by Pamela Cowan
“Eighty-three, if I remember right.” said Leo.
“Yeah, that was Betty,” Ellen said. “Her stepson ripped her off so she hired a lawyer. He found out and slapped her around. Thought he’d intimidated her. He hadn’t. She got her lawyer to cut him out of everything and then bought a gun. Sad story.”
“But if he shows up in the middle of the night,” said Leo.
“She’ll be ready,” said Ellen. “She mentioned she was thinking of hiring someone to help her find a cousin of hers. Someone she lost touch with but is her only family. She has a pretty nice estate and would like to leave it to the cousin, now that stepson is out of the picture. Interested in helping her?”
“Sure,” said Emma, thinking that maybe this was the universe telling her to get back to what she did best. Find people.
“Hand me your phone. I’ll put her contact info in it for you. Her name’s Betty. Betty Carpenter.”
Emma handed over her phone and Leo said, “Enough talk about the store. What about you? You did a lot of work on this investigation. I know how much you wanted to solve the murder.”
Emma sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Yeah, I did, but not for a good reason. Not to find justice or anything noble. I just got mad at that detective who gave me attitude. Doing stuff out of anger is not usually a good idea. I need to work on controlling my emotions, especially my temper.”
“Don’t beat yourself up too much,” said Leo. “A lot of people never question their motives for doing things. At least you did and are trying to learn from it.”
Emma shrugged. “I guess. I mean, if I’m being honest, I also wanted to investigate the killing because it was interesting. It was something different, and I am a PI after all. We’re known for solving murders—at least on TV,” she said with a chuckle. “Hey, who doesn’t watch Magnum PI reruns?”
Her cell phone, which Ellen was still holding, rang and Ellen handed it back to her.
“Richland Investigations.”
After a moment, Emma set the phone down on the desk without saying anything.
Ellen raised her brows.
“They hung up on me,” Emma explained.
“Spammer?”
“No doubt.”
“Okay, well I better go,” said Ellen. “That tea’s not going to brew itself.”
Leo looked from Ellen to Emma and said, “I’m not allowed at this particular event, thank God. I’m not even allowed in the building. Want to go to Healy’s and shoot pool?”
Emma considered it for a moment. Did he have to be so nice? The packaging was already above average. Being nice too put him right in the dangerous column since she was definitely not looking to get into a relationship.
“Sorry, I can’t,” she told him. “You heard me promise a client I’d check out something for her. Plus I really need to get to the bank and deposit this check.” She waved Gwen’s check in the air in front of her and turning her attention to her sister said, “Just think El, rent, groceries, beer!”
“At least you’ve got your priorities in order,” said Ellen.
“Always. Plus after Mrs. Evers I should call this Mrs. Carpenter of yours before she finds someone else.”
“And before the beer, I hope,” said her sister.
“Party pooper.”
“Hey, Vargie,” Ellen said to Leo, “Would you go start the car?”
A wide grin made Leo’s eyes sparkle. “You hear this? Vargie, not Vargus. She clearly wants something. Hola Vargus, mi querido amigo. Mi querido compañero. Mi querido. Mi asso.” He puckered his lips and pantomimed kissing with loud smacking sounds, then, with a small but well-executed bow he left, closing the door firmly behind him.
Ellen and Emma smiled at the exaggerated expression of grievance.
“What did you want to tell me that he couldn't hear?” Emma asked.
“It’s the key fob,” said Ellen, wasting no time. “My friend at the FBI called tonight. The fob was too damaged to get a unique number that would let him trace it to a particular car, but he had no doubt about the kind of car. It belonged to a Tesla.”
“Tesla huh. Can’t be many of those around. You have to head toward Portland or down to San Francisco to find the kind of money and people who buy Teslas. It’s strange.”
