“You do realize those prints could be any store clerk from here to wherever?” Philip said.
“I know,” Dave said. “The killer took the money out of the wallet. I’m thinking he was at least tempted to take the cards. If he was tempted he might have touched them.”
“You convince a judge and I’ll go with you,” Philip said. “But I don’t think you’ll get a warrant.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Dave said, standing. “I have to go. I have a meeting with Judge Werner.”
“Judge Joyce ‘not in my court’ Werner?”
“The one and only.”
“And you think she’ll give you a warrant?”
“She won’t if I don’t ask.”
“Good luck,” Philip said. “You’ll need it.”
“Werner and I go way back,” Dave said.
“I thought she didn’t like you,” Philip furrowed his brow.
“She doesn’t,” Dave said. “But she isn’t going to deny a warrant because of a personal grudge.”
“She will on lack of evidence,” Philip said. “And the fact she doesn’t like you means she won’t give you any leeway. You’re going to have to be very convincing.”
“I will be,” Dave said. “I know Bolder is our man and I’m not letting him get away with murder. I’ll be right back.”
Chapter 35
(The Garage)
Sarah had never been inside the freestanding building in the nine years she was married to Allan. There was no room inside for her car and she never did the yard work. So, she never had reason to go out to the dark, drab building that housed the lawnmower. Of course, Allan had not done the yard work for years either. She was not surprised to find the door locked.
Searching the kitchen she found the key in a drawer she and Allan used as a catchall for miscellaneous items with no true home. The key was on a ring with a small tape measure. There were no other keys on the ring and no identifying marks. She knew it was the right key as soon as she saw it.
The lock slid open with an audible click. She looked over her shoulder half expecting someone to jump out of the bushes and grab her where she stood. Her hands trembled like an alcoholic in withdraw and wasn’t sure why. She hesitated, trying to steal her nerves.
When ready, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. Feeling the wall inside for and finding a switch, she turned on the light inside. The garage was full of old lawn equipment and pieces of furniture she didn’t recognize, apparently stored there years before.
There was a workbench against the back wall with an assortment of dust covered tools she couldn’t picture Allan knowing what to do with. There were a number of small appliances on the bench in various stages of dissection. The parts and pieces were spread out evenly and covered with a thick layer of dust and spider webs. She was reminded of an old movie about a haunted house she watched as a young girl. She got the feeling no one had been inside the garage in years and her heart sunk. It was looking more and more like an ordinary garage used for storage.
Turning to leave she noticed the footprints in the dust. They were larger than hers and she tried to imagine the size of Allan’s shoes. The prints led to the back of the garage where some shelving stood away from the wall. She followed the prints around the shelving and discovered a door hidden from view. Her spirits lifted and her heart raced. She grabbed the knob and turned. Locked.
She fumbled with the key that had let her into the garage and slid it into the lock. She twisted. The key did not turn. She twisted it the opposite way to no avail. She pulled the key out with a groan. Only Allan would keep the key to the inside door separate from the key to the outside door. She stormed out of the garage and back into the house trying to think of places Allan may have hidden the other key.
She imagined Allan carefully hiding the key behind a favorite book on a shelf, standing on a step stool and tucking it away in the back of one of the kitchen cabinets, or even hiding it in the freezer below some of the frozen dinners he never ate. As each vision crossed her mind, she discounted them as not being what the Allan she knew would do. There was something very basic about the way Allan made his decisions. Keep it simple. Paranoid, but simple.
She went to Allan's office, sat in his chair and looked through the drawers of the desk. She studied the shelves and the items on the desk. It wasn’t too long ago she was in this room polishing everything in sight to remove any sign of Allan’s fingerprints. She never noticed a key or anything he might have hidden a key in. She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly.
There was a portrait of her on the wall above the leather wingback chair sitting in the corner. She hated the photo in the ornate gold frame. She gave it to him for his birthday about seven years ago. Looking at it now, she thought it wasn’t such a bad photo after all. She was younger when it was taken. It was amazing what time did to your perspective. Allan loved the photo and insisted on hanging it where he could see it while he worked. She argued, eventually giving in knowing no one else would ever see it. Now, looking at it from where Allan sat, she noticed something she never had before. It didn’t hang flat against the wall.
She stood and walked to where the portrait hung. She reached up with both hands and pulled it off its nail and down into her arms. On the back, near the center there was an envelope taped to the cardboard backing. The envelope was taped face down so the flap was out. It was unsealed. She slid her hand into the envelope. Her fingers met something cool, metallic. She withdrew a standard looking house key with no chain. She turned it over in her hand and examined it. She observed the way the grooves ran down the sides and how the teeth formed a jagged line along the upper edge.
This was the key. She knew it as sure as she had known the other was the one to the garage. She stood and walked through the house, outside and into the garage. At the door behind the shelves she hesitated wondering what she would find behind the locked door. She slid the key into place and turned it. The door unlatched and swung open. Beyond the door was darkness. She felt inside along the wall for a light switch, without success. She ran into the house to get a flashlight she kept in the kitchen. A few minutes later she was standing outside the door again shining the narrow beam of light into the room behind the garage. Her jaw dropped at what she saw.
