“Settle down, Steve…”
But Pritchard was yelling at the top of his lungs, screaming more obscenities and epithets, drawing the attention of Daniels, who came trotting over, hand going to his mace.
“Huh?! Hey, you fat Russian fuck! Next time the cops won’t save you, pussy!”
Daniels withdrew the mace can and started to open the rear door. Mike thought the young cop looked more worried than aggressive. “Sir,” Daniels said, “you need to calm down right now.”
“Ah, fuck you.”
“Sir, get back. Get back, Mr. Pritchard, or I’m going to—”
Pritchard suddenly leaned back and kicked out with both feet, connecting with the vehicle door, cranking it back the rest of the way. Daniels jumped back but the door hit his leg. He recovered and pointed the mace. Mike turned away as the officer sprayed Pritchard, who screamed louder.
Mike clambered out of the front seat, drawing a big gulp of air. Mullins had run over to help and the two local cops struggled to subdue Steve Pritchard. Finally, Daniels, huffing and puffing, withdrew from the back seat.
Mike heard Pritchard moaning and mumbling. “She had it coming,” he said. “Rita had it coming to her.”
Daniels got into the driver’s seat, eyes bulging. “Sorry, Mike. I had to hit him with it.”
Mike swiped a hand over his face. The mace hadn’t touched him.
Mullins trotted round to the passenger side, glancing at Mike. “We have to take him in. Now.”
She had it coming to her.
Mike nodded, stepped back from the cruiser as it ripped away, thinking they might just wind up adding murder to Pritchard’s charges.
Seven
“Investigator Nelson?” Bobbi switched the phone to her other ear. His phone call was alarming. “Is everything okay?”
“Just Mike,” he said. “Everything’s okay; nothing to worry about. Need to ask you a quick question.”
“Okay…” She was alone in her apartment. A pizza box and paper plates littered the kitchen. She’d been too tired to clean up after the boys had left last night. Connor had hinted at wanting to stay, but she’d worried about Jolyon – not just what he might infer about spending a night at her house, but she feared for his safety if someone was after her. So she’d told Connor she needed some time to think and process everything – the truth, even if it scared her to be alone – and now she braced for what Mike would say next: We have reason to believe the killer intended you to be the victim, and he plans to correct the mistake.
“I was wondering if Harriet ever talked about her brother, Steve Pritchard,” Mike said.
She felt some relief, quickly followed by curiosity. “I know she had two brothers… We talked about it a little because I grew up with brothers, too.”
“Did she ever talk about either of them specifically?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve only been there a few months. We meet in group-soup every Monday, that’s the only time we ever really discuss our personal lives.” Bobbi left the kitchen and went into the bedroom, pulled a duffel bag out of the closet and gave it a kick. It felt full, but she bent and unzipped it anyway.
“Group supervision, right. Some of the other caseworkers have referenced that.”
“Is there something that… Is one of her brothers a lead, or something?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t really say right now.”
“I wish I had something else for you.” She pawed through the gear inside the bag – her karate gi, her sparring gloves, an empty water bottle. She brought the bottle into the kitchen to fill it.
“No, that’s perfectly alright. I appreciate your cooperation.” He paused. “How are you holding up? Any of the media been bothering you?”
“I had someone call. The reporter asked me what I knew about any developments, if the police had any suspects. I told them no comment. Is there going to be a press conference?”
“That’s good. Yes, the local DA is putting that together for later today. At the town hall in Lake Haven.”
“I don’t know how they got my number,” Bobbi said. “I just have a cell phone.” She screwed the cap back on the water bottle and set it beside the sink. “You think someone is talking? Sharing information or something?” She immediately thought of Jessica Rankin, but that was probably unfair.
“Small town,” Mike said. “First murder case in almost twenty years. At the press conference we’ll really stress that the media leave all the employees alone. They ask you anything else?”
“Well they knew that she – that Harriet – was covering for me. No idea how they knew that either. When they started to ask me if they thought Harriet was killed by mistake, I hung up.”
