To make matters worse, I’ve alienated my staff. Subtle remarks from my deputies lately suggest I’ve created a wedge between us. Aside from asking them to assist with a few phone calls, I haven’t used them in the investigation.
In addition to my hubris, the real reason for the delay in calling in outside help has been to avoid the inevitable: discovering that Hunter’s killer was a neighbor, a friend, or my wife.
Maybe Rusty was right. Why continue the investigation and ruin more lives? The town wanted to believe Peter Hopkins was guilty. He was their martyr. No. Peter Hopkins was their scapegoat.
My lungs stretch for air. As I release the tension, I feel oddly relaxed and begin to think about Maggie Hunter for the umpteenth time since we met.
She appears like an apparition in front of large, ominous clouds that are looming and vibrating and throwing off bolts of lightning. Then, as Maggie spreads her arms, the clouds disappear, replaced with a deep blue sky. Like an angel, she floats past me in a white, cotton summer dress, her hair tied in a red bow and barefooted.
Maggie turns, waves blithely, and calls out to me. Effortlessly, my body drifts upward and follows her past the beach perimeter toward the stilted houses high above the bluffs. My heart dances with excitement. The townspeople are cheering me on. “Go for it, Hank! Catch her.” Even Peter Hopkins.
I sail past Susan, who gives me a thumbs up. When I catch up with Maggie, she is sitting on the sand next to a large rock, her arms outstretched. She draws me in like a magnet and whispers, “You’re the one I want, Sheriff.”
“Hank.”
I smile to myself. “Maggie.”
I hear a thump and stumble out of my slumber, my eyes staring into the rain beating against my windshield.
“Hank!”
I blink hard and turn toward the window. Instinctively I reach for my gun, but the rain is falling so hard, I can’t make out the face. Then the shadow disappears as though the muddy road swallowed it up. I carefully open the door and find Sheryl lying face up, eyes closed, her gray raincoat opened at the bottom. She must have fallen and hit her head on the ground. The pelting rain bounces off her face. I remove my raincoat and shield her from the rain.
“Sheryl!”
I attempt to lift her off the ground, but I lose my footing and slip, landing beside her.
“Sheryl!” I call out again, jumping to my feet and opening the back door. I scoop her up and gently slide her on the seat. The dome light is on, and I can see her pale, clammy face. I dry my hands on the back of the seat, then unbutton her raincoat. That’s when I notice that Sheryl’s white Salty’s t-shirt is drenched in blood.
It takes the ambulance less than fifteen minutes to reach us, but it wouldn’t have mattered when they arrived. Sheryl’s only conversation would be with her creator.
“Hank, what happened?”
Wayne is holding an umbrella over my head, his flashlight pointing at the wet, sandy ground that is mixed with Sheryl’s blood.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Sheryl was supposed to meet me here.”
“Out here? Why?”
I hesitate, then say, “She had information on Hunter’s murder, only she never got a chance to tell me.”
“What could she have known?” he probes.
I shrug. “I don’t know, Wayne. Like I said, we never got the chance to speak.”
Wayne’s voice cracks. “Why her, Hank?”
My eyes tighten. “I don’t know, but we’re gonna need help unless I figure out who did this and soon.”
Wayne and I stand in silence, engaged in our own thoughts. I watch the ambulance take off, its red flashing lights fighting the night. The fog has lifted enough for me to notice Sheryl’s car parked a good hundred yards from us near the restrooms, the driver’s-side door opened.
“What was she doing over there?” I ask, almost to myself.
Wayne catches my stare. “You just said she was supposed to meet you.”
“Yeah, but we were supposed to meet here, not near the restrooms.”
Wayne pulls on his ear. “Maybe she had to pee.”
I shake my head and start for Sheryl’s car, my boots sloshing through puddles. “The bathrooms are closed this time of year. Sheryl would have known that.”
“She could have stopped to use the phone,” he suggests, trying to keep up with me. “It works year round.”
“I doubt it,” I say dismissively. “Besides, Sheryl must have had a cell phone.”
