The Mummy Case (Jim Knighthorse Series #2)

by J. R. Rain

  “Okay, so we might have something here. What’s Jarred’s motive for sabotage and murder?”

  I shrugged. “Notoriety and prestige.”

  “Notoriety and prestige?” he said dubiously. A crumb had fallen from his mouth and disappeared into his thick arm hair. I wondered how many other crumbs had been lost in there. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Not to you or me, but to Jarred it makes perfect sense. He is a young historian with something to prove. He staked out Rawhide as his very own. He was going to make a name for himself there, even if that name was only known in very limited circles.”

  “Have you been to Rawhide?”

  “Yes.”

  “It ain’t much.”

  “No. But it’s untapped history.”

  Sherbet was done eating. He wadded up the Big Mac wrapper, sat back and folded his arms over his rotund belly. The plastic bench creaked under his weight. “So he offs his competitor.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to dust Willie Clarke’s truck for prints.”

  He shook his great head. “Of course there will be prints, Knighthorse. Jarred admitted to going back for water. They’re probably all over the doors.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Sherbet thought about it some more, and then the light went on. “The gas cap.”

  “Bingo,” I said.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I was on my back doing crunches behind my desk when the cell rang. Not missing a beat, I reached inside my pocket, removed the phone and flipped it open.

  “Knighthorse.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” said Sherbet.

  “I’m doing crunches.”

  “Crunches?”

  “It’s not easy being beautiful.”

  He ignored me. “We got the search warrant.”

  I stopped crunching, lay flat on the floor. “Go on.”

  “Jarred’s prints were all over that goddamn gas cap, not to mention along the center console.”

  “Where the cell phone might have been located.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So when are you going in?” I asked.

  “Tonight, when he gets home. He needs to be there for the search to be valid.”

  “Of course.”

  “But you knew that,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry. I forget some private dicks know their shit.”

  “This one does.”

  He was quiet. I waited. I could hear him breathing.

  “And Knighthorse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please tell me we won’t find your prints at the condo.”

  “You won’t find my prints at the condo.”

  “Good. Have you been there?”

  “In passing.”

  Sherbet paused. If I listened closely enough I could hear his mustache lifting and falling with each breath. “In your expert opinion, Knighthorse, is there anywhere in particular we should look once we get there?”

  “If I were conducting the search, I would focus on the garage. Of course, that’s just my expert opinion.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “I figure if he siphoned the gas, he would need a hose, and if he stole the water jugs, he would need somewhere to stash them.”

  “Like a bag?”

  “Would be my guess.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Sanchez, Jesus and I were at a Baskin Robbins near Anaheim Stadium, or whatever the stadium is called these days. I had printed out three free child scoop coupons from the internet, courtesy of a major web page celebrating its fifth anniversary. We waited twenty minutes in line along with dozens of other customers, each holding similarly printed coupons. Sanchez folded his up and put it in his pocket. I think he was embarrassed. I didn’t care. Free ice cream!

  Afterward, sitting at a heavily dented metallic table, Sanchez examined his child scoop of rocky road, holding the cone daintily between his thumb and forefinger. “We spent twenty minutes in line for this?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “Isn’t it great?”

  Sanchez snorted.

  Jesus said, “I think it’s cool.”

  “Good kid,” I said. “Besides, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “I’m not a beggar,” said Sanchez. “I happen to have a real job with a steady income.”

  “Steady income is overrated. Where’s the adventure?”

  Sanchez shook his head. “The kid moved.”

  “Which kid?”

  “The last kid on the list.”

  “But we saw him just last week at church.”

  “Yeah, well, now he lives in Florida with his grandparents.”

  I looked at Jesus, who was just finishing off his single mint and chip child scoop. “So you ran him out of town,” I said to him.

  Jesus shrugged. He was concentrating on the last of his ice cream. “I still owe him. He can run but he can’t hide.”

  I said to Sanchez, “Are we buying plane tickets to Florida?”

  “No. We’re going to let this one slide.”

  “Big of you,” I said.

  “I still owe him,” said Jesus.

  “Not so big of him,” I said.

  “Hey, I’m only twelve.”

  “And what have you learned from all of this?” I asked.

  Jesus shrugged, and started crunching on the waffle cone. I had finished mine in precisely three bites, as had Sanchez, who dropped his big hand on his kid’s shoulders. “Answer him.”

  “One girlfriend at a time,” said Jesus. He sounded as if this were a terrible punishment.

  I said, “You do realize there are some guys who go their entire junior high and high school years without having a single girlfriend?”

  “I know. I feel sorry for them.” Jesus looked at me, grinning. “I mean, I feel sorry for you.”

  I looked at Sanchez. “You told him?”

  “Hey, I was trying to make the same point. You just happened to come up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, I used you because the kid happens to look up to you,” said Sanchez. “Why, I’ll never know.”

