by J. C. Kenney
“A car’s a lot more expensive, too.” I brushed the ashes off the bike. “Is there something you want to say to me?”
She dropped the cigarette to the ground and snuffed it out with her sandal, maintaining eye contact with me the whole time.
“Connie’s my friend. She’s been through a lot. You better not be setting her up for a fall.”
I blinked. Delilah might as well have slapped me in the face. I’d worked tirelessly to make my hometown a better, safer place. I paid my taxes, served on volunteer committees, and supported local businesses.
Oh, and I’d also managed to solve three murders in my spare time.
Yet, here was this stranger calling my intentions into question. The nerve of the woman.
“I haven’t promised her a thing. Only that I’ll try my best to find her some answers. Nothing more, nothing less.” I mounted the bike. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a murderer to catch. Your friend’s been waiting twenty years. I don’t want to make her wait any longer than she has to.”
Without giving her another look, I jammed down on the pedals. Fueled by my annoyance with Delilah, I didn’t slow down until I was out of the trailer park. Once I was back on Redbud Lane and headed toward town, I sat up and took a deep breath. Using one hand for steering, I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow and let the breath out slowly.
Getting angry at people wouldn’t help my cause. And it sure as heck wouldn’t do Connie any good to hear her investigator was flying off the handle at people. I made a promise to apologize to Delilah the next time I saw her. If need be, I’d visit her to do so.
I eased the bike onto the shoulder of the road. A minute or two of deep, cleansing breaths would clear my head for the remainder of the ride. As I pulled on the brake levers, the whine of an engine filled my ears. Before I could look for the source of the sound, a blow to my back sent me hurtling off the bike. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a motorcycle speed away.
Then I tasted dirt, and everything went black.
• • •
When I came to sometime later, I opened one eye. A sea of grass filled my vision. Oh, yeah. I got knocked off my bike. Bit by bit, my senses returned. I rolled over on my back. The move didn’t cause any mind-numbing pain, so that seemed like a good sign. As I stared at the cloudless blue sky, I took an inventory of my condition.
Hands and arms moved without problem, though both shoulders ached. Same for my legs. The middle of my back throbbed, but that appeared to be it. Could be a lot worse.
I eased myself into a sitting position. Both of my palms were scraped and crimson. That’s what I got for leaving in a huff and forgetting to put on my cycling gloves. My left forearm was bloody and covered in tiny black pebbles that were embedded in my skin. There was a nasty gash running down my lower right leg. The injury looked like it belonged in a horror film but wasn’t deep.
Having survived a gunshot wound, these injuries were nothing.
Satisfied I wasn’t going to bleed to death anytime soon, I removed my helmet. The front portion was crushed. Well, better to need a new helmet than a new skull. Now I had a reason to shop for a new brain bucket.
As I got up on one knee, a truck motored by without so much as slowing down. I called the driver a few unrepeatable names for their indifference to my plight.
Thank goodness Mom wasn’t around to hear the foul language.
My bike lay on its side in the grass, a good ten feet from me. I limped over to it and dug my phone out of a saddle bag. With unsteady fingers I dialed 9-1-1 to report a hit-and-run. Then I sat right back down.
An ambulance arrived first. The paramedics were my old friends Boomer and Chelsea.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Allie.” Boomer, whom I’d first met when I’d been knocked out in an alley, gave me a quick head-to-toe visual scan.
“I missed seeing your smiling face.” I drew in a sharp breath when Boomer moved my arm to get a closer look at the scrapes.
“Aww. I’ll bet you tell that to all the paramedics. Will you get in trouble if this conversation gets out when I see Brent?”
“I like the idea of a jealous boyfriend. Maybe I can get a nice dinner out of it.”
We shared a laugh. “The way that guy can cook, I don’t blame you. The snacks he brings to game night are amazing.”
Evidently satisfied I didn’t need a backboard or anything extreme like that, Boomer helped me to my feet. When I nodded that I was okay, we walked to the ambulance. My gait was slow and unsteady.
