Danger Returns in Pairs (Shawn Danger Mysteries Book 2)

by Nina Post

  Shawn didn't want to get involved, not yet, not unless he had to. He'd wait until the police who handled this kind of thing arrived.

  "Can't you see it?" The skinny man's voice was high and strained. "Can't you tell?"

  Shawn called the station and spoke briefly to a detective there, then started walking again. He heard, "We need to close this multiverse and get in the right timeline!"

  The guy was probably off his meds, but…Shawn wondered if he was right.

  ***

  He didn't trust anyone at the department to not eat the cake, so he gave up and took it to his desk, which Sarah had co-opted for her own use with her laptop. The people on the floor probably assumed she worked there. They probably thought Ashburn had him replaced with her. Any day now they would start addressing her as "Lieutenant."

  Her face lit up when she saw the box. "Is that for me?"

  Shawn feigned insincere remorse. "No, sorry. This is for the captain. Why, do you like cake?"

  "I don't believe you." She reached out for the cake. He held it out of her reach, which was very easy.

  "It's National Police Supervisors Day, and this is a small token of my appreciation for my supervisor."

  She gave him a weary look.

  "But I guess I can give it to you instead."

  She sliced the tape with a scissors then opened the box to reveal the small, high, round cake. On the top was Sarah written in elegant script.

  "This was for the captain but it reads Sarah?"

  "Captain Ashburn's middle name is Sarah."

  She smirked, then put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. "Thank you. This is custom, isn't it?"

  He nodded and took her hand. "Happy birthday."

  "I can't believe you had the time to get this for me."

  "I had a few minutes between my manicure and my sports massage."

  Sarah jogged off to the break room, returned with biodegradable utensils and plates, then cut two slices. The second she put a big forkful into her mouth, she closed her eyes in rapture. "Oh, wow. I don't care if they used dark magic to make this."

  "I'm pretty sure they used training and skill," Shawn said.

  "Oh no, there's more than just training and skill in this." She pointed her fork to the cake. "Heart and soul."

  "Mostly butter," Shawn said. "Bricks of butter."

  Sarah shrugged and smiled, her cake-laden fork hovering over the box. "I don't care how much butter or dark magic went into the creation of this glorious thing." She steered the fork to her mouth. "Bliss. Aren't you going to have any?"

  "Cake is for closers."

  "You already had some, didn't you?"

  "I might have had a stand-alone slice walking back from the bakery."

  Shawn's phone buzzed with an email from Detective Daly, who didn't find anything notable on the Downs surveillance footage. "Great," he muttered. "It just gets better and better." Later, he'd have to go through it himself.

  "What's that smell?" Sarah asked.

  "Me," Shawn said. "I was in a morgue exam room for a good part of the day."

  "Ugh. Go home and shower. And step away from the cake. Oh, wait! I have something for you." She pulled a rectangular box from her bag.

  "For me? It's your birthday."

  "Exactly. Open it."

  He recognized the gold-foil box from Pulakos 926 Chocolates in Erie. Inside was a milk chocolate police set -- handcuffs, radio, the works. "For your new job." She grinned. "Sorry they didn't have dark chocolate."

  "This is great! Thank you." He kissed her, briefly, considering they were in the office.

  She started to pack up. "I have to go. Dad needs me at the office."

  "Take the cake."

  "I do, don't I?" She grinned. "Ain't I volatile, Mr. Copperfield?"

  He laughed. "You definitely are, Miss Mowcher." He gave her a serious look. "No, really -- take the cake so I don't eat it. You can't leave it here in mortal danger."

  "…from Danger."

  "I deserved that."

  She kissed him and left. He did some research into the Flagship Creamery stores. Using a couple of regional newspaper databases, he found out that Darcy was planning to open a new take-out shop at the casino in the Downs, and wanted to get it up and running by summer.

  Maybe Jasper had Darcy over before he was killed, and she tracked the Tapeta Footings particle into the living room. Regardless, Darcy must have been at the Downs, and if Jasper hadn't been there, then Darcy might have been in Jasper's house.

