Small Time Crime (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 10)

by A W Hartoin

  We went out into the hall, which was now normally lit, and teenagers in band uniforms crowded us, trying to get organized.

  “Why are there so many tubas?” Fats yelled.

  “Maybe it’s like a drum line but with tubas!”

  “That’s not a thing!”

  It must be a thing because there were twenty tubas in that hall and they were all warming up. The clamor was amazing. When we cleared the tubas, my ears were ringing.

  “Holy crap,” I said.

  “My kid is not doing band,” said Fats.

  “Tiny was a tuba player.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me you’re joking. I might agree to drum line, but that’s it,” she said as she assessed the principal’s door and then gave it a swift kick. It popped open and the glass didn’t even shatter.

  “It wasn’t locked,” I said.

  Fats reached up to the shoulder holster on her left. “Correct. Stay here.”

  I didn’t stay there. I never stay there. I don’t know why people order me to do things, unless they want me to do the opposite. That was a distinct possibility, but not in Fats’ case. When she eased inside the office, she tried to stiff arm me, but sometimes being short comes in handy. I ducked down, pulled my Mauser, and got in ahead of my oversized bodyguard.

  She gritted her teeth behind me as we advanced through an outer secretary’s office and then into the principal’s office. Also unlocked with the door open. I didn’t know if that was normal, but I didn’t feel good about it. I eased the door wide with my foot. The room was quite nice with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that had a college professor vibe and a big desk with a blotter, a bible, stacks of paperwork, and a bunch of nun photos. The heavily-padded chair was off to the right, almost to the window. Other than that, nothing appeared to be out of place.

  Fats held up her hand and silently went around the desk. “Clear.”

  “It seems like it should’ve been locked,” I said.

  “Agreed.”

  We started going through the bookcases on the wrong side of the office. I should’ve started where the chair was. Duh. Only a person tall as Fats could’ve reached the shelf where the yearbooks were, in order, starting in 1920.

  I stood on the chair, staring at an empty slot. “It’s gone. He got here first.”

  “I never should’ve waited behind Stratton,” said Fats.

  “It could’ve been gone for weeks. We don’t know.”

  “We know he’s a moron. Another yearbook’s going to turn up.”

  I climbed off the chair and picked up Moe off the desk. “It’s very short-sighted. He’s really just reacting or overreacting, I guess. There’s no plan. If anything, blowing up the Sentinel gets more attention not less on Maggie’s case.”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  “Or young, like Stratton said,” I said. “Who’s more impulsive than a teenager?”

  Fats chewed on her toothpick. “My Aunt Marie. Every tattoo a mistake.”

  “Stay with me. The first fires were definitely kids with links to the high school and that bar fight when they couldn’t get served. The ones ten years ago are the same style with the dumpsters and the Sentinel being hit in the middle of the night. Tank’s house, that was electrical. Stott was an electrician.”

  “We already know this isn’t him. He’s tucked up at Shady Glen, safe and sound, the bastard.”

  “And what did Mosbach say?” I asked. “The only people who would deal with Stott were the teen volunteers because they didn’t know any better.”

  “Where’s a kid going to get a grenade?” Fats asked.

  “I can’t believe you asked me that.”

  She knocked her head with the palm of her hand. “Must be the hormones.”

  “You’re fine,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  “Where to? No Plan B.”

  I grinned at her. “We just got one.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Attendance.”

  Moe started growling and Fats took him from me. “Shush. What about attendance?”

  “Mosbach said the kids came during the school day,” I said. “We need to know who’s been signed out for that program. They must somehow be connected with Maggie’s murder. Why else would they bomb us?”

  Moe struggled and barked, but Fats wouldn’t let her go.

  We started into the secretary’s office and she said, “Attendance as a clue. That’s a new one.”

  I stopped her at the door. “Attendance.”

  “Yes. Attendance. Let’s move. I’m craving a cheeseburger and I don’t eat anything that’s described as a cheese product, so we’ve got to find a good place.”

