Her head lowered as if on a hinge to look at the paper. “And that’s your mother?”
He nodded.
“I just saw the photos. I didn’t read the article. I’m very sorry about what happened,” she said slowly. “You – I mean, the police, they don’t know who killed them?”
“No, ma’am. Not yet.”
“Well, good luck,” she said, and a blush swept over her cheeks. “I mean, I hope they catch whoever did it.”
“Thanks. I do, too.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“How’s the coffee?”
“Pretty good. Stan gets it from Costa Rica. I’ll make a fresh pot.”
Joseph nodded and she stepped back again, still watching him. He ignored her and the urge to shudder at the sensation of her lingering gaze, extracted the laptop and its associated components from the box, plugged it in, and hit the power button. His mind went to work while the computer guided him through its set-up process. The first two steps were clear: connect with his cracker friends to learn if any information was available through the hacking grapevine, and find Greasy Lou Spitano. The crackers were accessible through various restricted boards and chat rooms around the internet and a bit of searching would be required. For Greasy Lou, he would start with search engine queries and review newspapers for references to the man. If neither of those options provided the information he needed, he would hack the governmental, law enforcement, and correctional systems in various jurisdictions.
His third step was finding the woman in Moses’ photograph. She could prove challenging. He might need a scanner and access to facial recognition software. That would come later. Greasy Lou and the crackers were first.
The waitress returned with his coffee. “Cream?”
“No thanks.”
“I’m Junie. Shout if you need a refill.”
“Sure,” he mumbled, but already the outside world was receding. A sensation of warmth and security, as if he were wrapped in the soft protection of the womb, filled him at the sight of an empty search engine. His spine tingled as he rubbed his lip and decided which site to visit first. His fingers danced over the keyboard.
At last, Joseph was back in his element.
CHAPTER 38
CASS SAT AT HER desk and unlocked its drawers, grateful to find that no one had appropriated her space. She had parked behind the courthouse to avoid the three reporters talking on the front lawn, relieved to see such a small contingent from the press. The attempted murder of a cop usually generated intense interest, but Cass was grateful for the small favor of the gas plant explosion, unwilling to be recognized as the woman who had killed a fellow officer only a few weeks ago. She’d experienced more than her fair share of press exposure since then. Her paranoia was in full swing; even walking across the station’s parking lot, the small hairs on the back of her neck rippled with the sensation of someone watching.
She pushed a button on her computer and crossed the squad room to fill a coffee mug and doctor it with powdered cream. She returned to her desk, impatiently tapping the blotter as the machine stuttered and whirred to life. It was almost eleven and Cass’s urgency to get some work done before Sheriff Hoffner returned was a knot in her stomach. The monstrous computer terminal glowed to life, and then dimmed. She smacked its side and the dark screen blinked back on as Truman, Kado, and Martinez entered the room. Kado flicked a glance at Cass, those gorgeous gray eyes momentarily meeting hers. She looked down and dug into a drawer, swallowing down the surge of heat that ran through her body.
“It didn’t smell like gas to you?” Kado asked as he and Martinez wove through the maze of desks.
“No,” Martinez said, “and so what if it did? He probably filled up his mom’s car for her.”
“Who are you talking about?” Cass asked.
“Joseph Franklin,” Martinez answered. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the forensics man. “This yahoo thinks Joseph killed Whitehead. What a bonehead. He also thought Whitehead committed suicide by hanging himself and then striking a match.”
Cass raised an eyebrow at Kado, who looked frazzled. “Before Porky spotted the swastika carved in Whitehead’s chest, even Grey agreed that suicide was a possibility.” He raised a hand at Martinez’ attempted intrusion. “A remote possibility. Joseph’s shoes have a red food substance in them and his clothes have some sort of chemical smell.”
Martinez snorted. “To you, hombre. Not to me.”
“We’ll let Hazel figure it out.”
Cass asked, “Who’s Hazel?”
“The man names his machines,” Martinez sighed.
“Hazel is a machine?” Cass asked, watching as a blush crept across Kado’s ruddy cheeks.
