by Rick Reed
“A Burberry coat?” Liddell suggested.
“It wasn’t a berry-colored anything. Just a dark color. Dark gray maybe,” Freyda said.
Liddell took out his phone and punched a few letters, bringing up pictures of Burberry coats. He held it where she could see and flipped through. She stopped him at one.
“That’s it. That’s the coat. It was shiny. Like leather.”
Liddell showed the picture to Jack. The coat cost over a thousand dollars. “Expensive taste.”
Freyda slapped her hand on the table. “That’s what I’m saying. I guess my coffee wasn’t good enough for a big spender like him.”
“What color was the hat?” Liddell asked her.
“Dark like his clothes. Brown, black, I don’t know.”
Jack had a thought. “Did he pay in cash or with a credit card?”
Freyda said in a practiced spiel, “I don’t take credit. Cash only.” She crossed her arms. “These kids bring in spare change and wadded up dollar bills. Most of ’em don’t have two nickels to rub together. I don’t take mommy and daddy’s credit cards. But this guy was a big tipper. Gave me a twenty for stuff he didn’t even touch and didn’t ask for change.”
“Do you still have the twenty-dollar bill?”
Freyda got up and went behind the counter. She came back carrying a metal lockbox. “I got college kids and professors in and out all the time. They don’t pay in twenties. I only got one twenty in here.”
On top of a very small stack of paper money was a twenty-dollar bill.
Jack took a plastic evidence bag from his pocket.
“There goes a day’s earnings,” she said. “I guess you’re gonna take that twenty and fingerprint it. All you’ll find on it probably is my fingerprints because I already told you he was wearing gloves.”
“The whole time. Are you sure?” Jack asked.
“Of course I’m sure. I’m old. I ain’t blind. Come to think of it, he was like a cowboy spy.”
“Cowboy spy,” Jack said to Liddell. “Better write that down.”
“He don’t have a sense of humor, does he?” she asked Liddell.
Jack used a napkin to pick the money up and put it in the envelope.
“I want a receipt. And I want it back. Can you do that? It costs money to run this place.”
Liddell handwrote a receipt on a napkin and gave it to her. “We’ll get it back to you as soon as we can, Freyda.”
She took the napkin and stuffed it in the cashbox. “Can’t spend a receipt, can I?”
“What else do you remember?” Jack asked.
Freyda took the box back behind the counter. She took a corroded plastic cup and filled it with cold water. Jack watched as she popped out her upper denture, swished it around in the water, and brought the cup to the table.
“He was undernourished. Should’a ate my pie. He was hard looking. Like he’d seen some things. Done some things. You know what I mean? He was odd.”
“Could he have been someone from the university?” Jack asked.
She chuckled. “He wasn’t a college student, I can tell you that. And he wasn’t a professor. I would have seen him before. His voice was froggy, deep, like one of them chain-smokers. He gave me the creeps. Not that most of them from the school don’t.”
Jack pulled up the picture Walker had taken of the victim. “Do you know this guy?”
“No. Never seen him. Is that the guy that’s in the alley?”
The victim looked taller than she’d described. He was wearing different clothes and his face wasn’t visible from the sidewalk, but Jack didn’t believe she hadn’t seen him before.
“Did the customer talk to you? Say anything you can remember?” Jack asked.
“He ordered coffee. Black. I brought it and a piece of my pie. I asked if he wanted anything else. He said no. Later I told him I was closing. He didn’t say anything. Just up and left a twenty under his coffee mug to pay a three-dollar tab. Only one reason a man gives you that much money. I was scared he was after something else.”
The thought of what she was suggesting made Jack vomit in his throat just a little. “I can see why you would think that,” he lied.
“You’re so full of it,” she said and gave that mostly toothless smile again.
“Did anyone else come in?” Jack asked.
“Too cold,” she said, motioning toward the university dorms. “Them kiddies stay inside smoking their wacky weed and fornicating all day like rabbits. Bunch a’ dummies. I hired one or two of them over the years, but they couldn’t even make change without getting on them damn phones.”
Jack changed the subject. “Tell me about the car.”
“Yeah. I locked up and checked the street after he left. The car was halfway down the block. That way.” She pointed south. “The engine was running and someone was in it. Maybe two people. I couldn’t see if they was man, woman, or child.”
Jack asked for a description of the car and was surprised at how succinct the answer was.
“Seventy-four puke-green Volkswagen Beetle,” Freyda said.
“You seem sure,” Liddell said.
“I oughta be. My asshole husband owned one. I sold the damn thing the day after he died. Got me a Cadillac convertible. Always wanted one, but asshole said it wasn’t in the budget. He was so tight he’d squeeze a penny until old Abe’s gums bled.”
Jack remembered seeing a faded green older model VW down the street when they arrived. He was getting on his radio when an officer came in. Jack recognized him as one of the newbies. His nametag read: S. Hurt.
“Detective Murphy, we’ve got a stolen car out here,” S. Hurt said. “It was overnight from the west side.”
“Green older model VW?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. I’ve called a wrecker,” Officer Hurt said.
