“No shit.” Sydney winced. “All I did was nudge your shoulder. You slugged me. I’m going to have a freaking black eye.”
“Sydney, I . . . put some ice on it.”
“Gee. Thanks for your concern. What kind of demons prowl your subconscious, anyway?”
Claudia swung her legs off the bed and stood. She rubbed crust from her eyes. “You really should put some ice on that.” She slipped her glasses on. “What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock. You’ve been asleep forever.”
Claudia did a groggy calculation. “Five hours isn’t forever.”
“Nine o’clock in the morning.”
She glanced at the clock on her night stand. “Great. I can’t believe I forgot to set my alarm. I need to get going.”
“No, you don’t. Your boss said he didn’t want to see you in the office until noon.”
“You talked to Suggs?”
“He called about an hour ago. At first he thought I was you.”
“And of course you let him.”
Sydney smiled. “He was off and running before I got past ‘hello.’ Colorful kind of guy. He was surprised to hear you were still asleep, but pleased, I think. He was even more surprised to realize you have a sister.”
Claudia pushed past her and into the bathroom. Sydney called through the door that Suggs also relayed not much had developed—nothing of urgency, anyway. Then she said she’d make fresh coffee.
Claudia sat on the toilet and glared at her feet. They looked ridiculous, the nails on one foot polished, the nails on the other plain. But she’d run out of time at the salon to get both completed and owned no polish remover, so she was stuck with them for the time being. She put them out of her mind, brushed her teeth, took a long shower, then washed her hair and spent a few quality minutes with a blow dryer. When she made her way into the kitchen twenty minutes later Sydney was at the counter perched on a stool. She held a bag of ice against her face while reading the paper. Claudia’s irritation slid into guilt.
“How’s your eye?” she asked quietly.
Sydney turned her face so Claudia could see. A bruise was forming to the side of her left eye. “If you were trying to kick my ass, you missed.”
“I really am sorry, Syd.”
“Forget it.” She smiled and faked a tough-guy voice. “And anyway, you should see the other guy.”
Claudia poured coffee and sat. She thought about calling Suggs back, but if he’d really wanted to talk to her he would’ve hauled her out of bed himself if necessary. And anyway, he would ask about Sydney. She wasn’t up to that conversation yet; not with Suggs, not with Sydney herself.
The cat leaped onto the counter top, jolting Claudia from her thoughts. Boo had taken to doing that lately, and she’d taken to letting him, or at least not actively discouraging him unless there was company in the house. Sydney felt more like company than kin; Claudia pushed the cat off and dumped food in his bowl.
“So when does Robin get home from camp?” Sydney asked. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.”
“She’s got a little over a week to go. You’ll be long gone.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Indian Run’s not all that big, Sydney. If you’re here to shoot small-town life, you can catch the highlights in an afternoon.”
“Maybe I’m here for more than that,” she said softly.
The cat ate steadily from his bowl. Claudia reached down and scratched his back. His hind end rose automatically, and he purred. She watched silently for a moment, then straightened and looked at her twin.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do, Sydney. Let’s just leave things alone for now.”
Sydney cocked her head. “Coming from you, ‘for now’ sounds like a concession. So fine. We’ll keep it simple. In fact, I’ve got two things for you that have nothing to do with what’s between us.” She slid off the stool. “They’re in one of my bags. Give me a second.”
Claudia sat back down and sipped at her coffee. She could have asked Sydney to leave. She’d had an opening and she knew she didn’t want her to stay. But maybe she didn’t want her to leave, either. It was an unsettling thought, but Sydney was back before she could pursue it.
“Here.” She tossed a manila package on the counter, and on top of that two tickets paper clipped together.
Claudia picked up the tickets. “Dog Day Summer Bluegrass Festival?”
“Yep. Saturday afternoon, right here in town. It’s an annual—”
“Yeah, I know what it is, Sydney.”