He nodded. “A gas chromatograph mass spectrometer.”
“In your lab?”
“I’ve added some equipment since you’ve been out. You’ll have to stop by and see it.”
“And you name it all?”
He shrugged. “Hazel is a little more personal than GCMS, don’t you think?”
Cass glanced at Martinez. “It is.”
“Well, it’s not gasoline. So we waste precious time waiting for the machine –” Martinez began.
“Hazel,” Kado interrupted.
Martinez glared. “– to do its job. Cass, did you make it over to the ME’s office?”
The squad room door banged open to the sound of an indignant squawk. A pair of naked toes peeked around the door frame. The toes disappeared and then rammed the door as a leg in a full brace was thrust into view. A fresh howl sounded and Truman hurried across the room, smile wide. He stood aside as Darla Stone shoved her husband’s wheelchair forward with a great huff. Truman took over, wheeling Mitch through the maze of desks.
“Meet ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’,” Mitch complained as Truman positioned the wheelchair alongside Cass’s desk. She stood and then leaned down to hug him, surprised at how thin his shoulders felt.
“He’s been whining to come back since he heard about the shooting at Mojo’s on the scanner last night,” the attractive, dark-haired woman told them.
“She made me go to physical therapy first,” Mitch groused, and Cass gloried in the sound of his voice.
Darla darted into the hall and carried a pair of crutches as she returned. She leaned them against a nearby desk and hugged Cass. “He’s not as helpless as he looks. And your homicide statistics will increase if you don’t find him some work. Soon,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I’ll plead insanity. He’s driving me mad.”
Mitch sniffed, picking at the fraying cotton where his cut jeans touched the brace riding high on his thigh. “I was injured in the line of duty, woman. I can’t help it if my recuperation is lengthy.”
“I’ll pick him up when he stops obsessing over the mating patterns of the cardinals in our backyard. Not a minute before,” she stated, eyeing Kado, Truman, Martinez, and Cass. “Until then, he’s your problem.”
“We’ll put him in the slammer if he doesn’t shape up by the end of the day,” Kado replied.
She winked at Cass and turned on her heel, leaving the citrusy scent of her perfume in her wake. Mitch watched her go, a woeful expression on his face. It was over four weeks since Cass had seen her partner and it was a shock to realize how much she had missed him. She had stayed away from the hospital after they knew that Mitch would live, simply to avoid the hassle that Hoffner would heap on them if he knew she had violated his orders to stay away until she was back at work. Mitch had always been slim, but there was a leanness to him now that spoke of the severity of his injuries and how hard he still struggled to recover. She wondered if he ever would, fully.
“Eighteen years of marriage and this is how she treats me?” Mitch asked.
“Cardinals?” Kado asked.
Mitch shook the hands of the officers who came to greet him. “I tried watching Jerry Springer, but those folks are really scary.”
“A little too close to some of the gems in Forney Coun
ty?” Martinez asked.
“Way too close. Cardinals are nice. Nobody cares if they have all their teeth.”
“How’s the leg?” Truman asked, bringing Mitch a cup of coffee.
“Not bad,” he admitted. “The last of the pins come out next week.”
“How long’s it been?” Kado asked.
“Fifteen days, nineteen hours and,” he glanced at the squad room clock, “fourteen minutes since the last surgery. I appreciate the miracle of modern medicine and all, but I sure wish the stuff moved faster.”
“They say the healing process takes longer the older you are,” Cass said.
“I swear,” Mitch breathed, “two women working me over. I’m not sure why I missed working with you, exactly.”
“Me either,” she grinned. “What did they say about your lung and the concussion?”
“They puffed the lung back up and it seems to work. Dr. Rambo said the concussion didn’t do me any harm, but it didn’t help anything, either.”
“Thank goodness there’s no brain damage. We can work around your existing shortcomings.”
Mitch rolled his eyes. “When did Hoffner sign your paperwork?”
“John Grey hired me last night to help with the Franklin investigation.”
“Sneaky ol’ Grey. Where’s Hoffner?”
