by Becki Willis
When and if Dickey Fowler returned to that dump, his fifty-inch television wouldn’t do him much good without juice.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There were only a handful of houses scattered along that end of the county road, but none of the neighbors had seen Dickey Fowler recently. Most reported avoiding the surly young man whenever they could.
Brash visited all the man’s known haunts, but no one claimed to have seen him in several days. Someone thought he had a new girlfriend; he was probably shacked up with her somewhere, living off her paycheck. She had some important job in Navasota, they thought. Or maybe it was in College Station. Whatever it was, Fowler bragged that it would make for a very nice Christmas.
With no other leads on Fowler’s whereabouts, Brash returned to the police station. Just as he pulled into the old depot, he heard the call for a burglary in progress. Lights and sirens blaring, Brash wheeled out of the parking lot and sped that way.
The hysterical homeowner was on her front lawn when he reached the house.
“Mrs. Bashinski! Is there someone still in your house?” he asked, gun drawn as he leapt from the car.
“No,” she sobbed into her shaking hands. “He ran away. That way!” She flung her arm in the direction from which he had just come.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. No. Maybe he went that way.” She pointed in the exact opposite way. “I don’t know. Maybe there were two of them.” She buried her face into her hands again.
“Ma’am, stay here. Do not come inside unless I tell you to do so.”
Brash approached with care, working his way to the front door of the residence. He sidestepped a trio of wise men and a baby Jesus in his manger. The door was still ajar, the keys still dangling from the lock. According to dispatch, Mrs. Bashinski came home and surprised the man as he rifled through Christmas presents under the tree.
After a thorough sweep through the house, Brash put away his weapon and returned to the yard. Several neighbors had gathered on the lawn to console the distraught woman.
“I came home early from work,” she told a neighbor. “I wasn’t feeling well, and the principal told me to take the rest of the afternoon off. He would find an aide to cover my class.”
“Ma’am, if you would, please come this way,” Brash said, his voice firm but gentle. He took the fourth-grade teacher by the arm and gently tugged her away from her friends.
“What is going on here, Brash?” one man demanded. “Why are all these burglaries happening?”
“I say it’s a gang, moving in here from the city!” another woman declared. “Hoodlums and drug addicts, thinking we’re an easy mark!” A murmur of agreement rustled among her friends.
“When are you going to put a stop to this, Chief?” another man wanted to know. “Someone could have gotten hurt here today!”
Brash turned to the crowd, seeing a mixture of fear and anger upon their faces. “Did any of you see anything today? Did anyone get a look at the assailant?”
No one had seen a thing. The police sirens drew them from their homes.
“I need to question Mrs. B, so we can get to the bottom of this. Please, go back to your homes. I or one of my officers will be by later to see if you might have remembered something.”
“We want answers, deCordova!” the first man blustered angrily.
“And so do I, Mr. Gale. That’s why I need to talk with Mrs. B and give her my full attention. Please, go back to your own homes.”
Grumbling, the crowd slowly dispersed.
“Mrs. B,” Brash said, calling her the same thing her students did, “are you comfortable talking on your porch, or would you feel better talking in the squad car, or down at the station? We can’t go inside yet, until we can dust for prints and see how the perpetrator entered.”
“I—I want to stay. It won’t take long for prints, will it?”
A second patrol car arrived on scene. “I hope not. Here’s Officer Perry now.”
Marilyn Bashinski couldn’t tell him much. She came home almost two hours earlier than usual and surprised a burglar. After taking one step through the door, she spotted a man kneeling by the tree, tossing Christmas presents aside. He had a half-dozen small boxes already ripped open, their contents spilled on the floor. She screamed, he jumped, and both of them ran out the door. She called 9-1-1 from the front yard.
“He—He appeared to be looking for something,” she said. “He only seemed interested in the smaller boxes.”
“Had you ever seen the man before?”
“No. Maybe.” She shook her head in frustration, cradling her cheeks. “Oh, I don’t know. It all happened so fast. And he had a beard. A long, shaggy beard, like those men on TV.”
Brash pulled out his phone and scrolled to the picture Bethani had taken. “Was this the man?”
“Possibly. But he wasn’t wearing a uniform. He had on some sort of work shirt. Blue, I think. Maybe with an emblem, but I’m not sure. It all happened so fast,” she repeated.
“I understand. And you’re doing fine, Mrs. B, just fine. Let’s go back to the Christmas presents. You say he seemed to be looking for a particular gift, something small. Do you have any idea what that could have been?”
“I don’t know. Jewelry, maybe? Gift cards? I don’t know!”
When his phone jingled with the ringtone for Maddy—Pretty Woman, by Roy Orbison—he took the call.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she greeted. “How’s your day going? Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“Actually, you are, but you might be able to help. Are you busy?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
“Could you come over to Mrs. Bashinski’s house? Lemon Street in Naomi. Do you know the one?”
“The cute little blue craftsman on the corner, across from Weldon Gale?”
“Yes, that’s the one. There’s been another burglary, and I think she could use some company right about now.” He looked at the trembling schoolteacher and offered an encouraging smile.
