by John Chabot
"With a roomful of cops on the other side of the wall. Nervy."
Harry started the engine and pulled out toward the street. Mickie said, "Let's go see Frank Siegert."
Harry shook his head in mock disgust, but he wasn't really surprised. "Let me guess," he said. "The doctor told you to get back to work, start running around, and get lots of exercise. Right?"
“He's an old lady, too. Look, I just want to ask Siegert a couple of questions, okay? I'll be sitting down all the way over. I'll sit down while we talk to him."
Harry wanted to ask if she was sure about it, but knew from the tone of her voice that she wouldn't back off. "You're the boss."
* * *
The far wall of Frank Siegert's office was nearly all window, looking out across the Intracoastal Waterway. As Mickie and Harry entered, a pair of bulky fishing boats went gliding past, their nets hanging from booms. Waiting for Siegert, she made a slow tour of the office, checking out the numerous framed photos decorating the wall. Most were of Siegert and people Mickie didn't recognize, usually with a boat or a marina in the background.
One was a group picture, obviously the employees of Siegert Marine. She recognized Kathryn Meadows looking younger, and Cheryl Doles looking prim. In the center was Siegert, his arm around a smiling Tina.
She heard quick footsteps, and Frank Siegert came in, carefully closing the door behind him. He motioned them to chairs, which she was secretly glad to use, then sat in his own behind the desk. Harry opted to lean against the wall near the door. Siegert waited for her to start, saying nothing. His manner was more subdued, the impatient aggressiveness of yesterday seemingly gone. Mickie wondered if he and Kathryn Meadows had patched things up. She said, "I didn't see Ms. Meadows when we came in. Is she in today?"
Frank's sharp look came back. "She is now. We came in together."
"Ah, I see."
"I doubt it. It was she and I and Cheryl Doles. We just came from my wife's funeral."
Oh God, thought Mickie. She said, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"It's all right."
"It was insensitive."
He shrugged, not arguing the point. "What can I do for you?"
"We seem to have another little discrepancy," said Mickie. "I thought we should get it straightened out."
The light from the windows behind Siegert made it difficult for Mickie to read his expression. "What discrepancy?"
"About where you were on Saturday."
"I told you that. I came to the office, did some catching up. Later, I went home."
"Stopping for lunch on the way."
"That's right." A touch of belligerence was creeping back in.
Mickie opened her notebook, flipped through several pages, then said, "You ordered to go, and got your order at 11:34. If you took half an hour to drive home, you'd have been there just after noon. I saw you drive in around two-thirty. I think that's a discrepancy, don't you?"
He looked at her steadily, weighing what she had said. Finally he asked, "Who says it was 11:30?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. He knew she was right. His gaze cut away from her, and he gave it up. "I'm the husband," he said. "I know how you people think. It's always the husband or the boyfriend, isn't it? I don't know if there was a boyfriend or not, but it sure as hell wasn't me." His eyes fell to a leather-framed picture on his desk. "You saw what was done to her. I couldn't have done that."
Mickie said, "Where were you?"
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if trying to get control. He looked up at her, his gaze direct again. "Most of the time, I was walking around the dunes at the north end of the island. I meant to drive straight home but, well, I had some thinking to do."
"You do that often? Walk on the beach to think?" Dana, she remembered, said that's what she had done on Sunday night. Mickie had never considered the beach as a place for making decisions.
"Sometimes. It's always been a favorite spot. It's lonely and quiet. It's a good place to work things out." He looked more closely at Mickie, adding, "Are you all right? You look kind of pale."
"I'm just fine. What were you trying to work out?"
"What to do about Tina. I was going to tell her I wanted a divorce."
"And she wouldn't have made it easy."
"Not Tina. I won't lie to you. I knew it was going to be messy. And expensive. You can see why I didn't want to mention it."
"You were there for two and a half hours?"
"No. I went back to tell Kathryn what I'd decided. I was there when you showed up. She told me about Tina trying to use her for some kind of alibi. I thought I'd better get home and find out what was going on. You were there when I pulled in."
"You must have driven by your house on the way to the dunes. Did you see anything odd, any cars parked by the house?"
Siegert frowned, trying to remember. "No, I'd have noticed that. There was one, I think, parked down the street a ways. I only noticed it because it was bright red, and there was a man sitting in it." He sat up straighter, his eyes widening. "Do you think he was the one?"
"What kind of car?"
"I don't know, I didn’t really notice. Sporty, I think, but not expensive."
"And the man?"
"I didn't see his face. Big, though. He wasn't there when I drove back."
Now it was Mickie's turn to be caught off guard. She remembered the sporty red car Kurt had climbed into, heard again Harry's question of what Kurt would likely do after reporting Tina's theft of his clothes. Without meaning to speak aloud, she said, "Well, I'll be damned. The son-of-a-bitch followed me."
"What?"
"Sorry. Nothing."
Harry pushed away from the wall. "Where were you yesterday evening?"
Siegert switched his attention from Mickie. "Why, what happened then?" Getting no answer, he said, "I worked late. I wanted to finish a proposal to some boat shop owners—the ones I'd talked to last week. There didn't seem any sense in going home."