When we reach the car, Wayne flashes a beam from his flashlight inside the driver’s-side door. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he says. “The keys are still in the ignition.”
I nod, then caution Wayne not to touch anything without gloves. He steps back and aims the light at the public phone, which is resting in its cradle. “Could be whoever did it followed Sheryl and cut her off here.”
“Or was her passenger,” I say, adding to Wayne’s theory.
“That would mean—”
“Sheryl knew her killer,” I finish.
Wayne tugs on my wet jacket. “Hank, I wanna help with this.”
I turn to my deputy. Wayne’s pained expression suggests I need to consent to his plea. “Stay here and wait for the county.” I point to the phone. “Ask them to check for fingerprints.”
Wayne’s eyes light up.
“Then check with the phone company. See if any calls were made from it tonight.”
“Thanks, Hank.”
I fix my eyes on Sheryl’s car. “I’d better inform Paddy.”
I’m about to leave when Wayne asks, “You staying over tonight?”
“Is there a problem?” I ask innocently.
He shrugs. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”
Wayne never just wonders.
“It’s just that I hate to see you and Susan like this. Especially after what’s happened tonight.”
I smile softly and place a friendly arm on my deputy’s shoulder. “Thanks,” I say. I trudge back to my car, thinking about Maggie and my dream. But those thoughts quickly evaporate as my murder theory takes over. Sheryl knew her killer, someone who knew her every move. But if Paddy knew Sheryl was meeting me, would he accompany her? Certainly Sheryl would never consent to the idea.
Which makes Wayne’s theory more logical. An angry Paddy followed her here, cut her off, then killed her. That simple. Then why had Paddy lied to protect Sheryl about Hunter’s murder, telling me she worked at the bar till closing? Why would he want to save Sheryl only to kill her?
I climb back in my car, my pants soaked from the rain, my body damp and cold. Through the windshield, I give Wayne a quick wave, then start for the exit. I glance in the rearview mirror, my eyes steadying on the illumination from Wayne’s flashlight. Then, like the end of a movie, the picture turns black.
By the time I reach Salty’s, the rain has been reduced to a fine mist. Once inside, my eyes begin to burn as I struggle through the haze of smoke. The bar is engulfed in loud music and loud conversation, with screaming Islanders fans competing for noise control with a group of off-key karaoke singers.
I rub my eyes then glance around. The booth where Hunter and I hung out is occupied by a bunch of guys wearing ball caps backward who look too young to drink. But I’m not here to card anyone; I’m here to find Paddy.
I search the bar, but Paddy isn’t serving drinks. Chester Wynn is. Chester’s been a part-time bartender for the past five years. Half the time he’s off the wagon. But Chester comes cheap, so Paddy keeps him around when the place is hopping. Which is why I’m surprised Paddy isn’t pouring drinks alongside him.
“Hey, Chess,” I shout over the crowd. “Where’s Paddy?”
He stops mixing a drink, shoots a look around, then offers a sloppy grin when he sees me. “Hank, what’s doin?” he calls out.
“I need to speak to Paddy,” I roar back.
“Paddy?” Chester gazes through the crowd, then shrugs. “He was here a while ago,” he yells, then returns to pour
ing drinks, licking whatever spills on his hand. An employee perk.
I weave through the crowd and make my way over to a waitress. “Judy, you see Paddy?”
Judy sets a tray full of drinks on a table. “Say, Hank. Yeah, he’s around somewhere. It’s been crazy tonight on account of the game.”
“What about before?” I press. “Say around six.”
Judy closes her eyes, blocks out the din. “Think so.”
I struggle through the crowd and find another waitress who gives me the same “I think so” line. I’m about to ask a few regulars when Paddy emerges from the back and gives Chester a hand. Chester whispers something to Paddy, and I can tell Paddy is not too happy. His eyes narrow as he searches the bar, but he can’t find me because I’m standing behind a couple of extra-large athletic types. His intense expression stays as he pulls on his ponytail shaking the excess water from his hand.
