by Donna Ball
I just stood there in silent astonishment, watching him walk away.
~*~
SEVEN
Nineteen hours before the shooting
For the longest time after Miles left, I continued to stare after him, thinking, Oh no, he didn’t. He did not just use the L word for the first time twenty minutes before I had to psych myself up for a run and he did not just walk away without giving me a chance to say anything in return. Was he kidding me? Seriously?
On the other hand, what would I have said? Our relationship was casual. I liked it that way. What was he thinking?
That was just it. He wasn’t thinking. Men rarely are.
By the time I finished walking Cisco and took him over the warm-up jump a couple of times, I’d decided I was making much ado about nothing. Miles hadn’t meant anything. He probably even didn’t remember saying it. Men were such idiots. As I walked the jumpers-with-weaves course with the rest of my group, trying to memorize a complicated S-turn and wondering if I could do a blind cross coming into the second set of weave poles, I started to wonder what kind of man could just toss off “I love yous” so easily. How did you even get into that habit? On the other hand, wasn’t it better to be too free with the words than afraid to say them at all? Or was it?
Standing in line waiting our turn, I came to the conclusion that I was the one who was the idiot and really, I needed to just let it go. Like my mother always said, the only thing more futile than trying to figure out why men did the things they did was trying to figure out what they were thinking when they did them. So I decided to just forget about it.
Unfortunately, in the process, I also forgot the S-turn and the blind cross, sent Cisco into the weave poles backwards, and called him off a jump so abruptly that he knocked the bar. Worse, I’m pretty sure the judge heard me say a bad word in the heat of the moment. No one likes to lose, and the only thing that made it bearable was the way Cisco bounced across the finish line with his tail waving and a big grin on his face, as happy to have blown the course as he’d been to win only a few hours ago. I couldn’t help but laugh. There’s a saying in this game: no matter what happens, you still get to go home with the best dog in the world. And so I did.
Home, for the duration, was the Pembroke Host Inn five miles down the highway from the trial site. I packed up our gear before the event was over—no point waiting for a ribbon you have absolutely no chance of getting, right?—and was back at the hotel by four thirty. Dog people, like elite athletes and senior citizens, like to dine early and be in bed by ten, and I wanted to get to the dining room before the salad bar was reduced to scraps of lettuce and pickled beets.
The hotel was a dog lover’s paradise. It was set far back from the highway and surrounded by a beautifully manicured green lawn in front, which, of course, meant nothing to seasoned dog travelers. We look for long winding paths and big open fields and well-marked dog walk areas with strategically placed trash cans. This one had all of those things, plus the added bonus of a central courtyard onto which all the sliding doors of the dog-friendly rooms opened, so the last doggie pit stop of the night could be made in your slippers and robe, if necessary. All designers of hotels should be so thoughtful. I wanted to nominate them for an award.
I stopped by the room just long enough to feed Cisco one of his specially prepared homemade energy meals from the mini refrigerator—oatmeal, chicken livers, eggs, milk solids, and mixed vegetables—and check my phone messages. Miles had texted twice: How did you do? and Running late. Call you after dinner. Melanie had tweeted two pictures of the Smithsonian that made me smile reminiscently and texted, Go, Cisco! My blue ribbon guy! A later text added, Touring the White House tomorrow. Boooring. Rather see you guys win another ribbon.
I texted back, Tell the Prez I said hi. Then, P.S. Maybe you’ll get to see the First Dog!
By this time Cisco had licked his bowl clean and lapped up half a bowl of water, so I snapped on his expandable leash, tucked the room key and a couple of pick-up bags in my pocket, and took him out for his evening walk. Just as in the Old West a cowboy always took care of his horse first, in the dog world we make sure our dogs are well fed and comfortable before we take care of ourselves. It’s only right.