  On the way out, he stopped by the desk of the forensic artist, who also did administrative work for them. "Has Dee Albert come by to help with a sketch?" Shawn asked.

  "Yes." The artist held his hands out over his desk like he was rehearsing at Carnegie Hall. "Okay, it's here somewhere…" he said, moving only his eyes. "No, wait -- I didn't print that," he said to himself, and clicked on a file on his screen, bringing up the signed and dated computer-generated sketch. It was a definite improvement from what the artist was originally asked to do: enhance the image from the security camera at Stuart Acker's house. There was a scar, for one thing. That in itself could be enough to trigger recognition in someone who'd seen him or knew him.

  "You can do age-progression, right?"

  "Absolutely. Why, do you have any old photos? I do it from photographs, if you happen to have any of this guy." Shawn didn't have any photos of his friends, and very few of his family. "No."

  "Too bad. I use that technique a lot, to update the face of a fugitive or someone's who's been missing a long time. By the way, she asked me on a date."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "I may regret it, but I said yes."

  Go Dee, Shawn thought.

  "I'm not sure how it happened, exactly, but I agreed to go to Splash Lagoon on Saturday." He shook his head.

  "Well, she recently won a ham. She'll still be in a good mood."

  Chapter 15

  The cat was confused, and John found him a little standoffish, but he was lucky Shawn had an erratic, demanding schedule that accommodated only a self-sufficient cat, not a dog.

  He opened the fridge, thinking he could make a sandwich, or maybe just grab some cereal. He checked the expiration date on the milk. Still good. He found some SolarBurst cereal in the cabinet (rejecting the flax stuff), and grabbed a bowl and spoon to go with it. The cereal was in the shape of different-sized and shaped planets, with a fizzy peanut butter flavor in the center. They usually had oatmeal in the morning, but he didn't want to knock the food there. Sometimes they had pancakes. Eggs were always available and there were lots of fruit and veggies. The cereal, though. John stared at the box. "Where have you been all my life?"

  The cat made a hissing noise, arched its back, jumped straight up in the air, then ran off.

  There wasn't much time. He still needed to go pick up something he forgot to take back for the others, and he was looking forward to their response. After he placed the bowl in the sink -- they wouldn't get anything from it -- he went up to Shawn's bedroom. There weren't any family photos on the walls or on shelves, but he noticed a framed photo of the girlfriend on top of the dresser. He paused to stare at her thick dark hair in a pageboy cut, heart-shaped face, and delicate features. She was very pretty, John thought, and looked intelligent. Next to the frame was a plain, clock-face Timex watch, a clean and folded white handkerchief, and some change.

  The cat followed him in and jumped around him for a moment, back arched. It jumped straight up and down, then lunged at him, attacking his ankles.

  "Get off!" John shook his leg, then reached down and unhooked the claws, but as soon as he did, the cat did another funny high jump and attacked from a different angle, swiping a long furrow of skin from his left ankle. Maybe he'd been wrong to feel lucky.

  Brower knew that Shawn's father was still alive, and would still be holding on to things like his Zippo. He'd probably die with it in his hand, and they wouldn't be able to pry it out for days. Shawn would have his own lighter, th
ough. It didn't take John long to find it in one of the dresser drawers, in a small box of cufflinks he didn't keep in his current rotation. He placed it dead center on the bed as the cat hissed from the doorway.

  That was all he wanted to do. As he headed out, he saluted the cat, which he'd developed a grudging respect for.

  ***

  The Bicknell's geranium was discovered on Presque Isle in 1986, but for whatever reason, no one could find it after that, and the plant became endangered in Pennsylvania and other states. Nearly ten years later, a crew cleared an area for the seeds to grow, suspecting the seeds were still dormant. A month later, hundreds of plants grew, but there was still only one occurrence of the plant on the Isle, and park officials kept its location secret to keep them safe from visitors.

