by J W Becton
“Don’t bother,” he said. “Things have been quiet here. Blissett isn’t getting a lot of work done in this rain, and it’ll be dark soon.”
I hesitated and then said, “I was actually thinking of Mrs. Twilley….”
“Oh, I’ve taken care of her,” he said cryptically.
“You didn’t put some sort of ninja sleeper hold on her, did you?”
“First of all, you’re mixing your self-defense references. And second, no, I didn’t incapacitate her in any way, tempting though the thought may be.”
“What did you do, then?”
“I gave them coupons for that buffet where they eat every meal. They were so excited about the free food that they were out of here by three. I’ll make sure I’m gone by the time they return.”
“Devious,” I said. “What about tomorrow? Do you think surveillance would be worth it?”
“Doubtful. The forecast is calling for more rain, so Blissett will probably stay indoors. Besides, I don’t think Ted will spring for the overtime.”
I didn’t either.
Tempted to invite Vincent to help me kill some time, I opened my mouth to ask him to dinner. But then I thought the better of it. Was now really the best time to attempt a date? Every emotion felt raw, and my mind swirled constantly. That didn’t bode well, did it? Besides, I didn’t want to be the one to keep making the first move. If he ever wished to act on the longing I saw in his eyes, then it was up to him.
So instead, I told Vincent I’d see him Monday and left it at that.
I would have to come up with some other way to get my mind off my fate.
I cranked up my car, headed for home, and considered my options.
Usually, I would call Helena and have some girl time, but that was out. Even though I understood the necessity of her decision to keep a professional distance, that didn’t mean I liked it.
On Sunday, I would have lunch at my mother’s as a distraction. Who would’ve thought I’d be looking forward to that?
But I had a whole day to get through between now and then, so I spent a damp Saturday out and about, running errands that I didn’t really need to do. I went clothes shopping, but it was no fun without Helena to chide me about my conservative selections. I came out of every shop empty handed. I ate lunch alone and then hit the grocery store to restock my cabinets.
After three days of steady rain, the clouds had not managed to wear themselves out. Precipitation continued to plummet to earth, making the ground mushy and soft whenever I stepped off the pavement.
It was probably a good thing that Ted wouldn’t spring for overtime. There was no way Blissett would be out doing woodwork in this slop.
And I was getting tired of it myself.
Once back home and out of the damp, I put away my groceries and watched some quality programming on TV. After the day I had, I just couldn’t seem to get into the inflated drama of reality TV or join in with the canned laughter of the sitcoms.
By the time Maxwell and I decided it was time for bed, I’d managed to boil my situation down to this: twenty-four hours had passed, and so far, nothing tragic had happened. Kay Lanyon hadn’t pressed charges, the GBI hadn’t arrested me, and Tripp hadn’t called to warn me of any other impending doom.
Yet.
Of course, my feelings of confidence meant that the phone rang at the exact moment I’d settled into bed with Maxwell snuggled at my side.
Wrenching my eyelids open, I groaned and leaned over to snag the phone from my bedside table. I squinted at the screen, sighed, and hit the talk button.
“Mrs. Twilley?” I asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “But you should see what’s going on over here.”
I sat up, launching Maxwell across the mattress. “What?”
“That scumbag across the street is digging a grave in his backyard.”
So many questions came to mind at once that all I managed to say was “What? A grave? Now? What?”
I moaned, glancing at the clock beside me. It was late, after ten. What was Mrs. Twilley doing at the Heights at this hour? She ought to be back at her own place. What was going on in Blissett’s yard? Was he really digging a grave? And if so, for whom?
“Yes, a grave,” Mrs. Twilley repeated, clearly exasperated with my slow-witted reply. “He’s out there in the rain with a shovel.”
“How do you know it’s a grave?” I asked, injecting a measure of calm and reason into my voice.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Twilley said. “I oughta know what a grave looks like.”
“But it’s dark and rainy,” I said. “Maybe you’re misinterpreting what you see.”