“That’s terrible! I’m on my way.”
As he tucked his phone away, Brash spoke in a calming voice to the homeowner. “A friend of mine, Madison Reynolds, is coming to sit with you while Officer Perry and I go through the house. Would you like to call your husband and have him come home to be with you?”
“I’ll send him a text, but there’s no need to disturb his classes, too. He’ll be home shortly. That’s one nice thing about both of us being teachers. We have the same schedule.” She offered a weak smile. “And yes, I know Madison. My husband has her twins in Social Studies. Very bright students, both of them. And of course, Madison has done wonders for our town, bringing in that television show to redo the Big House.”
He didn’t point out that Madison had nothing to do with it. Granny Bert and Genny had cooked up that scheme, much to Maddy’s chagrin. She had been reluctant to even accept the offer, until Granny Bert manipulated the carpenter into making a deal too sweet to turn down.
Brash continued questioning the schoolteacher until Madison arrived, at which time he joined his officer inside the house. He knew Maddy could not only comfort the distraught woman, but gently question her without it sounding like an interrogation. Particularly at times like this, Brash regretted not having a female officer on the force. If that grant came through and he could afford to hire a third officer, he planned to look at female entrants first.
By the time Syd Bashinski arrived home, Brash cleared the house for entry and Madison had the schoolteacher sipping on a cup of coffee.
“Thank you so much for staying with me, Madison dear,” the woman said as she hugged her goodbye.
“Absolutely. You’re sure you’ll be okay now?”
“Syd is here now, and I’ll call our daughter Betsey to come over. We’ll be fine, dear. You tell Granny Bert I said hello, you hear?”
“I certainly will. Call me if you need to talk, or if you think of something that might be important.” She winked and nodded cov
ertly toward Brash. “I have that inside track to the department, after all.”
Mrs. Bashinski had been the one to bring up Madison’s relationship with the police chief, giving it her wholehearted approval. She laughed now, squeezing Madison’s hands. “You keep that track open, my dear. You two make a darling couple.”
Blushing despite herself, Madison thanked her and made her exit. On the way down the steps, she sent Brash a text.
Let’s compare notes.
***
“Brash, you look exhausted,” Madison admonished as she opened the door for the police chief. “Are you even sleeping at night?”
“Not much.” He slipped his arms around her and simply held her close, savoring her nearness. Some people scoffed at the sentiment, but this woman was his soul mate. Simply being near her rejuvenated him and made him whole. The funny thing was, until he re-met her eleven months ago, he never knew a part of him was missing.
“You can’t keep up like this, Brash.”
“I don’t intend to. I’m close, really close. I can feel it.”
“Yes, well, I feel knots all in your shoulders.” She ran her hands over the broad expanse, noting how tense he was. “Sit down. I’ll give you a massage.”
“Not yet. I just need to hold you for a few minutes,” he said, burying his face into her silky brown hair.
“I’m worried about you, Brash,” she whispered.
“I’m worried about you. I don’t think it was a coincidence you were robbed this week.”
She pulled away to stare up at him. With a reluctant groan, he dropped his arms from her waist and took a seat in a nearby chair. She followed right behind, peppering him with questions. “What are you talking about? How would I be targeted? And why?”
When she began kneading his taut muscles, he moved to allow her better access. He didn’t answer right away. She had discovered a particularly sensitive knot. “Ah, right there.”
“You’re tight as a drum.”
“Work it, doll,” he drawled, but grunted when she hit another sore spot.
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll work on your shoulders as long as you keep talking. Tell me why you think I was targeted.”
“You know I’ve been working on this organized gambling ring for the better part of a year.”
He couldn’t see it, but she nodded her head. “I remember it was tied in to the cockfighting out at the old Muehler place.” A shiver ran through her as she recalled the bloody, despicable sport.
“And I suspect it’s connected to the ongoing drug problem we have here.”
“Makes sense. Crooks go where the money goes.”
“I’ve been making the rounds this week, putting a little pressure on some of the known associates, letting them know I have my eye on them.”
“And you think this is their response.”
“One of the things I’ve learned in law enforcement is to never assume that something is coincidental. Always look for a connection, no matter how small.”
“What’s the connection here? Who do you think stopped me the other night?”
“Dickey Fowler, Jr. A lowlife thug who lives a few miles out of Naomi in a shack that has no indoor plumbing, no electric. Of course, that didn’t stop him from hooking up to his nearest neighbor and siphoning their electricity.”
“You’re kidding! How terrible.”
“What I said. Ah, yeah, do that.” She used her elbow to work out a stubborn knot of nerves and muscle. “You know, you should add masseuse to your—umph!—resume. You’re good at this, even though you’re killing me.” When she let up, he hastily added, “No, don’t stop. It hurts, but it helps. Ah, yeah, like that right there.” Another grunted, “Umph.”
“How did you know it was this Fowler person that stopped me?”
“I recognized his picture. That was smart of Bethani to think of taking it.”
“You know teens. They document their entire lives on their smartphones. So, did you bring the guy in for questioning?”