“A sheriff’s conference,” Kado answered, and Cass chose not to correct him. “He should get here this afternoon. Did Dr. Rambo sign you off to come back to work?”
“Desk duty only, but I’ll take what I can get.”
Kado began filling Mitch in on the investigations as Martinez, Truman, and the officers drifted away. Reveling in the warm glow of having her partner back, Cass pulled a phone book from her desk and dialed the number for the local Narcotics Anonymous fellowship to ask about Rob Conroy’s alibi for the night before. As promised, Conroy had called and given permission for the NA meeting’s chair to talk to Cass. Her concentration failed halfway through the conversation when a colossal figure swept into the squad room to a salvo of catcalls and whistles. A wide smile spread across the woman’s face as she leaned down to encase Mitch in a hug. His head was crushed against an immense breast and he looked at Cass from beneath a wobbling ham-hock of an upper arm, his eyes pleading. She quickly thanked the NA contact and, with some trepidation, walked around her desk to rescue Mitch.
“Frannie?” she asked.
A tornado of crimson burst into motion, releasing Mitch, rising and swirling with outstretched arms to sweep Cass into her embrace. Cass found her face mashed nose first against Fran’s mono-bosom and managed to turn her head and suck in a gasp of Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door perfume before Fran squeezed her in a rib-crushing hug. Cass squeezed back, as well as she was able, and started the process of extricating herself from this mountain of a woman.
“Cassie!” Fran Starkowsky at last exclaimed. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you and Mitch back at work. Although you’re a little thin, honey,” she said, looking Cass up and down. She turned to Mitch. “And you. When are you gonna get that wimpy thing off your leg and do some proper work?”
Mitch started to stutter an answer when Cass interrupted him.
“We’re both glad to be back, Fran. You look,” she paused for only a fraction of a second, “absolutely stunning, as usual.”
Fran beamed and twirled, sending a tidal wave of sparkling blood-colored fabric whooshing through the air. The breeze ruffled Cass’s hair. “I made it myself. Sewed all the crystals by hand.”
“It’s really nice. What brings you to the station?”
“You called about my favorite jailbird, doll. What else?” Fran Starkowsky was one of two parole officers in Forney County. Her age was quite literally a mystery; she refused to fill in birth information on any government form, and although she could’ve been anywhere from mid-thirties to late-fifties, Cass put her at around forty-five. Ranging close to six feet five inches tall – although in spiked heels her true height was anyone’s guess – and carrying nigh on three hundred pounds on her frame, Fran always managed to move with grace. Her skin, smooth as a baby’s and with the warm red tones of teak, was always beautiful. Today, her close-cropped hair was jet black. “You saw Robbie?”
“Earlier this morning.”
Fran waved a hand the size of a porterhouse steak. It was tipped with talon-like nails the same color as her outfit. They sparkled as they rippled through the air. “Morning isn’t playing fair, Cassie. I’m only out before the crack of noon because it was you who called. Tweaking, was he?”
“I think so, but he’s not in deep. His skin still looks pretty good, but he was picking at his arms and twitching a bit.”
One long red nail tapped a dangerous rhythm on Mitch’s desk. “If he’s using again, I’ll lock him down in rehab so fast it’ll knock the blow right out of his sinuses. Your message said you thought he might be involved in this nasty Franklin business?”
“I checked his alibi with the NA chair. Conroy attended the six-thirty meeting last night, but he left early. The chair doesn’t remember exactly when he left.”
“Why’s that? They’re supposed to keep an eye on these folks.”
“Some sort of tussle broke out between attendees.”
Fran raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. “Robbie involved?”
“No, but they think that’s when he slipped out.” Cass explained about someone leaving Deadwood Hollow in a hurry and hitting the Grove boys’ orange Vega.
“Robbie’s ride is a heap, doll. It’s amazing the thing still runs.”
“Scott Truman and I checked it over this morning but the bumper is in such bad shape I couldn’t tell if he’d hit anything.”
“So the truck doesn’t rule him in or out?”
“Correct. But Conroy also said he talked to you over coffee last night. Did you see him?”
