“Well, if I was a killer, I wouldn't stick around, would you? Was there any blood?” Skye asked. “I mean, on the body? Or on the floor?”
“Not that I could see.”
“What if Hal is hurt?” she asked. “What if he needs us? Maybe he's just unconscious. We need to check.”
My head said, “Yes, maybe,” but my feet refused to move.
She repeated. “Come on. We have to do something! Are those your things? All over the ground?”
“Yes,” I said. “I dropped them while I was trying to open the door. But it wasn't locked.”
“We better go in and see what's what.”
“Right. Okay. All right. Let's go.” I pushed the door open and stepped inside the store.
I took two steps and stopped. Skye was so close that she nearly climbed up my back. She pointed the beam of the flashlight forward, and then it drifted upwards.
“Can you aim the light lower so we can see where we're going?”
She lowered the flashlight slowly, taking in our surroundings. “Wow. Look at all this neat stuff!”
“Could you point that over there? At the ten o’clock position. That’s where I saw Mr. Humberger.”
She trained the beam on the prone figure, sprawled face-down with his feet near us and his head toward the front door. Because one arm was beneath him, and his torso was sideways, his shoulders blocked a good view of his head. He seemed to be staring off into space, but the way his face was turned, but I couldn't quite tell.
“That's Mr. Humberger all right,” she said. “He sure looks dead to me, but you never know. In the old days, they used to bury people alive all the time. Couldn't tell if they were dead or comatose. Undertakers attached a string that ran from inside the coffins to a bell above ground. That way if you woke up, and you weren't really dead, you could call for help by ringing the bell. That's where the term 'dead ringer' came from.”
She was just a font of useful information.
Not.
I shook my head. “This is seriously creepy.”
She nodded. “I know. Too bad he doesn't have a bell.”
I took a moment to take that comment in.
“So you think he's alive?” I ventured a guess at her meaning.
“Could be. You'd better take his pulse. I'll just wait over here,” she said, as she backed away. “Just holler if you need help.”
Right. Thanks a lot.
“Here goes.” Moving closer to Mr. Humberger's head, I sank into a slow squat about two feet from him. His face was turned away from me.
“Yoohoo! Hello! Hal?” I called.
“You're going to need to get closer,” said Skye, from a safe distance.
Great.
“Mr. Humberger?” I said loudly, aiming my voice at the back of his head. “Hello?”
He didn't move.
Very, very slowly, I inched my hand toward his neck, steeling myself for the moment of contact. My fingers hovered over his collar. The hairs along his neckline bristled against my fingertips, an oddly intimate sensation. His skin felt cold and clammy. Taking a deep breath, I put pressure where I figured his vein should be, but I didn't feel anything. I moved my fingertips around, thinking I'd somehow missed the jugular. Nothing.
“Can you tell if he's, like, breathing?” Skye asked.
“No. His skin seems cold. Feels weird.”
“Could be the air conditioning blowing on him. That happens to me a lot,” Skye said.
“What air conditioning? Do you feel any air conditioning? Do you hear it kicking on?”
“No. Should we be doing CPR?” she asked. In the glow of the flashlight, her features took on an eerie distortion.
“Do you know CPR?” I asked.
“No. Do you?”
“Sort of.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
“Do you hear something?” My voice climbed an octave. Skye and I turned toward the back door.
“Oh no. The killer has come back,” she whispered. We both froze in place.
The air buzzed with a funny crackling sound. A red light blinked over our heads and turned one wall after the other the color of blood.
“Ten ninety-seven,” said a male voice.
The back door flew open so hard that its handle smacked the wall. Lights flooded the scene. I couldn't see a thing. Skye dropped her flashlight with a loud thunk.
“Police! Stay where you are! Hands in the air!”
CHAPTER 12
Three years earlier...
Griffith, Indiana
At his retirement party, Detective Lou Murray raised a can of Bud and said, “Goodbye, boys. With any luck, I'll never see another corpse in my life, unless it's a dead fish.”