“No rush. Your injuries appear to be superficial, but you still took a big tumble.”
When I was seated at the back of the ambulance, he began cleaning my wounds. The disinfectant stung, but it was a relief that I hadn’t broken any bones.
Boomer’s partner, Chelsea, joined us. “The bike’s intact. I left it where it was in case the cops want to take pictures. Looks like you had luck on your side.”
“Yeah, lucky.” While I was fortunate not to be more seriously injured, something more sinister than luck sure seemed to be involved in my initial launch off the bike.
A police cruiser rolled to a stop behind us. Officer Tommy Abbott emerged. Like most of the Rushing Creek cops, he was smart and hardworking. He also wouldn’t dismiss the growing unease in my gut as paranoia.
We exchanged greetings while Boomer bandaged my cuts and scrapes. The paramedics then gave him a report.
“Dispatch said it was a hit-and-run. Any chance you got a look at what hit you?”
“It came from behind. I only saw it for a second. It looked like a motorcycle. More of a dirt bike than one of those big touring things.” I told him what happened. I held back a few details, though. Things I wanted to share only in his confidence.
When Boomer and Chelsea finished their work, I insisted a ride to the hospital wasn’t necessary. “Officer Abbott can take me home. I’d prefer to finish my report from the comfort of my couch.”
After some protesting, Boomer assented, with reservation. “You may have a concussion or internal injuries that will only show up with a scan. If you start having headaches or pain, go to the hospital immediately.”
When I promised I would, Boomer escorted me to the cruiser while Tommy took photos of the scene. Before he got away, I called him back to the car.
“Do you know Star Rockwell?”
“Yeah, she works in the ER. Why?”
“Her name came up in conversation recently. I was wanting to talk to her about . . . the 9/11 Memorial event.” It was only a half lie. I did want to speak with her.
“If I see her, I’ll tell her you want to talk to her.”
I gave him my phone number and my thanks. Star could help me put some of the puzzle in place. Of that, I had no doubt.
Once inside the vehicle, I closed my eyes and took deep, cleansing breaths. My heart rate slowed as the air-conditioning cooled me off. Physically, I was fine. From time to time, when I played with Ursi, things would get rowdy and I’d end up with some nasty-looking scratches and bite marks. My current injuries weren’t that much worse.
Emotionally, it was a different story.
After putting the bike in the trunk, Tommy got in the car but didn’t put it in gear. “Tell me what really happened.”
With as much detail as I could recall, I told him everything from the moment I said goodbye to Connie.
“I didn’t crash. I’d already pulled over. Whoever hit me had to get close enough to do it. That means intentionally moving to the side of the road. And then whacking me with something.”
He scratched his chin. “Stay here.”
He returned a few minutes later and showed me a handful of photos on his phone. “I didn’t find any skid marks or other evidence of someone slowing down or swerving to avoid you.”
I studied the images. There were narrow tire tracks in the gravel to prove I had, in fact, moved to the shoulder. My bike looked to be about fifteen feet away from where the tracks ended. A low whistle escaped me.
>
“I must have gone for quite the flight. Lucky the damage isn’t worse.”
“In my perfect world, the paramedics wouldn’t have moved you until I arrived. It would have helped my investigation to be able to get pictures of you where you landed.”
“Why is that so important? I mean, you saw where I ended up.”
All things considered, I was quite happy with the paramedics for attending to me as soon as they arrived. Discretion suggested I keep the thought to myself, though. Tommy was on my side in this, after all.
“True, and I did get pictures of that. I want to show you something.”
He opened his notebook and drew a straight line down the middle of a blank page. He drew an X at the midway point of the line, a circle where the line ended, and a Y off to the right of the circle.
“Looks like some sort of math equation to me.”