“It ain’t raining anymore, and besides, the place is lit up like Christmas,” she insisted. “I know what I’m seeing.”
In the background, I heard Sydney say, “Tell her he’s been digging for ten minutes now, and he ain’t got no back problems from what I can see.”
Oh, for the love of God, I thought, leaping from the bed.
I checked out the window. She was right. The rain had stopped.
Finally, something was happening at Blissett’s house, and I was too far away to make it over there before he finished doing whatever he was doing.
“We tried to take pictures,” Mrs. Twilley said, “but that camera of yours is so complicated. All we can see is black.”
“Tell her we have a Polaroid,” Sydney said in the background. “Ain’t got no fancy zoom, though, so the pictures are fuzzy. But we can get a shot if we get closer.”
“All we’d have to do is go over and take one quick picture,” Mrs. Twilley said, more to Sydney than to me.
“No!” I shouted into the phone, hoping Mrs. Twilley hadn’t taken it away from her ear. “Don’t do that. It could be dangerous. I’m coming over.”
I dashed to the closet and grabbed the first clothes I saw: a pair of jeans and an old MPD sweatshirt. Quickly, I pulled the sweatshirt over my pajama top and pulled on the jeans. On my way out of the bedroom, I grabbed my badge and retrieved my gun from the safe, just in case.
“She doesn’t think we can do it,” Mrs. Twilley said.
“No, that’s not it!” I began listing every reason I could think of that might dissuade Mrs. Twilley from doing something rash. “It’s not legal for you to go onto his property to get a picture. You can’t just stick a camera over his fence. It’s too tall. Plus illegal. And dangerous. Don’t forget dangerous. Besides, one picture won’t do it. We need to establish a pattern of behavior. I need to get video.”
“Oh, please. That fence doesn’t look so high to me. We’ll bring a stool. You’ve got to start somewhere,” Mrs. Twilley said. “We can do this.”
“It’s too dangerous,” I repeated.
“Dangerous?” Mrs. Twilley snorted. “How’s he even gonna know we’re there? We’ll be stealthy!”
I shook my head at her obstinacy. Blissett made good money by pretending to be disabled, and he wouldn’t give that up without a fight. God only knew what crazy things the man might do if he found two octogenarians taking pictures of him digging a grave.
“If he sees you, he could come after you. He’s got a lot of money at stake.”
“Oh, please,” Mrs. Twilley huffed. “I think we can get one little picture without him realizing it.”
“Wait until I get there,” I said, adding a note of authority to my words. “I’m on the way right now.”
“You aren’t going to make it in time. Besides, when he drags the body out to that grave, you’re going to want pictures.”
And with that, the line went dead.
“No, no, no!” I said to myself as I flew down the stairs and toward the garage, jumping into the shoes I kept by the door and snagging my keys from the kitchen table.
I hopped on one foot into the garage, still trying to get my shoes to slide over my heels properly, and tripped my way into the Explorer. I drove like a mad woman toward Dowell Heights, hoping that I would be faste
r than two geriatrics getting down that rickety elevator. Briefly, I thought of calling Vincent, but what was the point? He was all the way up at Lake Montclair and wouldn’t be able to get downtown by the time I had everything cleared up.
My best hope was to be faster than the senior citizens, so I laid down on the gas, risking my own neck on the still-slick streets.
After what felt like forever, but in reality was probably just over ten minutes, I skidded onto Randy’s street, slowing the SUV so that I wouldn’t draw attention to myself. I picked up my cell phone and redialed Mrs. Twilley.
“Answer, answer,” I begged as I putted down the road toward Blissett’s house.
But the phone continued to ring.
I terminated the call as I approached the house. Light emanated from Randy’s backyard, just as Mrs. Twilley had said.
I groaned as I got closer and came upon the exact scene I’d feared. Sydney, the taller of the two, stood on what appeared to be a folding utility ladder and held a camera aloft, trying to push it above the top of the fence and angle it toward the action. Beside him, Mrs. Twilley steadied the ladder.