“Definitely,” said Ellen, as she got up, rolled her shoulders and then headed toward the door. “I guess it doesn’t matter now. It’s going to be one of those puzzles that doesn’t get solved. The one person who knows the answer is dead. Let me know what happens with Mrs. Campbell. She’s a good person.”
“I Will,” Emma promised.
Once Leo and Ellen were gone, Emma rolled her chair back to its usual place behind her desk. Then she opened the hidden camera’s app on her phone. The files she wanted were in a folder, each labeled with a date, and time stamped. There were five files and she played each of them twice. They were basically identical.
Each scene began with a blur of movement that quickly resolved into the figure of a woman. The woman was easy to identify as Grace Evers. She went out around nine in the morning and returned around eleven for two days. On the third day, today Emma realized, she left but had not returned. There was no other activity. No one else had entered the home. What a relief.
Emma created a new folder, named it Grace Evers, and moved all the digital files into it. If Grace wanted a copy she could easily text or email them to her.
With a flip of her finger she shut the app and then dialed Grace’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“Hi, It’s Emma Richland. I have good news. No one has entered your apartment since I installed the cameras.”
“But he had to. Things have been moved, and like I told you, I can smell his cigar.”
“Maybe what you smell is smoke drifting in from outside or from another apartment,” suggested Emma reasonably.
“No, it’s not that,” Grace insisted. “I’m afraid that you just proved what I’ve suspected for a while now.”
“What’s that?” Emma asked, her curiosity aroused.
“That he can make himself invisible. I sort of wondered about that. If you met him you’d understand. He’s sort of sly. Sometimes he’ll give me this look, like he knows something I don’t. You know what I mean, a sort of sneaky look?”
“He can . . . He what?” asked Emma, realizing she was stuck on the invisible part of the story and unable to move on to concern about his sly or sneaky look.
“It’s okay,” Grace said. “I know it seems strange but if you think about it, what else could it be?
Emma didn’t know what to do or say and realized she was sitting there with her mouth wide open. For the first time in her life she understood the expression, a jaw-dropping moment.
“H-he . . .”
The realization, that her latest client was paranoid and delusional, had momentarily taken her ability to form a full sentence.
Misreading the cause of Emma’s stutter, Grace said, “Don’t be afraid. I know it’s very strange and creepy but the thing is, I think he’s ex-military. I’ll bet he was part of some kind of military experiment. These things happen.”
Emma managed to get through the rest of the conversation. She told Grace that given what they knew, she felt it would be wrong to take her money. There was really nothing she could do. She’d be tearing up her check and hoped she’d work things out with the maintenance man.
“But we could set another trap,” Grace suggested. “I’m thinking maybe if we sprinkled flour on the floor and you put the camera where it could see his footprints we’d have him.”
Emma said she’d think about it and hung up.
“Oh boy, am I ever going to get that camera back?” she asked the empty room. She scrubbed her fingers through her hair then took a deep breath, which triggered a yawn.
More coffee. Coffee was always the answer. Before she could get up to start a fresh pot, the phone rang. Dreading that it would be Grace calling back to ask for help in tracking her invisible m
an, Emma looked at the screen. It showed a local number but not one she recognized.
“Richland Investigations,” she said.
“He-hello,” a girl’s voice hesitantly responded. “Is this Emma Richland?”
“Yes, it is.”
“M-my name is Bonnie. You gave my mom your phone number. My mom, L-leena?”
“Leena. Willy Keene’s aunt.” said Emma, coming alert as she realized who she was talking to.
“Yes, th-that’s right.”
“What can I do for you, Bonnie?” Emma picked up a pen and scribbled the name on the edge of her desk calendar.
“They shot my c-cousin.” Bonnie said. “The cops I mean.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I heard about that,” said Emma, as gently as she could. The girl was nervous, even frightened. She expected her to hang up at any moment, but she didn’t, and her next words came in a rush.
“They said he killed Dodge Keller but he never did. He couldn’t have. I heard the gunshot. I could see Willy in his truck. How could he be in his truck and shoot the gun? He couldn’t. He didn’t do it.”
