“Right.”
“Sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“Damn it.” She sighed and touched fingertips to forehead like she had a headache. “Talk to somebody with the Garrett campaign and see if anybody knows whether Fromm was left-handed.”
When Phyllis came by to see if they needed anything else, Susan said, “Only to sneak out the back way.”
Parkhurst said he’d see what he could find out. Susan nodded, not happy. He knew she was just as uncertain about Fromm’s death as he was, but didn’t want to open that can of worms and stick her hand in it.
“Try not to make anybody mad,” she said.
“I’ll be the soul of tact.”
33
Demarco knew he was spending too much time with the girl. If he wasn’t careful, Her Ladyship the Chief would say something, order him to step back, or even hand the case over. The hell with it, the kid did better when he was there, she wasn’t as restless, so he stayed. Sitting by the side of the bed, legs stretched out, he waited till she drifted off in a restless morning nap before he lit out.
The day was warm, the air soft and the wind easy; over to the west sat a bank of huge cottony clouds. At the shop he turned in the squad, signed out, changed into civvies and picked up his Jeep. To clear his head, he rolled through the countryside with the sun riding over the shallow hills. He drove past a sprawling farm with outbuildings, tractor shed, hay bales being loaded into the barn. A man striding through a field gave him a wave. What would it be like to be a farmer? Hard life, always at the mercy of the elements.
Owning land, being responsible to it. Tilling and planting, coaxing things to grow, watching the sky for rain because there’d been too much, or not enough. Sniffing the air for change, which might mean hail that would wipe out a year’s work and a year’s profit. No, not for him. There was a certain pride in the man’s walk, a strut that said, all this is mine, but owning something meant being tied to it, and Demarco didn’t want to be tied to anything. That way led to heartbreak.
Getting time to move on? Nobody’d miss him, that was sure. After this thing with the kid was cleared, maybe he should take off. He didn’t fit in here. Nothing new, he didn’t fit in anywhere.
He got along all right with his partner Yancy. Christ, he nearly shit carpet tacks that time when Yancy got stabbed. The boy was bright and he was eager, but a couple of things rubbed against Demarco’s skin a little. Yancy was kind. Kind was okay as long as you could be hard when you needed to, but the worrisome thing about Yancy was, he was developing some hero-worship. Demarco didn’t want to be anybody’s hero. And for Christ’s sake, he sure didn’t want to be anybody’s mentor. He just wanted to be left alone to do his job. He’d told Her Ladyship the Chief he worked best alone and she went and hooked him up with a green kid who was so sweet bees followed him around. Yancy was a good kid, but Demarco was a lone ranger.
Even with Yancy soft as a kitten and Demarco a horny toad, they got along okay. The kid was honest and trustworthy—made him sound like a boy scout. What he should be, actually. It was an okay department for a small town. There was one old cop, nice guy, knew all the folks in town since they were pups. Parkhurst, lots of experience and a pretty good cop as far as Demarco could see. The problem with Parkhurst was, he had his own ideas about how things should go. They didn’t always fit with Demarco’s and that was laced with potential trouble. And there was Her Ladyship the Chief. The less said about her, the better. And Parkhurst wanted to jump her bones. He’d probably shoot anybody who said spit to her.
Demarco’s neighbor was into Halloween in a big and irritating way. When he got home he found the place next door done up like a witch’s den. Pumpkins scattered all over the lawn, black cats with arched backs and red flashing eyes stacked against tied bundles of cornstalks, owls nailed to trees, flying witch wrapped around the telephone pole.
He unlocked his door and let himself in. Home sweet home, bare of seasonal decorations, bare of people, bare of spirit and as empty as when he’d left last night. In the refrigerator, he found a bottle of seltzer and took a slug. He poked around at the spare offerings of food. Leftover pizza, half a ham and cheese sandwich, jar of pickles, block of cheese, something green.