“Don’t tow the car until either Sergeant Walker or myself tell you to. It might be related to this murder. Tell Sergeant Walker I want to see the car after I finish here.”
Officer Hurt took out his portable radio, and Jack said, “Don’t put anything on the radio. Use your phone if you need dispatch.”
“I don’t have the number for Sergeant Walker.”
Jack said, “He’s right outside, Officer Hurt. If he’s not, one of his people can call his cell, but I want you to talk to him directly about the car. Did you notify the owner yet?”
“Dispatch probably sent someone over there last night,” Officer Hurt said.
“Call dispatch—on your phone—and get the owner’s information. I want you to call the owner and get what information you can. When did they last see their car? Did they recently sell it to someone? That kind of stuff, Officer Hurt. Report back to me.”
“Have you got dispatch’s phone number?” Hurt asked, and Jack gave it to him, sending him on his way.
“Ma’am, we might need to talk to you again,” Jack said. He took out a business card, wrote his cell phone number on the back, and gave it to her.
“Wait a minute.” She went behind the counter again, came back with the second apple pie wrapped in foil, and handed it to Liddell.
“For me?”
“You might as well take it. Won’t be many customers today with all that commotion outside my place.”
Jack asked, “Where was the customer sitting?”
“The booth near the window,” she said. “Ain’t cleaned it yet. You think there might be some latent fingerprints you can run through that automatic fingerprint machine?”
“What’s back there?” Jack asked, indicating the back of the shop.
“Supplies,” Freyda answered. “My rooms are upstairs.”
“Freyda, is there any chance you didn’t wash the dishes from last night?”
Her eyes widened. “DNA? You guys are almost as good as Mark Harmon.”
; “Don’t touch anything you think he might have touched. I’ll have a crime scene detective come in, and you can let him do his thing.”
“Will there be a reward?”
“I don’t think so,” Jack said.
“Well I want my twenty back at least.”
* * * *
Jack and Liddell followed Officer Hurt down the street to a faded-green ’74 VW. The car matched the description Freyda gave, except for the dog inside this one. A black-and-white border collie jumped at the driver’s window, snarling and showing impressive teeth.
“I’ll call the car’s owner to see if the dog belongs to them. I’ve called Animal Control,” Officer Hurt said and checked his cell phone, typed some text, smiled, and put the phone back in his pocket.
Wires were hanging under the broken steering column cover. “Be sure no one touches anything before Crime Scene gets what they need.”
“You really think this car is involved in the murder?” Hurt asked.
“It’s possible,” Jack said. “Call me if you get anything from the owner.”
To Jack’s disappointment, the officer replied, “I don’t think they’ll know anything except the car got stolen.” He checked the screen of his cell phone again.
“Do you have something else important to do, Officer Hurt?”
As if on cue the officer’s phone dinged, indicating a new message or email.
Hurt said, “I got off an hour ago, Detective Murphy. My wife’s pregnant, and she’s sick, sir. I’m sorry but I didn’t think I’d be here this long.”
Jack said, “That’s the job you signed up for. Wait until Animal Control gets the dog. Give me the owner’s information and be sure Crime Scene gets the car. Contact the owner and tell them it will probably be towed and held for a day or so. Tell them I’ll want to talk to them. Turn in your supplementary report, and you can go home. I’ll tell your sergeant I dismissed you.”
Officer Hurt handed Jack a page from his notebook. “The car owner’s name is Samantha Lee.”
Jack saw Hurt had written down the offense report number, the victim’s name, address, and phone number. Hurt probably hadn’t called because he didn’t want to get any more involved and not get to leave. It was understandable given his wife’s condition.
“If someone relieves you before Animal Control gets here, be sure they tell Animal Control to keep the dog by itself. Don’t hurt it. Got it?”
“You think the dog has something to do with the murder?” Hurt asked.
Jack couldn’t decide if Hurt was being a smartass or was really that dense. “Officer Hurt, did you understand the orders I just gave you, or do I need to write them down?” He shouldn’t have needed to say the dog might have a chip, or that the dog had left evidence all over the car so why not on the victim or his transportation prior to stealing the VW.
“I got it, Detective Murphy,” Hurt said.
Jack and Liddell headed back to the Coffee Shop when he heard loud cursing behind them. He turned in time to see Officer Hurt on the ground and the collie bouncing off his chest. It was coming their way fast.
“What the hell?” Liddell said as the dog flew past and turned down the alleyway.
Officer Hurt ran after the dog. “Sorry, detectives. I was just checking to see if the car was unlocked. I wanted to get the registration papers for my supplementary report, and the damn thing jumped me.”
Jack chased after the dog and rounded the corner to find it sitting beside the body with its haunches up against the dead guy, teeth bared at the crime scene techs, who had wisely backed away.
“I guess we know whose dog it is,” Liddell said.
Hurt put his hand on the butt of his gun, and Jack put a hand on Hurt’s arm. “Do not shoot the dog, Officer Hurt. Animal Control will be here and I need the dog.”
Officer Hurt said, “Well, I guess you don’t need me here then.”