“I went to his house, for lack of a better word. He wasn’t there, but a crumbled game warden uniform was. Turns out, his uncle was a game warden who died on the job. His mother, Lois Fowler, was next of kin and inherited his last effects.”
“So why would this Dickey Fowler person deliberately rob me? Is he tied up in the gambling ring?”
“I’ve heard his name mentioned in conjunction with it a time or two, but I understood he was just a participant, not an organizer. But get this. He is a distant relative to Bernie Havlicek, who is tied up in the ring, and who I did go to visit this week.”
“Why does Bernie Havlicek’s name come up in just about every crime that happens here?”
“Because the man is a weasel. He’s crooked, but he’s smart. He has his fingers in just about anything illegal you can think of, but he always manages to weasel his way out of being collared for the crime.”
“Bend your head forward,” she instructed, working her magic on his neck.
“On second thought, don’t add massages to your list of services. I’m keeping this all to myself.”
“You probably should see a professional. These knots in your muscles are ridiculous.”
He grunted again before saying, “You have no idea how much you’ve already helped.”
She worked for a moment in silence and then asked, “But how did this Fowler know I would be on the road that night? Do you think he’s been following me?” At a new thought, she wailed, “Please don’t tell me someone has bugged my house again!”
“I don’t think they’ve bugged the house, but it’s possible someone put a tracker on your car. I’ll check it over before I leave.”
“Which will be after dinner. I’m not letting you leave until you’ve had a good, hot meal. A little birdie tells me you haven’t been eating right, either.”
He pretended to growl. “I liked it better when you were intimidated by Vina, not best friends with her.”
“To be honest, I’m still scared of her, just a little.”
“You and me both,” he muttered. He changed the subject with, “So tell me what you found out from Mrs. B.”
“Not a lot more than you did. The burglar seemed to be after the smaller presents, Mrs. B startled him as much as he startled her, and he ran out the same door as she did, instead of going out a back way. I found it a bit strange.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. For one thing, why would he risk getting so close to her? She could have tripped him, or hit him over the head, or something. It would have been smarter to run out the back door.”
“Dickey Fowler fits the description she gave of the burglar, and Dickey Fowler doesn’t exactly cook on all four burners. He comes from a long and disgusting line of inbreeding. Don’t ask for details,” he warned. “They’ll turn your stomach, same way they did mine.”
“So maybe that explains why he would look for jewelry under the tree, instead of in a jewelry box like most people. That was something else that didn’t make sense.”
“We don’t know he was looking for jewelry,” Brash pointed out. “It’s a logical theory, but he could have been looking for something else.”
“There was one thing, though. Mrs. B told me she did a good bit of her shopping this year at Premium Jewels, that new jewelry store that opened up in the mall.” Brash’s muscles tightened again under her hands, but he didn’t interrupt her story. “Apparently they had one whopper of a Black Friday sale. Mrs. B bought diamond studs for most of the women on her list, a garnet bracelet for her friend, and a really nice gold watch for her husband. Even on sale, she said it was the most expensive thing she’s ever bought him.”
Madison could hear the frown in his voice. “She didn’t tell me a watch was stolen.”
“That’s because she trick-wrapped it. You know, tiny box inside a small box, small box inside a medium box, medium box inside a great big box. Lots of Styrofoam peanuts to make a mess everywhere.”
“So, you
’re wondering if the burglar somehow knew about the watch and was looking for it. Good possibility.”
“Yes, but how? How would he know she bought the watch to begin with?”
Brash pulled away from her hands, thanking her for the much-needed massage. “There’s several ways he could have known. He could have been in the store when she bought it. He could have overheard her telling a friend about it. The salesperson may have inadvertently let it slip. Could have been an inside job.”
“You think Dickey Fowler works at Premium Jewels?”
“The only thing Dickey Fowler works at is getting into trouble. And even though he fits the description of the burglar, we don’t know for certain it was him. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Either way, the jewelry store isn’t the only possibility for an inside job. Maybe the burglar works for the warranty company. Maybe Mrs. B. registered the watch online and the burglar or someone he knows hacked her account. Maybe he works at the bank and saw the debit card transaction. Maybe the burglar, especially if it was Dickey, got the information secondhand. There are literally dozens of possibilities.”
Madison scrunched her face in playful distaste. “Here I thought I might be on to something, and you have to go and get all detective mode on me, bringing probability into it.”
“Possibility, sweetheart, not probability,” he told her. He tugged her forward so that she more or less stumbled into his lap. “And you were right, you might be on to something. It’s worth checking out.” He let his brown gaze wander down to her mouth. “And so are your lips,” he murmured huskily. “What do you think the possibility is that I can get a kiss or two, or ten?”
Weaving her fingers through his dark-auburn hair, Madison thrilled at the sexy warmth of his voice. “We’re not talking possibility,” she corrected. “Not even probability. We’re talking a sure thing. Pucker up, Chief deCordova.”
A dozen kisses later, Maddy laid her head against his chest and listened to the steady pump of his heart. His arms formed a nice cocoon around her.
“How’s the research coming with the Hutchins and the Carrs?” he asked.