“Fine, art’s not my strong suit. This is a rough sketch of the accident. You’ll notice”—he ran his index finger along the length of the line—“that the direction of travel from X, which is the point where you got hit, to the circle, which is where you landed, is a straight line. This indicates whatever hit you came from behind and the impact pushed you forward.”
A lightbulb glowed to life in my head. “Instead of something sideswiping me. Force applied from the side would have pushed me off the road at a greater angle.”
“Exactly. With the right resources an accident reconstructionist could probably give you a decent estimate of the precise angle and speed our perp was driving when he or she hit you.”
“You said perp. You don’t think this was an accident.” A shiver went down my spine. It wasn’t due to the air-conditioning.
“Nope. Given the distance and angle you traveled after you were hit, and the fact that you hadn’t come to a complete stop yet, my guess is the motorcyclist came up from behind, whacked you with something solid, and kept going. It was a premeditated act.” He put the car in gear. “Let’s get you home.”
Tommy’s decision to get moving at that point was a kindness. Even though the drive was no longer than ten minutes, it gave me time to digest his analysis. Getting run off the road mere days after starting an investigation into a long-dormant murder case couldn’t be coincidence.
Once we were inside the apartment, I made straight for my case notebook. “Have a seat at the dining room table. You want some coffee?”
“No, thanks. I only have a few more questions so I can complete my report. Shouldn’t take long.”
I dropped the notebook on the table as I shuffled to the coffee machine. The shock was wearing off and the adrenaline was running low, so I needed a caffeine pick-me-up. When the pot was gurgling, I took a seat across from him.
His questions were standard follow-up items. What color was the motorcycle? Was the driver wearing a helmet? Did I catch any of the numbers on the license plate? Did I know how much time elapsed between the accident and my 9-1-1 call? I couldn’t answer any of them with any degree of certainty.
“Doesn’t give us much to go on.” Tommy rubbed his eyes.
“Maybe you can ask around to see if anyone remembers seeing a motorcycle in that part of town.”
The part of my back that had taken the blow started to throb. It was no doubt going to look a frightening shade of purple tomorrow. A warm, soothing bath would ease the discomfort. If the soreness of my back didn’t prevent me from climbing into the tub.
“I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.” He got to his feet. “I wouldn’t hold my breath, though.”
“Before you go, the fibers that were found around Valerie’s neck. You wouldn’t happen to know what color they are, would you?”
“Come on, Allie.” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “You know I can’t discuss the Briggs case. If Matt found out I gave you information, he’d fire me in a heartbeat. And not just me, that goes for anyone in the department.”
“Fine. I thought, as an officer of the law, your highest priority would be using all available resources to apprehend a murderer. But if not—”
“Don’t even go down that road.” He pointed a finger at me. “We’ve set up a hotline for people to call in tips. Matt and Jeanette are working twenty-hour days. We want to catch the killer as much as you do.”
“Then let me help you. Anything you tell me stays between us and Ursi.” My kitty, who had been napping on the couch, raised her head and let out a blasé meh. “And she keeps secrets better than anyone.”
Tommy glared at me. The only sound in the room was a rapid tap, tap, tap coming from his shoe against the hardwood floor. Eventually, he threw up his hands.
“I’m sorry. I can’t divulge that information. I can’t tell you that the fibers are the same color as the petals of a sunflower. Sorry.”
A new surge of adrenaline coursed through me, just enough to nudge the discomfort from the crash into the background. I jotted down the color in my notebook.
“Tommy, you’re a prince. At least you would be if you would have told me the color, but since you didn’t . . .”
He chuckled. “Yeah, well, I guess I owed you.”
“Anything else you can’t tell me? We could call it even.” It was underhanded to take advantage of having helped Tommy in the past. Then again, he was the one who said he owed me.
“You didn’t hear this from me.” He waited until I promised and crossed my heart. “The bag Valerie was found in was an equipment bag to store baseball gear.”
“Interesting.” This was good intelligence.