His fellow members of the Griffith Police Force had a good laugh over that. They knew Lou was making a mistake. But who could blame him? The buy-out had come at a good time. Even though he was only forty-two, he was burned out. He'd lost his mentor and partner, Harvey Showalter.
Showalter had pulled over a speeder, who shot him point-blank in the head. The cop had been off-duty at the time, on his way to the cemetery to visit his wife's grave. It rankled Lou that such a good guy could die doing something so routine. Lou decided he'd had enough of police work.
For those first six months after he moved to Stuart, Lou took his new boat out on the water every day.
Nine months and one surgery for melanoma later, fishing had gotten old.
“The lure has worn off,” Lou told Showalter. “See? It's a pun. Aw, forget it!”
Talking to Showalter had become a habit over their twenty years of service together. Even though the other man had been gone for a year and a half, Lou still deferred to his old colleague. The department shrink had assured him he wasn't crazy. “It's a coping mechanism. We all have them. Yours is a little more persistent than most.”
After the cancer scare, Lou found himself spending more and more time inside his trailer. If the tin box seemed a bit cramped, at least the A/C worked. Life in the retirement community was quiet, for the most part. Everyone but Lou was fifty-five or older. Management had jumped at the chance to have a retired law enforcement officer on the premises, so they'd waived the mandatory age requirement. The ratio of ladies to gents was about five to one, even if the “girls” were old enough to be grandmothers. Lou never lacked for female companionship or a home-cooked meal. But deep inside, he felt restless. He had no purpose. No reason to get up in the morning.
Lou would have been the last to admit he was going stir-crazy. However, the officers back in Griffith had put down bets on how long their old comrade could stay away from police work. A dispatcher won the pool and $167 one hot afternoon in August.
Lou was watching a DVD of The Godfather for the umpteenth zillion time when Marlon Brando's monologue was interrupted by the sound of a fight in the Winnebago next door. Ignoring the racket proved difficult. Should Lou knock politely on his neighbor's door and suggest Bucky dial it back a bit?
Seemed reasonable enough. He and Bucky had shared a couple of cold ones, taken in a Cardinals game at Roger Dean Stadium, and even borrowed charcoal lighter fluid from each other. In Lou's mind, they weren't exactly friends, but they were more than nodding acquaintances.
Of course, Bucky shouldn't even have been living in that trailer, because he was only thirty-five. The trailer's owner had sworn to the park manager that Bucky was only housesitting for him.
“I'm just here temporarily. Taking a break from my old lady,” Bucky had told Lou with a smirk. “She caught me misbehaving and kicked me out. She's bound to come crawling back, though. You wait and see.”
Lou had his doubts about that. For starters, Bucky's wife would have to wade through piles of dirty clothes, stacks of food-crusted plates, and mounds of empty beer cans to find him. Lou didn't see any woman thinking that Bucky or that mess was appealing, but who knew? Love worked in mysterious ways, or so he'd been told.
Lou's “live and let live” attitude made him reluctant to get involved. He'd
had enough of that while doing police work. Like all officers, he especially dreaded domestic disturbances. As Lou cocked an ear in Bucky's direction, the fuss sounded exactly like that.
Not surprising.
Bucky's Old Lady probably had a lot to gripe about, and Bucky wasn't exactly the shy and retiring type.
The noise coming from next door grew louder and louder. Lou hit the pause button on his remote and listened more carefully.
Was it a disagreement grown heated?
Or something worse like a prelude to violence?
Time to take a look-see. Parting the vinyl blinds, Lou spotted three neighbor women standing across the street and staring at the Winnebago. Their backs formed a tight wall of rejection as they ducked their heads to whisper behind their hands. Clearly, they'd heard the ruckus, too. It wasn't winding down. No, from the sound of it, things were escalating. Lou reluctantly walked into his bedroom. Keeping one ear tuned to the Winnebago, he opened his nightstand and pulled out his service revolver.
Suddenly, everything went quiet. That almost convinced Lou to let the whole thing slide and go back to watching Marlon Brando.
Then came a scream of pain.
“No rest for the weary,” said Lou.
