“And you want me to fix all this with the sheriff, make sure you don’t go to jail for beating this guy up, make sure the evidence isn’t screwed up, make sure the case is tight.”
“That was the idea. And if you could do me a favor, I’d like to come out of all this with a Detective Agency license.”
“Yeah, I surely owe you a favor.” Beach shook his head. He took a deep breath, looked down at Earl Johnson. “Your first case.”
I nodded. Felt something stir inside me. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t the thrill of victory. It definitely wasn’t what I’d done to Earl Johnson, which simply struck me as unpleasant but necessary. What was it? Usefulness, maybe. I felt useful. Delores Bernstein would be glad I’d solved the case. I couldn’t be sure it would make her feel much better to know why her husband was killed, but at least she’d have a reason, and I hoped it would bring some closure. I knew something about the need for that.
“Not bad,” Beach said. “What else do we need to do before I call an ambulance and bring in the real deputies to mop this place up?”
“Sam’s down at Bobby G’s house in Scottsdale. She tailed him home from Cactus Joe’s after I talked to you earlier. I wanted to make sure we didn’t lose track of him tonight. If Earl here wakes up, I think you’ll be able to get him to finger Bobby G for the theft. I’ve got a nice confession to that effect on my iPhone if you need it. But I’d rather you guys get your own confession.”
“Something wrong with yours?”
I didn’t answer that. The confessions of Earl Johnson were obtained in a manner perhaps inconsistent with posse protocols. There were some things even my best friend didn’t need to know. “Best if you get your own.”
Beach looked at me long. Pursed his lips and nodded. “We’ll get somebody to pick Bobby G up right away. You think he pulled the trigger?”
“Probably not. He’d have used Yuri Boiko for that. I’m guessing you’ll find the handgun at Boiko’s place. Boiko’s not the smartest shooter around.”
“You got that on your iPhone, too?”
“What do I look like, an amateur?”
Beach laughed out loud. Earl Johnson stirred.
“We’ll work with the Scottsdale police to find Boiko,” Beach said, “grab him soon as we can.”
Chapter 23
We pulled up to the gate in the Jeep on a bright and cool Monday afternoon. SUVs were streaming into country club, bringing kids home from school. The temperature had dropped to around fifty overnight, cool for late April. The weather had shifted, and a few clouds billowed overhead. It was seventy-eight now, said the deejay on KJZZ. The deejay gave an audible shiver when he said it. It was the Valley of the Sun’s version of spring volatility. It was glorious, and it would last only a day. Tomorrow’s high, the deejay predicted: low nineties again.
Mike Martinson came out of the guard shack. “Hey, Mr. Quinn.”
“Hi Mike. This is Sam Marcos. She’s been helping me on the murder case.”
Martinson looked around uncomfortably, not sure if he should say anything.
“It’s all right. Sam knows what you did for me. It’ll stay between us three.”
He nodded. “How’s it going, then?”
“Heading up to tell Delores Bernstein that we’ve solved the case. The bad guys have all been caught.”
“What about Earl?”
“Interestingly, he’s not behind bars.”
Martinson frowned. His stoop seemed to increase.
“For some reason, he had to make a stop at the hospital first. Something about running into a door, then a hard fall, couple things broken. I’m not sure what happened.”
“I see.” Martinson pulled himself up to full height, smiled more than normal, revealing even more of his large teeth. “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, I don’t suppose.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t admit it. But let’s keep that just between us, OK?”
Martinson nodded, then opened the gate and saluted us as we drove through.
***
Delores Bernstein brought coffee in, white cups on the tray. All three of us had some. Her eyes were red from crying.
“I’m so sorry, Delores,” Sam said. “Is there anything we can do?”
“I’ve been crying ever since you phoned to tell me it looked like the murderer had been caught.” She sniffed, then took a deep breath, closed her eyes. “Part of it was relief, an unexpected odd sense of joy that the murderers had been caught.” She opened her eyes and gave Sam a serious stare. “Is that twisted?”
“Not at all,” Sam said. “You needed to know what happened. With that knowledge came some relief. Joy doesn’t seem a stretch from that.”
“Thank you,” Delores said. “Whether that’s true or not, it feels good to hear you say it.” She looked at me. “A lot of the tears today were just the ones I’ve been holding in while you looked into all this. Please tell me everything.”
I went through the whole investigation, start to finish. Delores didn’t show any reaction. Just listened. When I was done, she asked: “Will they all go to jail?”
