“There’s a lot about this squirrelly case that doesn’t make sense,” Spooner said.
“That may be.” Hackle pushed back his chair. “But right now I’m a tired old man who needs to get to bed.”
With insectoid grace Spooner untangled his long legs. “I’ll show you the way out. I’m ready to put this day to bed myself.”
We walked in silence through the quiet house of the dead. At the exit Hackle paused, his face furrowed with the burden of age and memory. “Gorsky,” he said gruffly, “if Mel’s daughter is willing, I could autopsy Mrs. Dick as well.” Before he had a chance for second thoughts, I accepted, certain Julie would agree.
“Good, good—I’m free tomorrow any time after two, just let me know.”
Spooner and I tried to thank him, but Hackle waved us off and limped into the dark night, for the first time looking like the old man he was. I started to follow, but Spooner held my arm.
“Berry got back to me about the keys found on Mel’s body. Mel Dick’s house key was part of the set, but none of the keys fit his office.”
Chapter Fourteen
Out Damned Spot
“Come here often, Sheriff?”
“I prefer to do my drinking in Newnansville—my face is a little too familiar here.” Bubba Spooner and I were the only customers at the bar, though a couple of Eddie’s regulars were working the pool table, and sporadic whoops and laughter sounded from the banquet room.
“Are you from the area?” I asked.
“I’ve lived in Lady-in-the-Hills all my life, except for the years I was in the service.”
I was starting to think that maybe this whole thing was a mistake. When Spooner offered to buy me a drink, I was too surprised to object and now found myself having a beer with a man whom until recently I had thought an enemy.
“I always felt that you and me got off on the wrong foot,” Spooner said, reading my mind.
“It happens, Sheriff.”
“I’m off-duty.”
“Okay...Bubba.” We both winced. The Southern nickname sounded downright peculiar when filtered through my Baltimore accent.
“My name is Brad.”
“But I thought...”
Brad sighed. “Every Southern family has a Bubba. I just happened to draw the golden ticket.” He laughed. “I’ve tried to lose it, but things stick in small towns. And it does help come election time. Grubber County citizens love a good old boy named Bubba.”
Brad smiled at the barmaid who’d just arrived with our beers, along with a bowl of stale popcorn. Immediately his large hand scooped up a handful of the stuff.
I stayed his hand. “I wouldn’t advise that.”
“But I’m hungry. I didn’t eat dinner.”
“Neither did I, but you don’t want that.” I explained that at the end of the night the staff married all the leftover snacks into a big plastic bag, to be served the next day and the day after that. I thought of the dirt-encrusted fingernails and greasy knuckles that had fondled the popcorn over the years. I liked dive bars, but you had to be smart.
Brad let the stale popcorn fall back into the bowl. Both of us started laughing. It was silly, but we’d been running on fumes for days and the beer had put us over the edge. It was also the nature of our business. In the face of human depravity—and what was more depraved than murder?—laughter could save your life.
“This is cozy,” a voice slurred from behind. It was Tyler Andrews, decked out in Mystic Cove khaki and stinking drunk. At his side was Billy Blake, who would not meet my eyes.
“We’re having a private conversation here, Andrews.” In his slow way Brad eased off the bar stool, lean body coiled like a spring.
Tyler glared at the taller man. Billy edged away from the action, the scruffy guys at the pool table stopped their play, and the bartender looked up from the sink behind the bar. Bloodhounds all, scenting trouble.
“I see what it is, Spooner,” Tyler said, “but it’s okay. You can have my sloppy seconds.” Brad took a step forward, a solid rock to Tyler Andrew’s sputtering candle. Blanching, Tyler stumbled away, waving his hand, like a magician at the climax of a magic trick.
I almost laughed—was he trying to make us disappear?
“Go to hell, the both of you. I’m leaving this dump.”
When Billy tried to follow Tyler, Brad placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Don’t let that fool get behind the wheel.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I stared into my beer, too embarrassed to face him.