I parked the Explorer at the curb and hurried toward them.
“Mrs. Twilley,” I whispered as loudly as I dared. “Sydney, stop!”
Of course, their older ears made my whisper useless, and I didn’t dare raise my voice another fraction of a decibel.
I rushed ahead, my untied shoelaces getting mired in the wet, squishy grass. Just before I got within their earshot, Sydney snapped a picture. The camera lit up the area like a flash grenade, and the mechanism roared and clicked as it spit out the developing film.
“Crap, crap, crap!” I muttered.
At the same moment I got to the fence, I heard a voice from the other side say, “What the hell?”
The flash exploded as Sydney took another picture.
All at once, Mrs. Twilley turned and saw me, and I heard the wet “schlock” of Blissett’s footsteps approaching the gate.
“Oh! Julia! There you are,” she said, waving one of the Polaroid films at me. “See! We got the picture.”
I rushed to her side and helped Sydney down the ladder.
“Yes,” I hissed, supporting the old man until he reached the ground. “But you also got caught.”
God, this was all my fault. I never should have allowed Mrs. Twilley and Sydney to play cop with Vincent and me. I should have been firmer with them. I should have insisted that they leave the apartment while we were conducting surveillance. I should have lied about what we were doing.
Coulda, woulda, shoulda.
Too late now.
As quickly as I could manage, I folded the ladder, finding it heavier than I expected. How had they managed to get it over here so fast? I extended it to Sydney, but he just stood there with the camera gripped in his palms.
“Get out of here,” I whispered at the old couple, “and let me handle this.”
Before Sydney could reach for the ladder, the gate opened, and Blissett peeked out.
“What is going on out there?” he demanded, opening the gate further but not stepping out. Shovel in hand, he looked over the three of us, his eyes alighting on me and lingering.
“You’re a cop?” he asked, gesturing at my sweatshirt with the shovel.
“Of course, she’s a cop,” Mrs. Twilley said. “Special Agent Julia Jackson. And we’re her deputies. You’re going down for murder, mister.”
“Shh,” I hissed at her again. “Let me handle this.”
“Murder?” he squeaked, forgetting the gate, which swung open to expose the scene behind him. “What is she talking about?”
I remained silent, my brain working frantically to come up with a good explanation that wouldn’t tip him off to the DOI’s surveillance. A couple of Polaroids weren’t going to establish a pattern of behavior, especially if Blissett was as smart as everyone claimed. All he had to do was head to the doctor early tomorrow, claiming he had aggravated his injury by whatever it was he’d been doing back there.
With our whole operation in imminent danger of being blown to bits, I decided to attempt a creative lie. I leaned the ladder against the fence and put my body between Blissett and the elderly couple. Maybe that would keep Sydney and Mrs. Twilley out of the conversation since it appeared that they weren’t in a hurry to leave. I displayed my DOI badge at lightning speed.
Blissett was close enough to get a glance at it, but unless he was a speed reader, I didn’t think he had been able to make out the words “Department of Insurance” emblazoned across the shield.
“Don’t worry, sir,” I said in my most cop-like voice. “I was off duty and happened to drive by and see these people on your property. I’ll take care of it. These two won’t bother you anymore.”
Behind me, I heard Mrs. Twilley demand, “But what about the grave?”
Blissett looked completely flummoxed.
I leaned in closer and whispered, “Apparently, they’ve watched too many episodes of Murder She Wrote and believe you were out here digging a grave.” I added, even more softly, “Senile.”
“What’d she say? Did she just call us senile?” Mrs. Twilley sounded genuinely offended.
“Why don’t you tell them what you were doing back there so they can stop worrying about it,” I suggested to Blissett.
He lowered his eyebrows and then studied the old couple behind me.
“Yeah,” Mrs. Twilley said. “Whose grave are you digging?”
