by Claire Booth
She perked up at ‘important.’
‘Somebody else was driving. He got in the passenger seat. It was a two-door. One of those Trans Am kinda cars. A kinda newer one. Or at least not an old beater one. Then they drove away. I didn’t see them come back.’ She thought for a minute. ‘The other guy didn’t get out of the car, so I didn’t see him very good. He had black hair.’
‘Was he a white guy? Or a black guy, or …’
‘Oh,’ she laughed. ‘He was white. Definitely. Kinda pale-looking. But that’s all I saw of him.’
Sam readied the other photo and hoped he would use the right words.
‘So … I need to show you another picture. It looks a little weird, but I need to see if you recognize this guy. He, um, he’s not alive.’
She stared at him with a puzzled look on her face until he turned over the Doe photo.
‘Oh. Ew. He’s dead? Really?’ She gasped. ‘Was that why there’s been all that noise around here this morning? Is he dead here? I mean, did he die here?’
Sam nodded and started thinking very quickly about what he could say and what he shouldn’t. He told her the man had died here, in an upstairs apartment (which would be obvious from the crime scene tape), and that the sheriff’s office was trying to track down who he was. He did not mention how John Doe had died or that Gall was also now dead.
‘So do you recognize him at all?’
‘I guess it could be the guy who was driving the skinny dude. But it also might not be. I’m not sure.’
There were non-residents who came and went upstairs and they could’ve been heading up to that apartment specifically, but she wasn’t sure. She never paid attention to where anyone headed once they disappeared up the stairs.
She also hadn’t heard anything last night in either the parking lot or from the apartment upstairs. She apologized with a smile. Sam assured her that was OK and carefully wrote down her name (Brenna Cassidy, quite a nice one) and contact information. He turned to go, but froze when she grabbed his arm.
‘Oh, is this important? When the Trans Am car pulled out of the parking lot that time, the old bat from upstairs started yelling at them about making too much noise and sounding like a gang of motorcycles. So maybe she saw them, too?’
Sam beamed at her. She smiled back, and he went all red again. He walked away thinking that his day was finally looking up.
The Country Song Theater looked a lot better than the last time Sheila was there. The huge, plywood guitar that had been hanging off the building was gone and a bright, many-bulbed marquee now welcomed theatergoers. The whole place was painted a fresh white and the parking lot had a new layer of asphalt. The trees behind the building still crowded too close, but Sheila supposed they wanted them there to keep folks from wandering down to Lake Taneycomo, which was only a few hundred yards away. She wondered if she’d still be able to find the spot where Mandy Bryson’s killer tried to flee. That getaway hadn’t worked, thankfully, and the murderer was now serving a life sentence up in Jefferson City.
They got out of Dale’s unmarked BPD car and walked up to the entrance. It didn’t look promising. There were no other cars in the parking lot, and a quick yank determined that the large glass doors were locked. Sheila cupped her hands around her eyes and peered into the lobby as Dale pulled out his phone.
‘Country music legend Euford Gunner will make Branson’s premier concert theater his home,’ read Dale, who’d remembered to fish his reading glasses out of his car’s glove box. ‘Shows twice daily at the Classic Country Song Theater – wait, “classic”? Is that what they call crappy when it gets a lick of paint?’
Sheila chortled and stepped back from the window.
‘Between the glare and the tint, I can’t see inside at all,’ she said. ‘What else does the brochure say?’
Dale zoomed in on the limited photo he’d managed to take of the bloodied brochure and continued reading. ‘Not much beyond good ol’ Euford’s accomplishments, and a promise that he’ll sing “Woman, It’s You Tonight” at every show.’
‘Oh – I’ve heard of that one,’ she said. ‘But nothing about a production company or anything?’
‘Nope. And there’s no website for the show. I googled it.’
Sheila had her own phone out by now. ‘It appears that Gunner doesn’t have his own website either. That’d be where his manager or whatever would be listed, right?’