“I need to go. A word to the wise. Avoid Ron Spade. We’re keeping a close eye on him. If word gets out you talked to him, or even got within fifty feet of him, Matt will go ballistic.” He jiggled his keys in his hand. “I trust we’re even?”
“More than you can imagine.”
Once Tommy was gone, I dug into the box of Valerie’s things. Spade worked at the high school. He might have had access to the athletic department facilities. And the equipment stored within them.
It would be shortsighted to focus my investigation solely on him, though.
“Here it is, girl.” I sat on the couch next to Ursi and opened the yearbook from her senior year. “Let’s see who was on the baseball team that year. And whether any of them looks like a murderer.”
A little while later, the muscles in my back spasmed. I let out a little yelp that sent Ursi scrambling off the couch. It was time for that bath before my back completely seized up.
I snapped my notebook closed with a satisfied sigh. Thanks to Tommy’s tip, I had thirty-four baseball players on my suspect list. I’d be able to remove most without much trouble. The freshman and junior varsity players weren’t a concern. Eliminating them wouldn’t take long. Then I’d be able to focus on the most likely suspects.
I was like a bloodhound that had found the killer’s scent. I was on the hunt and there was no stopping me.
It was only a matter of time before I caught up to my quarry.
Chapter Thirteen
The latest entry for Allie’s book of investigating murders: attach a rearview mirror to your bike’s handlebar or to your helmet. That way, you can see if a madman is bearing down on you from behind and take evasive action.
I’d always thought rearview mirrors on bikes were a scam created by someone filling a need that didn’t exist. As I poured coffee into my favorite of the three Wonder Woman mugs I owned, I was reassessing that position.
While the hot bath and essential oils had temporarily soothed my injured muscles, sleep had been hard to come by. When the alarm went off, a nighttime of tossing and turning due to head-to-toe discomfort left me groggy and Ursi grumpy.
She’d nipped at me when I dragged myself out of bed. It was something she only did when she was annoyed with me. I gave her a few kitty treats when I filled her food bowl.
“So sorry I ruined your night’s sleep, Little Miss Princess and the Pea.”
I downed an Advil with a big gulp of coffee. When I
reached toward the top shelf for a plate, my back muscles screamed in protest. The plate stayed there. I could eat my bagel on a napkin.
My back felt better after a long, hot shower. The scrapes on my arms and legs no longer stung, either. Taking that information as more data that I’d survive, I answered the knock on the door with a smile.
“Geez Louise, Boss. What happened to you?” A wide-eyed Calypso grabbed my hands and gave them a close-up inspection.
“Took a tumble on the bike yesterday. It looks a lot worse than it feels.” That wasn’t exactly true, but Calypso didn’t need to know that. “Come on in. let’s get started.”
“I heard you had a close call with a motorcycle, but I didn’t know it was this bad.” She filled her coffee mug.
So much for avoiding the rumor mill. Maybe I could use this to my advantage, though. I asked her what she knew.
“I was working at the Pub last night. The woman from the Beacon was talking about it. She’s planning on contacting you.”
Ah, yes, Kim Frye, the reporter for the Brown County Beacon. Kim was one of two reporters on the paper’s staff. Thanks in large part to her stellar work, the paper’s quality far exceeded its modest means. She was smart, determined, and had a nose for a good story.
I had the utmost respect for Kim, but I didn’t need her poking into my poking around.
“She probably picked it up from a police scanner. I’ll be happy to tell her it’s nothing. Thanks for the warning, though.”
“Uh-huh.” Calypso stared at me over the rim of her mug. “The body of a girl who’s been missing my whole life is discovered. At the request of the girl’s mom, you start looking for the murderer. A few days later, you wreck on your bike, something you never do. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
The problem with working with Calypso is she was as incisive as she was outspoken. There was no point trying to refute her supposition.
“To be honest, I don’t think so, either. Do me a favor and stick to the company line, okay? I wiped out on a patch of gravel. That’s all.”