“Fair enough.” He jabbed the doorbell again. “Did you hear that?” He cocked his head.
“I hear some warblers in the trees.”
“Someone’s calling for help from inside the house. You know, an old man living on his own can fall and break something. It would be a real shame if a caring citizen came all the way to the front door but didn’t come inside to offer assistance.”
“That would be a shame,” I agreed.
He looked pointedly at the door handle. “Go ahead. The call for help is faint, but if you listen, you can hear it.”
The warbling birds suddenly fell silent. Without sounds, the street felt flatly two-dimensional, like a postcard. I imagined Tim Barber on his floor, bleeding internally from a bad fall and break.
The handle was unlocked. I pushed the door open. “Mr. Barber?”
My father grabbed my elbow and pulled me back. “Smell that?”
I sniffed the air. An image flashed in my mind. A woman in a pool of blood. My stomach clenched. There was a smell.
As I stood in the doorway, a fat housefly buzzed past me languidly, followed by another.
“You smell it?” he asked.
“Death,” I said.
His grim countenance confirmed my assessment.
He called into the house, “Mr. Barber, this is Finnegan Day. We’ve met before. My associate and I are about to enter the premises. We’re concerned that you may be injured. We’re coming inside now.”
He gestured for me to stay behind him. He strode in, his head swiveling left and right as he did a professional sweep. The house was a modest-sized rancher and wouldn’t take long to search.
We slowly approached the final room, a bedroom, where the foul smell of open blood was strongest. My father gestured for me to wait while he went in on his own.
A moment later, he came back, nodding grimly. “You don’t need to see that unless you want to.”
I had a difficult time saying I wanted to see a dead body, but in the end I settled on, “I’m here already, so I might as well have a glance.”
“Word of warning,” he said. “That’s not a Jackson Pollock painting on the wall. It would appear our handyman ate a bullet.”
His blunt phrasing lessened the shock of the scene, which was both terrifying and sad. Tim wore a dark suit, as though dressed for his funeral, which struck me as a not-so-prescient choice, as the shirt had blood on it and couldn’t be used for burial.
On the neatly made bed, next to the body, was an ornate-handled handgun that resembled a movie prop from a Western movie. I recognized it as a collectible from the Koenig Mansion’s impressive collection. Near the gun was a simple note, written on a plain white sheet of paper. The note was written in block-style neat handwriting and simply said SORRY.
“He’s been gone a while,” I said. “That smell is decomp.” I reached for his left hand.
“Careful,” my father said.
I knew he meant to be careful not to disturb the scene, not careful of Mr. Barber suddenly coming back to life. I gingerly pinched the hem of his suit jacket and lifted the arm. The body was stiff.
“My guess is he’s been dead about twenty-four hours,” I said.
“Sounds about right for that amount of stiffness.”
“This isn’t good,” I said. “Not good at all.”
“Let me guess. You don’t think it’s the simple suicide that it appears to be?”
“Dad, I might be new to homicides, but I know a thing or two about people. This scene is too tidy, too controlled of a narrative. Tim Barber didn’t strike me as the type to say good-bye with a single word. He was a chatty guy.”
“That he was. And what else?”
I could sense my mentor being pleased with my logic so far. Despite the gruesome scene, I found myself close to smiling.
“Plus he wanted to talk to the police about something,” I said, speaking faster as I gained confidence. “He was at the station only yesterday morning, asking to give his statement while hooked up to a lie detector. Why would he change his mind so quickly?”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
I turned and studied the man’s face, looking for insight. “He hadn’t shaved in a few days,” I said.
“And what does that tell you?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. If his beliefs were strong enough that he’d dress up in his Sunday best to enter the afterlife, you’d think he would have taken the time to shave. You don’t want the ladies in heaven to ignore you for fear of stubble burn.”
My father only nodded.
I shook my head and moved toward the door in search of fresh air.
“Sorry I’m rambling about heaven and such,” I said. “That’s not very professional for a detective.”
“Don’t question your process,” he said, following me down the hallway. “Killers and thieves are all humans, so exploring human thoughts, no matter how crazy they might seem when you say them out loud, is exactly how you get into their heads.”
My head felt light, and my vision sparkled. “I’m barely in my own head,” I muttered.
“Take it slowly,” he said. “Let’s get you a glass of water.”
We stopped in the kitchen. The window had a screen, so we pushed it open to get some fresh air coming inside without letting flies in. We hadn’t seen any more flies since the two that flew out when we arrived, which was some relief. They hadn’t had time to multiply.
My father pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call this one in,” he said.
I didn’t like the way he said this one, as though he was buying this round of drinks and there’d be many more in our future.
