Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries)

by Tim Cockey

  Kruk rubbed a hand over his thick neck. “Let’s hear it, Mr. Sewell. What do you know and when did you know it?”

  “I thought those questions were reserved for the president.”

  John Kruk is largely banter-proof. He shifted on his flat feet and gave me his bored look. “I’m waiting.”

  “Who told you that I had any involvement in this whatsoever?” I asked. “Can’t a man in a tuxedo just show up in a hospital on a Saturday night and not get harassed by the local constabulary?”

  “Are you saying you don’t have any involvement?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just curious how it is you’re not surprised to see me.”

  Kruk consulted his notebook. “You phoned in the nine-one-one at approximately three o’clock.”

  “Yes sir, that sounds about right.”

  “Where were you when you made the call?”

  “In my office.”

  “You didn’t call from the victim’s house?”

  “From Shrimp’s?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No sir.”

  “According to EMS personnel, someone was milling around outside the victim’s home when they arrived. That’s why I ask.”

  “Wasn’t me. I was milling around a funeral home.”

  Kruk consulted his notebook. “So after arriving at the hospital, you passed the victim off to a Mary Childs late this afternoon.”

  “Ah, so it was good old Mary who gave me up.”

  “Miss Childs said that you knew who shot Mr. Martin.” He gave me his whammy-eye. He’s got a real winner.

  “Miss Childs doesn’t like me,” I said. “We got off on the wrong foot. She’d say anything.”

  “Are you saying that she lied?”

  “Well, no. I’m just saying the girl doesn’t like me.”

  “So you withheld information about a shooting for … what do we have, going on ten hours now? Do you mind if I ask where you have been all this time?”

  I thought about describing the dance performance to him, but that would have been cruel. And most certainly unusual. “I had a prior engagement.” When he frowned at me, I added, “A hot date.” Now I was giving false and misleading information. See how slippery the slope can be?

  We were blocking the elevators. Sick people were trying to get off and on. A large hulking man was pushing a gurney. He was wearing a paper shower cap on his head. Anywhere but in here the guy would have looked like a wuss. Kruk and I drifted over to the waiting area. A woman and someone I took to be her daughter were huddled together on the plastic chairs. They looked confused and scared. A black kid in massive jeans and a do-rag was sitting across from them, frowning at his fists. He and Kruk shared a little staring contest as we carried past him and over to the window.

  “I think he likes you,” I said to the detective.

  Kruk ignored me. Years of practice. The stocky detective squared off in front of me. “Let’s start at the beginning.” He pulled out his notebook. “I want a name, Mr. Sewell.”

  “You don’t like Kruk?” Now I was in a staring contest. Which I lost immediately. “Lucy Taylor,” I said.

  He wrote it down. “Relationship?”

  “Old friend.”

  “Old?”

  “As in ‘long time.’ ”

  “How old is this Miss Taylor?”

  “Around thirty. Thirty-one?”

  “And her relationship with the victim?”

  “Lady friend.” Kruk scribbled something down. I added, “They met in March.”

  “And how well would you say you know Miss Taylor?”

  “Pretty well.”

  Kruk asked again, “How well do you know Miss Taylor?”

  “How do I answer a question like that?”

  “You start with the truth and you end with the truth. Very simple.”

  “I know Lucy pretty well,” I said.

  He grunted. “Intimately?”

  “Nothing like that. We grew up together. Lucy is like a sister to me.” Kruk scribbled something in his notebook. I craned my neck to see if he had actually written “like a sister,” but I couldn’t make sense of his hieroglyphics.

  Kruk asked, “Is there any reason why you would hold back from calling the authorities about this other than simple loyalty to an old friend?” He looked up at me. “Don’t give me a glib one here.”

  “Reasons like what?” I said.

  “I don’t supply answers for people, Mr. Sewell. Do you need to hear the question again?”