Jack said, “Get the owner of the Coffee Shop and have her ID the car. Her name is Mrs. Rademacher.”
“This is my district, detective. I know who she is.” Hurt turned to leave.
Jack yelled at the retreating officer’s back, “The dog does not get hurt. I need it segregated from other animals.”
Officer Hurt raised an arm and waved without looking back.
Liddell muttered, “You old softie.”
“Bite me, Bigfoot.”
Jack’s cell phone buzzed. He answered, and the dispatcher said, “Jack, you and Liddell are wanted behind the old sheet metal works off Fountain Avenue. That’s near the railroad tracks by Pigeon Creek.”
“We’re kind of busy here,” Jack said. “Call Captain Franklin and tell him what’s going on. Ask him to call someone in. I need Liddell here.”
“Captain Franklin is the one that said to send you and Blanchard.”
“Okay. We’ll leave here in five or ten minutes,” Jack said.
“Captain Franklin said to go now, Jack. There’s multiple dead, and—”
Jack hung up on her and nudged Liddell toward their car. “We need to go.”
“What’s up, pod’na?”
“When it rains, it pours, Bigfoot.”
“Another murder?”
Jack said, “Give me the keys.”
Liddell tossed them over, and they got in the Crown Vic. “Who’s going to work this one?” Liddell asked. It was Saturday. They were the only detectives working.
Jack said, “Sergeant Walker is pulling double duty here I guess until they call someone in from home. We’re going to a multiple victim scene, authority Captain Franklin. I’ll drive. I want to get there before the earth cools. You drive like an old maid.”
“Do not,” Liddell said.
Chapter 4
Jack drove west toward Fountain Avenue and called dispatch from his cell phone. “Have the crime scene officer at the Fountain Avenue scene call my cell phone.”
Seconds later his phone rang.
“What have you got?” Jack asked.
The female officer’s voice was trembling. “This is Joanie Ryan. God, Jack! Just get here quick.” The call ended.
Jack stepped up his speed and was in the area in just minutes. He crossed Pigeon Creek and drove over railroad tracks. A police car was blocking a gravel drive off to his left. It backed up to let Jack turn in. Two more police cars were parked a hundred feet ahead blocking three news vans with dish antennae raised like ants surrounding their prey.
A uniformed officer was talking to the driver of the nearest news van, making gestures that brooked no argument. The van’s driver pulled off in the grass, and the officer moved on to the next van, shooing them away while motioning to Jack with the other hand to proceed ahead.
Jack squeezed around the news vans and drove over the grass to get behind the building. Even in dead of winter with the car windows up he could smell the stench that was Pigeon Creek. Just ahead, yellow-and-black crime scene tape was strung up in two semicircle perimeters, one inside the other, radiating from a docking bay. Inside the smallest perimeter was a fourteen-wheeler tractor-trailer. Inside the larger perimeter was an ambulance, another police car, and the motor patrol sergeant’s car.
Jack stopped outside the string of crime scene tape. He got out of the car and felt a presence behind him. Claudine Setera, investigative reporter for Channel Six, was a few feet away and running to catch up.
Claudine was mid-twenties, dark hair worn down on her shoulders, dark eyes, and immaculate olive skin. Her news-anchor figure was partially hidden by her tight fur-lined jacket. She was as capable and treacherous as she was beautiful. She wasn’t supposed to be inside the crime scene tape.
Jack and Liddell ignored her and ducked under the crime scene tape. They didn’t slow their pace.
“Hello, Jack. Liddell,” Claudine said, ducking under the tape and jogging to keep up. “Can you slow
down please?”
They stopped abruptly, and Claudine bumped into Liddell.
“Where’s your cameraman?” Liddell asked.
“Where’s the knife?” Jack asked.
Claudine let out a laugh that was somewhere between a bray and a snort. Her laugh wouldn’t be a deal breaker on a blind date, but it would take the steam out of your “little engine that could.”
“No knife,” she said. “Want to pat me down?” She struck a flirtatious pose.
“Be nice,” Jack said.
“I am being nice, Jack,” she said and batted her eyelashes.
At almost zero degrees, the flirting didn’t work. Mr. One-Eye was safely tucked away from the cold and didn’t want to play.
“You’re not supposed to be inside the crime scene, Claudine,” Jack said. “Whoever let you come back here is fired or under arrest.”
“Or both,” Liddell added.
“You know me.” She smiled, and out came the reporter’s notebook. The kind with a steel wire spiral at the top used to hold the pages together, or as a garrote. The journalist’s motto was “Always be prepared to lie.”
Jack did know her. In Jack’s world there were two different sets of constitutional rights, one for law enforcement and one for the news media. If a law enforcement officer stood on someone’s porch and filmed through the window of their house, they could be sued and criminal charges filed. The news media did this routinely and called it “informing the public.”
“C’mon Jack. It’s cold and I’m freezing. Give me something and I promise to go away.” Claudine tried for a pout that came out as a grimace with her teeth chattering.
“Okay,” Jack said. He reached inside his coat, took out a business card, and handed it to her.