“The evidence is strong. I just heard before we drove up here that they ran the tests on the gun they found at Yuri Boiko’s place. It’s a match with the bullet they dug out of the garage floor.”
Delores blinked. I lowered my eyes, wished I’d delivered that differently.
“And Earl Johnson confessed this morning,” I added.
“Why did he confess?”
“Let’s just say his arm was twisted a little,” I said. “And there will be a deal made. The sheriff expects he’ll testify against Bobby and Boiko, in exchange for a lighter sentence.”
Delores thought about that a moment. She nodded once to indicate she was OK with such a deal.
“And the Franklin bust?” she asked.
“I wanted to talk to you about that,” I said. “It’s evidence, but I spoke with Jack Beachum on the posse and he says neither the sheriff nor the prosecutor want to hang onto a three million dollar piece of evidence for too long. They’ve photographed it and taken fingerprints, and they’d like to return it to you as soon as possible. You said you were never a big fan of sculpture. I know it might be hard, but I wondered if you’d be willing to part with it. The arrests will be on the six o’clock news tonight, Sam’s colleague at The Republic is writing about it as we speak for the paper. The trial will probably be all over the media, and …”
“I don’t want it here,” she said. “At best, it’d be risking another break-in. At worst, it will be a constant reminder of Tinker’s murder.”
“If you like, we can call Sally McKann at the Franklin Institute. I think she’d be very interested to offer a fair price in exchange for not having to compete at auction. You might not get the best price, but the bust would be in good hands, and finally everyone would have an opportunity to enjoy it.”
“Please do,” Delores said.
“It’s late evening in Philly,” Sam said. “She probably won’t be in.”
“I have her cell.”
Sam raised an eyebrow.
I dialed the number.
“Hi Sally. Eli Quinn.”
“Mr. Quinn. I didn’t expect to hear back from you so soon.”
“We found the Franklin bust.”
“That was fast,” she said. “Usually stolen art isn’t recovered at all. You must be a helluva detective.”
“Or a very lucky one. Either way, I’m one-for-one.”
“Your first case?”
“Yep.”
“Impressive,” she said. “So where is the bust now?”
“The sheriff has it, but to him it’s a hot potato. Delores Bernstein, the wife of the man who bought the bust at auction, would like to see if you could offer a fair price for it, avoid the hassle of another auction, the chance of it eventually getting stolen a third time.”
“That would be favorable,” Sally McKann said. “I’ll run it by the Board of Directors in the morni
ng and give you a call. I think they’ll be keen to add this to our collection, and I know we have the funds.”
I clicked off. “I think you’ll have a buyer by morning,” I told Delores.
I suddenly felt exhausted. Four days of investigating, a couple of fights—quick and not too challenging, but both with my life on the line, not just points in a match—the tension of watching my back, worrying about Delores and Sam. “We should go,” I said.
We went to the door. Delores reached into her purse and pulled out a crisp dollar bill. She handed it to me. I smiled and bowed slightly as I took it.
“Thank you, Mr. Quinn,” she said. “Thank you.”
Chapter 24
The flames of the fire stood straight up, licking the windless night. A dog barked somewhere far off, then it was quiet again.
We sat in the backyard on the iron chairs Jess had picked out, feet up on the fire pit. Solo rested his head on the chair arm, getting a well deserved rubbing all over his head and behind his ears. I inhaled the night, let the exhaustion settle into the chair. Images of Jess flicked through my mind the way they often did whenever I wasn’t thinking on something else. I’d thought about her a little bit less the past four days. It didn’t feel great to think about her less, but it felt necessary. I needed the memory to fade a bit, like an old photograph, so that I could cherish it rather than be absorbed by it. I didn’t want to let the memory go. Knew I never would. Also knew I had to allow my life to move forward. It would happen in steps, many steps, and for the first time in nearly a year, I knew I’d taken a couple.
Through the patio speakers came the southwest-sounding guitar work from the movie August Rush, on a Pandora station started with Zapata’s Boots by Tommy Guerrero. The song relied a little too much on harmonics for my taste, but it was nonetheless music that could sit in the background, not demanding to be listened to. Solo had wandered over to the edge of the flagstone, a corner he favored. He lay prone, a nylon bone between his crossed front paws, gnawing.
“You miss Jess,” she said.
I took a moment to reply. “I do.” I wondered how she knew what I was thinking.
“You always will.”
“I know.”