  “No sir. And the answer is also no, sir. Lucy was scheduled to show up at the funeral home to drop off a dress. Her grandmother died two days ago. We’re handling the funeral. Just before she arrived, I got a phone call from Shrimp Martin. Shrimp was rambling. I had no idea why he was calling. In fact, I still don’t quite understand it. But anyway, Lucy came in while I was on the phone to Shrimp. Shrimp told me that Lucy had shot him. Then it seems he passed out. Lucy proceeded to put a pistol on my desk and then pretty much went into shock. I didn’t call the police because it didn’t occur to me to call the police. I’m sorry. I called nine-one-one. I took Lucy up to my aunt’s apartment, then I came here. Shrimp was worked on and then stabilized. The crisis was over, I thought. I phoned Shrimp’s sister. Her lovely little housemate came here and took over the vigil. I proceeded to my hot date. The end.”

  “So your whereabouts the past few hours can be verified.”

  “I was at a dance program, Detective. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

  “Why do you suppose Mr. Martin called you?”

  “I told you, I have no idea. We weren’t close friends at all.”

  He tapped his pencil against his notepad. “Here’s a thought, if he knew that Miss Taylor was heading over to your place, maybe he was calling you to warn you.”

  “Warn me of what?”

  “That she had a gun.”

  “So what if she had a gun? Lucy wasn’t going to shoot me. Lucy likes me. I’m her friend.”

  “And according to you, this guy was her boyfriend.”

  “Look, Detective, this is your area of expertise, not mine. But don’t girlfriends shoot boyfriends all the time? And vice versa? Isn’t that half of what keeps you in business?”

  “I’m just trying to look at all the possibilities here,” Kruk said.

  “Well, I think you can scratch off the one that says Lucy was gunning for me. Lucy would never hurt me. We’re friends. I told you, the first thing she did was hand the gun over.”

  “And where is that gun right now, Mr. Sewell?”

  I wasn’t proud of my answer. “I don’t know. Last I saw, it was on the desk in my office.” I figured he would ask me more about the gun, but he didn’t.

  “Okay. You said that Miss Taylor was due over at your place to drop off a dress. When had that been arranged?”

  “Lucy called about an hour before she showed up. Said she was bringing the dress by.”

  “How did she sound?”

  “She sounded fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Fine. Normal. Regular Lucy. There was nothing in her voice that suggested maybe she’d be plugging Shrimp with a bullet in the very near future.”

  “Sad. Upset. Angry. Distant. Confused?”

  “You want me to pick one?”

  “Only if you detected one in your conversation with Miss Taylor.”

  “Sad.”

  “Sad.”

  “Lucy had been close with her grandmother. Losing her was tough.”

  He was scribbling something down in his notebook when his attention was snagged by one of the uniformed cops who was over by the elevators. He was gesturing to Kruk with a cell phone. “Excuse me.” Kruk went over to the cop and took the cell phone from him. I saw Shrimp Martin’s sister wading through the crowd. Thankfully, not in my direction. I don’t mean to sound crass, but it’s my livelihood to deal with the recently bereaved. I really don’t mind avoiding it when I’m off the clock. Mary Ann Mart
in blubbering against my chest simply wasn’t my idea of a nice way to cap off the night. I could tell she was a blubberer. It was written all over her.

  Kruk handed the phone back to his minion. The EMS worker I had spoken with earlier was being escorted over to Kruk. Kruk signaled me over. When I got to within about five feet of them the detective held out his hand, signaling me to stop. He turned to the EMS worker.

  “Have you seen this man before?”

  “Yeah. Right after I got here. He was asking me about the guy who was shot.”

  “Is this the person you told me about who was outside the victim’s home? Who was asking questions?”

  “Nah, I told you, that guy had one of those flattops.”

  “You’re sure? This man’s hair might have just been—”

  “Hey,” I interrupted. “Leading the witness.”

  “This isn’t a courtroom, Mr. Sewell.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I told you already, I called from my office. I was nowhere near Shrimp’s.”

  Kruk dismissed the EMS worker. “I just took a phone call from one of my men, down at your place, Mr. Sewell. I sent a squad car over there the moment your name cropped up.” He snapped his notebook closed. I remembered this now about Kruk. He had all the moves down pat. “You didn’t tell me that Lucy Taylor was no longer at your aunt’s,” he said. He didn’t sound happy saying it.

  “I was getting to that.”

