by D P Lyle
“Barbara, too?”
“Especially her.”
Morgan nodded. “Looks like it was off that night. And the back door was unlocked.”
“That doesn’t sound like Barbara. She was overly cautious, if anything.”
“Maybe a bit distracted that night? With Walter being there?”
“I suppose that’s possible.” Henry’s eyes screwed down, fighting back tears.
“Or maybe the bad guys turned it off,” Morgan said.
Again Henry wiped his eyes. “Without the code?”
“Some of these guys are very adept at alarms.” Morgan massaged his neck. “Of course that wouldn’t explain the unlocked door.”
“Unless they broke in.”
“No sign of that.”
Henry stared at him.
Morgan stood. “I got to get going. We’ll talk more later.”
Henry walked him to the door. They shook hands.
“Again, I’m sorry for your loss,” Morgan said.
“It’s going to be tough.”
“I still wish you’d consider staying somewhere else.”
“Not going to happen.”
Morgan hesitated, and then nodded. “Your choice. As I said, I’ll have extra patrols through the neighborhood. And you keep things locked up tight.”
“You can bet on that.”
Morgan climbed in his car and sat for a minute, looking at the house. If Barbara had locked up, set the alarm, would none of this have happened? Maybe. But if she or Henry were the target of a hit, the bad guys would’ve found a way. That he knew for sure. He cranked up his car but before he shifted into gear, his cell chimed. Caller ID said it was Starks. He punched the “answer” button and brought it to his ear. “Morgan.”
“We got a hit.”
“On the print?”
“You got it.” He sounded excited and spoke rapidly, telling Morgan the story.
The crime scene techs had found that the alarm box on the side of Henry’s house was open. Didn’t seem pried or damaged or anything. The odd thing was that it looked like it had been wiped clean, the usual dust and dirt on the door, both inside and out, all streaked with swipe marks. They dusted for prints and came up empty until they found a single partial on the inside of the door. Near the bottom. Where someone would grab it to pull it open.
“I take you got an ID on the print?” Morgan asked.
“Yeah,” Starks said. “Guy named Raul Gomez.”
“Why do I know that name?”
“You’ll remember his brother. Santiago Gomez.”
“The dude that whacked that drug dealer in broad daylight?”
“That’s the one.”
“Where?” Morgan asked.
Starks gave him the address, saying he and a couple of units were rolling that way.
“Be there in ten.” Morgan said. “Have the units stand off until I get there.”
“Already on it. We’re gathering at Bud’s Burgers. It’s a few blocks away.”
“See you in there.” He slammed the car in gear, tires squealing as he accelerated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MORGAN SPUN INTO Bud’s Burgers. Three patrol cars huddled at the rear of the parking area near a pair of dark-green trash dumpsters and an ivy-covered fence that separated the property from an adjacent strip mall. Nearby, Starks stood with a half dozen uniformed officers. Starks looked up as Morgan pulled into an empty space and climbed out. He recognized one of the uniforms. Young guy named Jimmy Green. Been on the force a couple of years. Morgan had worked with him before. Good kid. The others, he didn’t know though a couple of faces looked familiar.
“I drove by Raul’s place on the way over,” Starks said. “Looked quiet.”
Morgan nodded. “Okay, here’s the play. Jimmy, you and your partner climb in with Starks and me. You other guys, I want a car at each end of the block. Out of sight. Around the corner. I don’t want this guy to see a unit anywhere around there. Got it?”
The officers nodded as if they were synchronized robots.
“I want this to go smoothly,” Morgan said.
“No problem, sir,” one of the officers replied.
“We’ll assume he’s armed. And maybe not alone. Let’s make this cool and casual. He doesn’t know we have his prints so there’s no reason for him to be all amped up, and I don’t want him getting amped up. He might turn this into the O.K. Corral and there are too many citizens around for that. Got it?”
“We understand, sir.”
The officer who “understood” didn’t look like he understood at all. Buzzed reddish-brown hair with skinned sidewalls, freckles over his nose, and a painfully innocent face, he looked young and eager. Dangerous combination. All action, no experience, no common sense, no caution. And caution was a valuable commodity in situations like this. Morgan wondered if he had ever looked so naive. Probably. All rookies did. Took a few years for the scars of the job to make you wary—and a cynic.
“Okay.” Morgan gave a quick nod. “Let’s roll.”
Morgan drove, Starks shotgun, Green and his partner in back. After the two units were in place, he drove by the house.
“Still looks quiet,” Starks said.
Morgan pulled to the curb, three doors down and across the street. Then to Green, he said, “You two work your way through the neighbor’s yard and get eyes on the back door. Do not approach. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Starks and I’ll handle the front.”
They climbed from the car. Green and his partner darted across the street and looped behind the house next to Raul’s.
“How you want to handle it?” Starks asked.
“Let’s try the friendly knock-and-chat approach.”
Starks raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, no way he knows who we are or that we’re here to take him down. He’ll probably think we’re trying to sell magazines or something.”
“Or Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Starks said with a half smile.
“That, too.”
