“Where are you?” Seabrook asked. No salutation, no lead in.
Callie stopped the recording. “Why?”
“Not the best answer,” he said with a severity she didn’t like.
“I’m at home, with evidence from the Maxwell house that’ll make your day. What’s wrong?”
“Don’t leave the house. An officer ought to pull in your drive any second.”
Her blood turned to ice water. Was there another murder? She jumped up, her heart almost erupting. “Is Jeb all right?”
“This has nothing to do with Jeb.”
She rushed to the door where Dickens already held his post. “Stay inside, ma’am.”
Seabrook’s cruiser crunched shells in her drive. He stared up from behind his windshield at her, both with phones hugged to their ears. He hung up first, excited, and headed up her steps.
She watched, trying to discern his mood, and met him at the top riser. “What—”
“Go back inside,” he said, his mouth flat and serious. “Raysor’s been shot in the back during a traffic stop. With your missing gun. Now do as I say.”
Chapter 29
SEABROOK ESCORTED Callie back into Chelsea Morning, hand at the small of her back. She recognized the subtle gesture as mannerly, yet close enough to react and grab her if she bolted. Dickens stood at parade rest as if he guarded the barrier between Heaven and Hell. Un-friggin’ believable. Seabrook seriously suspected her, when she was the most powerful tool in his box to hunt this guy.
“Why the backup officer, Officer Seabrook?”
He didn’t respond.
She was fed up with his passive, irritating, almost pouting ways. She reported her Glock stolen, dammit. He shouldn’t be surprised it was used.
Once in the kitchen, he pulled out a chair. “Have a seat.”
Screw him. She crossed her arms, not pleased with the sudden scrutiny. “After you.”
He didn’t, so she backed up to her kitchen counter. “How’s Don? Was he wearing his vest?” Her alibi’s validity depended on the exact time Raysor was shot. She should have taken her missing gun more seriously. Seabrook as well. And she should have installed security sooner.
“His vest took all three bullets,” Seabrook said. “He’s in the hospital with a broken rib and possible internal damage.”
Callie closed her eyes. “Thank God.” Then she opened them. Seabrook watched her intently. All bullets hitting center, as if the shooter knew about the vest. Her butting heads with Raysor. Who wouldn’t suspect her?
“Where were you about an hour ago?” Seabrook asked, memo book open.
“So this just happened?”
His tone hardened. “Answer my question.”
“You’d get better cooperation if you asked a question properly.” Defiant, she tapped into her experience as she pondered who the hell might have shot Raysor. Pauley and Peters remained her top two candidates. She was dying to speak to both of them now, but she wasn’t ruling out anyone. Maybe Raysor was the good guy in all this after all, getting too close to the truth.
Callie recrossed her arms. “Where were you an hour ago, just so we’re even here?”
“On another call at a rental,” he said. “Seventy-year-old woman fell in her hot tub.”
“And I was here,” she said, “going over the Maxwell interview and evidence you need to see.”
“Anybody with you?”
“No,” Callie said. “But—”
“What time will the Maxwells say you left their house?”
“Quarter to seven.” She slapped her notes on the table, then laid the recorder beside them. “I noted it in my interview.”
“That cuts it awful close.”
“My car hasn’t been cranked today. I’ve been here on this street, talking to the victims.” She felt moisture building on her palms, her respiration building though she was innocent. Who had really tried to kill Raysor with her gun? If they would shoot Raysor, they’d shoot anyone touching this case. “Tell me what happened.”
Seabrook showed no emotion. “Raysor pulled over a speed violator,” he said. “He stopped the car on the side of Highway 174 in front of the turnoff to the Serpentarium when someone in a nearby vehicle saw him get popped three times. Raysor’s bulk blocked the driver’s view. Once Don went down, the driver lost his head. He couldn’t recall his own name.”
“Probably realized how easily one of the bullets could have been his.” But evidence carried more weight than an eye witness. “How do you know it was my gun?”
“The casings were .357 Sig Sauer, used in a Glock by law enforcement types. Don’t see that in the possession of too many civilians.”
True, but that still didn’t confirm her weapon. “I didn’t shoot him. If I had, he’d be dead. Someone’s setting me up.”
“Unless you wanted to scare him, or get even.”
“That’s your guess, Acting Police Chief? No wonder you don’t want the job full-time.” She pushed off the counter. “Seriously, his distaste for me becomes my motive for shooting him? Like he had no other enemies.”
“Add it up, Callie.”
She pointed at him, careful not to touch him. When she was on duty, an aimed finger at her chest always set her off. “No, you add it up. Raysor’s rude to coworkers, victims, and suspects, an equal opportunity ass with a long history. Maybe he discovered something we didn’t and pissed somebody off. Or he orchestrated a scam, tossing his ample weight and authority around, holding threats over people’s heads to make them work for him.” Her face tightened in a tense, low anger. “What the hell do I have to gain from shooting Raysor?”
Seabrook’s brows shrugged, head tipping to the side. “Assuming you aren’t the burglar, assailant, or murderer? Nothing. But don’t think people around here haven’t suspected you, the new unknown resident with a questionable past.”