Silence from Mike. After a moment she said, “Hello?”
“Sorry. I’m here, just thinking.”
“Sure. So, are we going to, um…?”
“We’ll talk soon. In the meantime, just… you know, try to live your normal life, keep busy. And be with friends, if you can. Be visible.”
The fear came back, the nightmare persisting after all. “Mike, should I be worried?”
“Maybe this thing with the Fullers,” he said at last. “I’d say that could be part of it, but they’re in jail, so… is there anyone else you can think of who might want to hurt you, Bobbi?”
She wondered, not for the first time, if her ex-boyfriend Jamie was capable of something like this. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other – she was sure he’d moved on. It was true he had a history of violence, but slashing someone to death was a big leap, mistakenly killing Harriet an even bigger one.
“I don’t think so,” she said. She zipped up her bag, ready to go. Throwing shade – whether on Rankin or her ex – wasn’t her style.
“Listen,” Mike said. “Take care, Bobbi. Just keep doing what you’re doing; we’ll figure this thing out.”
“I will.”
* * *
Mike drummed his fingers on the desk. Finished talking to Bobbi, he stared at his computer screen.
“How are you doing, Mike?” Lena Overton had arrived in his doorway.
Mike twisted his screen away and offered her a smile. “Come on in, sit down.” She crossed the room, just long enough for him to notice the shape of her legs stemming out of her skirt. When she took the chair on the other side of his desk, he asked, “How is your guest?”
“He was a live one, they said. Finally passed out around three in the morning.”
“Can’t wait to see him again. He say anything else before he passed out?”
“No. Never asked for a lawyer, either. What’s the story on the vehicle? Is that what you’re looking at?”
“No, not what I’m looking at; we’ll get to that in a second.”
“I’ve been going through Facebook and Twitter all night,” Overton said. “Caseworkers and social workers don’t post much. Or – some of them do: Rachel Watts is pretty outspoken on politics. Pritchard has zero social media presence.”
“Someone called Bobbi Noelle. Newspaper or TV – I don’t know.”
“She say anything to them?”
“Said she stonewalled them.”
“Good. But, so, anything from the vehicle? We get a print for Pritchard and this thing is done. He’s totally good for it. I mean, if we’re settled that Harriet was the intended victim…” She lifted her eyebrows. “Are we settled?”
“I don’t know. Bobbi is new – nowhere near the history Harriet has with DSS. And Bobbi is from out of town. That could mean she brought trouble with her. I’m waiting to see what we get from the car. Right now it looks like there was no break-in.”
Mike opened the file from the top of the stack on his desk. Around them, phones rang and men and women circulated through the large room where state troopers and investigators commingled. The area was sometimes referred to as the bullpen, though Mike and some of the older investigators had dubbed it the Boiler Room – they were in the business of selling evidence to the prosecu
tion.
He read from the file, paraphrasing: “Labrador retriever hair everywhere. Rear seat fabric removed for processing.” He glanced up at her. “The search for trace evidence is ongoing, but nothing so far, no prints we haven’t eliminated.”
“Camera?”
“Front surveillance camera is the only one, as you know. Footage shows Harriet Fogarty leaving DSS just before eight, but nothing – no one else.”
“Okay.” Overton had her own file she opened and read off the top page. “So my officers spoke to several people on River Street…”
Mike leaned forward, hoping for good news.
“Neither the residents of 113 River Street, nor the residents at 4 McIntyre or 7 McIntyre report seeing anyone parked between 113 River Street and 117 River Street at any time from seven to eight on Thursday night,” Overton said. “Or for that matter, five to nine – I asked them to keep going and widen out on it.”
He slumped back in his chair.
“But,” she said, flipping to a new page, “we spoke to Darlene Bilger with Adirondack Real Estate. She’s the agent for 117 River Street.”
“That’s the pea-green one looking like it’s about to fall over? I went by there.”
“That’s the one. And it just so happens that Bilger drove by the house the night of to give it a look.”
