The 6:10 To Murder (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 3)

by Linda L. Dunlap

  Captain James Patterson, the commander of the Homicide unit of Madison, supervised one lieutenant and four detectives of the section, as well as those of the Criminal Investigation Division. Patterson had received his appointment as captain due in great deal to two cases solved by Maude and Joe. James Patterson was a man who wanted to go places in the department, but even more than that, he wanted to be known for his ability to get cases solved. He chose smart, savvy people to work under him whenever he could. His wife Celia, or Ceely, as he called her, wore the invisible police star around the house, issuing orders as she needed things done.

  Five feet ten and on the thin side, Captain Patterson seemed a bigger man than he really was; his manner gruff and sometimes hurried. In his fifties he had started shaving his head to avoid the balding that was part of his dad’s and mother’s families. Two uncles had slick skulls, and his old man’s hair began turning loose before it changed colors. James knew he was destined for it, so went with it. A blue cap with a visor matched his daily uniform, an almost formal look, but nice nonetheless. Off duty, an Astros cap hugged his head all day, shading brown eyes and a nose that was squashed too many times when he was young. He appeared intelligent at first glance; his way of staring at someone made them think he could see deep beyond the normal human scope. He couldn’t really read people that well, just looked the part, so he used it to his advantage. No one could blame him for that. He fooled most, but not Maude Rogers, his best detective. Maybe she could see into people and know when they were full of crap.

  Whatever the reasons for his success, the captain had a good thing going and didn’t intend to let anyone mess with him or his detectives. The lieutenant spot had yet to be filled, and probably wouldn’t be as long as Patterson could manage from above. Money was tight in the department.

  The previous captain had hated Maude, and had been determined to break her so she’d resign. What he didn’t realize was she intended to hang on to her job until retirement, even if it meant putting up with cops and criminals picked from the same tree.

  That morning when Maude was burning up with the need for a drink, the captain was in the office, grabbing a quick cup, anxious to get on upstairs before someone tied him down. He looked over the reports on the desk, scanning them for anything of interest. Maude’s first page about the missing woman report by the son didn’t stir the captain’s interest much. He seemed to think it was probably a hoax and not related to the incident on the tracks. Maude gave him a look, determined to not lose her temper. She was afraid of what might happen if she let it go.

  “Whatever you think, boss,” she said, responding to his remarks. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to follow up on it, just in case.” Her belly was screaming, the need for alcohol burning its way there. She began to wonder what made her choose this time to quit drinking. Quit…drinking. She hadn’t thought of it that way, hadn’t considered quitting. Sweating, she ran to the bathroom, leaving Patterson looking at her retreating back. Barely making it to the toilet, Maude sat on the floor and leaned over on her hands, letting the bile string out of her mouth. The porcelain was cold against her skin, the smell of bleach from last night’s cleaning burning her nose. Finally the spasms went away, and a little cold water seemed to settle her churning insides. The headache was back, terrible and relentless. She reached in her pocket for the ibuprofen and decided to wait, and take some Excedrin and antacids.

  “I’m a terrible mess,” she said to no one, the words falling out of her mouth. “Gotta catch a murderer, don’t have time to be sick.”

  After rising from the floor with the help of the handicap bar beside the seat, Maude made her way back to the squad room, eyeing the people who had come in after she made the mad dash to the bathroom. The only one she was looking for was Eberhart. She found him at his desk, a cup of coffee sitting in front, a few grains of sugar still on the rim.

  “Got a minute?” she asked him.

  “Sure, how can I help?” He was all attention then, seeing her face, her posture. “You did it, didn’t you? Made it twenty-four hours without a drink.”

  “Yeah, not sure why. But I did. What do I do now? How long will this puking last?”

  “Most of the day. But it gets less and less. Keep your lunch hour open.”

  “Couldn’t eat if I tried,” she said, headed to the coffeepot. After lacing a cup with three spoons of sugar, Maude went back to her desk and sat down, the sweet brew in front of her. Sipping a little, she began to feel better. The water bottle in her pocket came out and she sipped it, not anxious to run back to the restroom.

