by Jack Parker
Clay's daughter Candy worked as a salesclerk at a clothing store in the mall, so he headed there next. He spoke to the store manager first, who told him that Candy was one of her less reliable employees. She often came in late and apparently hung over, and she tried every excuse in the book to get time off. She had been there on time at 10 AM yesterday, but hadn't bothered to show back up after her lunch break, which had been at 2 PM.
Candy Wilson could best be described as "cute", and definitely "perky". She was nineteen, a short young woman with long curly dark hair, twinkling brown eyes, and an upturned little nose. Ken watched her work a sale, saw that she used her smile and bubbly personality to advantage. When she was done he approached her.
"Miss Wilson? I'm Lieutenant Ken Freeman, Ma'am," he said as he showed her his badge.
Candy smiled brightly and said, "Good morning, Lieutenant. Dad told me you'd probably drop by. From what I've heard about Mr. Greene I'm not surprised someone finally took him out, but how can I help you?"
"Where were you yesterday afternoon, Miss Wilson?" he asked.
Candy looked around furtively to make sure the boss wasn't nearby. "Oh, I was supposed to be working," she replied. "But I didn't feel like it, so I took off! I called Dad and suggested we spend the afternoon together."
"Where did you go?" Ken asked.
"Oh, back to my place. We talked for awhile, I haven't gotten to see him much since I moved out, thought it would be nice. I'm, uh, busy most evenings." She offered a grin that seemed meant to imply she liked her fun. "And Dad's got his girlfriend so the afternoon seemed like the only time."
"How long did your father stay at your place? And by the way, I'll need your address please, for the record."
"All afternoon," she replied. "We were talking about getting something to eat, but Clarissa called to tell him about the murder so he left. I live in the Oak Place Apartments, number 217."
Ken wrote that down, then asked, "When did you call your father?"
"Why, when I left for lunch!" she exclaimed. "I'd been thinking about it all day, decided what the heck, just go for it." She anticipated his next question and answered it. "He got there about 2:30, so I guess he was there about three hours." She smiled as if to say that was all there was to say.
Ken thanked her and left. Back in his car he pondered his next move. There was nothing wrong with the story on the surface, but a couple of things bothered him. Candy appeared to be a fun-loving kid who probably partied quite a bit – that kind didn't usually want to spend a lot of time with Daddy. It was possible, he supposed, that she needed money. But she'd expected him to show up, which indicated her father had contacted her after the family meeting last night. That sounded suspiciously like Wilson had told her to verify his alibi.
Ken called the techie and asked him to check on calls to and from Wilson's cell phone yesterday.
* * * *
Clay was at the office when Candy called.
"Hi, Dad!" she said brightly. "The cop showed up, just like you said."
"And you told him we spent the whole afternoon together?" he asked.
"Yep, sure did. Told him I'd been thinking about you all morning and decided to give you a call at lunchtime and take the afternoon off so we could talk. Said you'd left after Clarissa had called you about the murder."
"Candy, you didn't!" Clay's voice had risen a bit. He got up to close the door so no one walking by could overhear.
"What's wrong with that? Oh, you're not gonna yell at me for taking off work again are you?" she replied.
"What's wrong with that is that you didn't call me. I told you to say we'd planned it in advance, why didn't you?" Clay's voice was tense now, and he paced the office as he spoke.
"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Candy said contritely. "So big deal, what's wrong with me saying I just wanted to spend time with my Dad? Besides, I hadn't asked for the afternoon off. I'd have done that if we'd planned to get together."
"Candy, you wouldn't have asked even if we had planned it. I know you!"
"OK, so I got a wild hair and took off. I still told him I was with you all afternoon." Candy was sounding petulant now.
"But the call, Candy," Clay said seriously. "The police can trace calls, and they'll find out you didn't make it. How are we going to explain that?"
CHAPTER 11
There was one last school on Ken's list, the local college. He found the Chemistry Building and spoke to the department secretary.