Chapter 32
Officer Gary Gomez was surprisingly scary when conducting an interview.
We were at the station giving our statement about how we found Tim Barber and why we’d “just happened to be" at his house that morning.
Gomez scowled under his thick black moustache. “Am I to believe you two were on a social call?”
“Believe what you want,” my father said nonchalantly. “Now that I’m retired, I have plenty of time to be social.”
Gomez turned his full glare onto me. “And how about you, Miss Day? Taking a break from wrecking police cars to go trampling through more crime scenes?”
I shrugged. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
He leaned across the table and put his face right up to mine. “Are you telling me we’re not doing our jobs?” he demanded. “You two think you can police this town better than us? Just you two?”
“We’re not two people,” my father said. “More like one and a half.”
Gomez practically growled, “Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“Yes,” my father said. “Get it? I’m not up to full speed yet with my new hip.”
Gomez shook his head in slow motion. “So this is how it’s going to be.” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Always gotta be the hard way.”
“But we didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “We stopped in to check on Mr. Barber, found that he was deceased, and called you guys.”
Gomez kept his face uncomfortably close to mine. “And how long were you two chucklemonkeys snooping around inside the Barber residence?”
“Just a few minutes,” I said.
“Aha!” He jerked upright and puffed out his chest. “So, you were snooping around. What were you doing? Planting evidence?”
“No way.” I held my hands up. “And we weren’t snooping.”
“You didn’t plant evidence?”
“No, sir,” I said.
My father tented his fingers on the table. “You forgot to ask if she removed or hid evidence. If it was something large, she could have relocated it until she could come back later.”
I shot my father a look. “Are you actually mentoring our interrogator?”
He answered, “You know how much I care about this town.”
“I didn’t plant evidence,” I said to Officer Gomez tersely.
“I didn’t remove evidence or hide evidence, and I didn’t snoop around, but someone else did.” I pointed to my father. “He used the washroom. Maybe you should put your moustache over there, in his face.”
Gomez leaned back in his seat and moved his head in slow motion again, this time nodding.
“I think we’re done for now,” Gomez said.
“Good,” I said, pushing my chair back.
“Not so fast,” Gomez said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Aren’t we done?”
A smile slowly spread across his mouth. “You’ve got to stay for pizza.”
“Pizza?” I asked. “Since when is pizza part of the interview?”
“Captain Milano ordered it already,” Gomez said. “This whole case is as good as done. Case closed, as they say.” He mimed spinning a noisemaker. “Whee!”
“You’re celebrating?” I asked. “Now?”
“Sure. We’ll be busy the rest of the day processing the scene and doing all the paperwork, but Milano doesn’t hold back on the celebrations. He says it’s good for morale.” He got up from his chair and headed toward the door, signaling us to wait. “I gotta make sure they ordered enough pizza for everyone.”
As soon as he was out of the room, I turned to my father.
“They’re celebrating,” I said, mystified. “Another man is dead, and they’re ordering pizza.”
“The new body changes everything,” my father said. “The evidence tells us the handyman was responsible for the death of Dieter Koenig.”
“You think? Wanna run the story past me?”
“Through either negligence or malice, Tim Barber caused the death of Dieter Koenig,” my father said evenly. “But then he couldn’t handle the guilt. He tried to confess to the police, but it was taking too long, and he kept feeling worse and worse. The anxiety spiraled out of control. So he took his guilt and his admission to a higher court.”
I finished for him, “To stand before the only judge who matters in the end.”
“By killing himself, Barber saved taxpayers the cost of a trial. Everything wraps up, neat and tidy.”
I looked up at the camera in the corner of the room. “A little too neat and tidy,” I said to the camera. “Which is why this case can’t be closed. Not yet.”
The camera’s red light didn’t show any sign of listening.
“We’ll see,” he said.
“Do you actually think this case is closed? Just like that?”
“What I think doesn’t matter. Now’s the time for the crime scene techs to do their jobs. We have to let the police do what they do.”
“But they think they’re done. They won’t investigate further.”
He chuckled. “They’re not a hive mind. They don’t all share one brain. In fact, it’s often the very act of one officer declaring a case closed that pushes the others into cracking it open. Sometimes pressure brings out the best in people.”
“You’re so calm about this.” I shook my head.
“Stop thinking about the case for a few minutes,” he said. “You can’t always think about everything directly. Think about pizza.”
“Now I’m thinking about pizza. Would it be wrong to eat pizza right after what we just saw? It seems disrespectful of the dead.”
“The dead don’t need to eat,” he said. “They don’t need much, except justice.”
“Justice,” I repeated.
