The Yards

by The Yards (epub)

  Or she?

  I close my eyes for a moment as I try to imagine a woman murdering Felice. The party girl with the hat, the elaborate makeup, and the sequined dress. I can’t.

  “They expected trouble, Vern.” I point to the shotgun. “They took precautions.”

  “For all the good it did.”

  “Yeah, for all the good it did. Who reported the shooting?”

  “An anonymous call to 911.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male.”

  The lower drawer of a file cabinet lies open, the files pulled back. I can see a small jar of shiny white powder behind them.

  “What am I lookin’ at, Vern?”

  “Meth, probably, about an ounce.”

  “Was the drawer open when you got here?”

  “No. I opened it myself. The meth was behind the files. Hidden, but they could get to it easily enough.”

  “You think they were dealers?”

  “This much, they had to be.” Vern closes the drawer. “There’s more, Delia. In the living quarters upstairs.”

  A small living room, a smaller kitchen, and two small bedrooms. As far as I can tell, there’s not a single new item in the apartment. From the dishes in the kitchen to the worn carpet on the floor to the battered nightstands flanking Richard’s bed. Every item might have been purchased thirdhand at a thrift shop. Call it motive. Vern points me to a brown shopping bag in Richard’s only bedroom closet. Illuminated by a small LED flashlight, the money inside the bag is clearly visible.

  “You count it?”

  “Yeah. Then I put it back. That’s where it was originally.”

  “How much?”

  “Seventeen thousand, three hundred. In twenties and fifties.”

  Always choose the simplest explanation? Sometime during the night, one of the Gaitskills, probably Richard, left the office via the back door, where there are no security cameras. He found Bradley still on the nod and decided to steal the money. Did he also kill Bradley? Better yet, would he dare leave Bradley alive to seek restitution? He would if he happened to be in front of the CCTV monitor when Bradley escorted the woman into Cabin 909. If there was someone else to blame.

  Vern leads me to the open window in Richard’s bedroom. Richard’s body lies on the ground, fifteen feet below.

  “Most likely,” Vern explains, “he heard the shots that killed Felice and knew he’d be next. The window was the only way out.”

  Richard must have hit the concrete alleyway hard. Hard enough to break a leg, which juts from his body at an impossible angle. Still, he managed to claw his way toward a fence at the back of the property. He was within five feet when the shooter caught up with him. Did they speak? Richard’s lying on his back, so he must have rolled over to face his killer. The bullet wound in Richard’s forehead mirrors the wound in his mother’s.

  “The state notified, Vern?”

  “Yeah, but their crime scene unit won’t be here for a few hours. I called Rishnavata, too. He’ll be on-scene in an hour or so, and he requests that we not move the bodies until he gets here.”

  “What about the chief?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, well, something else you need to see.”

  Vern leads me downstairs and through the rear door. He points as we approach Richard’s corpse, but the gesture’s unnecessary. Richard’s wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. The needle marks on his left arm are painfully obvious.

  “So Richard’s out to get off. He uses the back door because he doesn’t want to be caught by the cameras, and he strolls to the end of the lot. He finds Bradley in Cabin 909, completely stoned and . . .” I stop there for a minute. “Ya know, Vern, I’m pretty sure Richard stole Bradley’s money. Money that belonged to the Schmidts, by the way. But I can’t picture Richard shooting Bradley. Stealing? The Gaitskills were living day to day, so sure. But taking up the pillow, pressing it against Bradley’s head, pulling the trigger? It’s too cold for Richard. Way too cold.”

  It’s no longer drizzling, but the air is thick with a mist that settles against my face. Uniformed cops, the first responders, stand at either entrance to the parking lot. Both entrances are closed off by double strips of yellow tape. If the shooter drove into the lot, assuming it wasn’t Richard, we’ll probably find tire tracks. But I can’t make myself believe the shooter was stupid enough to risk being spotted as he made his approach. Not when he had murder in mind. More likely, he would have come down the narrow alley behind the cabins on foot, then circled the office.

