“What time was this?” asked Cole.
“I’d say between twelve-thirty and one in the morning. George had smoked four cancer sticks, and he milks them for all he can.”
“Will you please stop calling them cancer sticks!” he snapped.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Touchy. George had smoked four of his coffin nails, and that usually takes him until close to 1 a.m.”
George groused, “Fifty-six years I’ve put up with this woman. It’s a miracle I haven’t killed her.”
“Keep going, ma’am,” Puller said to Rhonda.
“Well, then I went to the bathroom. George will have to pick up the story from there.”
Cole said, “Wait a minute, didn’t Officer Wellman notice you sitting on the back deck smoking?”
George shook his head. “I was lying on our little glider couch. The back part faces the Halversons’.”
“How could you see anything, then?” asked Puller.
“I was looking around the corner of the couch. I could see everything, but it would’ve been real hard to see me. And I’d put out my smokes by then.”
“So Wellman was patrolling. Then what?”
“And then I must’ve fallen asleep,” he said sheepishly.
“See,” said Rhonda in a gloating tone. “I went to the can and you could’ve ignited yourself into oblivion. Cremation on the cheap.”
His husband scowled. “I just said I’d already put the smoke out. And you’d like it if I cremated myself, wouldn’t you? Then you could spend my burial money over at that casino you like so much.”
“Mr. Dougett, if you could focus on what you saw?” prompted Cole.
“Oh, right. Anyway, I woke up and the next thing I seen was the big bald fellow coming out of the house.”
“Wait a minute. The bald fellow was in the house?” said Cole. “You never said that.”
“I didn’t? Well, I’m saying it now. He came out moving fast. He ran into the woods. Then I heard a car pull up. That was four thirty or so. I remember because I checked my watch.”
“That was me,” said Puller. “I drove up, called Sergeant Cole, and then went in the house. I looked around, found Wellman dead, and then heard Cole drive up.” He looked at Cole. “I saw a guy running in the woods, came back out, and that’s when I hooked up with you and we went after the guy.”
“So the bald guy who came out of the woods must’ve hung around while you were in the house,” said Cole.
“Must have,” agreed George. “I saw him take off, and just a few moments later I heard the back door open and you came out. I didn’t see where you went after that.”
Puller said, “Hid behind the car parked in the driveway.”
Cole said, “But Larry’s car was taken. How did that happen? Who did it?” She turned to the Dougetts. “Did either of you see anything about that?”
They both shook their heads.
George said, “That might’ve happened when I was asleep.”
“And I was in the bathroom a long time,” said Rhonda. “When you’re old,” she added, “everything just takes longer.”
Puller said, “Just to get the timeline straight, you last saw Wellman patrolling between half past twelve and one. He didn’t go into the house. The next you saw was baldy leaving the house shortly before I arrived. I found Wellman dead around five. And he was killed about three hours or so before that, or two A.M. That would be about an hour after you saw Wellman patrolling, and then you fell asleep. But baldy could have already been in the house or come there when you were asleep.”
Cole interjected, “That means baldy could have killed Larry and then fled.”
Puller shook his head. “But what happened to the car? This guy apparently didn’t drive off in it. And if this guy did kill him, why hang around in the woods at all? Why not just get the hell away? It was only because he hung around that I spotted him.”
“It’s a real head-knocker,” added George.
Puller said, “Did you notice if the patrol car was missing when you woke up? Or did you hear a car start up?”
“Neither,” said Dougett. “I must’ve really been out.”
“Would you two like some coffee and cupcakes?” asked Rhonda.
Her husband barked, “It’s the morning, for Chrissakes, Rhonda. Who the hell eats cupcakes in the morning?”
“I do,” she said primly.
“We already ate,” said Puller.
“Well, we hope we were helpful to you,” said George.
“Do you think we’re in any danger?” asked Rhonda in a way that demonstrated she was thrilled at the prospect.
“I’ve got a gun,” said George grimly.
“You’ve got no bullets for it,” said his wife. “And even if you did you haven’t fired it in years. Probably shoot yourself before you’d hit anything else.”
Cole and Puller left the couple bickering over this point and walked back to the police cruiser.
She said, “So where does that leave us?”
“We’ve got to find baldy.”
“Any thoughts on that?”
“Yeah.”
CHAPTER
61
AS THEY WERE DRIVING back through Drake, Cole slowed her cruiser and pulled to the curb. Puller looked where she was staring.
“Roger Trent is back in town,” he said.
A black Cadillac Escalade with gold trim sat idling at the curb, a man he’d never seen before at the wheel. Puller eyed the driver closely, his gaze taking in all relevant details and his mind crunching through those observations and arriving at certain conclusions.
Interesting.
Next to the vehicle stood Roger Trent. He was dressed in a suit. Puller noted that it looked baggy and wrinkled, as though the man had slept in it. He had opened the door of the vehicle and was about to step inside.
“Looks like he just walked off the plane,” he noted. “Let’s have a chat with him.”
She pulled to a stop next to the Escalade and Puller rolled his window down. “Hey, Roger, got time for a cup of coffee in the Crib?”
Trent scowled at Puller and then glanced at Cole. “I just had a cup of coffee there.”
“Got some things to talk to you about. Won’t take long.”
“Is it about those death threats?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll give you ten minutes.” He turned and walked into the restaurant.
A minute later Puller and Cole were seated across from him. They ordered their coffees. The place was about three-quarters full and everyone there kept shooting nervous glances at the trio.
Puller noted this and said, “You come here often? I understand you own it.”
“I own just about everything in Drake. So what?”
Puller ran his gaze down the man’s wrinkled suit. “You just get back into town?”
“Yeah, again, so what?” He glanced sharply at Cole. “I thought you wanted to talk to me about those death threats.”