Emma felt a shiver run down her spine. She held the phone tighter. “Where are you?”
It was dark by the time she reached Leena’s trailer. A young girl she guessed was about thirteen or fourteen opened the door and introduced herself as Bonnie. She was slender, a couple inches shorter than Emma, with long brown hair and big brown eyes, one of which sported a hell of a black eye. It was a vivid purple, fading around the edges to an ugly pinkish green.
Emma wasn’t completely surprised to find such a young person left alone in this rough place, in the middle of nowhere, after all she’d met her mother.
“Mom went to town, to work. She got a job at the casino. We can talk.”
Bonnie had opened the door and stood aside, an invitation for Emma to enter. She’d done so, taking a seat on the recliner while Bonnie perched on the arm of the couch. The recliner listed to one side and Emma could feel her spine protesting. She ignored it. Bonnie’s story was too mesmerizing to allow her to concentrate on anything else. She’d been telling the story of her cousin Willy’s unexpected visit.
“After we got the wood unloaded he gave me ten dollars. He told me it was a tip for doing such a good job and to buy something for me, not give it to my mom. Like I would. I didn’t buy anything either. I put it in my bank.”
“Good for you. Saving is a great habit and your cousin sounds like a nice guy. You told me he couldn't have shot Mr. Keller. How do you know that?”
“Because I was looking right at him when I heard a shot. I’m pretty sure it must have been the one that killed Dodge. It was the only shot I heard that day. Everybody knows Dodge likes to target shoot, and since his mom died, it’s gotten worse. His friends come over and then it’s blam, blam, blam.
“Nobody walks over the ridge when they start shooting over there. You gotta walk down to the highway and go that way. You can always tell when they’re shooting though. It’s loud and sometimes you can even hear voices, yelling and laughing and stuff.
“All I heard was the one shot and that was kind of weird. I guess I thought it was a hunter maybe, until I found out Dodge got killed. Then they said Willy shot him, but if he did, I sure didn’t hear it, and I was here all day. I know you probably don’t believe me.”
Emma could see the frustration on her face. “I believe you heard a shot, if that helps. Tell me exactly where your cousin was and what he was doing when you heard it?”
“He was in his truck, just a little way down the road. I could still see him clear as anything, and then bang. For a minute I thought his truck backfired, but it had that echoey sound you hear when someone shoots on the other side of the ridge. That’s why I know it had to be the shot that killed Dodge. Someone has to tell the cops. I don’t think they will believe me.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Emma promised. Though part of her doubted the police would give the story coming from her any more credence than they did Bonnie. “I heard your cousin was seen heading to Dodge’s house that day. Do you know why he was going there?”
Bonnie turned her face away. When she turned back, Emma was surprised to see tears in her eyes.
“I think he might have been going to Dodge’s because he was mad. Dodge he—he touched me—and then . . .” She gestured at her black eye and whispered, “He punched me.”
“Are you all right? Do you want to see a doctor? I can take you.”
Bonnie shook her head, wiped the tears away briskly. “No. I already went. I’m fine.”
Emma wanted to say something. To call her out on the obvious lie but she knew it would be pointless, instead she asked, “Can you tell me why Dodge . . . Why he did that?”
Bonnie shook her head. “I just want you to tell the cops it wasn’t Willy who killed him. You should go. I have to do homework.”
Emma knew a dismissal when she heard one. There was so much she wanted to ask but Bonnie didn’t seem to want any more questions. It was time to leave.
On the way back to Hollis, she decided to call John Stiles, her friend with the sheriff’s office. It was late enough that he should be at work, and he was. He answered on the first ring.
“Hi John, it’s Emma.
“Hey kiddo. What do you need?”
“Advice. I just got some information on the Keller thing. Not sure what I should do with it.”
“What kind of information?”
“I talked to someone who says they were with Willy Keene when Keller was killed. They heard the shot.”