Every year Indian Run flaunted the satanic summer heat by embracing it with a festival. Those who attended could expect guitar and banjo music, clogging, barbecued ribs, corn on a stick, sunburn and heat stroke. The grass, of course, was not blue, nor was it even green. The August sun scorched everything in its path, and not even the most advanced sprinkler systems could compete. No one cared. The whole town turned out for the event.
“Don’t automatically say no,” said Sydney. “I’ll be there anyway because it’s a perfect opportunity for some great shots. I hope you’ll come. You might enjoy it.”
“I’m working a case.”
“Twenty-four hours a day? Come on. Just think about it.”
Claudia set the tickets aside and opened the package. There were three eight-by-ten black and white photos inside. The first she pulled out showed a man stepping off an elevator. His tie was loosened and he appeared to be looking at his watch, a briefcase clutched in his hand. The picture wasn’t Sydney’s best work. The image showed camera shake and the top of the man’s head was cut off. But despite the blur, Claudia could see that the man had a lean build, even though his salt-and-pepper hair suggested he was on the far side of middle-aged. She studied the picture more closely, then finally looked up.
“Am I supposed to know him?” she asked.
Sydney gestured at the other picture. “He goes with that.”
The second photo was of a document. It showed a list of some sort, with handwritten dates, times and names on lined rows. It, too, was grainy. Claudia was about to ask what she was examining when one name leaped out: Bonolo. She put the photo down as if she’d been burned.
“It’s the visitors log from the condo in Miami Beach, the one where Bonolo went when you lost him Tuesday night, or if you want to be picky, Wednesday morning.” Sydney traced Bonolo’s name to the date and time, and a name beside it. “Lyle Hendricks, suite 204. That’s who he signed in to visit.” She tapped the first picture. “And this would be the man who lives in the suite. Presumably it’s him, anyway. After he got off the elevator, that’s where he went.”
Claudia said nothing for the longest time. The photos could be gold. They could likewise be trouble. But what she mostly grappled with were her feelings, for not only had Sydney invaded her personal life, she’d infiltrated her professional life as well.
“How did you get these?” she asked.
“Let’s just say I can be a damned good schmoozer when circumstances dictate. It’s a necessary skill I’ve acquired for sensitive photo shoots and it helps me get things you can’t because I’m not bogged down with a badge. Do you really want to know more than that?”
Claudia swore softly.
“No one knew me as a photographer. No one saw a camera. No one got my name. You want to look at the last photo, or no?”
She did. She slid it out of the envelope and set it beside the first two. It showed a late-model BMW in a parking garage. Unlike the first two photos, the picture was crystal clear, revealing the car’s license tag in back, and stenciled on the concrete wall in front, the number 402.
“Just a wild guess,” said Sydney, “but given that the beamer is parked in the spot designated for Hendricks’s condo, I’d say the car is his. If I had to play detective—”
“Please don’t.”
“—I’d conclude that your man Bonolo and this man Hendricks are pals or business associates. If they’re pals, they’re not very go
od pals. Bonolo drove a long distance in the middle of the week to see this guy, and he didn’t even stay long enough for a decent dinner.” Sydney tapped the photo of the visitors log again. “See there? He signed out forty-five minutes after he signed in. He was back on the road before we were. Aren’t you glad not everything is computerized yet? Getting a picture of the log would’ve been way harder.”
“Yeah, good for you, Sydney.”
“Nothing’s going to pierce your armor, is it?”
“What do you want from me? Reimbursement for your gas? I’ll write out a check.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Maybe you just want flattery. Fine. You’re creative. You’re magnificently energetic. You’re devious. You’re—”
Sydney abruptly stood. “So which is it most, Claudia? You’re pissed because I got something useful before you could get it? You’re pissed because I dared not to consult you? Or are you just pissed because I’m here at all?”
Claudia shot to her own feet so swiftly her stool clattered to the ground. “No one invited you. No one asked for your help.”
“Oh, that’s right. The great and independent Claudia Hershey needs no one. Not now. Not ever. You—”
“I needed them, you bitch!”
