Bones Behind the Wheel

by E. J. Copperman

  “Detectives.” She wasn’t giving me an inch today.

  “Right, detectives. I know that for a fact. So if I gave you that impression I sincerely apologize. But it’s because I know you’re an honest … detective that I’m asking the question. You must have a good reason for keeping that one item separate. I’m asking why you did that.” As groveling and apologizing go, I thought that was a pretty artful example.

  Keep in mind that McElone never smiles, at least not sincerely. She tends to laugh at me when I do something stupid, which isn’t the same thing. So my sincere appeal for forgiveness wasn’t going to create a warm-and-fuzzy moment between the two of us. Instead, she merely unclenched her jaw and let some of the violence leave her eyes.

  “I don’t see how, given you’re certain I’m so very honest, that it’s any of your business,” she said.

  “You have a point,” I told her. “Your only problem is that I’m not leaving until you answer the question.” I sat back deeper in the chair to illustrate my point. It wasn’t much but it was all I had.

  McElone’s jaw seemed to clench shut like its spring had snapped. The muscles in her face seemed absolutely steely in their determination. Her eyes, while trying as hard as they could to seem impassive, shot out occasional signs of something between exasperation and homicide.

  I sat consciously keeping my face exuding confidence and calm. I was lucky McElone couldn’t see what was going on in my stomach, where it felt like the Seven Santini Brothers were moving out some old furniture and delivering an entirely new gastric suite of sofas and chairs, with the occasional side table. And maybe a bowling alley.

  I said nothing. There was a long pause that I’m sure seemed silent to McElone during which Paul said, “You’re making her uncomfortable. We should go.”

  “There are security issues involved here and I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to discuss the matter with a civilian,” the lieutenant said. “I’m sure you understand.” It was all very professional and reasonable.

  “I understand,” I admitted. “But I don’t accept that as an answer. You had something in your hand that anybody else would agree should be included in evidence of whatever nutty crime went on in the early eighties. But you chose to hold onto it instead. I have zero doubt that there was a legit cop reason to do that, but as you’re so fond of pointing out, I’m not a professional investigator or a police officer, so I can’t figure out what it is. You also know perfectly well that I’m not going to rat you out to the chief of police because I don’t think you did anything wrong. But until you explain this situation to me it’s going to bother me and I have enough on my mind, what with dead bodies and old cars coming out of my land all by themselves. So spill.”

  McElone and Paul had exactly the same reaction, which was surprising in itself, given how she was a police detective and he was dead. They stared at me, apparently amazed I could utter that many words in a row, crossed their arms and then, almost in unison, said, “What?”

  There wasn’t a chance I was about to repeat all that even if I could have remembered it all in sequence. So I concentrated on the breathing person and said, very calmly, “I’m not leaving until you answer. You can have the maintenance staff clean around me after you leave, but I’ll still be here when you get back in the morning.”

  McElone sat back down in her chair quite gracefully. Under the same circumstances I would have fallen back with an impact that would have been felt a block away, but she was more disciplined than anyone I had ever met and could control every muscle in her body to a disturbing degree. She settled into the swivel chair and very quietly said, “Okay.”

  It wasn’t what I’d been expecting so it was my turn to use that time-honored ice-breaker, “What?”

  McElone didn’t answer me directly, which was wise of her. She spoke at a very low volume and watched her door with more interest than I would have expected. “There is someone on staff here who might be involved in the case. I am protecting the evidence because there is a possibility—and I hope I am wrong—that there might be some tampering involved. I want to have one piece of physical evidence that I will know for a fact came out of that car in that hole. And that is all I am going to tell you about that. Are we clear?”

  I gave that a good deal of thought. “Yes. We are clear,” I said. And somehow my respect for McElone had actually increased.

  “Good. And I am assuming there is no need to tell you that if one word of what I just said gets repeated to me by anyone I will take that as a sign that you have been blabbing confidential information I gave you and I will make it my business to be sure your life is miserable.”