  I could see that Kruk didn’t care for my answer. “I asked my man to look in your office, to see if the gun was there. It wasn’t.”

  “Somehow that’s what I suspected.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I don’t know …” I let off a large sigh. “I guess I figured Lucy took it with her when she left.”

  “Do you have any idea where she might have gone, Mr. Sewell?”

  “Off the top of my head, no.”

  “You will supply us with an address, I hope. Where Miss Taylor lives.”

  I did. Right then and there. Kruk passed it on to one of his men, who trotted off with it.

  “I suppose that’s all for now, Mr. Sewell. Naturally, if you hear from Miss Taylor again, I expect you to contact us.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Immediately. Not ten hours later.”

  “You think Lucy Taylor killed Shrimp, don’t you?”

  “We have the victim’s own statement to you over the phone that it was Miss Taylor who shot him. We have your statement that Lucy Taylor came into your office, put a gun on your desk and then lapsed into shock. Or what you’ve surmised is shock.”

  “I mean tonight. Here. You suspect that she came over here to the hospital and shot him again.”

  Kruk rubbed his jaw with his stubby fingers. “Mr. Martin was not shot,” he said. “Whoever did this used a sharp object. We’ve got the M.E. going over the victim. He was stabbed directly in the heart. Plus, all of his tubes were pulled out.”

  “He wasn’t shot?”

  “Guns make a loud noise, Mr. Sewell. If you were going to kill someone in a hospital, would you use a gun?”

  “I guess not. Never really gave it much thought. So he wasn’t shot. But you still think Lucy did it, right?”

  Kruk tugged on his ear, passed the back of his hand along the tip of his chin, tapped a finger against his jaw. If crime solving ever sours for him, I guess the guy could always ask the Orioles if they need a new third base coach.

  “What would you think, Mr. Sewell?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’d wait until all the evidence had been collected and all the related parties had been questioned and their stories checked out.”

  Kruk grunted. “We could certainly use more fair-minded men like you in law enforcement.”

  “So what’s your take on Lucy?” I asked.

  “I’m issuing a warrant,” the detective said flatly. “I think the lady’s a killer.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A number of people graciously took the early drafts of this book out for a test run, reporting back to me on some of its wobbles, pings, minor misalignments, pullings to the left … that sort of thing. Chief among my truly superior test-drivers were Wendy Barrie-Wilson (wobbles), Battlin’ Jim McGreevey (pings), Ted Manekin (pulls to the left) and Lorna Aikman Mehta (minor misalignments). Thanks one and all; and I’m glad nobody got seriously hurt.

  If banging out this book was half the fun, the other half was certainly kicking it all the way into shape with the relentless help of my pitch-perfect editor, Peternelle van Arsdale. Also at Hyperion, Martha Levin, Bob Miller, Ellen Archer and Jane Comins have each hoisted me up onto their shoulders at numerous points over the year. The kind of support that money can’t buy. Many thanks to you guys. Big old nod, too, to Alison Lowenstein and April Fleming.

  A tip of the toupee must also go to Gabrielle Maloney, Jeff Promish, Chris Fisk, Amy Schraub, Shelly D’Arcambal, Michelle Felten, David Gottlieb and Ann Megyas—avid all—as well as to my partner in these crimes, my agent, Victoria Sanders. And my collective thanks go to damn near everyone at the Foundation Center (go to them to seek grant information!).

  Finally, a very special acknowledgment to my niece, Arianna Jarvis, mystery novelist-in-training. Keep an eye on this one.

  About the Author

  Tim Cockey is the author of the award-winning "Hitch" series: The Hearse You Came In On, Hearse of a Different Color, Hearse Case Scenario, and Murder in the Hearse Degree. He has been a story analyst for many major film and television companies, including American Playhouse, ABC, and Hallmark Entertainment. He grew up in Baltimore and now lives in New York City

  Other Books by Tim Cockey

  The Hearse You Came In On

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters described in these pages are fiction. Even the dog is made up. Some of the buildings are real.

  Copyright © 2001, 2002 Tim Cockey

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  EPub Edition © AUGUST 2010 ISBN: 978-1-401-39699-2

  Mass Market ISBN 0-7868-8963-2