“That thing loaded?” asked Showalter. “You know better than to wave around a gun with no ammo. Especially when it's a domestic disturbance. But hey, it's your funeral.”
Lou slid cartridges into all six chambers and stuck his service revolver into the rear waistband of his khaki shorts. For good measure, he grabbed his handcuffs and shoved them deep into his pants' pocket.
“Satisfied?” he asked Showalter. Getting no answer, he stepped outside into the shimmering heat. While the scorching temperature slapped him silly, Lou briefly considered calling the police. After all, they were paid to handle the situation. He wasn't. Not any longer.
He could go back inside his air-conditioned trailer and stay uninvolved. But he quickly dismissed that as downright silly. Why pull an officer off his beat for a family squabble?
It wasn't like Lou was a total waste of air and space. Not yet at least.
One woman in the anxious crowd spotted him and waved. Now he had no choice in the matter but to carry on like a sworn officer of the law.
Which he wasn't.
Not anymore.
“Should I call the authorities?” one of the women shouted to Lou.
“No, thanks. Not yet. I think I've got it covered,” he said.
A second scream split the air like a cleaver chopping meat. Lou trotted the short distance to Bucky's front door and knocked hard.
No one answered. Lou could feel the eyes of the on-looking women boring a hole in his back. He leaned his head close to the door and yelled, “Hey, Bucky, it's me, Lou. Open up.”
That produced no answer.
Lou tried again.
Nothing happened.
Time to turn to trickery.
“Aw, come on Bucky, let me in. I've got a couple of tickets to a Heat game down in Miami,” shouted Lou. “If you don't want them someone else will!”
“A Heat game? Are they good seats?” Bucky shouted through the door, over the sound of whimpering.
“The best in the house,” said Lou. As lies went, it was a whopper.
Bucky swung open the door with one hand. In the other he held a hank of hair attached to a woman. She was half-lying on the floor and half-sitting up. Her face had been pummeled, and she was spitting blood.
“Meet my Old Lady,” said Bucky. His face was twitching, a telltale sign that he was high on meth. “I'm just teaching her some manners. Aren't I, darling?”
The woman put a hand to her mouth and spat out a tooth.
“Turn loose of her, Bucky. Right this minute.”
“Or else what? This is my place and my rules.” Bucky lifted his chin and curled his lip.
Lou considered his options. If he pounced on Bucky, it would be assault. But if Bucky took a swing at him, Lou would have every right to defend himself.
“Goad him,” said Showalter. “Won't take much.”
“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. You aren't man enough to make the rules.”
That was all it took. Bucky let go of the woman, stepped outside the door, and took a swing at Lou. Lou dodged the blow, grabbed Bucky's arm, twisted it behind the younger man's back, and shoved him down two small stairs to the ground. Bucky's nose hit the dirt with a satisfying crunch. Lou planted one foot in the middle of Bucky's back to keep him down.
“Ooooh!” A chorus of admiration went up from the women who'd been watching the whole shebang.
“Feels good to be back in action, huh?” said Showalter.
“You okay, miss?” Lou called to the woman on the floor inside the trailer.
Instead of answering, she covered her face and sobbed.
“Okay, now you can call 911,” Lou shouted to the onlookers. “Tell them it's a ten sixty-nine, and we need an ambulance.”
“I'm hurt bad!” whined Bucky.
“Shut up, Bucky,” said Lou. “You just went and totally ruined a perfectly good retirement.”
CHAPTER 13
Present day…
Stuart, Florida
“Lou! It's me!” Skye sang out as she waved a greeting.
“Skye?” A gruff voice responded from behind the bright light that was shining on both of us.
After blinking a while, I could make out the silhouette of a very tall man. He lowered his flashlight beam so it wasn't blinding us.
“You okay, Skye?”
The voice belonged to the cop who'd been at Pumpernickel's earlier.
“Yes,” she said. Her whole demeanor changed, softened.
“What have we got here?” The cop walked closer to us.
“Detective Lou Murray, meet my new friend, Cara Mia Delgatto,” said Skye, with all the formality that would have been appropriate at a cocktail party.