  Someone calls from a distance, the cop stationed at the Baxter Boulevard entrance to the motel. He’s waving us over. Past him, on the other side of the tape, I can just make out the windshield wipers of an SUV as they pass before Chief Black’s jowly face.

  “At least he didn’t drive onto the parking lot,” Vern observes.

  Chief Black didn’t drive onto the lot, as it turns out, because Patrolman Jerome Meeks wouldn’t let him.

  Meeks did his job, but he isn’t happy. “You told me not to let anyone onto the parking lot. No matter what. Only I think the chief’s really pissed off.” He looks down at his feet for a minute. “I just had a kid, Lieutenant, and I really need this job. I mean, we’re in a damned depression.”

  The chief’s mouth is so tight his lips have vanished altogether. Me, I don’t think he’s mad at Patrolman Meeks. The chief woke up believing the arrest of Bradley Grieg’s killer was imminent. Just find the woman in the video. Now he’s got three murders to explain, and we’ve yet to identify the woman. Worse yet, an election for mayor will be held in November. New mayor, new police chief.

  “Talk to me, Delia.”

  “Two dead, Chief. Executed.”

  “The Gaitskills?”

  “Mother and son. Plus, we found what’s probably a half ounce of meth in a file cabinet. That and a little over seventeen thousand in a paper bag.”

  “That’s a lot of money to be lying around.”

  “Not if one of them stole it from Bradley.”

  The chief’s eyes close for a moment. When they open, I glimpse the relentless detective he must have been. “The methamphetamine, Vern. Did you perform a field test?”

  “No, but—”

  Black waves off whatever Vern planned to say. “Did you find what you believe to be methamphetamine with the money?”

  “The meth was downstairs, in the office.” My turn, now. I can’t let Vern take the heat. “The money was in an upstairs closet.”

  “And you think what, exactly?”

  “That Richard took it from Bradley. But it’s only a theory. Richard had tracks on the inside of his left arm. Not hard-core junkie, Chief. More like weekend warrior. So late that night, maybe after mom’s asleep, he takes a walk up to Cabin 909 and finds Bradley nodding out on the bed. The money’s sitting there in that snakeskin bag and Richard can’t resist.”

  “Does he kill Bradley?”

  “Maybe. But that’s not the only consideration. The Schmidts are claiming that Bradley’s killer took money that belonged to them. By this time, one of the Schmidts, probably Connor, has checked out the video at Randy’s. They’ve seen the woman in the hat, watched her follow Bradley out the door. Think about where she stands in all this. She can’t make restitution if she didn’t steal the money, so if Connor finds her . . .”

  The chief slaps his palm against the steering wheel, then suddenly turns off the wipers. He watches the windshield mist up for a good minute before he says, “What about the woman? What have you got?”

  I bring up copies of the photos I left at the station and offer them to Chief Black without speaking. He slides his reading glasses over his nose and peers at the woman. “This the best you have?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “But she was in the bar for thirty minutes.”

  “True enough, but we were lucky to get this much. She kept her chin down most of the time, and the hat covered a lot of her fac
e. Plus, the cameras, all of ’em, are located high up on the walls. If there was even one mounted at head height, we’d have her cold, but they all look down.”

  “Okay, Delia, let’s get real for a moment. For all we know, the money you found in the closet might have been there for weeks, or months. You’ve got no evidence tying the money to Bradley, or even to the methamphetamine you found in the office. If it is methamphetamine. More important, you didn’t find the murder weapon in their apartment.”

  “Right.”

  “So let’s stick with the woman. At least she’s alive. Later on, if we hit a dead end, we’ll pin it on Gaitskill. For now, keep your theory under your hat.”

  At this point I’m sufficiently pissed to blurt out a description of the muzzle-flash experiment Vern and I conducted a few hours ago. Chief Black is not pleased.