I approach him, my eyes steady on his face. He sees me, gives a faint smile, then forms a “what?” with his lips. I point to the back and he follows me.
My ears continue to be stricken by the deafening, buzzing sound as we reach his office.
“For Chrissake, Hank, don’t you see how busy we are? Can’t this wait?”
There’s no easy way. “Sheryl’s dead, Paddy. I’m sorry.”
At first, he doesn’t understand. Maybe the noise is reverberating in his ears, too. “Say what?” he cups an ear.
“Sheryl. She was shot out at the beach.”
Paddy freezes like a petrified animal. “What the hell are you talking about?” he says, the timbre in his brogue more pronounced.
“She was supposed to meet me there.” That didn’t sound right.
“Meet you? What the hell for?” he roars.
“She had some information about Hunter’s murder.”
Paddy clenches his fist, shakes it at me. “You bastard, Hank. You got her killed!”
I allow Paddy to enter my space. As a law enforcement officer, it’s easier to interrogate suspects who live elsewhere. But this is my town, and though Paddy is a suspect, he’s also my friend, so I give him time to blow off steam.
He realizes I’m being conciliatory and settles down. “Who the hell would do that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” I say my voice neutral.
He cocks his head. “Are you insinuating that I killed her? Because if you are…”
I hold up a hand. “Paddy, I’m just trying to find out if someone threatened her lately. You know, a phone call, a text, an email. Something.”
Paddy keeps a critical eye on me. “Yeah, well, I don’t like the way you were asking the question. Who else was angry with her?”
“That’s my point,” I scoff. I’m taking a chance with Paddy. Though he and I are about the same height, Paddy’s leaner, faster and hotheaded, so accusing him in tight quarters is chancy. “Where were you around six tonight?” I continue, eyeing him carefully.
“Damn you, Hank! If I were going to kill her, I would have done it when I found out.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I challenge.
He shakes his head. “C’mon, I’ve got a fucking grandstand of people out there. Ask anyone.” He stops, realizing why I’m here, and leans against the wall for support. “We were working things out,” he whispers to no one in particular.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Paddy. Sheryl was a good friend.” When I go to touch his shoulder, he backs off. “You!” he jabs at me. “You killed her. If you hadn’t hounded her about your fucking investigation, she’d still be alive.”
If this is a ploy, it’s working. “I was just doing my job. I never thought—”
“Your job! The whole town is upset with your bullshit investigation. You should have closed it with Peter Hopkins. Now there’s more blood on your hands.”
I glare. “I’m tired of being lectured by you and everyone else in this town. I’m going to find the person who killed your wife and Hunter.”
“Fuck Hunter! You find Sheryl’s killer or I will,” he rages, then settles down, wipes his eyes. “I want to see her.”
I watch Paddy pull on his ponytail again, my eyes following a few drops as they fall to the floor. “Where’d that water come from?” I ask.
He rubs his hands. “What?”
“The water, where were you?”
“For Crissake, Hank, it’s raining outside. I needed some fresh air from all that smoke.”
The county morgue is forty minutes away. Paddy and I are spending those minutes in silence. I’m wondering how I would be feeling if it were Susan who was killed. Guilty that we hadn’t resolved our issues? Angry she hadn’t been honest with me? Upset with myself for not taking care of her needs? Susan and I have to come to terms with this Hunter business before it’s too late. Only I’m hoping we don’t have to resolve our differences between prison bars.
At the morgue, we are taken to a small, sterile room no bigger than a foyer. A sofa facing a window, its blinds shut, acts as a small comfort station for the next of kin.
Over the years as a detective, I’d become immune to death. This is different. Sheryl was my friend, and it’s going to be particularly painful seeing her this way.
Paddy is sitting on the sofa, kneading his hands, his eyes glued to the window, waiting for the unveiling. He nods, and I tap lightly on the window. The blind slats lift slowly, and Sheryl, a white sheet draped up to her neck, appears.