"How late?"
"A little after eight, I guess."
"Anyone here with you?"
"No. Not when I left."
"When you left, did you go home?"
Frank sighed, tired of it all. "No. You know where I went."
* * *
Mickie walked back to the car slowly, no longer trying to put on a front. Seated again, she leaned back, closing her eyes, feeling the last of her energy flowing down to her feet and out through the floorboards. "Wow! I don't know what's the matter with me."
Harry started the car and turned out toward the street. "It's shock."
Mickie kept her eyes closed as she said, "I'm not in shock."
"You were last night. It catches you the next day. It's Nature's way of telling you to stop acting like an idiot."
Mickie opened her eyes, nodding. "It gets your attention. How long does it last?"
"You'll probably be okay tomorrow. I'll take you home. You crash on the couch, turn on the TV, have some hot chocolate, and sleep through the soap operas."
"But there's stuff I need to do."
"No, there's stuff I need to do. I'll swing by tonight and fill you in."
Part of Mickie still wanted to argue, but she was beginning to think she knew how it felt to be eighty-three. She was wrong, of course, but she wouldn't know that for a long time to come. "I just feel so damned useless."
"Well, if you get bored with the soaps, you can always make some phone calls. Ask our suspects which one took a shot at you last night."
"Oh, yeah, that's likely."
"Ask them where they were. See what kind of lies they come up with."
* * *
Harry made a call of his own shortly after he dropped Mickie off. It was short, starting with, "Yeah, she's home. Don't let her see you."
"You think she'll stay home?"
"I think so. She's pretty knocked out."
"How about tomorrow?"
"Then you'll have to be careful. Somebody takes a shot at you,
you have one of two reactions. You either get super cautious and try to hide, or you get too ticked off to care. She's too mean to hide."
* * *
Harry and Karen had come to Conner Beach in the off season a year earlier, had been lucky enough to find a house at an almost decent price. It was on the mainland, just north of Wilford, but had a good view of the Waterway and, beyond that, Conner Beach. Some people prefer a house on the beach, but Harry liked it as it was. He found it restful, especially in the evening, sitting on the patio with a foamy glass of dark beer, watching the boats glide silently past on the Waterway. It was small, but plenty for the two of them. There was also the cat, of course, but cats don't need a lot of room, either.
It was time for lunch, and he hated eating alone. He was afraid Karen might be out, was relieved to see her Buick in the driveway.
Even as he approached the door from the garage into the kitchen, the biting aroma of baking sourdough bread made him glad he had decided to come home. Opening the door, he saw Karen at the cutting board, chopping celery. To one side was a bowl of chopped carrots, and another of red and yellow peppers. On the stove, a large pot added its smell of simmering chicken broth to that of the bread. He had a flash of Kurt Brodbeck's kitchen, dark, not very clean, smelling only of raw onions.
Karen glanced up as he came through the door, asking, "How's Mickie?"
"Resting comfortably."
"Good. She needs rest. I'm surprised they let her out so soon."
Harry hung his jacket over the back of a chair. "Probably couldn't take her any longer. What's for lunch?"
"Roast beef sandwich enough? I'm just making the soup, and the bread won't be ready for another ten minutes. And don't say nasty things about Mickie. I like her."
"She thinks she's Superwoman. She wanted to go back to work."
"You didn't let her, did you?"
He didn't answer directly, but said, "Reality kicked in. There's nothing like a shock hangover to knock you on your ass."
"Well, she's a sensible girl. I wouldn't worry too much."
Harry opened the fridge, took out a beer. He held it up, his look asking if she wanted one. When she nodded, he took out another. "Who worries?"
"You do."
He picked a magnet-backed church key from the fridge door, opened the bottles. "She's too eager," he said.
"So?"
"You know."
He poured one of the beers into a glass, passed it to his wife. Without looking up from putting together the sandwiches, she said, "Harry, that was you."
"No matter. It'll happen. It happens to everyone."
"That was Baltimore, Harry. This is Connor Beach."
"It's all the same."
She stopped, looking around at him. "Then why did we leave there to come all the way down here?"
He took a pull at the beer, thinking. "All right, it's slower here. The rot doesn't set in as fast. But it's still there. It happens."
"Maybe she can handle it."
"You think?"
She put the sandwiches on a plate, set them on the kitchen table. "I think," she said, "you tend to underestimate women."
Harry smiled, saying nothing. He had lived with this woman for better than twenty-five years. He had known her as mother, lover, peacemaker, opponent and counselor, all the things that go with the job. He had held her hand in childbirth, shared the worries of parenting. He had felt her quiet rage in a fight, and laughed at her sometimes quirky sense of humor. He knew her intelligence, he knew her strength. If I underestimate women, he thought, shame on me.
She saw him studying her, gave him back a stern look. "We have our ways, you know."
CHAPTER 17
HARRY'S TURN
Harry spent most of the afternoon in bars, showing Kurt's picture, asking the same questions. "Ever see him in here?"
Mostly the answer was no, but whenever he got a yes, he'd listen to whatever followed, sometimes prodding with, "Was he with anyone?" or "How about women?"