"I'm very sorry, Lieutenant," Rita Kowalski said. "Professor Conover is in class at the moment and cannot be disturbed. If you'd like, I could check his schedule and let you know when he'll be free."
"At the moment I'd just like to know where he was yesterday," Ken said.
"Oh, sure. The professor was here yesterday. Locked in his lab like every Tuesday," Rita said.
"Locked in his lab?" Ken asked dubiously.
Rita chuckled. "I know it sounds crazy," she said shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "He's got some kind of government research grant, and he's paranoid someone's gonna steal his research. The lab's free on Tuesday afternoons, so he goes in there and locks the door while he does his thing."
"What kind of research grant, do you know? What's he working on?" Ken asked.
"I could find out for you," Rita replied. "Most of the professors here have some kind of grant or other, it brings prestige to the school. I take care of all the paperwork – and believe you me, there's a lot – but I don't understand most of it."
"That's all right, I doubt I'd understand it either!" Ken responded with a short laugh. "Do all the professors lock themselves in their labs? Is the research that secretive?"
"I don't think so, Lieutenant," Rita said with a grin. "But most of them act like it's Top Secret, and yes, some of them do lock their doors. They certainly guard their notes jealously. Grant money isn't easy to get, they're all afraid someone will steal their work and make the breakthrough they haven't yet."
"Where is Professor Conover's lab?"
Rita pointed across the hall and to the left a little. "Through those double doors right there," she explained. "I saw him go in yesterday just after lunch, and heard the lock click."
"What time did he leave?" Ken asked next.
"I think about 5:00, sometimes he stays later than that but I remember waving to him as he left. I was just packing up to go home myself," she replied.
"Did he stay locked in all afternoon, or did he come out to use the bathroom or something?" Ken inquired.
"Yeah, he did come out sometimes. There's no facilities in the lab. I don't remember seeing him come out yesterday, but then I got pretty busy and I don't always stay here at the desk anyway. Sometimes I have to make copies or track someone down, and students always stop by to ask questions," she explained.
The lab doors were standing open so Ken asked if he could take a look inside.
"Sure, be my guest!" Rita said. "Just, I wouldn't touch anything in there, you never know if it could be dangerous or something."
Ken thanked her and walked across the hallway into the lab. It looked like every other lab he'd ever seen; long tables full of funny-shaped glassware and equipment whose purpose he couldn't even guess at. Being sure to keep his hands in his pockets he wandered through to the back. There was a storage room there, full of bottles of chemicals with complicated names on the labels. At the back was an emergency door with a large red sticker proclaiming that an alarm would sound upon opening. Said alarm box was visible high up on the wall next to the door.
He left the lab, glad to be out of there. He'd been half afraid he'd knock something over and ruin his suit – at the very least! He waved to Rita as he walked past her desk and out of the building. The Nutty Professor was pretty well accounted for.
He decided to drive out to the country club, at least the surroundings would be more pleasant than the lab or the bingo hall. He heard exactly what he'd expected to hear; there had indeed been a charity golf tournament at the club course yester
day, tee-time 1:00 PM. Susan Holloway had been one of the organizers and Clarissa Stewart had also played, though she'd only signed up at the last minute.
As he walked back to his car Ken realized he'd forgotten to check with Ms. Stewart's office, so he put in a call. Ms. Stewart herself answered the phone, cheerfully transferring him to her boss. Bossman said she'd been at work until noon, and mentioned that she'd only requested the half-day's vacation on Monday morning. Would he lie for her? Even so, that would only mean she might've been the one who broke into the house. Since she'd once lived there herself, it would stand to reason she wouldn't have had to turn the place out to find whatever she'd been looking for. Did she still have a key? And the neighbor lady admitted to being home all morning; the two were obviously old friends, would Mrs. Holloway lie by omission to help her friend?
School had ended for the day and Justin and Zack were walking through the parking lot, trying to remember where Zack had parked the car that morning.
"It was in Section C," Justin said. "'C' for 'crime', easy to remember."