Starks flipped open his Smith & Wesson .357 revolver and checked the chambers. He snapped the cylinder closed and settled the weapon into its holster in the small of his back. “Let’s get it done.”
Morgan pressed the doorbell. No answer. He rapped on the door frame. Nothing. Peeking through a gap in the front window curtains revealed only cheap and sparse furniture—sofa, two chairs, a rectangular coffee table with a pizza box on top, and a three-shelf bookcase that supported a small TV, no books in sight. The house seemed empty. They moved around the left side to the back, also quiet with no indication of activity. As Morgan reached a narrow, cracked concrete patio, where an aluminum chair with green plastic webbing lay on its side, he saw that the rear door stood ajar. He stopped, nudging Starks with his elbow.
“What do you think?” Starks asked.
“I think Raul’s not tuned into security.”
“Or maybe just catching the breeze?”
Morgan looked at him. “There is no breeze.”
“Maybe he left in a hurry,” Starks said.
“Or he’s inside, watching us right now.”
“You think he might’ve known we were coming?”
“Don’t see how.” Morgan shielded the sun from his eyes and looked around. He saw Green, kneeling in the shrubbery that hugged Raul’s backyard. He motioned for him to stay put. “One way to find out.”
Morgan pulled his service weapon and held it muzzle down near his right thigh. He rapped on the door frame and again got no response. Using his gun barrel, he eased the door open and entered.
“Mr. Gomez?”
His voice echoed within the house, but he got no response and didn’t detect any movement inside.
“Mr. Gomez? Are you home?”
He was talking to himself.
The kitchen was in order. Dining room and living room, too. The only thing out of place was the pizza box. No signs of a struggle, no evidence of ransacking. Quiet and
orderly.
Not so the bedroom.
To Morgan, bedroom murders typically fell into one of several general categories. Spouses that killed spouses in fits of rage. Robberies that escalated, maybe when the owner came home, or was there all along, unknown to the thief. Rapes that turned deadly. Those sorts of things. This one was none of those.
The young Hispanic man was folded in a half-sitting position against the bed. Entry wound near the center of his forehead, blood, bone, and brain matter fanned out over the bed, headboard, and wall behind.
“Well, ain’t this some shit?” Starks said.
Morgan stood looking down at the corpse. “Looks like he was shot point blank, face to face.”
“So he knew the killer,” Starks said. “Probably even opened the door for him.”
“Looks that way.”
“Where’s all his stuff ?” Starks asked, indicating the open and empty closet.
Morgan glanced that way. “Good question.” He knelt and searched pockets. “No wallet or keys. Nothing.”
“Shooter took them,” Starks said. “Trying to slow down the ID, I suspect.”
“Should’ve dumped the body, then.”
“Didn’t have time, I suspect. Even if he was so inclined.”
Morgan stood and circled the bed, careful not to contaminate any of the blood spatter. “This is fresh. Blood hasn’t dried.”
“You thinking Raul did Barbara Plummer and then someone cleaned him up?”
“That’d be my guess. Tying up loose ends.” Morgan sighed. “Means these guys are pros.”
“Shit,” Starks said. “That changes everything.”
“Sure does.”
“I’ll get the guys to call this in and get the ME out here.”
Morgan nodded.
Thirty minutes later the place was crawling with cops, crime scene techs, coroner’s techs, the whole posse.
Morgan was standing in the living room talking with one of the techs when Jimmy Green stuck his head in the front door.
“Detective Morgan,” he said.
“Yeah, Jimmy.”
“Lady next door might’ve seen the shooters.”
“Shooters?”
“Said she saw two men come by.”
“Where is she?”
“On her porch. I told her to stay there.”
“Good job.”
Morgan saw her as soon as he walked outside. An elderly woman, sitting on her front stoop, looking his way from beneath a floppy sun hat.
“That’s her,” Green said. “Name’s Hattie Shaw.”
Morgan walked to where she sat. A half-empty glass of tea sat next to her. She took off her hat, laying it on the porch.
“You doing okay?” Morgan asked.
“Been better.”
“I imagine so.”
“I hear Raul got shot.”
“That’s true, ma’am.”
“He was such a nice young man.”
“You knew him well?”
“Well enough.” She glanced past him toward Raul’s house. “He’s lived there for a while. Couple of years. Maybe longer. I forget exactly. He used to live with his brother Santiago. Back then there were all kinds in and out, but after Santiago went to prison, Raul stayed.”
“Raul have all kinds hanging around him too?” Morgan asked.
“No. He was a good neighbor. Quiet and polite. Not at all like his brother.”
“No visitors?”
“Rarely. He’s friends with these two brothers who come around. I think they’re twins. They look like it, anyway. Darrell and Darnell Wilbanks.”
“Seen them around here today?”
She shook her head. “Not for a couple of days. Let’s see, when was that?” She looked up toward the clear blue sky as if recalling. “Last I saw them was last Saturday. They left around ten that night.”
“Did you hear anything? Today?”
“Nope.”
“But you saw someone?”
“Saw them. Spoke to them.” She took a slug of tea. “They didn’t seem like killers, though.”
“Tell me about them.”
