What the Fly Saw

by Frankie Y. Bailey

  “But I’m not counting on it,” McCabe said.

  “Who knows,” Baxter said. “We may find a few reformed sinners among the faithful.”

  “We might. But if we do, I don’t think Wyatt knows about it. His righteous indignation about our harassing innocent people seemed real enough.”

  Baxter stood up from his desk and stretched. “Anyway, since we aren’t going to have the information back from Research until tomorrow, I say we call it a day.”

  “No argument from me on that one,” McCabe said.

  They walked out to the parking lot together. Today, Baxter was driving himself.

  “I don’t know which is worse,” McCabe said, “getting off from work at dusk in the winter or having daylight in the summer but too hot outside to enjoy it.”

  “You know me,” Baxter said. “I always go with summer and heat.”

  * * *

  Baxter was in no mood to shop, but his four-year-old nephew had a birthday on Sunday. His sister would not be pleased if he turned up at the party without a gift. He wandered through the toy store, waiting for inspiration to strike.

  When he was four, his favorite toy had been a stuffed purple shark he had named Fin. And then his second cousin, Tommy, had made him watch When Sharks Attack. After that, playing with Fin had creeped him out. For a while, he had even screamed when his parents tried to get him to go into the water.

  His ORB buzzed and Baxter stepped to the side, out of the traffic of parents with children in tow. He checked the ID and clicked view.

  His godfather, Assistant Chief Danvers, smiled at him from the monitor. “What’s that behind you, Mike boy? Teddy bears?”

  “Toy store. My nephew has a birthday.”

  “Your youngest sister’s boy? Buy him some boxing gloves. Little boys love punching.”

  “I’ll see if they have any.”

  “And when you’re done, come join Tommy and me and a couple of the fellows for a drink.”

  “Sure. I could use one.”

  “We’ll save you a glass of the fine whiskey we’re sipping.”

  And may you all choke on it before I arrive, Baxter thought. “Thanks,” he said. “Be there as soon as I finish up here.”

  “We’ll see you soon.”

  An unexpected invitation meant they’d been thinking. As he was running through the possibilities, Baxter turned back to the toy display and chose a sleek black stuffed seal for his nephew. He added an endangered species interactive book to his basket.

  By the time he got out to the parking lot, he had a half-baked plan. He punched his code into his ORB and waited for his contact to answer.

  * * *

  McCabe stopped in the doorway of the living room. Her father glanced up from the book he was reading.

  “When I was driving home, I saw a news stream on a bulletin board,” she said. “There was something about a US rescue unit being en route to Roarke’s Island.”

  “The island’s getting unstable.”

  “Unstable?”

  “Man-made island,” Angus said. “They didn’t take earthquakes and aftershocks into account.”

  “What’s happening? Is it sinking? Flooding?”

  “Moving more than it should. Could do either. The government on the mainland is still busy with the damage there, so Kirkland’s sending in the Marines to get the people at the resort off the island. That isn’t going down well with some people.”

  “How could anyone object to a rescue operation?”

  “Howard Miller is objecting to spending our tax dollars to mount a rescue operation for people who have nothing better to do than vacation at a resort. Some others are already agreeing with him. They’re saying the people on the island should pay for private rescue.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Adam and Mai aren’t rich. I’m betting most of the people vacationing at that resort aren’t either.”

  “But they can afford a vacation at a fancy swanky resort.”

  McCabe let out her breath. “The important thing is that the rescue is happening.”

  “And Kirkland just put another nail in her political coffin. Even if she were having second thoughts about ceding the nomination to the vice president, this could do her in.”

  “Rescuing people whose lives are in danger—”

  “Goes down better if the people are in the United States, not on a vacation island belonging to another country.”

  McCabe shrugged off her thermo jacket. “I’m not going to worry about this. If idiots like Howard Miller want to make this a political issue—”

  “Everything is a political issue. I thought I taught you that.” Angus put down his book and stood up. “Bigfoot’s out in the yard stretching his legs. Let him in, will you?”