Sydney’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t make their plane go down. I’m haunted every night by what happened—”
“Yeah? You weren’t so damned haunted that you didn’t capitalize on their death. You turned their tragedy into a farce with that book. Tell me, Sydney, how much money did you make on it? How many fat assignments did you get from it?”
“Did you even look at it? Read it?”
“I saw enough of it.” Claudia closed her eyes against the image of the book, but it only appeared more starkly, with its black and white cover, its black and white photographs, its black and white text. She laughed bitterly. “‘Swan Song: Embracing Life in Death.’ Tell me, Sydney, how long did it take you to come up with that?” Her voice fell to a whisper. “For God’s sake, the crash pictures are in it. What kind of ghoul are you?”
Sydney flinched. “The book has been out for eight years, Claudia. Mom and Dad aren’t the only subjects. The crash pictures aren’t the only photos. They’re the smallest part of what the book’s about.” She turned to go, then paused. “I made one book that touched death. And really? It’s more about celebrating life. If you’d read it, you’d know that. But you? You’ve made a career dealing in death. So if I’m a ghoul for my one book, what does that make you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and left the kitchen. Claudia could hear her rummaging in another room. A few minutes later, she was back, hefting camera gear and her satchel. She tossed the house key Claudia had given her on the counter, and then she was gone.
Chapter 19
At eleven o’clock, the firearms range saw little business and Claudia had the place to herself. Other cops would show up at shift change, but by then she’d be at her desk. Naturally, the range belonged to the sheriff’s office, though it accommodated officers from smaller departments as well. Over the years the range had steadily expanded along with the sheriff’s budget. The handgun range boasted sixteen twenty-five-yard lanes surrounded by twenty-foot berms. It also offered a rifle range, a live-fire shoot-house, and an air-conditioned range house with vending machines, lockers, a classroom and an honor board to announce the top precision shooters. Claudia’s name regularly appeared on the honor board, but for her it was a hollow distinction. Marksmanship on a range bore little reality to marksmanship in a live situation, when snap decisions and adrenaline could combust faster than a lit match on gasoline.
She stationed herself at Lane Seven, then prepped and loaded her service weapon, a .38-caliber Colt Special. Most officers had abandoned revolvers in favor of 9mm semi-automatics, but Claudia thought them less precise and an invitation for recklessness. She’d stick with the .38. When she was ready, she donned ear protection and gave the ready sign to the range master. He acknowledged her by calling out “lanes are hot,” then settled a distance away to watch. Claudia nodded, took her stance, and sighted across the revolver’s barrel at a metal knockdown silhouette.
For a moment, she hesitated. She didn’t need to be here. Suggs required that sworn officers qualify with their service weapons twice a year, but she was current. And, although she practiced at least monthly during open-range hours, she’d been at the range less than two weeks earlier. So why come?
Because you’re a cop and you need to be ready.
Boom!
Because you’re a cop and you deal in death.
Boom!
Because you’re a cop and you need to be ready to deal in death in order to preserve life.
Boom! Boom!
To preserve life. To preserve life. To preserve life.
She fired forty rounds, pausing only to reload. The air was sharp with the scent of cordite and when she was finished the after-image of blue flame from the revolver’s muzzle floated in her vision. Not all of her shots hit dead-center, but none had strayed far from it.
When she checked out the range master complimented her on her shooting. She almost shrugged it off to luck—no wind, no pressure, no rush—but then she thanked him instead. She was a cop. She handled her firearm well. It’s what she did and neither required an explanation or apology.
* * *
“I don’t care where you put it, Carella, but these bags are not stayin’ here. They already smell like road kill and that’s before you’ve even opened ’em up.”
The voice belonged to Chief Suggs and Claudia could hear it rising above the drone of everything else before she’d even stepped fully through the back entrance. She paused, trying to get a handle on what she was walking into.
“Well, we can’t open them in the multipurpose room,” she heard Carella say. “We’d clear the whole place out.”