  “Listen,” I said. “That’s how Des and Mary knew who didn’t kill Maggie. They checked the attendance. If Stott was in school, he couldn’t have killed her.”

  Fats pointed a gun finger at me. “Old files in the basement.”

  “Old files in the basement.”

  We turned around, the outer office door opened and something long flew across the room. It crashed through the window and the next thing I knew I was eating tile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CINDERBLOCK CONSTRUCTION IS the bomb and I mean that in a good way. The explosion outside the high school did almost no damage. It took out some upper windows, but that’s it. The grenade broke through the window, flew over the enormous snow pile that was up against the building, hit the sidewalk, bounced off the snow pile on the other side of the sidewalk, and exploded. The sidewalk was toast, but the snow piles absorbed most of the blast.

  It was shit luck for the bomber, but I was grateful he had crappy aim. I’d have been more grateful if I could breathe.

  “Get off.”

  Fats rolled off me and jumped to her feet, Glock out. “That was a potato masher.”

  “What?” I touched my face. Blood. “I think you broke my nose again.”

  “Stay here,” she said and ran into the secretary’s office with Moe at her heels.

  I did not stay there—see previous comments—I ran after her, slipping on the paperwork that was still fluttering to the floor. “He heard us!” I yelled. “He’s going to the basement.”

  “I know!” Fats ran into the hall and it was pure pandemonium. Half the people were duck and covering. The other half was so terrified they were trampling the duck and cover ones. Everyone was screaming.

  “Gun!”

  That didn’t take long.

  “Drop the Glock!” I yelled.

  “The hell I will!”

  Wrong answer. That hallway was full of heroes and I’m not saying that facetiously. Fats got hit with tubas, flutes, and one trombone. One band nerd did a flying leap at her head and clamped on. She went spinning off and a girl wrestled the Glock out of her hand.

  I grabbed another kid who was pressed against the lockers, arms splayed and eyes wide. “Where are the stairs?”

  He extended a shaking hand and pointed at an exit sign.

  “They’re attacking the wrong person. Help her.” I pushed him at the beleaguered Fats and ran for the exit.

  “Go, Moe!” Fats yelled behind me.

  I was down one flight of stairs before I realized I had a pocket dog on my heels.

  “What the hell?” I expected her to try to stop me, but she just went along, snarling. And when we reached the bottom, she sat on her tiny butt, making a throaty growl.

  “I totally get why Fats kept you,” I said, pulling out my Mauser and checking the safety. Off. Definitely off.

  There was one door and it had a sign above it that claimed there was a pool. That seemed unlikely, but I could smell the chlorine. The door had a little window with reinforced glass, but I was too short to see through it, so I just opened it instead.

  Water flowed over my feet as I walked into the hall. It was empty and flooded with about three inches of water. I shed my stupid pink coat and soft cast. My arm hurt like hell but it was useable.

  Mo
e and I crept into the hall. So many doors. We passed the girl’s locker room. The boy’s. Utilities. Music storage. Sports storage. Furniture storage. Janitor storage. So much storage.

  Moe splashed ahead and stopped in front of another door, growling. File room.

  Breathe. He probably doesn’t have another grenade. Probably.

  I reached for the doorknob and the lights went out. A door opened. Splashing. A shot fired and, for a second, I thought it was me, firing in panic, but it wasn’t. My barrel was cold. The emergency lights flickered and someone ran at me in the dim red gloom. He shoved me into the water. My face went under and I fought back up, throwing an elbow. I connected. A scream confirmed it, but I dropped the Mauser. Moe was barking. A wave of water hit us and we all went over.

  I couldn’t get my feet under me. Something kept hitting them and taking me down. Then the lights came on. I looked up and a desk chair came hurdling through the air and I mean through the air all the way down the hall. Fifty feet. Someone screamed and the doors all opened. Chairs, music stands, and mop buckets came flying out. A violin case narrowly missed my head. I was afraid to move. It was like a tornado in that hall, but it didn’t touch me. Behind me, Moe made an ungodly scream. She was caught in a door. I dove for her and yanked her out, tucking her to my chest.