“If you've a date in Constantinople…”
“… she'll be waiting in Istanbul,” I said.
“Maybe she will be.”
“It’s just a song.”
“And a Jeopardy question.”
“Yeah, easy one.”
We didn’t talk for a few minutes. We watched the fire. It changed every second, the gas-powered flames moving around, emanating from different places in the lava rocks. Steady but random, minds of their own.
“Delores told me she’s going to donate the money from the bust,” Sam said.
“She’s a good woman. I wonder what she’ll do with the insurance money.”
“Going to donate that, too. She said she doesn’t need the money. She’s looking for suggestions. Wants it to go to something that benefits everyone in Pleasant.”
I smiled in the darkness. Much good was coming from the solving of a crime. “I like it when the rich don’t just get richer,” I said. “She’s a really good woman.”
“Glass of wine?” Sam asked. “Beer?”
“Not tonight,” I said. “I’ve been drinking too much lately. For a year, actually. Ever since …”
“It’s OK, Quinn. You don’t have a drinking problem.”
“I wonder sometimes.”
“Do you want a drink tonight?”
“I do.”
“It won’t hurt to have one.”
“I’m not worried about the first one.”
We watched the fire. The quiet stayed quiet. Sam spoke again, almost a whisper.
“Your first case. You solved it pretty damn quick. You don’t seem too happy about it.”
“Not unhappy,” I said. “Tired.”
“Bother you what you did to Earl Johnson?”
“He got what he had coming. And he’ll be fine, at least physically.”
“You got a confession out of him, got him to finger his accomplices. The cops might not have gotten that on their own.”
I nodded. We were both looking at the fire so she probably didn’t see the nod.
“But you hurt him more than you had to.”
“That’s one way to look at it. There was a gun. We scuffled. My instincts took over. I don’t feel bad about what I did.”
We sat. Sam settled into her chair a bit, extended her arms on the iron chair arms.
“I’d have done the same to him,” she said. “Maybe worse, if I were capable. Not sure I wouldn’t kill somebody like that, end it there.”
“Wouldn’t be right to kill him. Just the force necessary to disarm and subdue.”
“Plus maybe a little more.”
“Maybe a little more.”
“You’re a complex man, Eli Quinn.”
“You too,” I said.
We fell into silence again. It was comfortable. More comfortable than ever.
5 DAYS TO LANDFALL
COMING NOV. 14, 2016 FROM
ROBERT ROY BRITT
“A vigorous tale in which a violent, inescapable storm terrorizes everyone, even the villains. Perspectives from multiple characters are a worthy setup for an exhilarating final act, with a relentless hurricane and a frighteningly high body count.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“A page-turner … 5 DAYS TO LANDFALL masterfully blends a fictional thriller with science and history.”
— Bestsellerworld.com
This novel, Britt’s first thriller, is based on real hurricane science and the state of technology, politics and preparedness of 1999. The book jacket blurb:
Amanda Cole, the nation’s top hurricane forecaster, understands nature’s biggest storms better than anyone. And this one terrifies her. New York City is completely unprepared.
The year is 1999. History has been largely forgotten. Residents dismiss the risks, and officials have no evacuation plan. Yet the storm long feared by scientists is barreling toward the city. Meanwhile, a mysterious plot is afoot to sabotage the forecast and any last-ditch efforts to evacuate.
With both her daughter and father in the hurricane’s path, Amanda must unravel the mystery while she races ahead of the fast-moving monster to save her family—and all of New York.
5 DAYS TO LANDFALL will be out in paperback and ebook Nov. 14. You can preorder the ebook now or sign up for the author’s newsletter for updates.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Roy Britt is the author of Closure, Drone and First Kill, the first three books in the Eli Quinn detective mystery series, and the short prequel Murder Mountain. His thriller 5 Days to Landfall will publish Nov. 14. He lives in Arizona with his wife, their youngest son and two dogs. You can visit his website at robertroybritt.com or follow him on Facebook or Twitter. Or sign up for his newsletter.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It took years to muster the time, energy and creativity to write this book. I’m grateful to my family for their encouragement and support. To Allison Wolcott, who believed in me for all those years and offered tremendous perspective that helped shape this book. To R.G., whose incredibly kind and helpful rejection letter seventeen years ago lit a fire. And to my sharp-eyed editor, Lauren Craft, who saves me from extreme embarrassment.
Closure: An Eli Quinn Mystery Page 12