He threw that in the trash and retrieved the sandwich, absently took a bite while he picked up the remote and clicked on the TV to catch the news coming up. Ad showing Governor Garrett at a playground talking with children. He took another swig of seltzer and leaned back with his feet on the footrest. Gayle Egelhoff, innocuous widow of a man who fought fires twenty years ago, was killed.
Laugh track on TV, idiot stumbling into table laden with food. Demarco clicked the remote. Ad showing Governor Garrett in a park talking about preserving our heritage. Demarco hit mute. Wakely Fromm, good friend of Governor Garrett, who also fought fires, died of gunshot wound, maybe self-inflicted, maybe inflicted by another.
He clicked the remote. Watched the weather forecast, then an ad showing the vice president earnestly talking about fighting the war on terrorism. At least, that’s what Demarco thought he was talking about. “Who can fight terrorism better?” the ad demanded. The man had been there. The ad didn’t say where it was he’d been.
Garrett, too, was a firefighter twenty years ago. Egelhoff, Fromm, and Garrett battled a forest fire where—five? six?—some number of firefighters died. Now Egelhoff and Fromm were dead and only Garrett was alive.
A woman named Cass Storm had just moved back to town, she had lived here twenty years ago and knew all three men. What connections besides proximity did she have with them? Nothing to do with smoke jumping as far as he knew. He’d check. Old angers and resentments that could lead to revenge? Nothing like a woman scorned to think of serious revenge. Was Storm a woman scorned? And if so, which one had scorned her?
What was big-deal political writer, Pulitzer prize winner, Sean Donovan, cousin of Her Ladyship the Chief, doing with the Garrett campaign? His business card had turned up in the trunk of the car with Gayle Egelhoff’s body, his fingerprints were in her house.
Why was the kid attacked? Did she know more than she was telling? That was a given. Everybody knew more than he was telling. Right now the girl wasn’t able to say much. What could she know? How did her assault fit in with the murders?
Maybe the bastard broke in thinking the house was empty and got a big surprise. Why break in? Looking for something? What? If it was the unknown suspect who killed the Egelhoff broad, had he left something in the house? Or worried that he had?
If so, it was nothing that leaped up in Demarco’s face. He’d have to talk with the kid, walk her through the place, maybe she’d spot something missing. If the son of a bitch had any brains—which they often didn’t—he’d just let it go. Nothing in the house—at least that Demarco had found so far—pointed a finger at anybody.
Rewrapping the sandwich, he tossed it back in the refrigerator and was eyeing the leftover pizza when Yancy called to say a reporter had gotten to the Egelhoff girl.
* * *
Demarco was livid that Her Ladyship’s hot shit reporter cousin had been able to get to the kid. He felt like tearing the head off the uniformed officer guarding her door. Just the thing to get rid of the tension along the back of his shoulders.
“You manage to let anybody else in while I was on my way?” he demanded.
Officer Cooper, a lanky kid with red hair and pale skin that tended to flush under stress—like now—clenched his jaw. “Nobody but the doctor.”
“How the fuck could you be so stupid?”
“Sorry, sir, I thought I had it covered. I was only gone a minute.”
“A minute during which a suspect got to the witness. How long you think it takes to slip a knife under a girl’s ribs? She could be dead because of you.”
“Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.”
“Damn right, it won’t, or I will personally see to it that you’ll be eating nothing that requires teeth. You need to take a piss, tie a knot
in it.”
The girl, scrunched down in bed, had the television on but wasn’t watching it. She looked like she was fighting sleep in that dead tired way of little kids. She jumped when he came in.
Rummaging around on the bed, she found the laptop under the blankets. Creeping up! Scared me!
“Sorry. I thought you might be bored here so I brought you something.”
She eyed him with deep suspicion. What?
“A game called Kill The Invaders. Ought to be just your style. Hey, might even get rid of some of that aggression you carry around.
Don’t.
“You need anything from home?”
No.
“Just plain no? You don’t want to throw in a few four-letter words and about ninety exclamation points?”