  “Our dog’s name is not Bigfoot,” McCabe said, heading toward the kitchen. “So when do you think we’ll hear from Adam and Mai? Was there any estimate about how long the rescue will take?”

  “My contacts are saying they should be off the island by tomorrow afternoon if everything goes according to plan.”

  “I’ve got to attend a funeral tomorrow afternoon,” McCabe said.

  Angus followed her into the kitchen. “Whose funeral?”

  McCabe opened the back door and the dog rushed in barking his greeting. She remembered in time he was not to be rewarded for barking. She turned away from him.

  “He’s learning,” Angus said.

  McCabe glanced over her shoulder. The dog had sat down. When she turned he whacked his tail against the floor, but he stayed seated. “Good boy,” she said. “Good boy.” She patted his spotted head.

  Angus repeated, “Whose funeral?”

  “Kevin Novak, the funeral director who was murdered. His daughter wants us to come to the funeral to observe for suspicious behavior. Her mother agreed. The lieutenant gave his permission. So Baxter and I are going to hang out in an anteroom and watch the service on camera.”

  “You really think the person who killed him is going to turn up at the funeral?”

  “It’s a private service. If the killer is in Kevin Novak’s circle of friends and close acquaintances, then he or she is almost obliged to turn up or have a good excuse not to.”

  “Like having the flu or not being able to take time off from work?” Angus said. “A person would have to have good nerves to kill someone and then attend the funeral.”

  “Yes, a person would,” McCabe said. “So if the killer’s there, maybe he or she won’t be able to pull it off.”

  25

  Friday, January 24, 2020

  11:45 A.M.

  Beyond a few speeding tickets, the members of the church archery club had been law-abiding citizens. Research could find nothing on any of them that would suggest a reason for suspicion. But McCabe and Baxter spent the morning on their ORBs, speaking directly to the club members that they could reach and leaving tags asking the four others to get back to them.

  No one they spoke to had anything useful to suggest about who might have murdered Kevin Novak or why. They were uniform in their expressions of shock, dismay, and sorrow. Kevin, they all said, had been a great husband and father, an outstanding member of his church and the community, the last person you’d expect to be murdered. It must be someone who had wandered in off the street, a stranger. No one who knew Kevin would wish him harm.

  “Saint Kevin,” Baxter said, putting down his ORB.

  “Yeah,” McCabe said. “Even the people who admitted he wasn’t perfect—like being stubborn when he’d made up his mind—still thought he was a great guy.”

  “So where does that leave us? Do we want to round up the kids in the youth archery club and talk to them, too?”

  “Sometimes kids can be a bit more candid than adults. But I don’t know how much we’ll get out of questioning them as a group in front of their parents.”

  “You were the one who told Wyatt we’d do that,” Baxter reminded her.

  “I know. And that could have been a tactical mistake. I
was trying to keep him cooperating with us.”

  Baxter stood up and reached for his mug. “We probably wouldn’t have gotten that much from the kids anyway.”

  “After the funeral, if we still don’t have any other leads, we can do a group meeting if the lou signs off on it. Then, if any of the kids seem dodgy, we can follow up with individual interviews.”

  “Sounds like a plan. With kids, we’re going to have parents to deal with whatever we do.”

  “But I think the church thing may be throwing me a little. Nudge me if I seem to be holding back and not doing something we’d normally do.”

  “Did you just say that, partner?”

  “I’m willing to admit when I might need to reevaluate my approach to a case.”

  Baxter finished stirring sugar substitute into his coffee and took a sip. “I’ll remind you of that the next time you mention Lisa Nichols.”

  “That case is closed.” McCabe reached for her field bag. “I’ll let the lou know we’re on our way out.”

  * * *

  From their vantage point in an anteroom adjacent to the sanctuary, McCabe and Baxter watched the mourners gathering outside and coming into the church. The cameras provided them with close-ups of faces that displayed various degrees of grief, all sharing the seriousness of expression appropriate to the occasion, and mourners greeting each other with handshakes or hugs.