A few remembered him, but what they remembered was pretty much the same. He had been alone, had a beer, looked around.
"For women?"
"Maybe. Guys are usually in twos or threes if they're prowling. Mostly it's the serious drinkers who come in alone, but he never had more than a beer."
One of them remembered him leaving with a woman.
"He picked her up?"
"I think they picked each other up. It happens a lot. I remember 'cause she wasn't much. Kind of a skag."
"Did they ever come in together after that?"
"I don't think so. She came in a few times, but not with him."
Later, he talked to a couple of exotic dancers at Les Femme. It was early, well before show time. At this hour there was nothing particularly exotic about them. One, the blonde, was older than he had at first thought, but knew that the right makeup would cover that. The other, dark and quiet, wore a bulky sweat suit that covered nearly everything. Harry had the impression she had just come from working out. Her face was angular with high cheekbones, dominated by large brown eyes, the kind Harry had trouble looking at for long without getting trapped. He was afraid that makeup might cover that, too.
The blonde looked at the picture of Kurt. She asked, "What you want him for?"
"Nothing. We're just trying to find him."
She snickered at that. "Yeah, I've seen him. He's kind of a regular." She handed the picture to the dark one, saying, "Remember him, Beth?"
Beth glanced at it quickly, saying, "Oh, the looker."
The blonde said, "Yeah, that's him."
Harry was confused. "You mean he was good looking?"
"He was all right looking. But no, I mean he looked."
Harry was still confused. Why wouldn't he look? Wasn't that the idea?
Beth's brown gaze caught him. "There's different kinds," she explained. "Most guys come in with other guys, or maybe with their girlfriends. They have a few drinks, they get loud, they laugh, they show off a little, they have a good time."
"And this one?"
She looked at the picture again, this time more carefully. "He was always alone. He'd nurse a beer, trying to look cool. But while we were dancing ... well, have you ever felt someone eating you up with their eyes?"
Harry glanced down at himself. "You're asking the wrong person."
"All the guys look, but he's different. It's as if he's starving."
The blonde said, "Yeah, he's a strange one, all right."
Beth let her eyes slide over to the picture again. "I don't know,” she said. "I think he's just lonely."
* * *
When Harry walked into Nutrix, it was empty except for a woman behind the counter. She was somewhere in her forties, edging toward stout. Her auburn hair was smooth, seemingly well-behaved except for a few gray intruders with minds of their own.
She was busy checking items on a list, and didn't see Harry until he was nearly to the counter. She looked up quickly, gave him a business smile, then dropped it as he showed his badge. Her look was wary.
Harry started with, "I'd like to ask you about Kurt Brodbeck."
"What about?"
"We'd like to talk to him."
She almost laughed. "Yeah, well get in line. I've got a few things I'd like to say to him, too."
"You're the manager here?"
"That's right. Only right now I'm everything here. I'm pulling double shifts, and trying to keep up with the paper work. In my spare time, I'm also trying to find someone to take his place. Not that he did that much."
Harry could see the puffiness beginning to show below her eyes. It was only Tuesday, but a shortage of sleep was already beginning to show.
"He was assistant manager?"
She snorted. "Is that what he called himself?"
"What hours did he work?"
"Nine to three on weekdays, three till closing Saturday."
"Did he ever do this before? Not show up?"
"No, I'll give him that. He was alw
ays dependable."
"When did you find out he hadn't shown?"
"About ten, ten-thirty yesterday. The mall manager's assistant called me, raising hell because the store wasn't open. I called Brodbeck, got no answer, so I came down. Seems to me I've been here ever since."
Harry was making entries in his notebook. He looked back over what he had, being sure he had covered everything.
"How long had he worked here?"
"A few months. He came from somewhere up north. I could look it up for you if you want."
"What did you think of him?"
"I don't really know him. He seemed all right. A little odd, maybe. We only saw each other when one of us came in and the other left. A few minutes a day."
"So you don't know anything about his personal life?"
She misunderstood what he meant. "Hell, no! Listen, he had a nice little tush, but I learned a long time ago not to mess with the help. I got burned once, thank you."
Harry nodded. He took out a card with his name and office phone number, pushed it across to her. He had left a lot of those in the local bars and clubs. "If you should see him, let me know."
She glanced down at it. "Sure. And if you see him first, ask him to stop in here. I want to fire him to his face." The anger made her seem even more tired.
* * *
It was nearly dark when Harry pulled up to the house opposite Kurt's. Lights were just coming on. As he was about to knock, the door was opened by the same old man they had talked to before. He wore a different cap this time, black with a Carolina Panther on the front. The grinning gnome of a face below it made the snarling cat seem unreasonably out of sorts. His attention was on Kurt's place, and he jumped a little when he saw Harry.
Harry said, "Remember me?"
"Sure, you're the quiet one." He stepped out onto the porch, quietly closing the door behind him. "Wife's got a headache. We just got back from her sister's in Raleigh. I don't know why we ever go up there—all they ever do is fight. Family! Go figure."
He looked past Harry to the front porch opposite. "Anything going on?"
"Continuing investigation."
The face under the panther turned shrewd. "Oh?"
"Were you here Sunday night?"