There were stacks of boxes lining the walls. There were filing cabinets among the boxes and piles and piles of books. Allan’s books. He must have stored hundreds of copies of his published novels in this room. The file cabinets contained everything from rough drafts to final drafts of the books he had written both published and unpublished. The boxes contained more of the same. Sarah estimated there were at least a dozen finished novels she had never seen, never had the chance to edit. It was a gold mine to keep her appearance as the true author. All she would need to do is edit these manuscripts and turn them in as her own work. She could make a living without really having to work.
The task at hand though was to find a copy of the latest draft of his most recent novel. To do that she started close to the door opening boxes one at a time looking for the last piece of Allan’s work she edited. Looking through all the titles and page after page of stories she wondered how Allan found the time to write it all. She wondered why Allan never shared this stash of work with her. She lifted the lid off a box and all of her questions were forgotten. She had found what she was looking for.
Chapter 36
(Ducks in a Row)
“Is your time valuable to you, Detective Parker?”
Judge Joyce Werner sat at her desk eating a salad and drinking water from a bottle. She was not pleased to see Dave arrive five minutes late for an appointment he requested. She intended he know it.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dave said.
“So is mine to me,” Judge Werner said. “I have court in fifteen minutes. I need to eat my lunch and make a couple of calls before I go. So, make this quick and make it good. I don’t have time for games.”
“You never change,” Dave said.
She raised her fork and pointed it at him. There was fire in her eyes. “Dave, if you have something for me spit it out. Otherwise, get the hell out of my chambers.”
“I need a warrant,” Dave said.
“What do you have?”
“I have a dead man with fingerprints on his credit card that don’t belong to him,” Dave said. “I believe the killer looked at the card when he stole the victim’s money. I believe I know who the killer is and I need a warrant to get the man’s fingerprints for comparison.”
“Those prints could belong to anyone the victim made a purchase from and you know it,” Joyce said. “I can’t give you a warrant unless you can give me a valid reason for believing the suspect was the killer.”
“The suspect was living in the victim’s cabin. The victim was supposed to be going to the cabin on the night of his death,” Dave said.
“Was the victim killed at this cabin?”
“We don’t know.”
“Have you searched the cabin?”
“Cabin burned down,” Dave said. “Another body in it.”
“Really?”
“Can I have my warrant?”
“You can’t prove the victim was at the cabin,” Joyce said. “You don’t have any other connection between the two men I assume?”
“No.”
“And you want me to issue a warrant for this man’s prints?”
“Yes,” Dave said. “This man is guilty. I know it. Philip knows it. And we are close to proving it. We just need the warrant.”
“Where is Detective Smalls?”
“Following a lead.”
“A lead to help you prove your argument?”
“No.”
“No?”
“He’s following another angle,” Dave said.
“Another angle?” Joyce cocked her head. “I thought he ‘knew’ this suspect was guilty. Why isn’t he here to help you argue for this warrant?”
“He might not be as positive as I am,” Dave shrugged.
“If I give you this warrant,” Joyce asked, “how much of a headache am I going to have?”
“None,” Dave said.
“None?”
“He’s guilty,” Dave said. “As sure as I’m sitting here, he’s guilty.”
“Why isn’t your partner on board with you?”
“He’s young,” Dave said. “He still has things to learn. I’m working on him. Sometimes it helps to let him run his own investigation. That’s how he learns.”
“And he can’t possibly be right?”
“Not a chance.”
“You never change do you, Dave?”
“I try not to,” Dave said.
“Maybe you should.”
“Change?”
“Try,” Joyce said. “If you at least tried, maybe you wouldn’t be so alone.”
Dave sat looking at her for a long time before saying anything. “Do I get my warrant or not?”
“Fine,” Joyce said reaching for the form. “I’ll give you your warrant. Just understand if you’re not right, you will never get another one without proof in writing signed by the suspect.”
“You won’t regret this,” Dave said.
“I already do,” she answered handing him the paper.
Chapter 37
(The Warrant)
Allan and the Cutters were preparing for dinner when the doorbell rang. Henry grumbled something about the fall of society and how not so long ago no one would consider showing up unannounced during the dinner hour. The bell rang again and Henry ignored it. Allan sat across from him not dreaming of answering the door in someone else’s home. Mrs. Cutter drifted in and out of the dining room as she set the evening meal on the table. A few minutes later the ringing stopped. The three of them sat and began eating.
The bell started ringing again, repeatedly. There was an insistence to it that caused Henry's brow to furrow.
“For goodness sakes,” Mrs. Cutter said rising from her seat.
“Sit back down,” Henry said. “I’ll get it.”
“Okay,” she said. “But don’t be rude. You’re always so rude.”
“I am not rude,” Henry said. “I’m direct. I’ll tell them what I think then slam the door in their face.”
“That’s rude,” Mrs. Cutter said.