  John knew exactly where that location was. The others wanted a sample of one of the geraniums more than anything, but never expected to have it. They said something about how it was like wanting dust from Mars, though John thought that was overstating it. He hadn't mentioned it to them. He wanted it to be a surprise. Some small, purple geranium clusters were blooming. John picked one and held it up. Five petals. They'd love it.

  ***

  When Shawn got home, Comet came running out, but abruptly stopped a foot away from Shawn, and then made the same noise he made when Shawn listened to Rush. Comet did not like Rush at all. Shawn was just grateful Comet liked The Who, and Faces, especially their fourth album, Ooh La La. He wasn't sure how Comet felt about the Kinks. You could interpret Comet's reactions in a number of different ways, but he didn't seem too fond of the song Shawn kept playing for him, "Phenomenal Cat." Maybe Comet's response was, 'Are you saying I'm fat?'

  Comet wasn't fat, but the cat in the song didn't used to be, either -- not before he learned life's secrets.

  "I know, I know. Just be grateful you're a cat and didn't have to spend hours at a morgue exam."

  Shawn folded his jacket over a chair then washed his hands at the sink, frowning a little at the bowl and spoon. Hadn't he washed his dishes from that morning? Apparently not. He shrugged it off, because he was operating on just a few hours sleep and was ravenous. Aside from the breakfast he ate prior to leaving the house before five, he'd managed to eat nothing but a bag of peanuts from the vending machine and some cake.

  After raiding the fridge, he made a sandwich of Isaly's ham and cheese with mustard, and three hard-boiled eggs, whites only. He was thinking that Comet seemed a little high-strung when he heard Sarah's old car from outside -- cute as a button, like her, but unreliable and seemingly spiteful, like his family, Christine, or the printer at the police station. It sputtered to a stop in his driveway. The door shut with a creak and the engine kept knocking. For a moment, he wished he ran a hedge fund so he could buy her something new.

  From the back porch, he heard the first screen door, and then the second screen door that led into the kitchen. "What a sumptuous repast," she said, hooking her jacket on a coat hook. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his spine.

  "Help yourself. I'm too hungry to make something for you. I need to feed myself first." He turned and picked her up a few inches to kiss her, though he didn't have to.

  "Sandwich flavor," she said, and he set her down.

  "I got mustard on you." He used his thumb to wipe it off her cheek. "What did your dad need?"

  "Deposition stuff." She shrugged. "One day, it'll be a robot's job."

  Comet wound past Sarah's legs, tail straight up. She crouched to stroke his back then straightened.

  "You haven't showered yet." She gave him a pointed look.

  "I had to eat first, to get the strength to go upstairs and shower. You wouldn't want to find me passed out in the bathroom, would you?"

  She pushed him.

  "Okay, I'm going."

  He had enough experience with autopsies to know which products tended to help more -- he had tested many different kinds -- so he used those, and washed his hair, where the smell lingered. He towel-dried his hair and wrapped a towel around his waist, then went down the hall to his bedroom to get dressed. A reflection caught his eye from the bedspread. His own Zippo, etched many years ago with the League's logo, was placed right on the center of the cover.

  Brower was in my house, he thought, and his blood heated at the violation.

  ***

  Shawn called the bank where Brower purchased that certified check. He explained who he was and made an appointment to talk to the manager, who agreed to meet him in thirty minutes.

  In the meantime, he checked with the lab to see if they made any inroads on the contents of the vacuum they used in Paul's crime scene. They had processed it, but nothing of interest showed up on the list. Would it look bad to have a tantrum? Because he was sorely tempted. He couldn't find Brower, but he had been in his house. It was incredibly frustrating.

  When he got to the bank, he met the manager, a pudgy man in his thirties with a head like a prize-winning 4H potato, and followed him into his small office. Shawn slid the check across the glossy wood desk.

  "You understand, officer, I can give you a very limited amount of information without a warrant."

  "I understand. And it's Lieutenant." He was feeling a little surly.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon." The manager shook his head like it was the fiftieth time he'd screwed up that day, and it was still early.

  "Can you tell me if the check was drawn on an account, or if someone bought it with cash?" Shawn asked. The certified check was made payable to Dee.