  Joe had been out in the foyer talking to another detective about an old burglary case, and made his way back to the desk across from Maude. “You all right, partner?”

  “Hope so,” she said, and tasted the coffee slowly, watching the clock.

  “Got a new case came in last night. Frieda picked it up in our ballpark. Want to check it out?”

  “What was it, Joe?”

  “Looks like a robbery gone bad. Perp broke into the Northside Pawn about midnight. Manager had worked late, getting the books together. Owner said he did that on high sale days, the rules, you know. Must have been a good payday yesterday. Manager’s name was Marlin Thompson, white male, about twenty-five, shot between the eyes. One bullet was all it took. Still, perp did some shooting for fun, looked like. Broke window cases, glass doors. Some jewelry taken, moneybag gone. Our case if we want it.”

  “Sure, I need to stay busy. Got something to do at lunchtime, though. Have to break away for a while.”

  “No problem, Maude. I can do some follow-up, see what the crime scene boys and girls found out. Would rather have been called out for it, but seems Frieda was in town, at a restaurant near there, and picked it up.”

  “Maybe we can get enough info from the pictures and evidence. Did you talk to Frieda?” She was feeling a little better, her head not so bad after three Excedrin.

  “Yeah. He said it was pretty straightforward. Guy behind the counter, lying on the floor near the desk, might have tried for a gun. A .45 was in the drawer, registered to Wallace Avery, store owner. Maybe he was shot before he had time to get it.”

  Maude thought about the scene, wondering about the reckless shooting. “Sounds like it was personal. Who shoots up a pawnshop? A waste of time and noise. Sure, let’s take it. Maybe captain will let us beg off the parade tomorrow. Tell him we’re too busy.”

  “Okay. Fine with me. Still, I was looking forward to seeing some pretty girls riding in convertibles,” Joe said, grinning.

  “Then you go, that’ll take his eyes off me,” she said, thinking ahead. Jeez, she hated parades, especially when the boss wanted to show off.

  “I’ll sacrifice for the cause,” Joe said. “Meanwhile, what do you want me to do?”

  “Let’s go to the pawnshop, look around. See what happened,” she said. “Burglary and murder make fine bedfellows,” she said, quoting a book she’d read somewhere. Maude’s head was starting to swell again, or at least it felt like it. Her mouth was dry but she was scared to drink too much, fearing it would come up and she’d start vomiting again. Walking a little slowly to keep from getting woozy, she neared Eberhart’s desk and spoke to him quietly, asking where to meet him later. He told her the name of the church where the meetings were held and said she could go on in if he wasn’t outside.

  “Yeah, okay, see you there,” she said, her voice hoarse from vomiting.

  Eberhart looked across the room where Maude had gone, and wondered if she would make it. After so many years of depending on gin to ease her troubles, she might not be able to stay away from booze. He remembered his own nights of sweating and seeing snakes. Quitting was easy; you just don’t do it anymore. One day at a time. But staying quit with all the stress in a cop’s life was hard. He could testify. Hallelujah, he was sober today.

  Bob Eberhart was a dark-skinned man with a bald pate, his eyes dark and kind, patient—a man like him would have to have great tolerance to
continue working with Alfred Wheeler, his partner. Tall and big all around, Eberhart had a sense of himself; his character filled out, not defined by others, but by the strength within the man. It was that strength that drew Maude to his words. He gave her hope.

  The Northside Pawnshop was on the east side of Madison, just off the dividing line where north becomes east. The two detectives discussed the misnomer, and decided the owner didn’t want to associate his business with the lower economy eastern part of the city. Joe drove the city vehicle, trying to remember where the business was located without using a GPS. A quirk of his, but he enjoyed the hunt when there was time. That Tuesday was setting up to be a busy one, so Joe didn’t have any playtime; he quickly programmed his phone for the address, and began making his way there. Maude was sitting against the passenger door, looking as though she was going to jump and run. Joe had seen some perps with that look. He wondered about his partner’s problem, but was sure that whatever it was, it wouldn’t interfere with the job.