  Jesus said, “You really never had a single girlfriend?”

  “Girls are trouble,” I said. “Besides, I had plenty in college.”

  “But I think girls are fun—”

  “Not too much fun,” said Sanchez, looking at his kid.

  “No, dad.”

  “I was busy in high school,” I said.

  “What could be more important than girls?”

  “Football.”

  “I played football in high school, too,” said Sanchez, shrugging. “And I had girlfriends. No big deal.”

  “I took football seriously.”

  “So did I.”

  “I wanted to play in the pros,” I said. “I had a plan. Girls would just get in the way.”

  “But that’s the idea,” said Sanchez. “Girls are made to get in the way. Sometimes it’s nice when they get in the way.”

  “Right on, dad,” said Jesus. He raised his hand. “High five.”

  Sanchez left him hanging. “But you made an exception for Cindy.”

  I said, “Cindy just happened to be the most special girl in the world.”

  “I think Cindy’s hot,” said Jesus, and Sanchez elbowed his kid hard enough to nearly knock him out of his seat.

  “So do I,” I said. “So do I.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  I was in my office with my feet up on my antique mahogany desk, careful of the gold-tooled leather top, re-reading Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra, when two things happened simultaneously: Jarred appeared in my office doorway pointing a rifle at my forehead, and my desk phone started ringing.

  I did what any rational human being would in the presence of a ringing phone. I answered it.

  Sherbet was on the other line. “We’re outside Jarred’s condo.
He never showed.”

  “No shit,” I said.

  Jarred kicked the door shut behind him and stepped deeper into my office. He quickly scanned the office, keeping the rifle on me. It was an old fashioned Colt .22. The kind one would find in a place like Rawhide, which is probably where Jarred got it.

  Sherbet asked, “Any idea where he might be?”

  “A fairly good one,” I said.

  “Then where is he?”

  “Take a guess.”

  Jarred was walking around the desk, keeping the rifle on my face.

  “He’s with you,” Sherbet said.

  “Good guess.”

  “You need help?”

  “Probably not.”

  “But it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  “If you insist,” I said.

  “I’ll send a car around.”

  At that moment, Jarred yanked the phone cord out of the wall. The line went dead. “Have a good day,” I said, and hung up.

  “Who the fuck was that?”

  “Grandma,” I said. “She tends to worry about me.”

  “She should worry about you, because you are fucked, Knighthorse. Fucked. Do you understand me? Fucked!”

  “If I’m hearing you correctly,” I said, “I appear to be fucked.”

  “Put your hands flat on the desk where I can see them.”

  He caught me. I was inching toward my desk drawer, where I kept my Browning. I sighed, rested both hands on the tooled leather top of the desk.

  “The oils from my palms might stain the tooled leather top of my desk.”

  “Fuck your desk.”

  Jarred had a sort of wild-eyed look about him. The sort of look my teammates had before big games, a look fueled by a lot of adrenaline and nerves and the certainty that you were going to hurt a lot of people in a few hours. Or be hurt. Jarred was still wearing his Rawhide-issued red cowboy shirt and jeans. He was sweating through his cowboy shirt. Must have gotten himself pretty worked up on the drive out here. His thinning hair was disheveled and his glasses had slid to the tip of his sweating nose. He didn’t push them back up.

  “They were waiting for me outside my condo,” he said, spitting the words at me.

  “They?”

  He shoved the gun in my face, just inches from my nose. I could smell the gun oil, could see faint scratches along the steel barrel. “Don’t fuck with me, Knighthorse. The cops. The cops were waiting for me.” He snapped the gun away and started pacing in front of my desk, keeping the gun loosely on me. Jarred looked insane. He was sweating profusely now. Swallowing repeatedly. “Patty told me you spoke to her the other day. She must have told you something.”

  “She told me you went back to the truck for water.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Except we have your prints on the gas cap, Jarred.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We know you sabotaged the truck.”

  He looked at me from over his glasses. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, landed on my tooled leather. I would have to wipe that clean later. For now, I had bigger fish to fry.

  “Give me the gun, Jarred.”

  “I can’t.”

  “If you shoot me, you get the death penalty.”

  “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”

  I shrugged. “Where you stand now, a good lawyer talks the D.A. down to second degree murder.”

  Jarred was shaking. I could literally see the sweat spreading from under his armpits.

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Say that to Willie Clarke.”

  Jarred dropped into the client chair opposite me. The gun was pointed away from me. If I wanted to, I could lunge across the desk and wrestle it away from him. I wasn’t in the lunging mood. Besides, I didn’t think it would come to that.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  I said nothing.

  “I just did it to scare him away, you know?” He paused, ran his hand through his hair. “I gambled on Rawhide. I visited there as a kid and fell in love with it. It stayed with me all these years.”

  “Maybe it’s the cowboy in you.”