Dale nodded and hitched his reading glasses up his nose. ‘Yeah. That or a publicist or, if you’re real lucky, the actual agent. Or sometimes the singer’s name will pop up on an agent’s client list web page.’
They both typed away for several minutes and came up empty. Dale made a call to someone at his department to start a more in-depth search. Sheila sighed and stared up at the building, noticing that if people knew right where to look, they would be able to just make out the faint outline of a twenty-foot guitar underneath the new paint. She was actually a little sorry it was gone. She scanned the rest of the façade and then she turned back to Dale, who was jamming his glasses in his pocket.
‘So what was our victim doing with a brochure for a show that hasn’t been publicized at all?’ Dale said. ‘I wish we could unfold the darn thing and see what the contact information says. You think your evidence tech can get that done fast?’
Sheila laughed. ‘Alice? Yeah. She’s the best. Until then, though—’
Dale pointed toward the car. ‘Until then, you’re buying me breakfast. And then I’m going to make another phone call. There’s one other thing we can try.’
FOURTEEN
His children still had chocolate smears on their faces when Hank walked in the door at noon. They tackled him in the foyer, fueled by delight and sugar. He managed to get his shoes off as they climbed all over him, shoving each other for better positioning. He separated them and sat back on the little entryway bench with them both on his lap. And held them.
Maribel almost came up to his chin now. She’d had another growth spurt these first six weeks of kindergarten. He peeled her sticky hand off his sheriff’s badge and kissed the top of her head, breathing in the baby shampoo they still used. Dunc must have made her take a bath last night. Benny squirmed closer. He smelled like fresh dirt and wet dog. He’d firmly announced last week that since he was almost three, he no longer needed to take baths. Getting him in the tub took two adults, a large amount of bubble bath, and an even bigger helping of patience.
I’m a very lucky man, Hank thought.
He hefted himself to his feet with a kid in each arm and walked into the living room. Dunc was in his recliner with a bag of frozen peas on his elevated foot.
‘Really?’ Hank said.
‘It hurts,’ Dunc replied.
‘Is that what Maggie told you to do?’
Dunc scratched his unshaved chin.
‘It isn’t, is it? You didn’t ask her. Because you know she’d tell you that you’re being ridiculous.’
‘No. I didn’t ask her because she’s busy. Saving lives.’
‘She’s still at the hospital? I thought she got off at six this morning?’
Dunc shook his head.
‘Some big emergency came in. The ER intake person called me to say she wouldn’t be home.’ He looked pointedly at Hank.
‘Well, I’m sorry I don’t have a secretary to keep you fully informed. I had …’He looked down at the two sets of huge brown eyes staring up at him and thought better of a full explanation. ‘I had a busy night.’
His father-in-law sniffed and readjusted his peas. ‘So did I.’
The kids slid through his arms, hit the floor and took off toward the bedrooms, followed by a suspiciously excited Guapo. He watched the dog’s ample rump waddle rapidly down the hall and decided not to think about what trouble it was probably about to get into. He turned back to the living room and sank into the sofa across from his father-in-law’s recliner.
‘So, my sis … what the hell happened to your hands?’ Dunc leaned forward
, knocking the peas onto the carpet.
Hank explained about the accident. He left out the mysterious Johnny Gall and the dead guy in the empty apartment. He didn’t yet have any idea how to explain those.
Dunc let out a low whistle. ‘That’s worse than anything I could’ve imagined as to why you were late. I’m sorry, boy-o. If you need help cleaning those cuts …’
‘No, thanks. I’ll just wash them out and then get something to eat.’ He pushed himself to standing, but Duncan stopped him with a raised hand.
‘I do need to tell you something. Last night, my sister showed up.’
‘What? Like, here? Now?’
Dunc nodded. Hank waited for more of an explanation, but got only the top of the old man’s head as he busied himself with retrieving the dropped bag of peas. Then a happy woof came from the hallway, where the dog and the kids stood next to an elderly woman with hair so gray it was completely white and a jaw so McCleary-ish it always made him do a double-take.
‘Hello, Hank.’
‘Uh … Hi, Aunt Fin.’
