pursue whatever had crossed his path. I tried to restrain him, but he started choking from the pressure of his collar.

  “Let’s go with him a little while,” I told Nakayla. “I’ll rein him in if he goes too far.”

  Blue lunged forward and I jogged to keep up. Instead of veering up into the woods as I’d expected, he headed toward the enclave of vehicles and tents in the grassy field across the road. We wound between two eighteen-wheelers and paralleled the actors’ trailers. On the most level terrain stood a large white tent with heavy power cords snaking under its sides. The front was open and inside were the tools of a carpentry shop. Two men worked building a wall that must have been part of a shooting set. They were attaching a wooden chair rail over a line of demarcation between an upper section painted pale yellow and the lower section of vertical pine paneling. Blue ignored them and made straight for a folding chair by the rear wall. A used paint can and brush were on the ground in front of it. Blue sniffed all three and then gave three sharp barks.

  The men stopped working and walked over.

  “That there Harlan’s dog?” asked a tall man wearing sawdust covered jeans.

  “Yeah,” I said. “His name’s Blue.”

  The other older and shorter carpenter shook his head slowly. “Poor thing. Harlan would talk about his coonhound. You his kin?”

  “No. Harlan was helping us out with some history research. Like he did for Cassidy.”

  “So how come y’all got his dog?” the taller man asked.

  “The police have to go through his house.”

  Nakayla stepped closer. “We thought it would be too upsetting for Blue.”

  “Yep,” the taller man agreed. “I reckon Blue would be right anxious.” He approached Blue slowly, let him smell his extended hand, and then stroked his side. “Harlan used to sit in this chair. He’d come round and chew the fat just about every day.”

  “Sometimes he’d help us even though he weren’t on the clock,” the shorter man said. “He liked to paint.”

  “We didn’t let him lift nothin’ heavy like this.” The taller man pointed to the wall flat. “He was an old-timer, but he knew some tricks and he didn’t hesitate to give advice.”

  Both men chuckled and then turned somber.

  “Terrible thing,” the shorter man said. “Any idea why he was up at that museum in the middle of the night?”

  “No,” I said. “But he must have wanted something pretty badly. Did you see him yesterday?”

  “Yep,” the shorter man said. “We knocked off about six. He was hangin’ around while the lumber truck was unloadin’.” He looked at the paint can and brush.

  Dry light blue paint streaked the can’s side. The broad brush had a mix of colors on the base and handle, but the bristles were clean enough.

  “He must have given up and gone home,” the man said. “Set his things out for today.”

  “But today never came,” his buddy said. “Goes to show ya never know.”

  “Do you know where Harlan parked his truck?” I asked.

  “Yep,” the taller man said. “Up by the pine trees. Most folks don’t like to park where the sap could drip, but Harlan said it was better than paying for a new paint job.”

  We took Blue to the CR-V and he hopped in the backseat without hesitation. Nathan Armitage arrived a few minutes later.

  “You and Osteen get things straightened out?” I asked.

  “Yes. My guys start at four this afternoon.”

  “Have you dealt with him before?”

  “Not directly. We’ve had contracts with some of his tenants in his retail developments and a few ongoing contracts with a lease management subsidiary, but never with Osteen himself.”

  “You ever hear talk about anyone who carries a grudge against him?”

  “No. As far as I know, he greases the right palms, serves on the right boards and gives to the right charities.”

  “Your by-the-numbers corporate executive,” Nakayla added.

  “He wanted my assurance my staff is all local,” Armitage said. “He wants as much of the movie budget to stay in the area as possible.”

  “Then why didn’t he hire you in the first place?”

  Armitage laughed. “Because he also wants as much of the budget to stay in his own pocket as possible.”

  I changed the subject. “You’ve heard about the death at the Black Mountain College Museum, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah. Osteen told me.”

  “Did you install their security system?”

  “I don’t believe so. Why?”

  “Because Harlan Beale or someone cut the power and disarmed it. I thought those systems had battery backup.”

  “Not all of them,” Armitage said. “Or if power’s been lost previously, say a thunderstorm outage or a transformer malfunction that took a while to fix, then the battery could have drained and not been rechargeable. It’s rare but it can happen.”

  “I doubt if the museum had the money for an elaborate system,” Nakayla said.

  “Well, give me the make and model and I’ll check it out,” Armitage offered.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Newly shouldn’t have a problem sharing that information.”

  Armitage left. I looked at my watch. Nine-thirty. “What do you say we bail out of here? I’ll tell Marty I’ll work with Grayson another day. If you want to stay for a possible dance rehearsal, I’ll come back for you.”