“What time?”
“Well, she’s sketchy on that. You ask me, I think she gets done regular business hours, has a couple at the Bark Eater.”
“She’s kind of a drinker?”
Overton shrugged. “I know Darlene. Ever heard the saying, ‘It doesn’t take much to get a damp sponge wet?’ That’s her. She says it was around eight when she went past the house, but she’s not sure.”
“Why’s she looking at the house, anyway?”
“She likes to do this every now and again with her listings. And along River Street there’s a few kids who like to throw a football around, and sometimes that football goes through a window. She said there’s been some vandalism too, of the green house, but she didn’t report it. Just minor stuff – someone etched a penis onto an exposed floorboard on the porch.”
Mike was getting impatient. “What did she see? She saw someone parked there?”
“No. But she said she saw a car coming toward her – a white sedan, a four-door.”
“She get the make?”
Overton shook her head. “She said the car swerved a bit. Like the driver didn’t see her right away, jerked back onto his side of the road. It’s narrow in through there. And, you know, like I said, she might’ve been under the influence.”
It was disappointing. A potentially inebriated real estate agent seeing a car in the vicinity wasn’t much to go on. Overton raised her eyes to him. “We ought to at least check that vehicle type against what the DSS staff drive.”
“Let’s do that.”
“And what does Pritchard drive?”
“Nothing. No vehicle registered in his name.”
“He could have borrowed a friend’s car.” She re-crossed her legs the opposite way and set the file on his desk. Mike noticed a couple of the guys giving Overton a look, too. It was hard not to.
“Let’s say Pritchard comes into town,” Overton said, “borrows a friend’s car, parks on River Street, goes into the woods. Waits for Harriet to come out from work, makes his move. I mean, the assailant is sitting in the back of her car. He kills her right there. Like you said, no sign of forced entry. Could indicate she knows him. Maybe she was even expecting him.”
“Or maybe it was a cloned key fob. The vehicle is a 2012, so uses both a standard key for the ignition and the fob as an option for the power door locks. Anyway, we’ve found no communication between Pritchard and Harriet on his phone. Just texts between Harriet and Bobbi Noelle on Noelle’s phone.”
“She could have talked to Pritchard from her phone at the office.”
“Maybe,” Mike said. “Maybe earlier in the day. But the other supervisor, Jessica Rankin, claims no one picks up the phone after 5 p.m.; it goes to their answering machine. Anyway, until we get the court order from the judge on Monday, we can’t listen to Harriet’s voicemails or go through her calls. We can’t look into her case files.”
“Well, we may not need to,” Overton said. “We’ve got Pritchard, so let’s see if he’s got any alibi. Right now he’s been arrested for drunk and disorderly. During the arrest, he assaulted Officer Daniels. The DA has the report; she’s ready to charge. But we can hold him without arraignment for another thirty-six hours, so if we get something solid, she can add it. Or we serve an arrest warrant when we do.” She scowled at Mike. “What is it?”
Mike was listening to Overton’s summary, but his gaze had wandered back to his computer screen. “Come here.”
Overton gave him a curious look, got up, and came round the desk, leaned down beside him. For a moment she didn’t say anything, just stared along with Mike at the pleasant face of a middle-aged African-American woman. Then Overton said, “Why are you looking at missing persons?”
He made a move with the mouse and scrolled the screen. Overton scanned the digital case file, picked up on the information right away. “Oh boy – there we go. She was a caseworker?”
“Yes. And she disappeared ten months ago.”
“I think I remember that – they never found a trace of her.” Overton slowly walked back to her chair and sat down. She stared off, now thinking the same thoughts he was. “This could be an issue,” she said quietly.
“Right now,” Mike said, keeping his own voice low, “this is just you and me.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh, Cobleskill will know – she’ll pick up on it, she’s the sharpest DA we’ve had in years. Even if it’s a different MO, she’ll wonder.”