"You weren't joking about crime last night," Zack retorted. "You couldn't wait to get outta that house. The only reason you stayed as long as you did was so we could get high after the cop left."
"Yeah, it was a trip smoking in my room with the whole family downstairs," Justin said smugly. "They never knew what we were doing."
"They probably left as soon as the cop did," Zack said. "That's why they didn't know. And when we found out we had the whole house to ourselves, what did you do? You freaked out and said you couldn't stay there alone. What was that all about, anyway?"
"It just seemed spooky," Justin said quietly. "I mean, my Dad's dead, Man. Someone broke into the house and then pumped him full of lead. What if he came back to the scene of the crime to get rid of the rest of the family? And the step-bitch had split, too. Probably couldn't wait to sleep with her little girlfriend."
"Do you think your dad knew about them?" Zack asked with sudden interest.
"Doubt it," Justin replied. "He'd have said something if he did. Had a little too much booze one night and called her a lezzie or something. I doubt he'd have cared if he did know, anyway. I heard him talking to a friend one time, saying how he'd love to watch two chicks make it. He's such a perv, he'd get off watching his wife with another girl, probably wanna do 'em both after."
They'd finally found the car and Zack was impatient to get out of the crowded parking lot. He honked the horn as a car pulled in front of them causing him to slam on the brakes.
"So, you gonna stay at my place again tonight? I'm not sure my folks would be real happy about that," Zack said.
"Let's go smoke a joint first," Justin suggested. "Maybe we can catch the lezzies in bed. Hey, I know! Why don't you stay with me. We can ditch school tomorrow and hang out. Freedom, Man! We can do whatever we want to."
Ken's cell phone rang, it was the techie. Clay Wilson had received several work-related calls yesterday afternoon, but none that could've been from his daughter, or any phone in the mall. He had called no one. Ms. Stewart had called him at 5:21 PM so that part of the story was true. Interestingly, he had called Candy at 7:48 PM last night, and the call had lasted nearly 15 minutes. Where had the man been that he felt he needed an alibi, and why use his daughter?
Ken sat in his car with the air-conditioner blowing cool air in his face as he went over his notes. Nothing was making sense so far. The Greene home had been broken into in mid-morning and some easy-to-carry stuff stolen. He'd had no word yet on whether there were any papers missing from the man's home office.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat to visualize the layout of the house. The den had still been a mess when he'd arrived with news of the murder. It was to the right as you walked in the front door. The office was to the left, also the stairway to the second floor. But nothing else on the first floor seemed to have been touched.
Walk up the stairs and you faced the master bedroom, which had also been vandalized, to include taking prescription drugs from the attached bath. Guest rooms and bath to your left, clean. Justin's room to the right – also torn up. What would an 18-year-old have that would be worth stealing? From the looks of the boy, possibly illegal drugs. But that was an assumption, and the kid wasn't likely to admit he even had drugs, much less that they'd been stolen, so no joy there.
Everything stolen was small in size and high in value; that was a common M.O. among thieves. None of the neighbors had reported break-ins, even checking back several months. It seemed odd that a thief would choose that one house on that day. Assuming it was a real burglary everything made sense except the den.
You wouldn't expect to find anything both small and of major value in the dining room, kitchen, or downstairs bathroom. Ditto guest rooms. You would expect to find such items in the home office, master bed and bath, and possibly the teen's room. But what would the crook be looking for in the den? That didn't fit the pattern. Perhaps someone close to the victim knew about something he kept there, but then why tear up the entire room? Ken began to feel that the burglary had been faked, but for what reason he couldn't yet say.
Gracie coasted her bike into Bill's driveway and braked to a stop. Bill looked up from sanding the front porch railing and waved to her. He turned off the sander and set it down, took off his safety goggles and brushed at his clothes.
"Hey, kiddo. What's up?" he asked.
"Bike's not shifting right," she said as she leaned it on the kickstand. "I thought maybe you could take a look at it and save me a trip to the shop."