  Getting out of the car took all her effort, but once out, the brisk wind revived her, taking her mind off the drum beating in her brain. A small drugstore was next to the pawnshop, and she nodded at Joe then darted inside, searching the counter for vitamins. Bob had told her to start taking multivitamins with thiamine, and to drink lots of fluid. She found what she needed and popped a handful, downing them with a pint of lime-flavored sports drink. The shock to her stomach had her gagging at first, but she held it down, apologizing to the clerk, who stared vacantly at the empty drink bottle in Maude’s hand.

  “Getting the flu,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  The pawnshop smelled of sulfur and smoke and the unmistakable odor of blood. A puddle had begun to dry behind the counter, and even with the markers left by the crime scene investigators, there was plenty of it undisturbed. Maude figured the manager must have died from blood loss rather than the injury. There were pieces of glass on most of the floor tiles, glass that came from the jewelry and merchandise display windows. They were all blown out. The noise must have been incredible, she thought. On and on the firing continued around the room. The clerk was shot first, or they would have seen some sign he tried to defend himself or run.

  Joe was busy taking notes and talking to the owner, after calling and asking him to come to the scene, maybe help out with some answers to their questions. The man’s name was Wallace Avery, a fiftyish, pale-skinned man with watery blue eyes, and oily light brown hair. He was dressed in brown slacks, white shirt, and a brown with white dotted bow tie. Avery seemed overwhelmed by the violence around him.

  “Mr. Avery, this is Maude Rogers, my partner. We’ll both be asking some questions. Is there a back room where we could sit for a few minutes?”

  “Sure,” Avery said, “follow me,” leading them to a small room with a padlock on the outside. “Just a minute,” he said, pulling his keys from his pocket. I keep this door locked.”

  “Was it locked last night, Mr. Avery?” Maude asked.

  “Oh, yes, it’s always locked if I’m not here. I keep the pawn receipts and payments, plus the more valuable jewelry is put away each night, inside the safe.”

  “So you had most everything locked up last night?” she asked, then swallowed a few times to get rid of nausea.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry Marlin had to die for a few pieces of jewelry. I guess the man who killed him didn’t know we kept everything locked away. Or maybe Marlin wouldn’t give him the keys. Seems strange, the way that happened.”

  Maude nodded. “Most crimes don’t make any sense.”

  Joe pulled up chairs around a small table.

  “Sit down, Maude. Take a load off,” he said, knowing she was suffering.

  She looked at him gratefully, her eyes bloodshot as though she’d pulled a real drunk the night before, but he knew better. She wasn’t herself; he could see the pain in her face.

  Joe decided to ask a few questions himself. He talked to Avery about the people who normally came in the shop, if anyone had been hanging around suspiciously lately. Avery told him people did that regularly at a pawnshop, eyeing the merchandise from their defaulted loans.

  “We have to threaten to call the cops every now and again,” he said, shaking his head. “But nothing lately.”

  “Did your manager have any enemies?”

  “None that I know, but then, Marlin kept to himself. He did his job and never talked about his personal life.” Avery pushed his glasses back, the strain of losing an employee to murder telling on the man. He shrugged and rearranged the bow tie a little, getting more room to breathe, his shirt collar wet from sweat. Avery reached into a pants pocket, extracted a white handkerchief, and began mopping his forehead and eyes with one corner.

  “Mr. Avery, do you have any enemies who would like to see you suffer?” Maude asked, eyeing the man’s distress.

  The store owner was silent for a minute then nodded once. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “There’s a man I knew many years ago; a friend, I once thought, but now I don’t know. He was in my store a few days ago, standing at the front door, not saying anything. I recognized him and spoke out, said hello, but he stared at me, almost as if he hated me, then he left.” Avery mopped his face again, sweating more.

  “Does this man have a name?” Maude asked, her fingers shaking as she began to write in her book.

  “Yes, Phillip Mason, from Woodsboro, a small town outside Detroit.”