“I’m not suggesting we don’t make this connection,” Mike said. “Or hope that she doesn’t. I’m hoping that Pritchard owns up. I’m hoping that it’s this beef over his family’s estate, he came to loggerheads with his sister on it, and in a fit of drunken, jealous rage, attacked her in her car – and this bit with this other caseworker, Corina Lavoie, is an unrelated coincidence. But what I’m saying is we don’t want this going public. Not now.”
“Yeah okay, we’re agreed. But – two caseworkers, one missing for ten months, the other killed outside DSS… The press is going to draw their own conclusions. So the statement I’m seeing goes: ‘We’re pursuing all leads, but in order to protect the integrity of this investigation, we have nothing to release at this time.’”
“I like it. But I’m also hoping to talk to Pritchard and get a confession before press time. He was already halfway there last night.”
“A confession would be wonderful,” Overton said, “because we have no physical evidence, yes.”
“Right. But if I can find something first – if there’s anything to find – the heavier I can be in the interview. So I just want to check something out. Let Pritchard sweat, wonder what’s going on, sober up.”
“Okay but not too long,” Overton said. “He hasn’t lawyered-up yet but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to.”
* * *
Bobbi blocked the punch, pivoted forward, and kicked. The sensei caught her ankle and dropped an elbow on her knee, pulling back at the last second so she felt only his slight touch. It was the pantomime of a brutal hit; a real one would have left her debilitated with a blown kneecap.
She kept her balance on her back foot as the sensei addressed the class. “You see how I did that? How did I do it? Senpai Bobbi has a fast kick, but I was able to catch it. What happened?”
A twelve-year-old boy with buck teeth raised his hand from where he knelt with two dozen others beside the mat. “Because she… she moved her body like this.” He demonstrated with a movement. “You knew she was going to kick.”
“That’s right. She telegraphed the move when she stepped back.” The sensei let go of Bobbi’s ankle. She turned toward him and they bowed to each other.
&
nbsp; “So this is what I want to teach you,” the sensei said to the group. “I want you to be able to maintain your balance, to have an effective strike, but not advertise it. Stay off your back heel; be up on the balls of your feet. Balance is key; what we strive for here is that every movement flows into the next. Now, Senpai Bobbi is a good sport – I asked her to demonstrate this with me. But let’s watch what happens when she doesn’t telegraph her move.”
Bobbi faced the sensei again. He was a fifty-year-old family man named Doug, but in class he was a master of Okinawan karate, a man she respected. She bounced a couple times, feeling good. Her knees were springy, and she got into her low stance.
They began to circle each other. One foot was always the fulcrum. To the uninitiated, Bobbi thought, it would resemble some ritual dance. The mat was big and wide, the students watching on their knees, hands on their upper thighs.
The sensei struck, this time with his left, a low blow she deflected with a down-block. She let the momentum carry her, dipped right as she raised her left leg and snapped it forward, her knee like a hinge. The sensei raised his own knee in defense and reached for purchase, but this time only his fingertips grazed her skin. He struck again, quickly, and they sparred in a rapid exchange of blows and blocks, the fabric of their gis snapping with the sharp movements, the mat sticky but yielding beneath her bare feet.
The sensei moved in for the kill and caught her wrist, tried to bend her arm back. She slipped the hold and dropped to the ground, swept her leg. He was able to jump out of the way and pounced on her before she could regain her feet. His fist hung suspended in the air above her nose. Her heart pounded.
He got up quickly and held his hand to her. Bobbi couldn’t resist: she drew her legs back and then flipped up onto her feet.
Afterward she placed her right fist in her open left palm, turned it over, and gave him a deep bow. The sensei bowed back, and she saw the beads of sweat shining on his brow.
She was getting good.
* * *
Mike pulled over on River Street, parked behind the Subaru sitting in front of the pea-green house. Darlene Bilger, a thirty-five-year-old woman dressed in a skirt and blouse that looked like an ex-hippie’s best guess at corporate casual, was standing on the broken sidewalk out front. He offered his hand. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
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