"Sure. Go get the toolbox out of the garage and I'll be right with you," he told her. "I wanna finish sanding this piece so it'll be easier to remember where I left off. Oh, and bring a yardstick, too; it's hanging on the pegboard."
As Gracie headed for the garage she could hear the sander start up again. She got the tools and left them beside her bike, then walked closer to watch Bill work. He guided the sander along the wooden rail, forward and backward; dust and paint chips flew to the sides. Suddenly it seemed to jump to one side and she thought he might drop it, but he didn't. Frowning, he placed it back on the rail and continued for a couple of minutes. He paused to rub his hand over the wood to judge his progress, then turned the machine off.
"It looks so easy on TV!" he said. "I understand the procedure, but this damn sander seems to have a mind of its own." He held up his left hand and she could see the backs of his fingers had been abraded, presumably by the sandpaper.
"Ouch, that looks like it hurts," she said. "Guess it's expensive to hire it done. Maybe you should, anyway, before you hurt yourself."
"Aw, it's just a little skin," Bill said dismissively. "It'll grow back. I'm sure the painting will be easier, if I ever get it ready to paint. Let's take a look at your bike."
They walked to the driveway and Bill crouched down in front of Gracie's bicycle. "Hand me the yardstick," he instructed. He laid it on top of the front and back gears. "Here's your problem. See how the chain's sagging? We just need to tighten it up a little." He rummaged through the toolbox, came up with a small wrench and set to work loosening the nuts on the rear axle.
"Have you heard anything from the police?" he asked as he worked.
"No, not yet," she replied. "I've been in school all day. Guess he's probably checking out everyone's alibis today."
"Yeah, I expect so," he said. "He hasn't had enough time yet to gather all the clues, much less come up with a suspect. Hey, should I be talking about this – does it bother you?"
"It's OK, Bill. It bothers me that it happened, but I hope the lieutenant does tell me what he's found. Thinking about it and trying to figure it all out is better than waiting without knowing anything."
"Don't pester the poor guy, Gracie. Let him do his job. Now, watch this."
Bill moved a small wheel back and forth so she could see how the chain tightened and relaxed with the change. He adjusted it so the chain hung half an inch below the yardstick and tightened
the nut holding it in place. "That ought to work better. Grab that can of chain lube off the workbench and I'll oil it for you."
Gracie brought the can and watched as he sprayed oil on the chain. "You knew Dad really well, do you have any idea who'd want to kill him?" she asked.
"My money would be on Jennifer, I never did understand why he wanted to marry her," he told her. "I tried to tell him she was only after his money, but he insisted. So I was Best Man at his second wedding, too; what else are friends for?"
"But Jennifer was freaking out over the burglary when it happened," she pointed out.
"Yeah, I know. Kinda shoots that theory, doesn't it? Ride it up and down the street and see if it shifts better now."
Gracie rode to the end of the block, turned around and came back. "That's a lot better, Bill. Thanks a bunch. Want me to stay and help with the sanding?"
"No thanks, I can handle it. Be careful on your way home."
Gracie heard the sander start up again as she rode off. She wondered if Bill would have more skinned spots tomorrow.
* * * *
It was getting on toward evening now, so Ken decided it was time to talk to the neighbors. Then he wanted another look at that den. Once in the neighborhood he knocked on doors across the street for nearly a block in both directions. As he'd suspected, people had either not been home yesterday morning or they hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. No one had seen Mrs. Greene leave or noticed Mr. Greene's Jaguar in the driveway. Neither had anyone seen any service vehicles parked along the street. Same story with the house to the west. George Thompson, who lived in the house east of Greene, had been home all day. Unfortunately he hadn't seen or heard anything either.
Ken rang the bell at the Greene home, but got no answer. He tried calling the house phone just in case Mrs. Greene wasn't in the mood to receive visitors, but got voice mail. He called her cell phone with the same results. Hard to say whether she was avoiding him or just didn't want to talk to anyone. The only other thing he could think of was to talk to the ex-wife, maybe she knew something about the den.