“We’re working on it, Roger.”
“Right. Well, you might want to look a little close to home. Just like last time.”
“I have. And I don’t think that’s the source. I wanted to let you know that.”
“I’m not sure you’re the most objective person to make that decision.”
“We think Molly Bitner’s murder had something to do with her working at your office, Roger,” said Puller.
This comment drew a sharp glance from Cole, but Trent didn’t catch it. He was staring at Puller.
“And why do you think that?”
“Soil reports.”
“I don’t know what that means. What sort of soil reports?”
“You know, the environmental kind.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Eric Treadwell and Dickie Strauss were friends, did you know that?”
“Not really, no.”
“They have the same tat sleeve. Dickie said he copied it from Eric’s.”
“Wha
t does any of that have to do with me?”
“I’m not sure, Roger,” said Puller. He took a sip of coffee and studied the man. “How’d the trip to New York go?”
Trent looked startled. “How did you know that’s where I went?”
“Bill Strauss told us. He wouldn’t tell us why, but he did say that your company was very profitable and investment opportunities were everywhere.”
Trent glanced away and Puller saw a small tremor start up in the man’s left hand.
“Everybody needs energy,” added Puller.
“Right,” said Trent curtly. “Are we done here? Because you clearly have nothing to tell me that is helpful.”
Cole glanced at Puller. He said, “I guess so. You should probably go home and get some sleep. You look beat.”
“Thanks for your concern,” snapped Trent.
As the other man rose, Puller did too. He stepped closer and said in a low voice, “I would take those death threats seriously, Roger. But maybe not for the reason you think.”
Trent grew a shade paler, turned, and left. A few moments later the Escalade roared off.
As Cole and Puller walked outside, she said, “What exactly was that about?”
“That man is scared. For a lot of reasons. Personal. Business. Why do you think that is? He owns the whole town. Big fish in a little pond.”
“I don’t know,” said Cole.
“Big fish in a little pond,” repeated Puller.
Cole got it. “There’s a bigger fish in town.”
“Could be.”
“Who?”
“We find baldy.”
“How? You said you had an idea.”
“Let me put it another way. We find Dickie Strauss.”
“You think he’s the guy Dougett saw running from the house?”
“Fits the physical description. Burns on the arm? Try a tat sleeve. And if it wasn’t Dickie, it might have been one of his tat sleeve crew.”
“There aren’t any gangs in Drake, Puller.”
“None that you’re aware of,” he corrected.
“Why would Dickie Strauss have been in that house? And if he was, then that means he killed Larry Wellman. Why would he do that?”
“That’s not necessarily so.”
“What do you mean? They were both in the house and Larry ended up dead. Somebody had to kill him. He didn’t hang himself.”
“Agreed.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Let’s just find Dickie instead of arguing. Any idea where he might be?”
She slid the cruiser into drive. “Yeah.”
“Where?”
“You’ll find out when we get there. I can play things close to the vest too.”
CHAPTER
62
THE CONCRETE DOME. Puller studied it as they passed by.
“Maybe Drake should make that into a tourist attraction,” he said.
“Yeah, that would be a great draw. Stare at cement for a dollar,” replied Cole.
She turned down a street and steered the cruiser into the neighborhood that had once housed people that had worked in the nearby facility. They passed abandoned houses that were starting to cave in, and other homes where people had worked to make them livable. Puller stared at small kids with dirty faces, and skinny mothers who ran after them. He didn’t see many men, but figured they were probably out earning a living or at least trying to find work.
He sniffed the air. “Nice aroma.”
“We try to get them to take their trash to the dump, but it’s an ongoing struggle. And the bathrooms in these places stopped working a long time ago. Most have put in outhouses of some kind.”
“Nice life for the citizens of the richest nation on earth.”
“Well, those riches must be concentrated in the hands of a few, because we don’t have any of it.”
“They are,” said Puller. “Like your brother-in-law.” He looked around. “Those are electrical poles, but those transformers don’t seem to be hot.”
“People here were trying to tie into them and getting fried. We had the electric company turn this part of the grid off and do a workaround.” She pointed to a telephone pole that had some cable running from it down to the ground where it snaked inside some of the homes.
“Telephone service is being tapped into, as you can see. We let that pass. Folks here can’t necessarily afford cell phones. But they can still talk to people. Phone company is okay with it. Hell, more and more people don’t even have landlines these days. They make their money off cell phones and data usage and stuff like that.”
Cole pointed up ahead. “There’s our destination.”
The place was at the end of the street and far larger than the other homes. Puller stared at the massive overhead doors painted red, though the paint had mostly faded away.
It struck Puller what he was looking at. “A firehouse?”
“Used to be. Hasn’t been used for that since they domed over the Bunker. At least that’s what I was told as a kid.”
“So what do they use it for now?”
The next instant Puller heard the motorcycle start up. Actually, it was more than one motorcycle.
“Harley club,” said Cole. “Of which Dickie Strauss is a member. They call it Xanadu. Some of them might not even know what it means. But it helps keep most of these boys out of trouble.”
“And Treadwell too? He had a Harley. Is that where the tat sleeve came from?”
“I don’t know about the tat sleeve. And no, not everyone in the club has one.”
“But it would have been nice to know that Dickie and Treadwell belonged to the same club.”
“We just found out that it might have been Dickie that ran out of the Halversons’ place. Until then, I had no reason to suspect he was involved.”
“But maybe the motorcycle gang was connected to Treadwell’s death.”
“It’s a club, Puller, not a gang. Most of the members are older guys. They have families and bills to pay.”
She pulled the car to a stop in front of the old firehouse and they got out. Through the open doorways Puller could see an old fire truck with rotted wheels in one bay, and the ubiquitous fire pole just beyond it. Wooden lockers lined both sides of the wall, and there was old
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