  A man yelled, “Run!”

  I spun around and ducked a flying life preserver. Down the hall under an exit sign was a man in a nice suit gesturing to me to hurry. I started to go, but an old-fashioned desk, the kind that had the desk and chair attached, flew past me and shattered on the wall, pelting me with metal and wood.

  “Run! You have to run! Please!” the man yelled at me.

  “No!” yelled a voice behind me.

  I looked back. A boy was standing there in a bloody band uniform. He was hunched over in rage with a hunting rifle in his left hand and a yearbook in his right.

  The girl’s locker room door burst open and a wave of water came out. He staggered to the side, but raised the rifle. A music stand sideswiped him, cutting a ribbon of flesh from his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “You want this yearbook?” he asked, dodging a chair and a mop. “You want it?”

  Say no.

  “Yes.”

  Dammit.

  The boy aimed and the man yelled, “Don’t do it!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I yelled. “We’ll have the financials any second.”

  That made him hesitate and a football hit him in the chest knocking him back. I saw confusion mixed with the hate. Baseballs pinged off the walls. Tennis rackets and golf clubs. He was hit multiple times. The right equipment in the right place and he was done. He was so young. So deranged.

  “There’s a money trail!” I yelled. “We followed the money.”

  “I don’t care about money,” the boy yelled back with blood flowing out of his mouth. “It’s in here. I know because you wanted it. Zoe told me.”

  Zoe? A girl. There’s always a girl.

  “She likes you. She told me,” I said.

  More confusion and the rifle lowered.

  “Good, Robbie,” said the man. “Drop it.”

  Fats burst in through the stairwell door behind him. She had her Glock drawn and ready. The boy spun around and raised the rifle, aiming at her chest.

  “Shoot him!” the man yelled.

  “Dad!”

  Fats shot him.

  Everything dropped the second Fats fired. Every instrument. Every chair, mop, bucket, and desk. They hit the water as the boy did with a tremendous splashing. The boy was screaming. So was his father. I’d like to say I didn’t make a peep, but the Peep peeped. A lot.

  Fats holstered her Glock and looked at Moe in my arms. She was whining and had an odd bend to her.

  “She’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got her.”

  Fats didn’t respond. She stalked over to the screaming boy, ripped the rifle out of his hands, snapped it in half, and said, “Shut up. You hurt my dog. You’re lucky I didn’t blow your head off.”

  The boy wailed in response, clutching at a bloody spot on his shoulder. “Dad! Dad! Get the book! You have to get it!”

  None of us moved. His father’s handsome face held an odd blank expression. If he was thinking anything at all, it didn’t show.

  The boy kept wailing and I should’ve gone to put pressure on the bleeding, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. Not my best nursing moment, but I don’t regret it. He wasn’t going to bleed out. The wound was a clean through and through, nowhere near a major vessel. If he was suffering, good.

  Moe, on the other hand, was not good. Her whining got worse and, as I started to examine her, the door to the stairs opened, and an unknown nun ran in with Clarence on her heels. They splashed through the water, carrying bats. Aunt Miriam wasn’t the only one who could look badass in a veil. No, I don’t mean Clarence. Her face was resolute, but she was shaking so hard she could’ve given herself a concussion. The other nun was a whole different story with her black hair, pronounced jaw, and practiced batter’s stance that should’ve made the sensible run away. No question. Of course, not a single person in that hall was sensible.

  “I heard a shot. What happened?” yelled the nun. “Where’d all this water come from?”

  Fats turned around with her Glock in her hand again. The nun went straight at her, not one ounce of hesitation. But this was Fats Licata we’re talking about. The nun swung and Fats caught the bat just before it connected. She ripped it out of the nun’s hands and tossed it away.

  “I’m not your problem, Sister,” said Fats calmly.

  “She’s really not, Sister Emily,” said Clarence, dropping her own bat in relief.