Son of a bitch. “Again, you protect who you know and blame those you don’t. While you’re trusting all these people you know, someone out there laughs at how you’re barking at shadows.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but his demeanor stiffened more, accepting her challenge. “You’re a cheap firecracker, unreliable with the potential to pop off at any moment. If you still possessed your old cop sense, you’d recognize why you’re a person of interest.”
Forensics had found no prints in Papa’s place, no prints on her broken mementoes from Papa’s house. There’d be no prints on the spent brass except hers, since the shooter had no need to load it. “Talk to Pauley,” she said, groping for a comeback. “Ask where he’s been for the last hour. I still say he had the most motive to kill Papa Beach, so why not Raysor?”
Seabrook frowned questionably. “He doesn’t even know Raysor, Callie.”
“Why does he need to know him? He only wanted to make a point with my gun.”
The chance these crimes were connected flashed neon in her mind. Just like with her gun, all the facts weren’t necessarily clues to the crimes. Some seemed too convenient, too attached to her, too opportune. And when details seemed too obvious, maybe they weren’t clues. They were distractions for the likes of Mike Seabrook and Don Raysor.
And Pauley’s hatred for her seemed way too over the top.
“Please, just ask Pauley those few questions.” She held out her hands. “And feel free to dust me for gun residue. Dust my car. Go get my hamper and test those clothes, too.”
She wished she’d installed the motion sensors before now. They would have shown the time she came in her house. “Wait!” she said and snapped her fingers. “I recorded myself on my cams. And once I show you proof that I was here when someone shot Raysor, please watch Maxwell’s cam recording while I’ve got you. They do have a nanny cam. Quit screwing around with me. We’ve got to arrest Peters before he disappears.”
> Seabrook leaned toward her, finally attentive. “Just show me the recording.”
“Come over here.” She ran to her laptop. “Tell me what you see.”
“A young couple getting it on,” he said, after a long minute of sitting in front of the screen.
“Keep watching,” she said from behind him.
He groaned seconds later as Peters mixed his mimosa. “I hate this. Does it show him hitting Maxwell?”
“Keep watching,” Callie repeated.
The mystery man appeared. “Wait, who’s that?” Seabrook asked.
“I have no idea. Not enough of clear view to identify. However, we definitely know Peters is the thief. I could get him to confess to every one of the other burglaries.”
“Callie?” came a familiar voice from the door.
Both of them turned. Dickens held Peters back in the entryway. “I need to know how much you want to spend on those motion sensors,” the handyman said. “The hardware store has three different kinds.”
SEABROOK CONFIRMED Callie’s cam evidence that she had been home when Raysor was shot. But he still told her to not leave Edisto. Hearing such an order from an officer’s mouth other than her own gave her a new perspective on being a civilian.
After an hour sitting idle, unable to study the recording since Seabrook confiscated it as evidence, Callie put in a call to the station, craving an update, halfway expecting Seabrook to blow her off.
“How’s it going?” she asked, stunned when the receptionist patched her to Seabrook.
Peters’ exclamations of dismay echoed in the background, his frantic yelling completely out of the character she’d come to know. “I did not hurt anybody. I did not shoot anybody. You people know me.” Over and over, as if he were afraid that being quiet would be his undoing.
Seabrook had banned her involvement with Peters’ arrest. A wise decision, she had to admit. Plus, it was dusk, and with a shooter loose, she preferred to be indoors, blinds drawn to the fiery sunset across the marsh that she found way too visible from her back window. She’d already called Jeb to come home.
“Well?” she asked. “Have you learned anything?” As she spoke, she studied Pauley’s house from her kitchen window. She should have installed a sensor pointing toward his place.
“Not sure I ought to be talking to you,” Seabrook said.
Pauley drove up in his drive. She jerked back from view. “Don’t tell anybody, then. Pick my brain, please. I might be able to help. What did he say?”
“He confessed to the break-ins.”
Damn. She’d caught the man flat-footed in Sophie’s house. Peters might’ve been hunting a drink, but most likely he’d found her neighbor’s house too easy to pass up for a second effort with her doors unlocked. “How the hell did he find Sophie’s NFL ring in the litterbox?” she asked.
“Kicked the litterbox in his hunt for a souvenir,” he said. “She probably discovered it missing in cleaning up the mess.”
Then she had to ask the obvious, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. “What about Papa Beach?”
“He swears he didn’t kill Henry Beechum. Nor did he assault Maxwell.”
Callie retrieved the map from her back pocket and snared a new notepad from a drawer. Seabrook had confiscated her recorder and notes. “We need to nail down Pauley’s activities for every day since this mess started, too, you know.”
“One guy at a time, Callie. By the way, Peters lawyered up.”
She pushed away the map and let her eyes rest on the trees turning into shadows outside her window. “And he’s still rambling on like that?” She turned on more lights in the room.
“He’s not that bright, Callie. The attorney’s meeting us in Walterboro since we don’t have jail cells here. We’re heading over there now.”