  Nakayla opened the passenger door. “Are you kidding? I want to check on those names Beale listed. But first I’d like breakfast and a few hours sleep.”

  “Damn. I forgot to feed Blue. What’s the recipe for Jim Dandy?”

  “Pour in the bowl, Iron Chef.”

  Blue retraced his scent to the rear entrance of my building. A few other dogs were walking with their owners, and the little ones barked the loudest. Blue ignored them.

  Once in the apartment, the coonhound flopped down on his rug and watched us. I pulled eggs and bacon from the fridge and then turned low heat on a frying pan. Nakayla bent over the bag of Jim Dandy and read the direction
s.

  “My apologies,” she said. “You can also moisten with water.”

  “I was thinking more like bacon drippings. I bet that will get Blue out of bed.”

  “It looks from his weight, he should get one cup twice a day.” She went to a cabinet and pulled down a set of plastic measuring cups. She selected the proper one and took it to the bag of dog food leaning against the side of the refrigerator. I heard the crunch as she dug it into the dry kernels.

  “Sam,” she shouted. “Come here.”

  She opened the bag wider. I looked over her shoulder.

  Half exposed amid the pebble-sized pieces of food lay a black iPhone.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Did you touch the phone?” Newly stared into the bag of dog food while Tuck Efird donned a pair of latex gloves. The four of us stood in my kitchen.

  “No,” Nakayla said. “When I scooped up the food, I uncovered it. Sam called you immediately. My fingers didn’t even graze it.”

  Newly turned to me. “I told you to take the dog and that was all.”

  “Come on. The dog had to eat.”

  We looked at Blue sleeping on his rug.

  “Yeah,” Newly said sarcastically. “I can see how he burns the calories.”

  “And you’re going to stand there and tell me that you and Tuck would have searched through a bag of dog food?”

  Efird laughed. “Damn straight. Newly sticks his nose in any bag that has the word food written on its side.”

  Newly didn’t dignify the comment with a reply. He stepped back and gestured for his partner to dig out the cell phone. Efird extracted the iPhone with two hands, his fingers minimally touching the top and bottom.

  “Is it on?” I asked.

  “The screen’s dark,” Efird said. “Might be hibernating. We’ll lift prints before we go trying to break his passcode.”

  “He might not have had one,” Nakayla said. “Harlan Beale didn’t strike me as a high-tech kind of guy.”

  Efird shook his head. “Well, if this is one of those phones that only gives you a set number of tries before destroying the data, I don’t want to be the guy who squandered one of the attempts.”

  “Tell the techs to repeat the number of the number of password numbers,” I suggested.

  “You want to say that in English?” Newly said.

  “It’s simple. If it’s a four-numeral code, then enter four, four times. If it’s six, repeat the number six. See? That would be easy for Beale to remember.”

  “Yeah, I see,” Newly said. “Sounds like I just learned the pin for your ATM card.”

  Nakayla laughed. Newly had spoken correctly.

  Efird dropped the phone into an evidence bag. “We’ll pass your sophisticated mnemonic theory along to the geeks. They’ll probably want to meet you.”

  He and Newly headed for the door.

  “Wait,” I called. “Anything turn up in the museum?”

  The men looked at each other. Newly shrugged. “No phone, no flashlight, no lead as to what he was seeking. We tagged the books by where they fell, figuring those farthest from the bookcase would have been hurled from the top. Those were the shelves that Beale had to climb to reach.”

  “By himself in the dark,” I said.

  “There’s that,” Newly said. “And, for your ears only, the M.E. thinks there was too little blood at the scene, especially for a head wound.”

  “He was killed elsewhere?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily. The trauma of the fall could have killed him instantly. Heart stops, blood only seeps. But the body temperature was low for the time of death.”

  “By how much?”

  “Maybe a couple hours. It was cool last night, both outside and in the museum.”

  “Well, we know he went home,” Nakayla said. “He had the Black Mountain College book at the movie location and then we found it in his kitchen.”

  “And he called me and then hid the phone in the bag.” I had another thought. “Maybe that’s why he left the iPhone box on his dresser. A clue that he had a phone.”

  “Or maybe he was looking for operating instructions,” Nakayla said. “Apple touts its phones don’t require a manual, but Beale wouldn’t be so technologically intuitive. He wanted to perform some function but didn’t know how.”

  “So, tell me how this fits with your case?” Newly asked.

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “But we have a few leads to follow and I’ll share if it’s a two-way street.”

  “Okay,” Newly agreed. “A two-way street. Just don’t stand on the center line when you don’t know what’s coming. You could end up as roadkill.”