Finella McCleary Lancaster was five years older than her brother, which meant she’d had more time to hone her irascible Scots demeanor. Hank’d always found her bluntness charming, but then, he wasn’t subjected to her twenty-four/seven like he was with Duncan.
‘What … um, what brings you here?’
Her face started to crumple. Hank, alarmed, looked over at Dunc, who was trying to wave him quiet.
‘Just here for a visit, she is,’ he said when he finally got upright. ‘That’s all. Staying for a bit. That’s all.’
Well. That wasn’t planned. Or convenient. Hank tried to smile. She smiled back, whatever expression there’d been on her face now gone. She looked over at her brother.
‘Is that for your toe? Good heavens, Duncan.’ She turned back to Hank. ‘He never could handle pain.’
Dunc snorted. ‘Clearly, that’s not true. I let you in, didn’t I?’
With that, Hank fled to the kitchen and the leftover pancakes. Once he’d polished off a whole stack, half a bottle of syrup and most of a pot of coffee, he felt human enough to kick the soccer ball with Maribel. She was determined to score a goal before the end of her first season of rec league. Her skills were coming along nicely. Better, obviously, than her grandfather’s. Hank thought of Gabe Schattgen practicing in the parking lot and had to blow his nose again.
Once they were finished outside, Hank hid in the kitchen. Whatever was going on with Aunt Fin was not something he wanted any part of, especially when Maggie wasn’t even home. He opened his laptop on the dining table and started plugging into every database he had. He couldn’t just wait until tomorrow to continue the investigation at the high school. He needed to do something now, and neither Sheila nor Sam was responding to his requests for updates.
He pulled out the information on Gall’s parents that he’d gotten from the high school principal. The only Justine Gall he could find had died in 1993, eight years before Johnny Gall was allegedly born. He tried Justine Drake, the maiden name listed on Johnny’s birth certificate. The only one he found was seventy-nine years old.
He glared at the computer screen and started on the father. Allen John Gall popped right up. Two of them did, actually. A thirty-five-year-old in Louisville, and a twenty-six-year-old in a St Louis suburb. The Louisville one was a petty criminal who’d never had any association – in terms of computer databases, anyway – with a kid, or with a woman named Justine Drake. The Chesterfield one worked for a plumbing contractor. It looked like he had three kids, all quite young.
He fished through his notes and found the emergency notification phone number that the high school had on file for Johnny. There’d been no landline listed, just a single local cell number. He dialed, and it went straight to voice mail. Probably because it was currently sealed in an evidence bag.
Yo, this is Johnny. Leave me a message. If you’re lucky, I’ll hit you back.
Hank was not in the mood to think about luck. He shut the laptop with a smack just as Maggie came in from the garage. He was starting to tell her about Aunt Fin setting up camp in Maribel’s room when she collapsed in a chair across the table from him. He shut his mouth. This did not appear to be the right time. She looked like she could fall asleep right there.
‘Babe, good grief,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
She laid her head on the table. He knew that sign. She rarely ate when she was on shift, and now – nine hours after she was originally supposed to be finished – she was crashing. He rushed to the fridge and pulled out the eggs and cheese. Once he got the omelet going, the smell perked her up enough for her to raise her head.
‘It was just an ordinary broken leg. I was in the middle of it and Ed was late, so I stayed to finish it. And then a trauma came in. Teenager. A fall. From at least twenty feet. So many broken bones. Protruding left tibia. Shattered left wrist. The only good thing is that it doesn’t look like she hit her head too badly. We were in surgery for … I don’t even know.’
Hank scooped the omelet onto a plate and set it in front of his wife. He poured her a glass of orange juice. She frowned.
‘No coffee,’ he said. ‘You’re eating and then going straight to bed.’
She nodded. ‘If the cops call on my cell, can you tell them I’ll get back to them tomorrow?’
‘What? Why are cops involved?’
‘She was found. This morning. Near Roark Creek where it gets really steep. Some passerby. She was unconscious. They don’t know what happened.’