  “You did this for what reason? No, wait, Delia, let me ask your partner. What was the point, Vern?”

  “We’re detectives, we detect.”

  Chief Black opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He closes it again, then stares at the streaked windshield for a moment.

  “What makes you think you reproduced the conditions exactly?”

  The question’s obviously directed at me, and I answer truthfully, “I can’t be sure.”

  “And you can’t be sure of what happened inside the cabin on the night Grieg was killed. There’s no video, not even bad video.”

  “That’s true.”

  Another pause, this one shorter. “Did you write this up, Delia? Is it in the files?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then don’t.” Black leans forward to restart the wipers. Time for his closing argument. “Something I don’t get. This business with the money and your little experiment with muzzle flash, both of ’em help the defense no matter who we charge.”

  “Chief, I don’t think she did it.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We need to talk to her anyway.” He reaches for the gearshift. Time to go. “As for the money, leave it where it is. Understand? The entire property is a crime scene. Seal it off. Nobody in the office or the living quarters or any cabin. Later, when we know where we stand, we’ll do a close search and discover the money. And not a word to anyone in the meantime. Got it?”

  “Yeah, Chief, I got it.”

  “How ’bout you, Vern?”

  “Me, too, boss.”

  “Good. Our meeting for tomorrow morning is canceled. I’ll be holding a press conference instead, and I want you there. That a problem?”

  “Two things, Chief. First, Danny’s home alone and I have to get to him. Second, my son’s off to camp at nine o’clock. I won’t be seeing him for a month, and it’s his first time away from me. I need to be there when he leaves.”

  “Ten o’clock, then. On the dot. You, too, Vern.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  DELIA

  Between bites of banana pancake, Danny’s examining photos of the woman in the hat. The pancakes are heavy and overcooked. Without the raspberry syrup they’d be as chewy as cardboard. Danny doesn’t seem to mind. He’s sitting close enough to touch me, and I have to think he’s as nervous as I am. This is the first time we’ve been separated. He’ll be all right, though. His best friend, Vern’s son Mike, is also headed for camp, and the coordinator promised to keep them on the same team.

  “She doesn’t look like a killer,” he says. The new murders have him super-hyped.

  “Why not?”

  “Cause she’s . . .” He looks up at the ceiling. As he always does when he searches for answers. “She’s too pretty.”

  “Prettier than me?”

  “Mom, c’mon. You’re not like that.”

  Danny’s smart enough to know that his mother’s messing with him. Smart enough to cut off the conversation. I watch him dig into his pancakes for a minute or two.

  “Did she see the owners while she was there?” he finally asks. “You know, at the motel?”

  “That would be Felice and Richard Gaitskill. I questioned both of them. They swore they’d never seen her before she turned up on the video. Remember, they couldn’t identify her, and the video doesn’t show her near the office.”

  “Do you think they were lying?”

  “No.”

  “But someone killed them?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, if she killed the other one . . .”

  “Bradley Grieg.”

  “Yeah, him. If she killed Bradley for money and she only just met him, why would she hurt the—”

  “The Gaitskills?” I haven’t told him about the money we discovered in the filing cabinet. We’re keeping that to ourselves, Vern and I, as per the chief’s instructions. But I can’t imagine the woman in the hat killing Bradley, then leaving the money behind.

  “Why would she come back to hurt them if they never saw her?”

  There’s no good answer to that one. If she somehow decided the Gaitskills had to go, she would have done it right after she killed Bradley. Instead of waiting two days.

  That conclusion was reinforced when a Mexican family—two sisters, an aunt, and a nephew—showed up at seven, only a few minutes after I returned to the motel. With no choice, I delivered the facts of life. There’d never be another payday at the Skyview Motor Court.

  They didn’t react to the news. Just took it in stride. Nor did they react when I asked them to examine Connor Schmidt’s photo, the one on his driver’s license. True, they were hesitant at first, but when the older sister identified him, the others joined in.