We went through the hallway door, which led to the parking lot and the big open field beyond, and I noticed a couple of other dog walkers had the same idea. I saw Aggie with Gunny at the edge of the field and waved. She waved back, and we started toward them at a leisurely pace, Cisco in an ecstasy of sniffing the tracks of other dogs. When we reached the edge of the parking lot, I gave him a few extra feet on his expandable leash, and he hurried ahead of me.
I heard a car door slam behind me and glanced around to make certain no other dogs were heading toward us. Marcie was leaning against her blue minivan with one arm wrapped around her chest and the other hand covering her mouth, head bowed, clearly upset. I actually turned to start toward her, and then the driver’s side door opened and a man came around the van. I thought it was Neil until I saw the tender way he took Marcie in his arms to comfort her, and then I realized he was a much bigger man than Neil and quite a bit blonder. He said something in a low tone, and in a moment she nodded and smiled up at him. He kissed her.
“Well, well,” I murmured to myself. But that wasn’t the most surprising thing I saw. When they went around to the back of the van and opened it, two dogs got out—Bryte and Flame. And I distinctly remembered Neil saying he was taking Bryte home.
The man slung the strap of a day bag over his shoulder and they started toward the dog walk area on the other side of the building. It was at that moment that Cisco reached the end of his leash and looked back at me inquiringly. I called him to my side because I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding about who was walking whom, then gave him the full twenty feet of expandable leash in which to explore, and we made our way across the field.
I spent a few minutes chatting with Aggie, and just as we were heading back to the hotel, Cisco saw Brinkley and his mom—whose name I finally discovered was Sarah—coming across the field. Of course there was no way I could take Cisco inside then, so we spent another ten or fifteen minutes letting the three goldens sniff and play-bow and romp with each other as much as their leashes would allow. We made arrangements to meet for dinner in half an hour and started back toward our rooms. The other two women went west and I went east, so I was probably the only one who noticed Marcie and her boyfriend walking the dogs across the field a few hundred feet away. I waved to her, and I know she saw me, but her boyfriend caught her arm quickly and they deliberately turned and went the other way. Odd, but I supposed they wanted privacy. Besides, just then I got another text from Miles and was reminded that I had enough to deal with in my own personal life without borrowing other peoples’ problems.
~*~
EIGHT
Eighteen hours, forty minutes before the shooting
Twice a week, Buck and Wyn met for dinner at a steak house on the highway midway between their two homes. The food was good, and it was usually so late by the time they got there that the family hour was over and the place was relatively quiet. The restaurant was open until midnight, so they could relax in a booth over dessert and coffee for an hour or two and unwind from the day.
Tonight, however, Buck was having a difficult time leaving the day behind. And Wyn, who’d always had one of the keenest detective minds he’d ever known, was just as intrigued as he was over the Berman case. She studied the file over a cup of soft serve vanilla ice cream, her hair falling forward to shadow her face as she absently licked the ice cream off the spoon.
“Bad dude,” she observed, turning a page. “Three assaults, walked on every one. Forgery, fraud, possession… I can’t believe he never did time before this.”
“That’s because he never came up before Judge Stockton before,” Buck said. The red vinyl seat creaked as he leaned back against it, stretching out his legs, sipping his coffee. “Nothing pissed off the judge more
than a criminal who got off on a technicality. The thing is, he didn’t blame the criminal—he blamed the law. And if you were the arresting officer who screwed up and didn’t get the right warrant or forgot to read a Spanish-speaking person his rights in Spanish, he not only made you wish you’d never walked into his courtroom, he’d make you wish you’d never been born before you walked out. He used to say we were the torchbearers, and he would always hold us to a higher standard, because if you couldn’t count on the guys who fought on the side of right, then what were any of us here for?”
Wyn glanced up, smiling. “He sounds like a real old-fashioned hanging judge. Were you ever in his courtroom?”