  McCabe wondered in passing if Kevin Novak had always planned to have a private service or if his wife had made that decision because of the way he had died. Either way, she was glad that they didn’t have to cope with the ghouls—the morbidly curious—who turned up when the funeral of a crime victim was open to the public.

  “Looks like the family cars are arriving,” Baxter said.

  On cam, they could see that two black limousines had pulled up. The man in the front passenger seat, a member of the funeral home staff, got out and opened the back door. He held out his hand to help Sarah Novak from the car. She was followed by Megan. Scott exited from the other side.

  Kevin Novak’s foster parents were dead. A woman and man who McCabe thought must be Sarah Novak’s aunt and uncle from Baltimore got out of the other limousine with a younger woman and man who must be their daughter and her husband. The four followed Sarah Novak and her children into the church.

  McCabe and Baxter followed their progress on another camera.

  Olive Cooper had come in about ten minutes earlier, leaning on her cane and clutching the arm of the usher. She was seated in the pew behind the front row, which was reserved for the family. As Sarah Novak passed, Cooper reached out to offer her hand. Novak grasped it and seemed to waver. Scott put his arm around his mother. She nodded at him and smiled.

  Olive Cooper dug a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes.

  When the family had settled into their seats, Reverend Wyatt stepped up to the podium. McCabe listened with half an ear to his opening words as she scanned the faces of the mourners.

  Dr. Burdett was sitting a couple of rows behind Olive Cooper. He was watching the mourners, too. Was he checking for someone who might be in need of his services, McCabe wondered, or watching for suspicious behavior?

  “See Burdett looking around?” she asked Baxter.

  “Saw him,” he said. “I wonder if he saw who slipped in the side door and sat down in back.”

  McCabe looked in the direction he was pointing. “Luanne Woodward.”

  “Dressed all in black, including a big, wide hat.”

  “If she’s trying not to be noticed she should have skipped that hat,” McCabe said. “I wonder how she got by the security guards at the doors.”

  “Southern charm?”

  “Or Olive Cooper vouching for her.”

  “My bet would be Olive Cooper.”

  “Why would Luanne want to attend the funeral of a man she’d met only once?”

  “Maybe she’s still curious about why Kev turned tail and ran when Olive introduced them.”

  “Well, it’s not like he’s going to sit up in his coffin and tell her,” McCabe said. “This funeral isn’t quite Poe-ish enough for that.”

  “‘Poe-ish’? As in Edgar Allan?”

  “Didn’t you ever read that short story? The one with the corpse that’s rigged to accuse the killer, ‘Thou Art the Man,’” McCabe said. “Maybe Luanne thinks she can pick up some kind of vibes.”

  “By connecting with Kev while he’s still aboveground?”

  “Probably easier than when he’s belowground.”

  McCabe’s glance went to the gunmetal-silver coffin. Covered with a huge spray of red and white carnations, it was closed. She wondered if it had been open last night so that the mourners who came to the wake could view the man to whom they were saying good-bye.

  “Luanne and Olive came in separately. If Olive did get her through security, maybe Luanne wants to give Olive deniability in case Reverend Wyatt sees her and gets annoyed.”

  “Except the security guards will probably rat Olive out if Wyatt starts asking questions.”

  “That would suggest Luanne might have been right about Olive tweaking her minister’s nose. I wonder why.”

  “Especially since Olive said she likes the good reverend.”

  “Maybe she thinks he’s too earnest and conservative. But I wonder if she thought about how Sarah Novak and her children would feel about having a medium at the funeral.”

  Baxter grinned. “Well, our Megan does like ghost stories. She might be on board with trying to contact her dad so Kevin can tell us whodunit.”

  McCabe smiled. “Yes, she just might.” She glanced at the girl sitting with admirable composure beside her mother. “I like Megan.”