  "Let me check the records." The manager swiveled to face his monitor and did a little typing. He was surprisingly agile at it. Then he sat for a second, his pudgy hands stilled. "I can at least tell you this: the records show that someone came in and paid cash for this."

  Shawn asked, "Do you know which teller the person went to?" He hoped the teller still worked there. "Yes, I have that information," the manager said. "But that person is no longer employed with the bank."

  ***

  The teller took his sweet time answering the door. Shawn pounded some more, then started to go check the sides of the house when he heard the door open. Shawn walked back and saw a man in his early thirties, on the tall and pudgy side, with messy brown hair and bleary eyes, wearing only striped pajama pants.

  "Hey. What's up?" The guy rubbed his eyes and blinked at the sun. "What time is it?"

  Shawn ignored the question. Was this guy nocturnal? "I'm with the Erie PD. Are you Michael Ellick?"

  "Yes." Michael drew out the 's' and squinted at Shawn.

  Shawn waved the check. "I have a certified check you signed while working at Garnettt Bank."

  "What? I didn't steal any money!" Michael the teller held his hands out defensively.

  "Don't worry, this isn't a theft investigation." Shawn took out the artist's rendering of John Brower and handed it to him. "Does this man look familiar, and do you know if he had an account at the bank?"

  Michael waved him inside the dark house. "Why don't you just come in. I don't want Crispin to get out."

  "Crispin?" Shawn said, hoping Crispin wasn't a Pit Bull or a Burmese python, or a recent escapee from the closest supermax.

  "My turtle. He was here a second ago." Michael bent over and turned his head sideways to search.

  "Aren't turtles usually slow?" Shawn said, thinking of Lyle the tortoise from the Sylvain case. Images flicked through his head like an old microfiche reel that sped way up when you turned the knob. That tortoise had a more interesting life than most people he had known. He wondered if Lyle's TV was still in the Sylvain house, which was locked up and in the process of being turned over to the state as a national heritage site. He itched to go there again and see if Lyle's TV would turn on again. There just hadn't been time.

  "Not Crispin. He hauls ass." Michael reached under a table and scooped up a smallish turtle in his palm. With his free hand, Michael put the paper on a drafting table that held a comic inking in progress, switched on t
he halogen lamp that was clamped to the side, and peered at the drawing of what John Brower could look like.

  "Oh, this guy. Nah, he didn't have an account," Michael said, stroking Crispin's shell.

  Dammit. Shawn pressed his lips together and reached out to take the drawing. Everything seemed like a dead end, but Brower would be careless with one small thing, and if it wasn't this, then it would be something else.

  "I have a pretty good memory for faces," Michael said. "I'm really good at face-placing character actors, you know, in movies and TV. I can usually tell you the name and some other stuff they've been in. Anyhow, I think I remember this guy. He came in pretty often for someone who didn't even have a checking account there. But I don't…" Michael scrunched up his face and scratched the top of his head.

  Shawn leaned in an inch. "What would help you remember? Maybe if I imitated his voice?"

  Michael reared his head back in surprise. "You can do that?"

  "Sure. Uh…" He thought back to hearing Brower's voice on the phone at Paul's, and what he remembered of his voice when they were kids. He cleared his throat. "Say, 'May I help you?' or something like that," he told Michael.

  Michael broke into a broad smile. "To get in the right headspace! Cool." He sobered and straightened into bank teller mode, even reached up to smooth an imaginary tie. "What can I help you with today?"

  Okay, you're John Brower. Physically intimidating, with a mean, intense stare you perfected after watching your father. "I'd like to purchase a bank check," Shawn said in his best approximation of Brower, thinking he sounded like one of those In a world… guys.

  "Sure, I can do that for you," Michael said, absent-mindedly stroking his turtle's shell. Shawn wondered if that was why Michael didn't work at the bank anymore, because he insisted on having his turtle right next to him.

  "Who would you like it made out to?" Michael asked.

  "Dee Albert," Shawn said in a growl, then thought, Too John Wayne in The Searchers?