“Then don’t say anything.”
I shot a sideways glance at Brad Spooner, studied his profile as he drank his beer. It was a rocky sort of face but not unattractive. “Why’d you ask me here, Brad?”
“To watch you enjoy your beer.” He laughed and added, “I thought we might kick around the case, if you were up to it.” Was he kidding? It was after midnight, but I didn’t feel tired. Sleep could wait and something told me that getting to the heart of Mel Dick’s death couldn’t. I needed answers, not sleep.
“The thing with the keys has me stumped,” I said. “Why didn’t the shooter take both keys off of Mel? If his purpose was to cleanse both computers of evidence, wouldn’t he need the house key as well?”
“Anita didn’t need a key to get into her own house,” Brad said. A whoop from the pool table signaled somebody just got off a good shot.
“Not so fast,” I said. “Fairley told me that Anita had her own key to Mel’s office. Besides, I doubt Mel was writing an exposé on his own wife. No, one person tampered with both computers and I don’t think it was Anita Dick.”
“You could be wrong about that big story theory, and maybe Mel just misplaced his office key, but for the moment let’s assume you’re right. It’s possible the perp only took the key he needed because he figured no one would notice it missing.”
“Which is exactly what happened until I brought it to your attention,” I reminded him. “Or the shooter didn’t take the house key because he’d already stolen the hard drive from Mel’s home computer.”
“So after shooting Mel, he calmly goes through the keys and pulls off the one he needs, knowing exactly which key belonged to Mel’s office. Pretty cool customer.”
“And then at 1:55 Friday morning he snuck into the Commentator office and deleted the remaining file on Mel’s computer.” I glanced at the guys shooting pool—the loser was making a vociferous plea for another game.
“We just built a house of straw out of a lot of conjecture and very little fact.” Brad glanced at the muted TV, which was showing highlights from last week’s game. “Let’s leave the keys for now, and review what we know for sure.”
“Do we know anything for sure in this mess?” As I’d expected the pool players were setting up for another game. There was always another game.
“We know that Anita went right home after the disturbance at the restaurant. The OCSO deputy was at the Dick residence at six-thirty, where he found Mrs. Dick at home. She told the deputy she was alone, but she could have been lying.”
“Six-thirty? Are you sure?”
“It could be off by a minute or two—why?”
“The timeline on the video had Mel leaving the Grub and Grog at six-twenty. How the hell did Anita get home so quickly? Somebody must have given her a ride.”
“So what?” Brad asked.
“At the least, that person could clue us in on Anita’s mood.”
“I see that,” Brad said, but from the look of him, he didn’t. “For now let’s concentrate on what we know.” He tapped the pitted bar for emphasis. “I think Anita’s version of the murder night is accurate to a point. We have Fairley’s statement for corroboration, and phone records show that somebody from the Dick house called the Sable house at 12:03 that morning.” He pa
used while a young guy wearing a backward baseball cap ordered a pitcher.
“So we’re pretty sure,” Brad continued, “that Anita watched TV until sometime around eleven when the prodigal returned from God-knows-where. They argued over Gigi, and Mel took off. Things start to get murky when Anita gets to Fairley’s.”
“I wonder if Jinks was with Mel,” I said, going off in my own direction as usual.
“Who?”
“Mel’s dog. He might be our only witness.”
“There might be some problems with him on the stand,” Brad deadpanned. “But can we get back to the subject?”
“Sorry, my mind tends to jump around.” I glanced at the pool players. From their body language the new game was going the way of the first—same winners, same losers.
Brad took a long pull on his beer. “As I was saying, things get murky at Fairley’s house. Who’s to say Anita didn’t sneak out while Fairley was asleep and shoot Mel?”
I scowled. “I can’t imagine anyone sneaking out on Fairley. I just can’t.” I tried to explain, but the words came hard. “She’s...a very aware person, and yet there’s something...I don’t know...vague about her.” I scanned Brad’s face, but it was as confused as my words. “I guess it’s just that Fairley is a bit of an odd duck,” I said lamely.