  He ignored me. I was used to being ignored. He continued. “So when I was casting around for a theme for my masters, Rawhide naturally came to mind. It was a good fit. I had a true love for American history, in particular Western history. I did some research and discovered nothing of any significance had been done on the town, and I knew I had found my purpose. I sold my condo in Boston, moved out west. I’ve poured my heart and soul into that little town.”

  “And then in waltzes Willie Clarke.”

  Jarred instinctively gripped the weapon in his lap. “He was fresh out of graduate school, but there was a sort of—”

  “Cockiness?” I offered.

  “Yes. A cockiness to him that I found infuriating. Which is probably why I don’t like you.”

  “Sometimes I don’t like me, either.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No; I love me.”

  Jarred rolled his eyes. I think he might have thought about swinging his gun up to my face again, but decided against it. “Willie sounded so confident, so fucking sure of himself. As if he really thought he could unearth Sly’s identity.”

  “Can’t have that.”

  “Sly was mine,” he hissed.

  “If anyone was going to discover Sly’s identity,” I said, helping, “it would be you.”

  His eyes sparkled. “Yes! Exactly. Sly’s one of the West’s most intriguing mysteries.”

  “So you removed the threat. The threat being Willie.”

  “Hell, what the fuck was I supposed to do?”

  “Not kill him. Work together. Share the glory.”

  Jarred was shaking his head. “I worked too hard and long to do that. Still, I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to scare him. I didn’t want him to come back.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You scared him to death.”

  A shadow crossed under my doorway. The cavalry was here. Any minute now, they were going to barge in here, probably knock my door off its newly restored hinges. I couldn’t let that happen.

  “Give me the gun, Jarred.”

  He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose; they promptly slipped back down. He looked at me. His eyes were wide and reddish, perhaps irritated by his sweat. “I can’t go to jail. Father would be very disappointed in me.”

  More shadows. It was going to get ugly in here. And I was still scrubbing the last of the bloodstains out of my carpet.

  “He’s very renowned, you know. Teaches at Princeton. He didn’t approve of me coming out to Rawhide. Thought it was beneath us. Thought it was a mistake.”

  “Boy was he wrong,” I said.

  Jarred gave me a half smile and pushed his glasses up. “They’re coming for me, aren’t they?”

  I kept my eyes on him and nodded my head slowly. I didn’t like the tone his voice had suddenly taken on. Somber and distant, a voice empty of hope.

  “You were talking to the police earlier, weren’t you?” he asked.

  “Just give me the gun, Jarred.”

  “I think...not.”

  “They’ll shoot you.”

  “Now there’s a thought,” he said. “Would make things a lot easier, wouldn’t it? My parents would be disgraced, sure. But at least the matter will be done with short and quick.”

  “Don’t do this, Jarred. It’s not worth it.”

  “Not worth it? Oh, I think it is.” He looked at me, smiled. Pushed his glasses up. His eyes weren’t right. His lower lip trembled. “Tell my dad to fuck off for me.”

  “Tell him yourself.”

  “Later, Knighthorse.”

  He swung the rifle around and, in a practiced motion, stuck the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Forty-six

  It was a week later. Cindy and I were in bed together, where we belonged, watching the local nightly news. Ginger the dog was burrowed und
er the covers between my ankles. Now, after twenty-five minutes of grisly murders, missing kids and reports of unsafe foods and medicines, came the feel-good story of the day—wrapped around, of course, another murder.

  There, on Cindy’s 19” TV screen in her cozy bedroom was Jones T. Jones’s hawkish face and gold hoop earrings.

  Jones was standing in front of Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe, before a crowd of reporters. For the cameras, Jones ditched the cheesy used car salesman facade and adopted a more somber expression and tone. Peppering his speech liberally with references to his store, Jones announced that with the help of private investigator Jim Knighthorse—yes that Jim Knighthorse of football fame—they had not only uncovered the name of the mummy, but his original murderer.

  The camera cut to a young male Asian field reporter, who then went on to explain, in a butchered and confusing summary, the role that Tafford Barron’s ancestor, yes that Tafford Barron who is currently running for a House seat, had had in the murder of Boonie Adams.

  “You were mentioned on the news!” Cindy squealed, turning off the TV. “And in a non-football capacity. I’m so impressed.”

  “Impressed enough to sleep with me?”

  “What the hell do you call what we just did thirty minutes ago?”

  “Not sleeping.”

  Ginger shifted positions and pressed her cold nose into my anklebones. I shivered involuntarily.

  “I don’t like this Jones T. Jones chap,” said Cindy. “He reminds me of a used car salesman.”

  “He’s worse than that,” I said. “He’s selling dead men. So to speak.”

  “Oh, yuck.”

  Ginger raised her head. I knew this because a section of the comforter between my feet rose up. It dropped back down a moment later.

  “Business is already picking up,” I said. “And I just received my final check from Jones. Want to go to Sir Winston’s?”

  She shook her head. “Too snooty.”