I took the opportunity to look over Blissett’s shoulder. Sure enough, there was a long scar in the ground parallel to the foundation of his house. I had to hand it to Mrs. Twilley; it did look like a grave.
“It’s not a grave,” Blissett replied, waving his muddy shovel at the exposed earth behind him. “With all this rain, the ground got saturated, and my house was starting to flood. I was digging a trench to divert the water.”
I studied the scene with this explanation in mind. His yard did slope toward the house, and water appeared to be funneling toward the foundation. The “grave” might be the beginnings of a small trench that would send water around the house instead of through it.
“So you’re not digging a grave?” Mrs. Twilley asked, her disappointment clear.
“No!” Blissett cried, looking from Mrs. Twilley to me. “How did you even know I was out there? Were you spying on me?”
“Of course they weren’t spying on you,” I lied.
“Then why’d you come over here? What is that camera for?” Blissett asked, pointing at Sydney. “And the ladder?”
Mrs. Twilley seemed to catch on to the ruse and, for once, remained silent, but Sydney was still too deep into investigation mode, and he flashed a picture of Blissett’s yard.
“It may not be a grave,” Sydney proclaimed as he snapped another photo. “But you can go back and tell the Department of Insurance that we have proof that the bastard is capable of working. Look at him standing there like he ain’t just been digging like he’s on a chain gang.”
Oh, God.
We all froze as Blissett began to comprehend what was really happening.
“Department of Insurance?” he repeated, looking shocked and then progressively more anxious until his face was screwed up tight. His hand gripped the shovel visibly harder.
I took that as my cue to shuttle Mrs. Twilley and her partner off the property as quickly as I could.
“Leave. Now,” I said, handing the ladder to Sydney and nudging them in the opposite direction.
To my great shock, they obeyed.
With them out of the way, I turned back to Blissett. He’d gone from anxious to panicked in the time it took me to dismiss the erstwhile couple. His eyes were huge, and he shook so violently that the shovel vibrated in his hand.
What was going on?
Even compared to the crazed, enraged fraudsters I’d faced in the past, this reaction was extreme. But Blissett didn’t seem angry. He seemed absolutely freaked out, panicked. His eyes darted from
left to right, and he began to shuffle his feet.
It was clear that I needed to diffuse the situation before Blissett began to hyperventilate.
“Sir,” I said, showing him my palms in a supplicating gesture.
Before I could form another word, Blissett whirled and slammed the gate shut.
“Sir?” I asked, surprised at his action.
I heard the bolt lock into place.
“Go away,” he said from behind the fence. His voice trembled. “Leave me alone. I just want to be left alone.”
Of all the ways Blissett could have reacted, I supposed running away was a better option than open hostility. Based on my previous experiences with fraudsters who had been caught in the act, it wouldn’t be out of the question for Blissett to have come after me with his shovel.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t come after me once he’d calmed down. He might just show up when I least expected it.
I couldn’t arrest the man, so I just stood there, bewildered by his reaction.
Surprise was to be expected when a criminal realized he was caught, but Blissett’s fear level had seemed out of proportion. He had been genuinely afraid of something.
But what?
Maybe he was being blackmailed as we’d thought, and now he feared for his life.
I listened as Blissett went inside his house and closed the door, his trench forgotten.
The rain was falling again, but I barely realized it.
Sydney and Mrs. Twilley had caused more trouble than they recognized. Because of their antics, Blissett knew that he was being investigated. If we thought he’d been careful before—when he’d only suspected that people might be watching—then he would be impossible to catch now.
Twenty
“What were the two of you thinking, going over there?” I asked when I caught up to Mrs. Twilley and Sydney in the lobby of the Heights. “You could have been hurt.”
“I’ve faced tougher,” Mrs. Twilley said, and that was the God’s honest truth. Armed with nothing more than a walking cane, she’d faced a serial killer and lived to brag about it.
“We were just trying to help,” Sydney said, sounding a little more contrite now that the action had died down.