  “Detroit, Michigan?” she asked, trying to process what he had said.

  “Yes, I lived in Detroit once myself and knew him from there. Phillip and I had known each other in the Army. We met during Desert Storm. I got out of the Army soon after and started a business in a small jewelry store. Phillip looked me up when his time was over in the Army, and invested his savings in the store. That made us partners, though not equal. We had an argument over his demands for full partnership. By that time, I didn’t trust his business sense and bought him out. He became very angry with me, but it was in the contract we had both signed: if at any time we could no longer work together, I could buy him out. Because I didn’t know him very well in the beginning, I protected my store with the clause in the contract.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “So later, what, you came here?”

  “Yes, I stayed in Woodsboro for years and built my business into a very profitable one. Then I sold it for a profit and moved here. A month later, I invested in this shop and never saw Phillip again until three days ago.”

  “So you think this Phillip Mason might have a big gripe with you and took it out on your manager and your shop?” Joe asked.

  “I…I am not sure of anything. I only know he glared at me as though he wanted to kill me.”

  The two detectives looked at one another, recognizing the perp might have just been given a motive. Revenge served cold. But why not wait until the shop was open then shoot Avery? Why shoot Thompson? Was the murderer confused and shot the wrong man? If so, how did it go down? Maude had to wonder if it made sense. She knew they would have to find Phillip Mason. In the meantime, they could get the facts from the crime scene investigators. Maybe tie him to the crime. They thanked Avery and left, said they would be in touch. He nodded, his thoughts far away. Maybe a place near Detroit, Maude thought.

  Outside the office they looked the scene over again. Maude turned and asked Avery if there was camera footage. He said the camera lens had been shot out by some toughs a few weeks earlier, but he believed the back-up smaller camera was working the night before. He said he had the previous films that might help to identify Phillip Mason. Avery got up from the table, unlocked a drawer, and removed a digital card.

  “This is from the last few days. Probably since last Thursday. Phillip was here that day, I think.”

  “Give us the video for the last month,” Maude said. “We’ll need you to identify your friend if he’s here.”

  “Sure,” Avery said. “As soon as you need me.”

  After making a few mor
e notes, the detectives left, and drove to the county building where evidence was processed. All the city-county work was coordinated through a criminal justice building under the heading of Criminal Investigation Division. The county morgue was next door, and Maude hoped to catch Doctor Keller, the pathologist, in—failing that, she would be just as glad to talk to his part-time man, Theodore Hollingsworth, who had already steered her in the right direction.

  The technicians from the lab hadn’t processed their information, and when Joe went in asking for the findings, he got what they had to offer, but it wasn’t much. No fingerprints back yet except on Marlin Thompson, the manager. Pawnbrokers were fingerprinted for jobs because of fraud opportunities, selling gold and gems and laundering stolen and counterfeit money. There were few prints on the scene due to the broken glass from the showcases. What they really needed was lead from the bullets and any empty casings left behind by the killer. Joe asked and was told there were no casings found, but some lead had been removed from the wall. Once they found the gun it could be matched.

  Maude had a little better luck talking to Holly. He said the killer had used a .45 automatic, firing two bullets into Marlin Thompson at close range. An enormous amount of firepower had been used in the pawnshop as Maude saw it, a terrible load of revenge if that was the motive. She left the morgue with the promise that more information would be forthcoming when the autopsy was finished. Holly told her the initial report on Eve Devine should be on the Homicide desk.

  Chapter 9

  She made it to the car before her stomach began acting up again, the need for a drink turning her inside out. She knew it was going to get worse before it got better. Add that to the arthritis in her knees, and Maude was ready to find a place and get drunk. If it hadn’t been for the promise she’d made to Bob Eberhart, she might have done just that. Instead, she made her way back to the city car and found Joe waiting for her. She asked him to drop her off at the small church three blocks from the Cop Shop. He didn’t ask why, just said okay, waiting for her to tell him. Looking out the window, she kept silent, then opened the door and got out when he stopped the car.