Feeling a little unsure about the protocol, I didn’t offer a hand to shake. Instead I waved, a tiny close-to-my body type of gesture.
“Dick Potter is Cara’s grandfather,” Skye continued.
“Right,” said the detective. He exuded what some call “command presence.” At six-four and two hundred-thirty pounds, he could easily win in a stare-down contest. No one in his right mind would pick a fight with this guy. This was not a man to mess with. He struck me as a gruff son of a gun, but Skye did not seem at all worried. In fact, she flashed a winsome smile at the officer.
“That's Hal Humberger on the floor,” said Skye. “We think he's dead.”
“What are you doing here, Skye?” the policeman asked as he moved closer to the prone form.
“Cara Mia needed my help,” she said.
“You're the one who found him, ma'am?” The detective stared at me.
“Yes.”
“Unit twenty-seven?” Detective Murray squatted by the body. He touched a spot on Hal Humberger's throat before speaking into his cell phone. “What's your ETA? I'll need officers to secure a possible crime scene.”
Two EMTs burst through the back door of Essie's.
“Yoohoo! He's over there.” Skye directed her flashlight to Mr. Humberger, not far from our feet.
A medical tech knelt to check Hal Humberger's vitals.
“Ma'am, you happened upon Mr. Humberger, how?” asked Detective Murray, getting to his feet and moving away from the action.
“The back door was unlocked. I opened it, but the lights wouldn't work. I stumbled over him,” I said.
“You were alone?” he asked.
“Yes, so I ran and got Skye.”
“Skye,” said Detective Murray in a mock angry tone. “You know better than to walk into a dark building alone. Especially if it hasn't been cleared.”
“Sorry, Lou, but when Cara came and got me, we weren't even sure if Hal was dead. We thought it might be an emergency, and he might need help. Is he dead?”
“Why are we standing here in the dark? Is the power turned off?” ask
ed the detective, speaking to no one in particular.
“I was told it was still on,” I said. “When I got here, I couldn't get the lights to work. There's a fuse box on the wall next to the bathroom. Or at least that's where it used to be.”
“Stay where you are,” he said.
Skye and I huddled side-by-side. She reached for my hand, and I grabbed hers, feeling wonderfully assured by the contact of warm flesh. The most of the overhead fluorescent fixtures crackled to life, bathing us in a greenish glow. We blinked away our blindness.
“I want to do a quick check of the premises.” Detective Murray drew his gun and walked out onto the sales floor. In a few minutes, we heard his footsteps going up the stairs. The EMTs continued to work on Mr. Humberger's body.
When Detective Murray returned, he spoke into a handset. “Got a ten sixty-four here. Request back-up to secure a crime scene. Call Detective Ollie Anderson and get him over here ASAP, copy? I could use his help.”
The detective walked back to us and leveled his eyes directly on me.
Skye squeezed my hand reassuringly.
“May I be so bold as to ask how you wandered into an empty building and stumbled upon Mr. Humberger's body?” the detective asked me.
“Black Beauty burped,” I talked in a rush. “I took her to Poppy's. But she needed a part. I went for a walk and bought this building. Poppy and I had a fight. I was going to sleep, but I found Mr. Humberger. I thought he was dead. Of course, I didn't know for sure that he was dead. But my phone is. Dead, I mean. I had dinner at Pumpernickel's so I knew it was open. And Skye was nice. And I'm tired. So I got Skye to help because I didn't know who else to ask. We hurried back in case Mr. Humberger was alive. But he's not. And now you're here.”
“Oh-kay,” he said.
None of my story made any sense, and I knew it. I would have elaborated but my teeth began chattering. Skye put an arm around me. “Lou, she's in shock.”
The police officer eyed me carefully. “One thing for sure. As soon as Anderson gets here, we're all going to take a ride down to the police station.”
CHAPTER 14
One of Dad's cardinal rules: “If you're ever picked up by the police, say nothing. Keep your mouth shut. Call me or get an attorney.”
Second Chance at Love Page 5