  Sister Emily glanced back and then nodded.

  “Sister! Sister!” yelled the boy. “She shot me. She did it.”

  The nuns ran for him, yelling for someone to call an ambulance. Sister Emily pressed her hand to the wound and yelled, “Robert Junior, my goodness, what are you waiting for? Come help your son!”

  Robert Junior didn’t move, but his expression did change. If anything, he looked like he wanted to leave, not come to his kid’s aid.

  “Robert!”

  He took a step and the second he did, all the objects that had been flying around rose up out of the water, swirled around, and began putting themselves away.

  “Holy smokes!” The nun didn’t let go of the boy’s shoulder as buckets went past her, a desk reassembled itself to go back into furniture storage, and golf clubs went back in their bag. Clarence ducked as the life preserver flew over her head and musical instruments whizzed past, returning to their cases.

  We watched in amazement as mops went into buckets, furniture, lacrosse sticks, everything put itself away and the water drained. It happened so quickly it looked like fast forward on a movie.

  When it was done, the hallway was completely dry and clear, except for one thing. The yearbook. It lay between me and the boy. We all watched as its cover flipped open and the pages—now dry—turned, like someone was looking for something. Then it stopped and no one moved as the smell of honeysuckle filled the hallway, sweet and overpowering.

  Maggie.

  I crawled over to the yearbook with my bad arm tucked around Moe and looked at the page, holding my breath. It was the same page I’d seen before. Senior pictures. Stott’s page. This was 1965 and there weren’t any baby pics or parent love letters, just a name and a list of accomplishments for each of the six pictures on the page. In Stott’s case, there was only a name. He joined nothing and accomplished nothing. There had to be something new that I hadn’t seen before, but there just wasn’t.

  “What is it?” Fats asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s the same. Six seniors. Black and white photos.”

  “Nothing on his picture? What’s he wearing?” Fats came over and gingerly took Moe, who cried out, bringing tears to her eyes.

  “Just a suit. It looks like the exact same suit as the…oh, my G
od,” I said.

  “Young lady, please,” hissed Sister Emily.

  “Mercy?” Fats asked.

  There was one other guy on the page and four girls, all with grand accomplishments, but the boy stood out. I knew that name. I should’ve seen it before with its list of clubs, sports, and offices that were as long as his photo.

  I looked back at the man, Robert Junior, who hadn’t budged from the doorway. “Are you Robert Snider’s son?”

  He took a deep breath and said, “Yes, I am.”

  “Dad,” wailed the boy. “Don’t tell her.”

  “What, son? What shouldn’t I say?”

  The boy clammed up and his father walked over hesitantly like he couldn’t quite get his balance, and said, “Answer me? How did you know?”

  The boy started crying. “You’ll never be president now.”

  “President?” Robert Snider Junior was truly astonished. “You did this because you thought I was going to be president?”

  “Everyone said so.”

  Robert Junior took over for the Sister, pressing his hand against his son’s bloody shoulder. “Someone please call an ambulance.”

  “Robbie, you threw the bomb into my office?” Sister Emily was just as astonished as the father. “But why?”

  Robert Junior looked at me. “If you call an ambulance, I’ll tell you everything.”

  I didn’t get a chance to respond. Stratton and Mosbach burst through the door with Patton just behind them with guns drawn. They looked at our small bedraggled group and were more than confused.

  Stratton lowered her weapon, checked Robbie’s wound, and called for EMTs before asking, “Why are you wet?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “We’re not moving until the ambulance gets here,” she said. “Somebody tell me what happened.”

  So I told her, complete with flooding and flying musical instruments.

  “You expect me to believe that?” Stratton asked me.

  “It’s true,” said Clarence. “I would swear before God that it is.”

  Sister Emily silently nodded in agreement and went to open the door for the EMTs who were making quite a racket coming down the stairs. Once they were in, Robert Stratton III was strapped to a gurney and read his rights before being hauled up the stairs wailing to his father to say nothing.