Buck shook his head. “He retired before I joined the force. But he’s the reason I went into law enforcement, and that’s no lie. As a kid I spent just about as much time over at the Stockton place as I did at my own, and I guess he taught me pretty much everything I know about the justice system… and more than that, about morality and standing up for what was right. He was one of those legends, the kind you read about in books, like Daniel Webster or Justice Holmes… At least he seemed that way to me.” He shrugged a little self-consciously. “A hanging judge? Not really. But he was a stickler for what was right.”
Wyn nodded thoughtfully, scraping up the last spoonful of ice cream from her cup. “So why do you suppose he let this guy plead to second?”
“You got me.”
Wyn finished her ice cream and turned the last page in the file. “Well, I don’t see anything that would trigger an alarm bell here. Did you talk to his parole officer?”
Buck nodded grimly. “He was on a weekly schedule and hasn’t checked in in two weeks.”
“Uh-oh.” Wynn put down her spoon. “That’s not good.”
“No. It’s not.” Buck took a sip of coffee. “According to his parole officer, he was living with his brother and helping him out with his construction business. The brother hasn’t heard from him in a week.”
“That he’ll admit to.”
“Right. He also hasn’t seen one of the company pickup trucks in about that long.”
“So we’ve got a recently released murderer—”
“Second degree,” Buck reminded her.
“Right, second degree murderer that the trial judge was worried about…”
“Nobody said ‘worried,’” Buck corrected. “All Roe said was that the judge wanted to keep an eye on him.”
She leveled a look on him. “Yeah, so maybe the guy was the judge’s long lost illegitimate son or the innocent victim of a frame and he wanted to make sure prison wasn’t too hard on him. The judge was worried about Berman getting out. He served all but five years of his sentence, which means he was no angel in prison. He hasn’t checked in with his parole officer in two weeks and he seems to have gone on the road. So what we have to figure out is what Judge Stockton was worried about. Who did he think this guy would go after when he got out?”
“Yeah.” Buck blew out a breath. “That’s all we’ve got to figure out.”
Wyn said casually, “Did you talk to Raine?”
The two of them had come to an understanding early in their relationship that there was no way to keep Raine’s name from coming up now and again. Buck had known her all his life and had been married to her most of it. Wyn had been friends with Raine before… well, before. All of their lives were entwined, and they always would be. Still, it was awkward. And Buck couldn’t prevent an automatic shifting of his gaze when he heard her name. He didn’t like it when his worlds collided, or even brushed up against one another. He never knew how to react.
“No,” he replied, “the judge never discussed his cases with the family. Besides, that was twenty years ago. She was just a kid. What would she know? Maude might remember something though,” he added. “Maybe I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”
Wyn reached across the table and snagged his pinky finger with her own. “You know,” she reminded him gently, “it was twenty years ago. The person who put in the notification request is dead. I wonder if…”
She let the sentence trail off and started to look away, but Buck held her gaze. “If I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be. And if maybe the reason I’m doing it is because of Raine?”
Wyn pulled her hand away. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Maybe.”
He was silent for a moment, his eyes clear and thoughtful. “I’ve thought about that. If it had been anybody besides Judge Stockton, I might’ve let it go. Maybe I should let it go.”
Wyn said, “But?”
He took another sip of coffee, glanced at his cup, and set it on the table. “But,” he said simply, “my gut tells me that would be a big mistake.”
She looked at him for a time, saying nothing. Then she nodded once, slowly, and opened the file again. “Okay,” she said. “So let’s start at the beginning. 9:15 p.m., some guy bearing a striking resemblance to Berman robs the Cash-n-Carry on Highway 11 of two thousand sixty-four dollars, in the process shooting one Gerald Sailor, night clerk, who later died of his injuries. Witnesses claimed that in the act of making his escape, the perpetrator scraped his vehicle—a reddish-brown Chevy pickup truck—against the pylon next to the pumps. No security tape, huh?”