“Mystic Cove is home to odd ducks.”
We clinked bottles and laughed. Brad was right. They were all a little off: drunken José, Alan Rand and his reclusive wife, Tally, Gigi, and of course Busy.
“But seriously,” Brad said, “do you think Fairley’s lying about something?”
“I’m not sure, but from the beginning I’ve believed that Fairley would stretch the truth to protect her friend.”
“But Anita is dead. There’s no longer a reason for Fairley to lie.”
“True, but it’d still be hard for Fairley to admit she’s been less than honest with the police.”
“Yeah, but Fairley Sable has gone out of her way to be helpful. What the hell—she’s the one who reported that Anita was at her house.”
I nearly choked on my beer. “Are you shitting me?”
Brad shrugged. “Fairley called GCSO to say that Anita Dick was sitting in her backyard. We were still canvassing Admiral Street, so it only took us a minute to get there.”
“That’s what I mean about this woman, Brad—she’s fucking strange. First she begged me not to call the police and then the first chance she got, she called you guys.”
“The old lady got spooked, that’s all.”
“Or maybe she just wanted to make me look like an asshole—something I can do on my own.”
“So I’ve observed.” But before I could howl, Brad laughed and signaled for another round.
“Are we done with Fairley?” he asked after the barmaid had left our beers. I gave a thumbs-up. “Good, because I want to talk about Mystic Cove’s favorite pimp.” Brad explained that Deputy Berry had talked to José, who admitted handing out a few phone numbers, but nothing else. “And Berry didn’t press. After Anita’s death, the case appeared solved.” Brad took a long pull on his beer and turned to me. “But now things had changed. What’s your take on Barracas?”
“He’s pretty deep in the bottle and he does have a monstrous temper. He has motive and opportunity, but I don’t like him for the murder. He’s a sloppy drunk and this murder was anything but.”
Brad agreed.
“And there’s another angle to it. According to Rand, Mel finished his hooker exposé way back in September. That fact that Mel sat on his big story for over a month without publishing is damned suspicious. Maybe Mel found a more profitable use for the information.”
Brad raced ahead. “Blackmail?”
“Absolutely, Mel liked to think he was virtuous, but it was a convenient virtue. If he needed the money, he’d blackmail the pope. Maybe one of the johns got tired of paying.”
He started scribbling in his notepad. “This is the first concrete lead we’ve had. Tomorrow we’ll check Mel’s finances for funny stuff and I’ll have Berry drag the names of those johns out of Barracas.”
“Good, I’m curious if a certain overprotective husband is on the client list.”
His jaw dropped. “Not Alan Rand? Damn, you got a devious mind.”
“Rand didn’t play straight with me. I had to push hard to get any information out of him, especially about his September meeting with Mel. The man is hiding something and I want to know what it is.”
Brad put his beer down and leaned closer. “You really think Rand was one of the johns and Mel was blackmailing his old friend?”
“Not really, but something caused a rift between them. If Rand was fooling around with hookers, it’s more likely that he feared disclosure. That would end his marriage, and whatever his flaws, Rand loves his wife.”
“Money and sex,” Brad said softly. “It always comes down to that.”
We kicked the can till last call. We kept going back to Mel’s missing hours. The old man was MIA between six-twenty, when he left the Grub and Grog, to around midnight, when he turned up at home. A brief argument with Anita, and he disappeared again, until I found him in Birnam Wood. Where was he for those missing hours?
“Mel was disoriented,” I said, “but behavior doesn’t come from nothing. He was in the grip of a strong delusion, certain that his wife and his friends had turned on him. His only friend was his dog. Right or wrong, that was his reality.”
“You’re saying that crazy has a reason.”
“I like that, Brad. Yes, crazy has a reason. Crazy finds a way. Mel must have gone to a place where he felt safe.”