The other eyebrow joined the first near Fran’s hairline. “Now that’s truly creative. Robbie might’ve been having coffee when he called and left a message on voicemail, but I did not speak to him.”
“What time did he call?”
She extracted a bejeweled cell phone from the depths of her garment and tapped with a talon. “Nine o’clock on the dot. Gives him time to do the deed?”
“Theoretically. But Kado said Mrs. Franklin and Joseph were killed with a rifle from about a hundred yards away. If he’s using, it’s doubtful he could be that accurate,” Mitch said.
“There were lots of guns in his family home when it burned, and he knows how to handle a weapon. I’ll swing by and check on Robbie today,” Fran said. “But I suspect he was partying with his friends last night. If so, it’s off to rehab for our little friend.”
“Do you want to take Animal Control to help with the dog?” Cass asked.
The phone disappeared into Fran’s outfit and her hand reappeared, clutching a set of car keys. “Rosie? She’s a pussycat.”
“The pit bull?”
“She’s a sweetheart in the right hands. If Robbie goes into rehab, I’ll take her home and see if I can’t find a new owner. Somewhere out in the country this time.” She swiveled on a stiletto and sashayed toward the squad room door, speaking over her shoulder, “Thanks for calling, doll. I’ll let you know what happens with dear Robbie.”
Mitch and Cass watched her go, deflating a bit as Fran sucked all the air from the room. “Where does she keep the phone and keys? Do you think she has pockets in that thing?” Mitch asked.
Cass raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t ask me to think about what goes on in Frannie’s clothes. I can’t afford the therapy.”
Truman and Martinez approached, steps wary. “How was Frannie?” Martinez asked.
“Wuss,” Mitch said.
“Amigo, it’s personal safety. I think she cracked a rib last time she hugged me.”
“Did she say anything about Rob Conroy?” Truman asked.
Cass filled them in on Conroy’s activities the night before.
“He lied to us,�
� Truman stated.
“If Robbie disappeared from his NA meeting last night, he could’ve driven to Deadwood Hollow and set up in time to kill the Franklins,” Mitch said. He looked around the squad room, as if suddenly aware that something was missing. “Carlos, where’s your partner?”
“Danny’s still out with his back,” Martinez answered.
“So it’s just y’all? Well no wonder the bad guys are busy. There ain’t nobody around to stop ’em.” His stomach rumbled. “I can’t work without food. Anybody up for Chubby’s? Dr. Rambo said something about my cholesterol and Darla’s like a rabid guard dog now. I haven’t had a chocolate shake in weeks.”
Truman snagged a piece of paper and took orders.
“Sheriff Hoffner’s no more than four hours out. Every minute counts,” Martinez told him. “Pull your badge to get to the head of the line at Chubby’s. If anybody gives you grief, arrest them for obstructing an investigation.”
CHAPTER 39
EMMET HEDDER ROLLED ONTO his injured shoulder and groaned. The searing pain brought him instantly awake, and he hacked out a cough, throat dry from breathing the arid stream from the motel room’s air conditioner. His eyes were stuck closed with the crusty residue of sleep, and he massaged them to help his eyelids peel open. Edging himself to an upright position, he craned his neck to check his right shoulder. Only a narrow streak of blood had worked its way through the gauze, leaving a rusty brown smear on its surface.
Emmet worked his way to the edge of the bed and lowered his feet to the floor, one at a time. The room spun and he waited for the merry-go-round to slow before he leaned down and snagged his duffel bag with his good hand. Digging inside, he found a digital thermometer and slid it beneath his tongue, waiting in a sleepy daze until the final beeps sounded.
“Shit,” he whispered. One-oh-one point seven. Not bad, but not good, either. Emmet stood, swayed, and then inched to the bathroom. After relieving himself, he leaned toward the mirror and peeled the gauze away. A gaping valley of flesh was revealed, fresh blood oozing from it depths. Deeper than a graze but less than a full puncture, its edges were an angry red; an infection was building. He had doused it in alcohol and smeared antibiotic ointment across the exposed flesh before taping the gauze in place last night. Apparently, that wasn’t enough. He needed stitches and antibiotics.
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