“He hated Papa Beach,” she said. “That’s why he broke into residents’ homes. All the guy did was thumb his nose at people who hadn’t given him their business. He was enjoying their conveniences and stealing tokens. Almost harmless, if you think about it.”
“How do you figure that?”
“It came to me after talking to Mrs. Hanson. Then I confirmed it with the Maxwells.” She reread her scribbled notes jotted around the Xs on her map. “Peters only broke into houses where Papa Beach did work. Papa didn’t do the jobs for payment, so his reach was no more than the people on his street. Anything else was too much bother because of his age and having to haul heavy tools. He wouldn’t deal with the rental houses either, since the real estate management companies kept their own contractors. I think Papa’s death triggered Peter’s crime spree, unless he killed Papa to get rid of his competition.” But that still didn’t ring true. “I can’t believe that, though.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” Seabrook said.
“Papa cost Peters some business. It’s that simple. If the break-ins weren’t felonies, they’d be comical. Did he say anything about the coins?”
“Yeah,” Seabrook said, “but not sure how much truth is in it. Said he found the collection in a trash pile on Jungle Shores Road. Says he’s never been in Beechum’s house.”
“Who throws away coins? And where’s the rest of the collection? His truck?”
“Yes. Give or take a few he spent. He knew enough not to throw too many of them around, apparently.” He spoke to someone in the background. “Callie, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait, what did he say about my place?” she asked.
“You were a good guy, Callie. He liked you.”
She mildly smiled at the irony. “Because with Papa dead, I hired him to do work for me.” And fed him a steak.
She’d been right suspecting that the crimes on Edisto involved two criminals. Her smile gave way to the disturbing image of another man roaming the beach with no qualms about inflicting harm and no worries about getting caught.
“Do you think the nanny cam footage helps him against the assault charge?” she asked.
“Depends on the spin a defense attorney puts on it. They’ll probably throw it all at him and see what sticks. There’s still the possibility of an accomplice. Time stamps might sort all that out, plus the second guy doesn’t quite physically fit Peters.”
“Well,” she said. “We can take Raysor off the list.”
“Never had him on it.”
She still harbored distrust for Raysor and a light, residual concern about Seabrook. He was too quick to doubt her, too slow to believe her, and too similar to Raysor in having the opportunity to run a burglary ring from behind his badge.
But she hated feeling that way. Somebody other than Peters was guilty, and the not knowing was making her suspect the world.
“I’m eager to see if things settle down,” Seabrook said. “Even if Peters had a partner, removing half the team might be enough to dismantle it.” He hesitated a moment. “Call me if you feel the need to . . . if you need anything.”
Callie hung up, pleased at getting Seabrook to talk to her. He no longer kept her at arm’s length. Good for him. Her attitude about him, however, held him at a comfortable distance. She was quite convinced his so-called street surveillance was no more than a study of her, a suspicion. She was the new person on the block and not one of the regulars, the folks he was so proud of making excuses for . . . like Peters.
She hoped Seabrook was right about one thing, though. Hopefully the crime spree was handicapped with Peters out of commission. But if Peters admired Callie and didn’t target her with flickering lamps, window notes, and broken chicken figurines, then who did? What had she done to rate such attention?
Regardless what Jeb wanted, Chelsea Morning might go up for sale sooner than New Year’s Day. No one had bothered them for the year they’d lived in Middleton. Even the Russians had stopped their threats in Boston.
This haras
sment had started in Edisto.
Jeb arrived home around nine thirty, showered, and planted himself on the sofa with a remote. By the time Callie came out in her nightgown and robe, he was engrossed in an online game.
“Jeb,” she said.
“Shhh,” he said, glued to the screen. “In a minute. I unlocked the secret level.”
His innocence moved her to wait. They weren’t going anywhere tonight. So she moved to the enclosed screened porch to wind down, to let the surf’s distant, lazy churning soothe her to the point she could nod off. It felt later than ten. So much was happening.
Callie shook her head to nobody there. And why would he need a partner? He was a loner by nature with the expertise to enter homes without assistance. Peters didn’t seem the murderous type, especially now that she’d gotten to know him.
Now that she’d gotten to know him. Hell, she sounded like Seabrook.
A light came on at Pauley’s place, and he glanced out one window, then another. He was as paranoid as she was. Or he was watching for her, calculating his next move.
The Maxwells probably slept poorly, worried about their video. Callie wanted to knock on their door and tell them Peters was in custody, but doing so might make them lower their defenses. An invisible partner waiting in the wings would love that.
“I see you,” yelled her neighbor. “Sitting over there in the dark. Probably waiting for me to go to sleep so you can sneak in.”
The man was daft. “Pauley, I don’t care about your house. I simply want to enjoy mine.”
“Then why are you surveying me?”
It’s surveilling, stupid. “I’m seated on my porch. It happens to face your house.”
“You have other porches.”
“Leave me alone, Pauley.”
“I’ll be watching you. Come in here, and I might shoot.”
Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) Page 31