  “The kind of daughter you’d like to have someday,” Baxter said.

  “Based on your assumption that I want to have children?” McCabe asked. “It looks like we’re about to start.”

  Clad in white robes trimmed in navy blue, the choir began to sing.

  “‘Rock of Ages,’” Baxter said. “A golden oldie.”

  The song was followed by a prayer from Reverend Wyatt. When he was done, he said, “Sarah and her children will deliver the obituary for their husband and father.”

  The three Novaks stood up and made their way toward the stage. Baxter said, “That’s gutsy.”

  “Maybe he requested it,” McCabe said. “I wonder if that’s also why they aren’t wearing black.”

  Sarah Novak was dressed in a royal-blue sheath dress, Megan in a navy-blue skirt and white blouse, and Scott in a dark gray suit.

  Novak said, “My son and daughter would like to tell you about their father.”

  Megan spoke first. “My father was a great dad. He taught me to skateboard and water ski and…” She flashed a grin. “And he taught me to play poker, but I wasn’t supposed to tell Mom.” An impish glance in her mother’s direction. “And I probably shouldn’t mention it in church.”

  Scott took over. “Sometimes being a great dad is just listening when you need someone to talk to. Our dad always listened.”

  “Well, not quite,” Baxter said. “Didn’t they tell us Kev had been getting an F on listening lately?”

  McCabe said, “They’re giving him a pass on that now that he’s dead.”

  During the next fifteen minutes, Kevin Novak’s children shared stories of their father. Their listeners smiled and even laughed. Some of them wiped away tears. As an obituary intended to celebrate the life of the deceased, McCabe thought, it was a hit.

  The children and their mother walked off the stage and returned to their pew.

  After a song from the choir, Reverend Wyatt returned to the podium to deliver his funeral sermon. “Some deaths test our faith. The death of a child or a young mother. The death of a man who is in the prime of his life. When a life is snatched away by human hands, we ask where God was in his mercy. How could he allow such evil? We weep and we curse and we wonder how we can go on believing when God allowed a good man to be murde
red.…”

  This was the second funeral McCabe had attended in three months. The other had been for an elderly black woman who had been killed by “droogie boys” who had wanted to make sure she wouldn’t testify against them. The three juvenile gang members had been found and arrested. The cops who had worked that one had gotten a break because the victim had fought back and one of the suspects had left a trail of blood. No such luck with Kevin Novak’s crime scene. FIU had gone over the funeral home basement. They’d found fingerprints belonging to Novak, his family, and his employees. No fingerprints on the bow except Kevin Novak’s own. Smudges, probably from gloves. But no way to match those unless they found the killer with the gloves in his or her possession.

  Not a whole lot to go on, McCabe thought. No footprints because of the snow. No signal from Kevin Novak’s missing ORB. The only way they were going to connect the killer to the scene was to find the killer and work backward.

  “The reverend’s got them going,” Baxter said. “Not a dry eye in the place.”

  “Tears at the funeral. Food afterward. And then everyone goes home and the family tries to carry on.”

  Baxter glanced at her. “Like that when your mother died?”

  “I think it’s always like that. It would be helpful to be able to fast-forward six months or a year.” McCabe reached for the coffee thermos sitting on the table beside her. “All right, so we’re sitting here watching the funeral. And everyone is behaving as we would expect mourners to behave.”

  “The only thing unexpected is our friendly medium from down south among the mourners. Want to try to catch up with her after this is over and hear what she has to say about that?”

  “Good idea. I really would like to hear why she’s here.”

  * * *

  When McCabe and Baxter caught up with her, Luanne Woodward was waiting for the elevator to the underground parking garage. The garage had been reserved for funeral attendees.

  “Well, hello, Ms. Woodward,” McCabe said. “We didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Hello. And I told you all to call me Luanne. I came along with Olive. Actually, I drove her out here. I was talking to her last night after she got back from the wake. She told me the funeral service was today, and she asked if I’d like to come.”