  “I absolutely believe that,” I said. There was not a scintilla of irony in any of those words.

  “Now go home and take your ghost with you,” she said.

  I was midway through standing when those words struck home and I think I stopped in mid-lunge. “How did you know he was here?” I gasped.

  “He moved my stapler. Twice.” McElone closed her eyes briefly and then opened them. “I told you not to let them spy on me.”

  “It’ll never happen again,” I said.

  I stared at Paul as I skulked out of McElone’s office. “I couldn’t help it,” he said quietly. “I wanted to see if she’d notice.”

  “Never again,” I repeated to McElone. Then I closed her office door from the outside.

  Chapter 26

  I berated Paul for his indiscretion for most of the ride home, to the point that he stuck his head through the roof of the Volvo so he wouldn’t be able to hear me anymore. Ghosts have some of the most infuriating abilities. But I had a functioning nervous system and I figured that gave me the edge.

  Josh called while Paul was playing moon roof and I filled him in on the events of the day so far. We hadn’t even gotten to the second spook show and already I’d talked to two possible witnesses, found out Herman Fitzsimmons’s daughter was a Harbor Haven cop and squeezed some vague information out of McElone that, although she hadn’t mentioned names, seemed to indicate that Sgt. Menendez might be playing fast and loose with evidence she had gathered related to her own father’s death, which might mean she’d known ahead of time that was his body in the buried Lincoln. Now I needed lunch.

  I had stopped at Between Two Breads on Ocean Avenue and gotten myself a decadent turkey sandwich on sourdough. I’d curbed the impulse to ask Paul if he wanted me to pick up anything for him because that’s just cruel and besides it annoys him. Having just admonished him for his behavior I could only hold scolding rights if I didn’t do anything wrong myself, which I’ll admit is sometimes a trial.

  Once I had gotten back to the car Paul had grown weary of my nagging and stuck his head up into the November air, and my husband had called. So you’re up to date.

  “I’m going to do a little looking around between customers,” Josh said. “I have the desktop computer here and it’s pretty slow today. I have some questions I think we need to have answered.”

  “We’ve got nothing but questions,” I admitted. “But I’ve done this before. Don’t make yourself too visible. There’s somebody out there who feels antsy enough about this whole thing to move that car around a couple of times. I’m guessing that was to keep the police from finding something out. That kind of person usually comes with two things: anger and a deadly weapon.”

  “I’ve seen it happen enough,” Josh agreed. “Don’t worry. Sy is here to protect me.”

  “Good. I believe in your grandfather. Give him a kiss for me.”

  “That’s not gonna happen.”

  We made a few disgusting declarations of emotion and I hung up the phone. Paul lowered himself down into—well, near—the passenger seat at that moment, making me wonder if he could have heard my conversation with Josh. I chose not to dwell on that.

  “Are you finished scolding me?” Paul asked. “I realize what I did was wrong and I will not do it again.”

  “That’s right, because you’re not going b
ack to McElone’s office without me. Not for all eternity.” I was not speaking figuratively.

  Paul chose not to argue the point. He’d seen me reverse myself on so many previous absolute proclamations. It’s the same thing that has eroded my authority with Melissa. “I think our focus should be on the movements of the Lincoln after it was discovered in the ground,” he said. “That seems to be the area Lt. McElone is spending the least time on. I observed her all morning, and she was mostly looking into possible motives for the killing of Herman Fitzsimmons.”

  “Did she come up with anything promising?” I asked.

  “It is difficult to say. I couldn’t communicate with the lieutenant.”

  “Except through stapler signals.”

  Paul moaned a little. It’s not as scary as you might think. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

  “Certainly not today, no. But we’re talking about McElone.”

  He looked considerably more comfortable. “She looked into Fitzsimmons’s business dealings and there was one rival dealer who seemed a promising suspect.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sheila Morgenstern,” Paul said. “She owned a car dealership in Belmar on Route 35. There was some communication between the two of them at the time through the Ocean County court system, as Ms. Morgenstern seemed to believe Fitzsimmons was having her excluded from some local professional organizations and service clubs. She filled out forms to sue him for restraint of trade but never filed them.”