“Reliable someone?”
“I think so.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, I know. Sort of brings everything into question.”
“You need to come in and make a statement first thing tomorrow.”
“I will. Who should I ask for?”
“Someone in the homicide unit. I’m not sure who. Damn, this is going to ruin someone’s day.”
* * *
After hanging up, John went to the break room for a cup of coffee. ADA Beale was sitting at a table, reading a magazine, a cup of coffee and an empty plate in front of him.
He looked up, “Loving these late shifts, John?” Beale asked.
John nodded. He didn’t mind Beale. Unlike some of the guys in the DA’s office he wasn’t known for being an ass in court, trying to win a case by attacking a cop’s ethics or integrity. Besides, the guy was always friendly, chipped in for stuff, bought your kid’s girl scout cookies, wrapping paper, or whatnot, without bitching about it like so many of the single guys did.
“Yeah, most of the fun happens at night, as you know. For instance, I just got a call from a local PI. She says Willy Keene couldn’t have killed Dodge Keller.” John delivered his news in a way that would provide the most shock value. After all, Emma hadn’t actually said she had proof.
“Wha-what?” Beale said.
Modifying his statement, John said, “Well actually, she says she knows someone who is claiming they were with Keene at the time of Keller’s death.
“Who is she? What exactly did she tell you?
“Hang on, I’ll get some creamer and tell you all about it,” said John, taking up his coffee mug and heading for the refrigerator. “About time for me to take a break anyway.”
* * *
After their talk, Beale left John as soon as he could and escaped to his office. He needed to think. Everything had been done, all the edges tucked down. Now it was all a goddamn mess. Time to straighten this shit out once and for all. Things were spiraling out of control. If he didn’t take decisive steps then everything he’d worked so hard for would blow the hell up.
Long ago he’d set a goal for himself. A fat number that would assure the retirement he wanted. So few planned ahead, but he had. He’d sacrificed long enough and he was sick of crappy apartments, basic transportation.
He’d just found a house. The house. It was in Andorra, a sweet little town between France and Spain. A place with
no extradition, not that he expected there to be a problem. He was on no one's radar and if he worked it right, never would be. He was close, so damn close. He couldn’t afford anyone getting in his way, not now.
Emma Richland. She could be a problem. Funny he’d never heard of her before. According to John she’d been in business for at least three years, had an office in Hollis, and did a lot of work around the county.
Recently, she’d been investigating the warehouse fire. That’s what must have put her in contact with Dodge, but why was she nosing around in his murder? Did someone hire her to do that? Who and why?
According to John, she was planning to talk to homicide in the morning. Give them a possible alibi for Willy Keene. If she did, the whole damn investigation would reopen. If somehow the police stumbled over the fact that the real killer wasn’t the Keene kid but had been Jelly—if they followed that trail to him. Well, that could be a problem. Could he trust Jelly?
The Indian was something of an unknown element. Most of their dealings had been through Dodge. All he knew about him was that Dodge thought he was dependable and that he had a wife he was crazy about. Beale didn’t have any sort of handle on the man. No leverage he could use to demand loyalty. Maybe he should have hired someone from out of town to take out Dodge.
“Damn it,” he said to the empty room. He looked at the business card John had given him, dug out of his old Rolodex.
“They say to move our contacts onto the computer,” John had told him, as he’d flipped through what had to be hundreds of cards. “But who had all the numbers last month when the power went out?” He said it with the smug tone of someone who feels they’ve finally been proven right.
Pulling a business card from a plastic sleeve he’d handed it over. “Don’t bother getting it back to me. She gave me a few.”
Picking up his office phone, Beale called the number. After three rings a woman’s voice said, “Richland Investigations, can I help you?”
“Is this Emma Richland?”
“It is.”
“This is Robert Beale, Assistant District Attorney. I’ve heard from John Stiles that you have information on Dodge Keller.