Buck shook his head. “It was just a mom-and-pop place. Still is, I guess, but now they have cameras at the pumps and behind the register. Too many people driving off without paying, with the price of gas so high. I get a call two or three times a week.”
“Do you ever catch them?”
He shrugged. “If they’re local. If not, I turn it over to the state patrol. But I guess the cameras are worth it for the small business owner now. Back then, not so much.”
Wyn looked back down at the file. “Two hours later, Berman is stopped for DUI with two thousand fourteen dollars in cash in his glove box and a pistol matching the description of the one used in the robbery, along with a receipt from the Cash-n-Carry. Too bad the machine didn’t time stamp it. His vehicle, a primer-painted 1989 Chevy pickup, showed damage on the right front fender with streaks of green or blue paint.” She glanced up at him. “So the only thing I’m wondering is why a guy would pay for twenty dollars worth of gas, save the receipt, and then rob the cash register at gunpoint.”
Buck frowned a little. “He was stoned. Who knows why they do the crazy things they do?” But the way he said it made her think he’d asked the same question.
“Who was his lawyer?”
“Court appointed. Don Kramer.”
“Senior?”
“Junior. He would’ve been just starting out then. Naturally his old man would give him all the grunt work.”
“Still, he must have done an interview.”
Buck’s lips tightened with a dry smile. “I need you back on the force.”
“You just let me know when you make up your mind.”
He reached for the folder with a small shake of his head. “Who am I kidding? I don’t have time to go chasing down clues on a twenty-year-old crime. If there was anything there to see, Roe would’ve seen it. And I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“What you’re looking for,” Wyn reminded him simply, “is answers. Why Judge Stockton thought it was important to keep tabs on this guy for twenty years. Why he hasn’t checked in with his parole officer in two weeks. What one thing has to do with the other.”
“Which is probably nothing.” Buck picked up the check. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Long drive home.”
“So,” Wyn said as they stood at the register and waited for the clerk to swipe Buck’s credit card, “what’s the verdict?”
“About what?”
“You know about what. The one thing you haven’t brought up all night.”
He draped an arm around her shoulders as they walked out into the night. There were only a handful of cars in the parking lot, scattered like islands in a misty sea of mercury vapor lights. He said, “I talked to a guy in Asheville. He said they were going to
have some openings in the police department next month.”
She stopped walking and looked up at him. “You? Leave Hanover County?”
He said, “We talked about it. Maybe picking up and starting over some place new.”
“Yeah, but… I thought you meant Fiji or Belize or some deserted Pacific island somewhere.”
He laughed softly. “Yeah, well, baby steps. Your folks are up that way,” he added, watching her, “and it would be good to work together again. That is, if you’d be interested…”
She bumped his arm gently with her shoulder. “Dope. I’m making twelve fifty an hour walking patrol around the hospital parking lot and living in a furnished studio apartment. Anything is a step up from that. But you’ve lived in Hansonville all your life. All your friends are there. Everybody knows you… You’d win the election, you know. Who would run against you? And more importantly, who would be better at the job?”
He replied simply, “I’ll never be another Roe Bleckley. Maybe it’s time I made my own place in the world.”
He walked her to her car and waited while she unlocked the door. She had parked next to a streetlight, its base protected by a florescent yellow concrete bumper. Buck stared at the bumper, frowning a little. “Say, Wyn,” he said, “you’ve been to the Cash-n-Carry, right?”
She glanced up at him as she slid into the driver’s seat of her car, her face illuminated by the glow of the courtesy lights. “Sure. I stop there to fill up every time I leave your place.”
“You remember what color the pylons are at the pumps?”
She was thoughtful for a minute. “I want to say yellow. Maybe that’s just because most of them are. Safety yellow.”
“Yeah,” said Buck. “Most of them are. I wonder if there was ever a time when they were painted green?”
“And if not,” said Wyn, catching on immediately, “how did green paint get on Berman’s truck?”
“And why didn’t his lawyer follow up on that?”