  Connor Schmidt was a regular at the Skyview. He always stayed in Cabin 909. He had his own key and regular visitors.

  By then, a search of the alley had turned up a shoe impression. Very distinct, very fresh, and too big to be a woman’s. I personally watched the state’s CSU pour a mix of dental stone and water into the impression. I even waited for the cast to dry and be lifted out. Given the stakes, I wasn’t prepared to take anything for granted.

  Danny’s sitting next to me, fiddling with the strap on his seat belt as we approach Roosevelt High School. We’re close enough to see the line of yellow buses that will carry the children to camp. Danny’s looking more nervous by the second.

  “Do you think she did it?” he asks for the second time.

  “C’mon, Danny, didn’t I already answer that question?”

  “Yeah, but . . . like if you don’t think she did it, will you arrest her anyway?”

  This is a question I prefer not to answer, and I respond with the answer to a different question. “Let me explain how it really works. Detectives gather evidence and hand it over to their superiors, in this case Chief Black. It’s his job to pass judgment, not mine. If he orders me to make an arrest, I have to do it. I’m a worker, not a boss.”

  I don’t add, Unless I quit.

  Suddenly I’m wondering who I hope to convince. I’m still wondering as I lead Danny to a registration table. After the counselor checks him off, my son gives me an unexpected hug before rushing away. I’m still wondering as I slip behind the wheel and start the car. But then I take a moment to remind myself of the work still ahead.

  Meanwhile, I miss him already.

  The chief’s out to make a statement. Mayor Venn, too. They’re both standing on a low platform when I come up. The city’s best podium has been placed at center front. It’s made of walnut and polished to a high shine that reflects sunlight over the reporters in front. There’s an easel as well, bearing something rectangular and flat that’s covered with a gray cloth. I know what’s underneath, and my heart sinks. I also know that I was right when I told my son that I was only a worker. And poorly paid at that.

  I circle the platform but discover that I can barely climb the two steps. Vern doesn’t look much better. He shrugs as I join him at the back edge of the platform. We’re a pair, the two of us, me five-six, him six-four. Beside Vern, I seem almost a child. I know because I’ve seen news footage of us together.

  Mayor Ve
nn goes first. He’s the what-happened half of the presentation. Murder one, on Saturday night at the Skyview Motor Court, a guest. Murders two and three last night at the same Skyview Motor Court. This time the owners. All shot, all executed, finally, with a bullet through the brain. This cannot be tolerated in a low-crime city like Baxter. The perpetrator or perpetrators will surely feel the wrath of the people. Eventually.

  In full uniform, Chief Black follows the mayor to the podium. Standing ramrod straight, chest out, head thrown back. There’s a comic element here, what with his stomach protruding so much farther than his chest. His fat ass doesn’t help either.

  There won’t be any surprises, not today, but I have to show a modicum of interest while Chief Black recites the history of our heroic investigation. You’d think he was describing a group effort roughly the equivalent of D-Day. I doubt that the reporters are fooled. But they’re tolerant enough, and reasonably patient. The show must go on.

  Chief Black finally segues into the big reveal as the reporters straighten in their seats. A dozen flashbulbs pop when he yanks the cloth away to reveal the woman in her white hat. Or the lower half of her face, anyway.

  “I want to emphasize that she is not a suspect, and there is no warrant for her arrest. She’s a person of interest, and we’re requesting anybody who recognizes her to call our hotline.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  GIT

  Desperately hoping for a burst of energy, I sit down at our dining table a few minutes prior to my interview. No such luck. My thoughts seem to crawl through my scrambled brain in no particular order. Call it passive resistance, or passive-aggressive. What I need is rest, and my brain doesn’t want to hear about anything else. But it’s too late to postpone the interview.

  Out of nowhere, I recall my Granny Jo telling me about her father and brother returning to the mines after a deadly cave-in.