Moody, then: “Problem is, we can’t take them outside, either. If we’ve got evidence here, the heat might turn it sour before we could bag it for the lab. The lieutenant would have a heart attack.”
“Fine!” Suggs boomed. “Then put the damned things in her office. She’s the one who came up with this bright idea, anyway.”
The voices sounded from a cramped side room that held little more than supplies, a refrigerator and a small table where officers could eat lunch, though no one ever did. Claudia’s heart sank. They could only be talking about Bonolo’s garbage. The notion of taking his curbside trash seemed reasonable when she proposed it at the bowling alley. Now that the garbage was here, she was less sure. She poked her head around the corner and got a whiff.
“Uh-uh,” she said. “Not my office. Definitely not in my office.”
Suggs gave her the once-over. “So what’s the big deal, Hershey?” He elbowed Carella. “If you get a little stink under your nails, you and your buddy Gloria Addison can always get one of those fancy manicures.”
Carella and Moody chuckled, and Claudia smiled back. “Sure,” she said, “as long as you expense it this time.” There were two bags, each loosely knotted at the top. She wrinkled her nose. “Let’s get these outside. We’ll be all right if we work fast.”
She reached for one but Suggs stopped her. “I need a minute with you, Hershey.” He told Carella and Moody to haul the bags away. “Smell’s gonna linger in here all day,” he groused. “Come on. Let’s set a minute in my office where the air’s fresher.”
When they were seated he told her she looked better and thank goodness, because although the mayor had backed down from firing her, he’d seize any opportunity he could to retaliate.
“I took my ‘concern’ about litigation right to his office,” he said. “Never knew a man could turn so many shades of red. But he was smart enough to recognize we had him for now. Just watch your back. He’ll be eyeing you like a snake ready to strike, and he’ll be eyeing me the same way.” He looked at her reflectively. “You know what, Hershey? I don’t know what this says about me, but I enj
oyed watchin’ that moron squirm. If we go down, I’ll always have that moment.”
“We won’t go down.”
“You know that for a fact, or you just feelin’ lucky?”
“What I feel is rested. That’ll bring me the rest.”
Suggs grunted and stood. “Let’s see if you still feel that way when you’re done muckin’ around in the garbage at high noon.”
Oh, yeah. That.
* * *
They stood on the asphalt beside the dumpster in what little shade they could claim from an oak tree ten feet distant. Now and then a hot breeze stirred the air, but it did little to pierce the blanket of humidity. In minutes their shirts were soaked through with sweat.
“We got lucky with the timing,” said Moody. He wiped his forehead with his arm. “Willow Whisper gets trash pickup every Monday and Thursday. Another day and all these treasures would’ve been gone.”
“Some treasure,” Carella murmured.
They’d split Bonolo’s bloated garbage bags with scissors. The contents revealed a miniature mountain of decay and stench. For the first few minutes while they worked no one had much to say. But after a while, it was hard to resist commentary on Bonolo’s lifestyle.
Moody gingerly held up a soggy wrapper from the 7-Eleven. Coffee grounds clung to it. “Bonolo obviously isn’t on a health kick. There’s almost no food stuff in here that didn’t come from a fast food joint.” He added the wrapper to a fresh trash can liner they’d flattened to accommodate each piece of trash as it was moved. “He’s a cardiac waiting to happen.”
Claudia stood. Her knees popped audibly. Moody and Carella had been at Bonolo’s residence before dawn. Moody had photographed his trash can so that it clearly showed Bonolo’s house number behind it. When Carella lifted two bags of garbage out of it, he’d photographed that, too. Claudia had told them she wanted it all documented, everything, including each item they removed. She had the Supreme Court to back up their right to lift trash from a curb, but she didn’t need Suggs to tell her how loud the mayor would howl, anyway. She snapped a picture of the wrapper, cursing the latex gloves that would probably leave her hands mottled with a rash.
The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries Page 63