“There were two of them. They said they were looking for Raul. He wasn’t home so they left.”
“And?”
“And nothing. That’s it.”
“So you didn’t see them go into the house? Something like that?”
“Told you, Raul wasn’t home so they left. But they said they’d be back.”
“Did they? Come back?”
“Apparently so.”
“But you didn’t see them?”
“I was napping.” She plucked her hat from the porch and began fanning herself with it. “Worked in the yard all morning. When it gets too hot I have my tea and a nap.”
“So you didn’t see them again?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
Morgan smiled. He liked Hattie. She was one tough bird, he suspected. Didn’t suffer fools and right now had placed him in that pigeonhole. “Tell me about the men.”
“Like I said, they came around, looking for him. He wasn’t there so they said they’d come back.” She again glanced toward Raul’s house. “Funny thing was they said I shouldn’t tell Raul they had come by.”
“They say why?”
“Just that they needed to ask him some questions.”
“You got names for these guys?”
“The older one, the tough-looking one, said his name was Ray. The other was a big redheaded fellow. He said his name was Pancake. Hard to forget a name like that.”
Ray Longly and his sidekick. Just great.
“And they said they’d be back?” Morgan asked.
“Sure did.”
“But you didn’t see them? Come back?”
“You don’t listen so good, do you? Ain’t that what I said? More than once?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just wanted to be sure.”
“Well, now you are.” She stood. “I’m tired. I’m going to go lay down. Unless you want to repeat any of the other questions you’ve already asked.”
“No, ma’am. Thanks for talking with me.”
She waved as she entered her house and closed the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE APARTMENT DARRELL and Darnell Wilbanks called home was on the second floor of an older complex a mile or so inland from the beach. Low rent, no view. The brothers weren’t home. On the way over, Morgan had called in and had a record search for the brothers. Darrell had one pop for a marijuana possession, Darnell was clean.
The manager wasn’t in, but his wife Edith Rucker revealed that they were “nice boys.” Never caused trouble or made noise or anything. Paid their rent regularly, even did odd jobs for her from time to time. Especially Darnell. She wished all the tenants were like them. Hadn’t seen them in a couple of days. Not unusual as they often had jobs that took them away for days at the time. What type of work? This and that was the best she could say.
Next stop? A chat with Ray Longly.
“They don’t look like killers,” Morgan said. He and Starks had climbed the back steps to Ray Longly’s deck. Ray and Jake sat at the table, stacks of documents before them.
“Better look a little closer,” Starks said. “They look stone cold to me.”
Ray gathered several pages and slipped them into a folder. “What brings you guys by?”
“Bodies,” Morgan said. “Dead bodies.”
“Want to clarify?”
“Seems that you two leave behind dead bodies everywhere you go.” Starks said.
“Look,” Jake said. “I told you Barbara was killed after Nicole and I left.”
“What about Raul Gomez?”
“What about him?” Ray asked.
“You and your redheaded sidekick talked to him?”
“Sure did. Didn’t have much to say.”
Morgan shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’ll have less to say now. Being dead and all.”
“What are you talking about?
” Ray asked. “We were just there. Maybe an hour or so ago.”
Morgan sat in an empty chair. “And then he was dead.”
“When? How?”
“When I don’t know yet. How was a single shot to the head.”
Ray looked at Jake and then back to Morgan. “He was alive and well, and downright pissy for that matter, when Pancake and I left.”
“Where is he, anyway?” Morgan asked.
“Working.”
“I see.” He scratched an ear. “So first old Jake here is at the Plummers’ and the wife ends up dead and now you and Pancake are at Raul’s and he ends up the same way. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“They do happen.”
Morgan gave a slight nod. “Not as often as most folks think.”
Ray said nothing.
“Want to enlighten me as to why you were at Raul’s place today?” Morgan asked.
“Raul was on our radar. He had a beef with Walter. About his brother going to jail. He blamed Walter for not getting him off. But you know that.”
“So, you were simply asking him if he still had a hard-on for Walter?” Morgan asked.
“Exactly.” Ray told Morgan of his and Pancake’s conversation with Raul ending with, “He said he had nothing to do with Barbara Plummer’s murder. Said he had a solid alibi.”
“You believe him?”
“Seemed to me he was less than forthcoming.”
“Like he knew more than he was letting on?”
Ray shrugged. “Or maybe he simply didn’t enjoy our questions.”
“Bet you get that a lot.”
“I suspect you do, too,” Ray said. “So how do you see these two killings connected?”
“Other than the fact that Walter was at the crux of both? Other than they were both done with a single shot to the forehead?”
“Same weapon?” Jake asked.
Morgan looked at him and hesitated before he spoke. As if considering what to reveal. “Doubt it. Barbara caught a .22. This one looked to be a larger caliber. Judging by the damage done. Anyway, the ballistics guys’ll tell us for sure, but I’d be surprised if the weapons matched.”
“So where are we?” Jake asked.
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “We?”
“We’re on the same team here, aren’t we? We both want to know who killed Barbara. And now Raul.”
“So, any thoughts on who might’ve done Raul?” Ray asked.