‘How is she now?’ he asked.
‘ICU,’ Maggie said with a full mouth. ‘She’ll be there for a long time.’
‘ID?’
‘By the time I got out of surgery, yeah. A BVHS kid. Her parents thought she was spending the night at a friend’s house.’
Hank sank back down at the table.
‘But she wasn’t,’ he said slowly.
Maggie shook her head. ‘No. They didn’t realize she was missing until the other girl’s parents called, or something like that. The Blenkinships. I had to talk to them when we were done in the OR.’
The wringing pressure in Hank’s chest was back. He fought for breath as Maggie stuffed the last bite in her mouth and sat back with a grateful sigh. She smiled at him.
‘So, enough about me. How was your night shift?’
FIFTEEN
Dale Raker dug into his Cracker Barrel breakfast combo without answering Sheila’s question. Five minutes, two scrambled eggs and a slice of bacon later, he sat back and dabbed at his downturned mouth with a napkin.
‘I’d guess there was a fair bit of construction going on inside that theater,’ he said. ‘I don’t know who did that – companies come in from all over so that’ll be a pain to track down – but I got a good idea who trashed it.’
Sheila, who’d been up a hell of a lot longer than Dale and his ten a.m. call-out, glared at him.
‘Sorry. Not the time for humor,’ he said. ‘What I mean is – when you’ve got a lot of trash, you get a Dumpster, right? And you’re not going to bring in one from somewhere else. You’re going to use the nearest company. And in this town, there’s only one that does it.’
Her glare dissolved.
‘So, all trash is local?’
‘Exactly,’ he said, picking up his phone.
Ten minutes later, Dale’s napkin was covered with scribbled information. The construction company that hired Dom’s Dumpsters of Branson was out of Kansas City, but Dominic Spignesi always insisted on contact information for the on-site foreman. Dale held up the napkin. Sheila whipped out her phone.
‘May I?’
Dale nodded and went back to his eggs. She dialed and waited through ten rings before a woman picked up. Sheila asked for Kyle Hatwick. There was a little yelling and some swearing before Hatwick could be convinced to come to the phone. Sheila introduced herself and was met with silence.
‘Sir?’
‘Um, yeah?’
/> ‘Are you the foreman on the Country Song Theater remodel?’
‘That job’s done. Finished last week. Everything’s signed off on it. You can’t come back at me for nothing.’
She’d find that response interesting if she weren’t up to her neck in dead people. As it was, she didn’t have time to care.
‘Sir, I just need to ask you a few questions about the project. Do you have a list of who worked on it?’
He guessed so. He also guessed that he could look around and see if he still had it. And yes, most of them were young guys. Except for the electricians and some of the other specialists – they were older and necessary because the stage had required all sorts of custom work. And no one had given him problems. There’d been some no-shows, but that was typical on a construction project. And no, he didn’t remember who or what dates. And was she finished?
‘Did you get any brochures for the show?’
He snorted. ‘Are you kidding? They wouldn’t waste those on us.’
‘Was Euford Gunner there at all?’
Another snort. ‘When was he not there? The dude wouldn’t leave us alone. And he didn’t know shit about construction, either. He drove everybody crazy.’
‘Do you have any way to contact him?’
‘Uh, no. We’re not exactly friends.’
‘OK,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’m going to need to come by and show you a photo. I need you to tell me if a person was on your construction crew.’
Hatwick sighed and then listed his address in the city of Hollister, just south of Branson. Sheila, who had no intention of using her napkin, wrote it down in her pocket notebook and told him she’d be over within an hour, and hoped he’d have found the employee list.
Another sigh.
‘Can you get here before the Chiefs game comes on?’
‘I’ll try.’
She hung up to find Dale laughing.
‘At the end there, you sounded like you were talking to a five-year-old.’
‘He did seem like he needed a nap.’
They were getting up to leave when Sheila’s phone rang. How did the man know? He’d texted several times, but she hadn’t had anything to report, so she didn’t respond. Now, the minute she did, he called.