“He went to ground, and at some point in all that wandering he gets shot in the arm and changes his damn clothes.”
I slapped the bar. “I think I know where Mel went after his fight with Anita. Gigi’s!”
“But Mel and his girlfriend were on the outs.”
“Yeah, but Mel Dick had run out of options. I’m betting that even in his deluded state he knew Gigi would welcome him open arms.”
Before leaving, Brad promised to run background checks on the principle players—Alan and Tally Rand, Fairley Sable, Gigi Tajani, José Barracas.
“And Busy Rhodes,” I added, pulling on my jacket.
Brad cocked an eyebrow. “Remind me who or what Busy Rhodes is.”
I outlined the blood feud that was Mel and Busy’s relationship.
“Why are you just mentioning this now?”
“It’s a long shot.” This would have been a good time to tell Brad about the white Prius in the video, which might or might not have been Busy’s, but I wanted to hold on to that piece of information a little longer. Tomorrow I wanted to face the woman in white on my own terms. Now that I was no longer shackled to Mystic Cove security, I’d get the truth out her, one way or another.
“Goddamn, Addie, don’t let a man you love see you looking like that. That look on your face would turn his blood to ice. You’re even scaring me a little.”
I laughed it off. “Sometimes I scare myself, Brad. Sometimes I scare myself.”
* * *
Pop was sound asleep when I crept inside the dark apartment. Jinks, who had been sleeping at the foot of Dad’s bed, let out a few squeaky barks and started running in circles. Once he’d settled down, I fired up the computer. I had a few more tasks to complete before I could put this long day to rest for good.
I started with a little quick and dirty research on Datura stramonium. My pulse quickened as I scanned the hits. Along with the expected botanical tracts and horticultural information, several sites dealt with the use of datura as a recreational drug, both pro and con. It was a showy plant that I was certain I’d seen before: trumpet flowers, some creamy white and others tinged with lavender, erupting from masses of large toothy lea
ves. I could understand its popularity in the flower garden, but this beauty had a dark side.
Datura’s hallucinogenic properties were well documented, with perhaps the most famous occurrence at the Jamestown settlement. Nowadays most of datura’s willing victims were stupid kids looking for a psychedelic experience on the cheap, unmindful of the plant’s brutal nature. Seeking the release of dreams, they were trapped in nightmare. Next I turned to my main task.
From the pocket of my jacket, I fished out the scrap of paper on which I had copied the search history from Dick’s office computer. I frowned at the frantic chicken scratch. As a leftie, my handwriting has always been atrocious, but in my haste my writing resembled cuneiform. I thought I heard Sister Mary Margaret’s laughter from beyond the grave. I never got past a D in penmanship at St. Andrews, despite the elderly nun’s Cassandra-like warnings of the dire consequences.
Finally I deciphered the mess and other than a query on the weather, all of Mel’s searches referenced the fugitive lists of various law enforcement agencies and crime-fighting organizations. I started with FBI’s Most Wanted and worked my way down. As I hopped around the websites, staring at the faces of anonymous fugitives from remote decades, their dead faces brought to mind the endless rows of glassy-eyed fish at the stalls in Lexington Market. I tried to pick out a thread of understanding, but it was useless. Without a context, I was lost in a pit of murderers and drug lords. Mel’s search history was just another dead end. I was about to throw the scrap of paper into the wastebasket when I noticed my mistake. I had misread the first query as Weather, but it read Weatherman, or maybe Weathermen. Did it matter either way? Just a scrivener’s error. I threw the paper away and shut down the computer.
The moment my head hit the pillow, I was asleep, wrapped in blissful ignorance. But the thing about ignorance was that while it might be blissful it was also often dangerous.
* * *
“What a pleasant surprise!” Fairley Sable beamed as she ushered me inside her home. “I was just making a pot of tea. Would you like some?” Assuming acceptance, Fairley deposited me on her sofa and disappeared into the kitchen.
Murder in Mystic Cove Page 17