  As soon as Newly and Efird left, Nakayla emptied the cup of food into Blue’s bowl. The sound of the dry nuggets hitting the dish roused Blue from his rug. He sauntered over, took a few bites, and then walked to the apartment door.

  “We forgot to ask Newly about Beale’s next of kin,” Nakayla said.

  “I’ll check with him this afternoon. Give him time to collect more information.” I walked to the stove. “You still up for breakfast?”

  “It’s the only reason I’m still awake.”

  We had double portions of scrambled eggs with three strips of bacon each. Then we went to the bedroom and took off our outer clothes. I laid my prosthesis, shoe attached, at the base of my dresser.

  Blue saw it from the hall and barked. He ran to the bedroom, nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He skidded to a halt beside the artificial leg, clearly bewildered by the detached limb. I sat on the foot of the bed, my left stump covered by the fitted sock that aided against irritation. Blue came over to me, sniffed the point of amputation below the knee, and whined. Then he started licking the severed end.

  “Aw,” Nakayla said. “He’s trying to heal what he thinks is a wound.”

  I patted Blue’s head and gently pushed him away. “It’s all right, boy. There’s nothing wrong.” Other than I’m sitting in my underwear trying to reason with a hound dog.

  I slid back on the bed and lay down. Nakayla rested her head against my shoulder. We heard the click-click as Blue left. Then he returned, dragging something behind him.

  We both sat up. Blue had his rug in his mouth and pulled it next to my prosthesis. He circled three times, then lay down with his head on the shoe.

  Nakayla squeezed my hand. Her eyes were moist. “You’ve got a new friend and he’s got your back.”

  We awoke four hours later. Blue sat with his head cocked watching me re-attach my prosthesis. When I stood, he barked his approval and ran to the apartment door, ready to go, even though I wore only my underwear.

  “He might need a walk,” Nakayla said, not yet rising from the bed.

  “Do you want to go out?” I asked.

  She yawned. “I think I’ll do a search of the names Harlan Beale wrote down. Forward me the pictures you took.”

  I picked up my phone from the nightstand and thumbed to the photographs of the book and notepad on Beale’s kitchen table. I heard Nakayla’s phone ping as they were delivered.

  I slipped on a pair of jeans. “I might swing by the museum and check it out in the daylight. I want to get Nathan the name of the security system they used.”

  “You taking the dog?”

  “Yeah. He seems fine in the car.”

  I found a parking spot in a lot off Walnut near the museum. Despite what I’d told Nakayla, Blue didn’t like the unfamiliar city surroundings and started howling as soon as I opened my door. Asheville is one of the dog-friendliest cities in the country so I took him with me rather than leave him where some overzealous animal lover might be tempted to free him.

  The rope leash gave Blue a rustic distinction—a mountain dog at home on a busy sidewalk. Men nodded appreciatively. Women fawned with comments like “he’s beautiful,” or “how
well trained.”

  Blue stayed close to my left side, and I became aware that he constantly angled his body between me and approaching pedestrians. He was protecting what he must have thought was a vulnerability, my missing leg.

  A man who couldn’t have been out of college more than a few years himself stood in the doorway of the Black Mountain College Museum. Blue and I walked up just as he told a group of four tourists that the museum was closed for the afternoon, but hoped to reopen at ten the next morning. The people moved on and the man started to retreat inside.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Are the police still here?”

  “No, they left around half an hour ago.”

  “So, they’ve released the scene?”

  The young man swallowed hard and nodded, as if the connotation of the word “scene” made it difficult to answer.

  I reached for my wallet and showed him my P.I. license. “Have they ordered you not to reopen until tomorrow?”

  “No. But we have no power and the reference room is a disaster. They boxed all the books and articles and took them. We’ve been promised they’ll be returned as soon as the police conclude their investigation.”

  Good, I thought. They probably numbered each item and matched it to the position it occupied on the floor. Newly was looking to establish what materials had been on the higher shelves.

  “If there is no police restriction, then might I come inside? I’m working a case connected to the victim.”

  The man looked at Blue sitting next to me.

  “I’d prefer not to tie the dog outside,” I said.

  “No, of course not. He’s welcome.” The man’s tone suggested that Blue was more welcome than I was.

  He held the door open as we stepped past him.

  “I’m Josh Crater.” He offered his hand. “How can I help you?”

  Before I could respond, Blue whined and yanked the rope out of my hand. He loped from the front room of exhibits into the next where Beale’s body had been discovered.

  “Blue!” I cried.

  His whines reduced to whimpers. Crater and I found him prone on the floor in the spot where Beale had lain. A lump formed in my throat.