“No, dear,” he said. “Rude is ringing the bell like a monkey during dinner.”
Henry left the room and walked down the hall to the front door. On the way he picked up a thick wooden walking stick. He yanked the door open making sure the walking stick was visible.
Outside on the porch the two detectives from the cabin fire were standing side by side with serious expressions on their faces. They were surprised to see anger in the elder man's eyes. They took note of the walking stick and shifted their stances to prepare to defend themselves if needed.
“What do you want?” the man asked.
“We are sorry to bother you . . . ,” Dave started.
“Then why do it?”
“Sir, we are here to see Jack Bolder,” Philip said. “May we . . . ?”
“He’s sitting at the dinner table,” the rancher said. “You shouldn’t disturb a man’s dinner. It’s not polite.”
“We apologize,” Dave said. “This can’t wait. We need to see Mr. Bolder. Now, either he comes to us or we come in and find him ourselves.”
Henry stood unwavering. The detectives evaluated the situation, wondering if the man was stalling so Bolder could get away. They shifted uneasily, preparing to rush in. Henry looked from one to the other and grumbled again.
“Wait in the living room,” he snapped. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Maybe we should come with you,” Philip suggested.
“Maybe you should feel lucky I’m letting you in at all,” Henry said. “Living room’s in there.”
Henry returned to the dining room while the detectives hesitantly made their way to the living room. Dave stood in the doorway watching Henry’s progress. In the dining room, Henry grumbled and told Allan the detectives were there.
Allan rose hesitantly and slowly made his way down the hall. He could see one of the detectives standing half in the hall watching him. The detective stepped into the hall as Allan approached, gesturing for him to enter the living room. Allan complied and found himself standing between the two men. He sidestepped and turned so he could see both their faces and looked at them with as much courage as he could muster, which wasn’t much.
“How can I help you?” Allan’s words caught in his throat. He cleared it nervously, looking from one to the other.
“Mr. Bolder, we are here to serve a warrant,” Philip said with authority.
“A warrant?” Allan was stunned. “You’re arresting me?”
“No, sir,” Dave said. “We’re just here for your fingerprints.”
“My fingerprints?” Allan turned to the older detective. “Why?”
“We need to check it against some prints we found to eliminate you as a suspect,” Dave assured him.
“Suspect? Prints?” Allan asked. “Where did you find them?”
“Mr. Bolder,” Philip said. “We have a warrant. Why don’t we get this over with so you can get back to your dinner?”
“My name is not Jack Bolder,” Allan insisted.
“We know,” Dave said with a heavy sigh. “You think you’re Allan Tuttle.”
“I am Allan Tuttle,” Allan whined.
“Your prints,” Dave snapped. “Easy or hard. Makes no difference to us.”
Allan held out his hand as Philip took out a portable fingerprint ink and pad. The detective reached for Allan’s hand noting how badly the man was shaking.
“Can you at least tell me where you found the prints?”
“On the victim’s credit card,” Dave said. “Do you remember touching his card?”
“His card?” Allan’s eyes widened. “You mean Allan Tuttle’s card. My card. Of course my prints will be on my card.”
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“So you admit touching the victim’s wallet?”
“Yes,” Allan said. “I mean, no. I mean, I touched my wallet. My credit card. I don’t know the victim. I don’t even know there is a victim. How could there be? I’m Allan Tuttle and I’m obviously not dead.”
“There is definitely a victim,” Philip said rolling Allan’s fingers in the ink and then on the pad. “He’s lying down at the morgue with his skull smashed in.”
Allan’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. He looked at the detectives. An image swept through his mind, the image of Edgar Allan Poe. A single thought followed. What had he done?
“Did you say his head was smashed in?” Allan said in a defeated voice.
“Yes, why?” Dave stepped forward.
“My, God,” Allan said. “I may be guilty.”
Chapter 38
(Gary Rivers)
“Mr. Rivers, Sarah Tuttle is on the phone,” Stephanie announced, “again.”
‘No Stone Unturned’ by Sarah Tuttle was not the best novel Gary had ever read, but it was very good. He understood why Hollywood was interested in it. There were enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing through the entire novel and in the end the answer to the mystery was unexpected yet believable. It was probably the best work Gary ever represented. He was well under way to making things happen.
First he called the Hollywood contacts in the file to explain who he was and what had happened to Mike. He refreshed their memory of the novel and arranged to meet with them to complete the contract. He contacted two of his favorite publishers to discuss publication. A novel, soon to be a movie, was always an easy sell. By the time he finished the read, there were two bids on the table.
Sarah called him too often, the kind of client that would normally drive him to drop her. With contracts pending, he only repeated for her to remain patient. He was working out the best deal he could for her and would let her know as soon as he had the good news.
It seemed to him she was trying to rush the process a little more than was usual for an experienced author who should know how the system worked. He understood she thought this sale was going to take place weeks ago when Mike flew to the West Coast. She may have anticipated the income and jumped the gun spending. She may also just be behind on her bills. If creditors were calling her, she would be looking forward to a sale so she could pay them.
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