  “Service clubs? Like the Elks in Keyport?” Maxie had mentioned Fitzsimmons was an officer of some kind in that lodge.

  “Precisely. Morgenstern was applying to the lodge in an attempt to become the first female member, and she alleged that Fitzsimmons, in his role of Loyal Knight, took steps to keep her from the group. According to some letters between Fitzsimmons and his attorney, he denied any such thing had taken place.” Paul’s face almost glowed; he was so engrossed in the mystery.

  “So McElone’s talking to this Morgenstern woman?” I said. “That leaves us with the car and the workmen behind the house. I already talked to Bill and I think we need to see Jim … somebody and I talked to Ernie about his weird belief in pirate treasure. And I’m afraid I need to have a very delicate conversation with Katrina Breslin about the relationship she seems to believe she’s having with Bill where he doesn’t show up.”

  “Jim Constantine,” Paul reminded me. “And I’m not sure if you should broach the subject with Katrina yet. We don’t know whether she is delusional or lying, or if Bill Harrelson is trying to cover up his own involvement in this affair.”

  “I don’t get what anybody’s motive would be,” I said as I pulled into my driveway. Tony and Vic were loading up their van—Tony’s van—at the back of my house, which meant (Hooray!) that they’d finished the work on my ceiling beam.

  “My best guess would be emeralds,” Paul, who couldn’t care less about the ceiling beam because the house could fall on his head and he wouldn’t feel it, said.

  I parked on an angle that would allow the van to pass me on its way out and got out of the Volvo. I walked over to Tony and Vic and gave Tony a hug he probably wasn’t expecting. “Hey,” he said.

  “You’re done!” I said. “I can have my kitchen back again!”

  “Well, mostly,” Vic said.

  I let go of his brother. “Mostly?”

  “Yeah.” Tony wasn’t making eye contact and Tony always makes eye contact. “The braces are down and the beam is holding.”

  I didn’t know what was coming but I was sure I wouldn’t like it. “But?”

  “But I got a call from the Harbor Haven police telling me not to patch the hole in the drywall until they were certain their investigation of those four bullets is over,” he said. Then he seemed to flinch, as if expecting me to go off like a small neutron bomb.

  “Oh, okay,” I said.

  Tony looked at me for a moment. “All right. Good. So I’ll be back when the cops say it’s okay.”

  I smiled. “I can do the drywall,” I reminded him. “Don’t forget who you’re dealing with.”

  He grinned back. “Never.”

  “So I can use my back door now? Because I need to get you guys your check.” I took a few steps toward my kitchen door.

  “That’s not necessary now, Alison.” Tony finished closing the van’s rear doors. “I trust you for the money.”

  “Nonetheless.” I didn’t want Tony and Vic to think I wasn’t paying them on time because I was a friend. We’d agreed on a price that was far below their usual rate and if that was the case I would at least give them their money promptly.

  It felt good to walk through the back door again, even as Paul simply floated through the outside wall into the kitchen. Ghosts are such showoffs. I took a moment to assess the damage and its repair.

  Tony and Vic had done a fine job, which was precisely what I had expected. The ceiling still had no wallboard on it, to be fair, but where the house itself seemed to have been sagging under the burden of holding up the damaged beam the lines were now straight and sturdy. The floor, which might have been ankle-deep in sawdust, was clean. Yes, the walls needed painting and Maxie and I had to work out a practical (and yet artistic) floor plan but for the moment everything was where I had wanted it before and if I was being honest, still wanted it now.

  My checkbook was in a drawer in my nightstand, up in our bedroom. I almost never wrote checks anymore and didn’t really need to use it all that much. So I was halfway through the kitchen and heading for the staircase when I noticed something just a little strange. Okay, more than a little.