Ha. Funny.
He leaned back and stretched his legs out. “You sure you don’t want anything? Don’t girls always like to primp and need tubes and pots and stuff?”
Have never primped!!!!
“There you go with the exclamation points. Tell me what you want and I’ll bring it.”
She glared at him, then typed out carefully. He touched my things!
“The intruder?” Demarco nodded. “Not much I can do about that. Except maybe get a shovel and dump everything in the trash.”
She scrunched her eyes tight as though afraid she might cry.
“You all right?”
She made that slight dip of her head that passed for a nod, avoiding too much movement that would arouse pain. She didn’t look all right. She looked tense and frightened. Where you been?
“Why? You miss me?”
She started to scowl, then winced and wiped her face blank. No way.
She was trying so damn hard to be tough, he felt like ruffling her hair. Instead, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed gently. “Did he scare you? The man who was in here last night?”
She gave him one of her looks of scorn. That’s my girl, he thought, keep your spirits up. Nice. Unlike you.
“Nice? You just haven’t seen my nice side yet. When I turn on the charm, all the women in a twenty-mile vicinity swoon and throw themselves at me.”
You wish.
“What did he want?” Demarco pulled the armchair closer and slid down so he could see the computer screen easier.
She shrugged. Called me Acushla.
“Better than Moonshine. Why you want to call yourself that?”
Moonbeam!
“Moonshine, moonbeam, you got a perfectly good name, why don’t you use it?” He knew why. She wanted a name that said, Look at me, I’m different, I’m important, I’m special.
Arlene dork name!!!!!!
“I’ve heard worse.”
Name one.
“Eglantine.”
She dealt him another look of scorn. You made that up.
“What, you never heard of the famous actress Eglantine Fontelle?”
She eyed him suspiciously, as if not quite believing there actually was such a person, but afraid she’d sound stupid if she admitted she didn’t know.
Where’s Rosie?
“Who’s Rosie?”
Gayle’s dog.
Ah, so there was a dog. “What kind of dog?”
Belgian Shepherd.
“You miss your dog?”
Not mine! Gayle’s!
“I see. You don’t like the dog.”
A heavy sigh of frustration at his idiot brain started in her chest, but stopped halfway up when it hit the pain threshold. Rosie only likes Gayle. My dog died. Her eyes glistened and she blinked furiously.
“When?” A thought passed through his mind that there might be a connection with Gayle Egelhoff’s murder.
Long time ago. Years.
“Why didn’t you get another?”
She shrugged. The kid had about as many varieties of shrugs as she had looks of scorn. Too expensive.
“Somewhere a dog is waiting.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I’ll help you find him when you get out of here. What does a Belgian Shepherd look like?”
Big. Black.
“Like a German Shepherd?”
She did that nod thing. Only Blacker.
“Would it have run away?”
Never.
“You weren’t home the night your sister was attacked.”
Told you. Music Festival.
“Would the dog, Rosie, have protected Gayle? Gone after whoever was threatening her?”
Sure.
So, why hadn’t it? He didn’t know anything about Belgian Shepherds, but German Shepherds were aggressive. They wouldn’t stand by while an owner was attacked. And if the bastard killed the dog, why hadn’t they found its body?
Want my backpack.
“Where is it?”
Not sure.
“Did you have it when you snuck back into the house?”
Yes.
“Why do you want it?”
Has my stuff in it.
“What stuff?”
Backpack! Just bring it!
“Okay. Calm down. Where is it?”
A number five on the Richter scale of scorn came his way. Bed, she started to type, then stopped.
“In your bed?”
A limited scowl because of the possibilities of pain given a real one. Bedroom I think!
“I’ll find it. What does it look like?”
Backpack. Black.
“Okay. Anything else?”
Hunched in on herself, she typed. Only Gayle.
“Sorry, kid. I wish I could.”
She typed. You found me?
“When you were hurt? Yeah.”
How know?
“A neighbor saw lights and heard noise.”