I motion to the guy manning the blinds, and he turns a spotlight on her. Paddy gets up and trudges over to the window, his nose and hands pressing against the glass. He slides down until his face is even with the metal table. His eyes well up but remain on her. His lips touch the window as though to say goodbye.
I give Paddy enough time to recover, then nod to the young technician. Slowly, the blinds are lowered until Sheryl disappears. I place my hand on Paddy’s shoulders. This time he doesn’t resist. The powerful bartender has little strength left, so I help him back to the sofa. His unfocused eyes stare through me. “I loved her, Hank. You gotta believe me.” His eyes search the floor. “I forgive her,” he whispers.
Thirteen
I’ve been sitting in my car for almost an hour, my body tense and clammy from the night’s ordeal, and I can’t make up my mind whether to venture inside. It’s almost midnight, the house is dark, and Susan isn’t expecting me. In her delicate condition, I’m afraid to startle her.
My wife should be told about the murder before she sees Sheryl’s photograph plastered on the front page of the Eastpoint Times and reads the gory details inside, which will say that Sheryl Murphy was shot in the chest at close range. For Susan and the remaining sex maidens, the dots connecting Sheryl’s murder to Hunter’s will be very unsettling.
My guess is that Sheryl never meant to stop near the rest area. The restrooms were locked this time of year, and Sheryl wouldn’t have needed a public phone. She owned a cell phone, which was still inside her purse in the back seat of her car.
I stare out at my house for a few moments longer, then start the ignition, shove the gear in reverse, and tap lightly on the accelerator. Susan will have to learn about Sheryl’s murder tomorrow.
Wayne’s living room is barely illuminated when I pull up. I use the key he provided and call out as I enter. While my deputy knows I’m staying the night, two murders in one week can be jarring to the average Eastpoint citizen. And Wayne knows how to shoot!
I find him leaning back in his favorite chair, staring blindly at the tube. Four empty Budweisers are strewn on the floor. Two beers remaining from the six-pack along with a bottle of cheap vodka sit on a stack table. The vodka looks as though Wayne made a dent in that, too.
My deputy cocks his head in my direction and greets me with a shot glass filled with the clear liquid. “Say there, Hank. How about joining the party?” He downs the contents, then shakes his head, making a sound like his throat is on fire.
I help myself to a beer and fold my aching body into a casual
cushioned chair opposite him. I study Wayne, who is clearly plastered, then take a slug of beer.
“How’s Paddy taking it?” he slurs.
“Not great. I took him to the morgue.”
He drops the shot glass on the table and wipes his mouth. “Good guy, that Paddy. Good husband, too. She was a slut.”
I flinch. “Hey, Wayne, that’s no way to talk about Sheryl. Especially now.”
He grabs the last can of beer and washes down his vulgarity. “Whatever.”
“I know you’re upset, but—”
“Upset!” he spits out. “Do I look upset?”
I motion to the stacked table. “Well, for one thing, you generally don’t drink, especially when you have to work the next day.”
He waves me off. “Yeah, well maybe you don’t know me that well, Hank. I drink when I wanna. Tonight, I wanna.”
I shrug. “It’s your place.”
“Damn straight.”
Wayne sits quietly for a while, his round, red face looking especially heavy tonight. I ask him with a degree of sympathy whether his drinking has anything to do with Sheryl’s murder.
“The slut? Nah.”
I lean forward in my chair. “Sounds like you’re angry with her.”
Wayne remains silent, fidgets with his beer. Then he turns to me, his unfocused eyes struggling to steady on mine like he’s about to unload a deep, dark secret. “I knew about them, Hank.”
I take another slug of beer, watching Wayne’s empty expression come alive. His head begins bobbing about like a mechanical doll. “They belong together, those two,” he says scornfully, then makes a thumbs-down gesture.
“That’s pretty callous,” I say, my voice even. “What did they ever do to you?”
Wayne glares at me like I’m part of the package. “That scumbag was fucking with people’s lives.”
I wait a few seconds. “Who, Hunter?”
Wayne gives me an it’s-about-time look.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I say. “Whose lives was Hunter messing with, Wayne?”
The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1) Page 10