  I walked back to the door, Paul having dropped through the floor saying something about trying to find the Harbor Haven cop who’d investigated Herman Fitzsimmons’s disappearance. Tony and Vic hadn’t left yet, so I could gesture to Tony and he looked up and came to meet me inside the kitchen.

  “I was going to come in and see what you thought,” he said. “I wasn’t just going to drive off and vanish into the night.”

  “Funny you should suggest that,” I said. “Because I’m wondering about something that seems to have vanished from this very room.”

  “Ah,” Tony nodded. “You’re talking about the refrigerator.”

  “You are amazingly perceptive, my friend. Where’s my fridge?”

  Tony nodded. “At the moment it’s on your deck. I looked inside. Inside there’s just a thing of soy milk and an orange.”

  Vic showed up in the doorway. “You don’t mind me eating the orange, do you?”

  I did not mind and told Vic so.

  “We figured with just some soy milk the fridge wasn’t exactly essential immediately,” Tony said.

  I felt my face flush a little bit. “I’m going grocery shopping later. The question really is, why isn’t my refrigerator here in the kitchen, where it belongs? It wasn’t even close to the beam. So how come it’s gone?”

  “Take a look,” Tony said, walking to the spot where, if the world were in sync, my refrigerator would be. “There’s a hole in the floor where it was sitting and I was concerned about the integrity of the floor. I want to know if you need me to check on it before we take off or if you want to deal with it yourself.”

  “A hole in the floor?” That was weird. I hadn’t moved the fridge in a long time, but every once in a while you need to clean behind it. Maybe I’d just moved it to the side and missed the hole. “Let’s see.”

  Sure enough there was a space where there should have been floorboards and vinyl tile (hey, I can’t afford porcelain tile in a space this large), but I don’t think I would have called it a hole. It was, for one thing, almost perfectly rectangular, about six inches across and three wide. “This was cut into the floor with a saw, maybe a hole saw,” I said.

  Vic nodded. “That’s what I thought. Why do you have a hole cut in your kitchen floor?”

  I had knelt down to examine the slice in my floor more closely. I turned my head t
o see if Vic was kidding; it appeared he was not. “You think I put this here?”

  He shrugged. “None of my business. You’re saying you didn’t know it was here?”

  Tony slapped his brother lightly in the back of his head. “Of course she didn’t,” he said. “But I can’t tell how long it’s been here.”

  “Did you feel inside?” I asked him.

  Tony shook his head. “Our hands are too big. You want to give it a try?”

  I looked at the opening. “I don’t know. You have a flashlight?”

  Tony reached on his tool belt and produced one. “I can’t say it’s going to help much. I took a look before and couldn’t see much.”

  “Could you see if there were spiders in there?”

  Tony snickered just a little. “None I could see.”

  Okay. “I’ll give it a shot.” I was already on the floor anyway. That’s how I justified it to myself.

  It wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to enlarge the gap in the floor, which would have made it easier to explore. And there wasn’t really any reason to think there was anything to find, so making a larger repair necessary would have been even more pointless. I gritted my teeth just because I don’t enjoy sticking my fingers into spaces I can’t predict. Does anybody like that?

  I felt like it was a good idea to clear my mind so I actually closed my eyes while I felt inside the “hole.” I’m not typically squeamish but surprises are not my best friend so feeling around in a small space where I couldn’t see was making me just a little bit jittery.

  “See anything?” Vic asked. It was perfectly obvious I couldn’t see anything, as the flashlight Tony was shining on the area was adequately illuminating my arm and little else. But I took Vic’s question to mean whether I could feel anything, and that was a different story.

  I could feel lots of things, and none of them was making me happy. I could feel the cross beam in the floor, which was a relief; whoever had cut this hole in my kitchen had at least done so in a way that wouldn’t be impossible to repair without Tony and Vic. I could feel dirt, which was hardly a surprise. Even with a basement under it, my kitchen was constructed more than one hundred years ago, and things tend to build up over that kind of time. And the gaps between levels of a building are often full of soil; it was used as a kind of cheap insulation at the time.