The kid typed, Mrs. Hadwent!
“No. A Mrs. Cleary.”
The kid nodded. Always yammering about how she had went to the doctor’s and had went to the drug store and had went to church. Gayle and I called her Mrs. Hadwent. Nosey old bitch!
“Watch your language. Be nice about her. Wasn’t for her, you’d be dead.”
He squeezed the kid’s shoulder and left. He liked her. She was a mess. She had nobody to take care of her. All that idiocy with the clothes and the foul language was part adolescent trying to figure out who she was and part aching heart crying out for somebody to look at her, pay attention, love her. He hoped a good foster parent could be found, one who genuinely liked kids and tried to do right by them, not one only interested in the monthly check. This girl was like a frightened kitten trying to survive in a hostile world. Somebody needed to take her in and teach her things. How to be independent without dressing like a hooker, how to take care of herself. Somebody who would let her feel safe, so she didn’t have to hiss and spit all the time.
* * *
Demarco let himself into the Egelhoff place and stood just inside the doorway, sensing whatever the house chose to tell him. It was quiet, only the creaks and groans of an old house talking to itself. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and covered his shoes with paper slippers.
In the living room, CDs had been tumbled from the shelf holding the player. Cushions uprooted or thrown to the floor. Dining room. China cabinet doors open, dishes and glasses shoved around, two wine glasses fallen and broken. Kitchen. Drawers open, dumped, cabinet contents shoved out. Master bedroom. Clothes spilling from dresser drawers, closet doors open. Kid’s bedroom. Real mess. Maybe a little worse than when he’d searched the first time, but not much.
Whatever the asshole had been looking for had to be small enough to fit under a couch cushion, and fairly flat. Or he was just angry and took it out by making a mess. Unless he was smart. Then he’d have created just such a mess to suggest the item was small when it was actually as big as a VCR.
Demarco had no way of knowing if anything was missing. He’d need the kid with him to know that. Since she wasn’t available, he’d see what he could find. Going under the principle that an individual brought something with hi
m to the scene and took something with him when he left, Demarco searched. He was disciplined and methodical, why he’d been so suited to the military, and went through the house inch by inch. He checked windowsills, crawled on floors, examined corners and baseboards, looked with differing angles and differing heights for scuff marks, footprints, palm prints discernable to the naked eye.
The kitchen was a bitch because of the enormity of the mess, food from the refrigerator dumped in the sink. Presumably to check the containers for the item in question. He opened the refrigerator door to see what was left inside. The dickhead hadn’t dumped everything. He’d left five small containers, about six inches by four inches. So whatever he was looking for was bigger than roughly six by four and not over four inches in height.
Didn’t exactly zero it down. Could be anything. Only thing Demarco knew for sure, it wasn’t an elephant.
He searched both bedrooms. Down on his knees, poking under the beds, checking the closets, corners, and shelves and the only thing he got for his pains was a moldering apple core in the kid’s room. And the backpack. He stood up, looked around, took in a breath and blew it out. Waste of time. That didn’t irritate him. In the military time was often wasted.
Closet where the kid had hidden and pelted the intruder with such potentially lethal items as pillowcases and blankets. The floor was littered with them. Also candles and candleholders, broken glass flower vase, old Easter baskets, and a flashlight without batteries. He wondered if the vase had been a hit. It would help if the asshole had a broken nose or a facial cut that needed stitching.
The kid had said she jumped straight toward him from the top shelf. She’d landed on him and clutched at his jacket. She thought she’d heard it rip, but she was yelling so loud she couldn’t be sure. If she was right, there might be threads somewhere. With his nose almost on the floorboards, he crawled along the length of the closet. He was about to give it up when he saw a little ball of crumpled paper caught in the door hinge.
Gently, with tweezers, he picked up the ball of paper and dropped it in a plasticine envelope. He could see it had some writing on it. He wrote the date and his initials on the envelope.
Up in Smoke Page 23