“Pizza first, then justice.”
My stomach made a noise. It was two o’clock, and not only had we missed out on getting Jessica’s apple turnovers warm from the oven, but we’d missed lunch entirely. After what I’d seen at the Barber residence, I assumed I’d never have an appetite ever again, but the mention of pizza was returning me to normal.
“Sure, Dad. We can stay for pizza.” I crossed my arms and tried to relax. “So, was Gomez being hard on me because he wanted to impress me? Or you?”
“I was somewhat impressed.” He stared at the empty doorway. “Listen, the poor guy’s been going through a divorce for the past year, and that’s the sort of thing that makes a person feel useless, so we’ll have to let him know he’s doing okay.”
“I’m not going to pay him a compliment for making me feel uncomfortable.” I shuddered and rubbed my upper arms. “I’m going to take a long, hot bath as soon as I get home.”
“Stormy, you’re not really a bath person.”
“No, but it seems like the sort of thing you do after a day like today.” I leaned over the table, closed my eyes, and rubbed my temples. “How long does it take for the image to wash out of your brain?”
He patted my shoulder. “Sorry, sweetie. If you’ve got a good memory, that picture is yours forever. The only thing you can do is fill your mental photo album with other things, happier things.”
Just then, I heard the rustling of someone coming in the door.
“Pizza’s here,” Gomez said. “Come on out to the lunch room. I hope you both like pepperoni.”
Chapter 33
Not only did my appetite come back for pizza, but I was hungry again at eight o’clock, when Jessica pulled a steaming tray of something delicious from the oven.
As the smell of sweet and spicy cornbread hit my nose, I opened my eyes and yawned. I’d been napping on the couch, where I’d temporarily taken over Jessica’s nest of blankets. After my father dropped me off on his way home from the police station, I’d meant to run myself a hot bath, but what I really needed was a nap. Ever since the previous Christmas, when someone tried to drug me and drown me in a tub, I’d been leery of napping in water. My fears had only grown a few months later, when an acquaintance suffered a watery demise.
My couch, however, had never tried to murder anyone, so that was where I’d spent the afternoon following the discovery of Tim Barber’s body.
“Jessica, you actually made chili and cornbread, too? Marry me!”
She snorted at my proposal, as usual. “The chili is vegetarian this time,” she said. “I’ve been eating too much meat lately, so I got out my vegetarian cookbooks. This looked like a good recipe. There’s a chunk of dark chocolate in it, plus chipotle peppers, so it’s smokey and earthy.”
“That does sound good.”
“It’ll be more filling served with the cornbread.” She lifted the lid on the slow cooker and sniffed the fragrant steam. “Want yours served there on the couch?”
I moaned as I struggled with the blankets. “I’d help you set the table, but Jeffrey has me pinned down.” He was sprawled on my chest, his front paws extended on either side of my neck.
Jessica let out the chirp-whistle she used in place of the traditional “here, kitty, kitty,” and Jeffrey broke the sound barrier exiting our cozy couch nest.
I got up, stretched, and started setting the table for two.
“Logan’s coming,” she said. “He came by to check on you an hour ago. Don’t worry, I rolled you over so you weren’t snoring.”
I snorted. “As if,” I said. “I don’t snore.”
She handed me three squares of paper towel to fold as napkins. “The snoring I heard must have been Jeffrey,” she said.
Our discussion of snoring was cut short by the arrival of Logan. He kicked off his shoes and made a beeline for me. He hugged me tightly and wouldn’t let me go. Jessica knew all about my adventures that day and must have filled him in on everything.
“I’m okay,” I said. “It wasn’t so bad, and Dad was there with me.”
“Promise me you’ll be more careful from now on.” He squeezed me tighter. “No more car chases or dead bodies.”
“Can’t breathe,” I gasped, trapped by his python arms. “Let the hostage go and you get a glass of wine.”
He used the top of my head as a chin rest. “What kind of wine?”
I bent my knees, dropped down, and slipped away.
“The house special,” I said, “Cardbordeaux.”
He gave me a skeptical look. “I don’t know that vintage.”
“Turn away and don’t look, or you’ll ruin it.”
He turned to pick up Jeffrey for some whisker-on-whisker time. While he wasn’t looking, I opened the cupboard and filled three glasses with Cardbordeaux, which was what we called the boxed wine in the vacuum-sealed bag.
Jessica and I finished getting everything ready for dinner while Logan showered the cat with affection.
I mentally noted that he’d forgiven Jeffrey for indiscriminately allowing himself to be snuggled by Tony. I was glad that Logan wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.
“Who’s the Heavyweight Champion?” he asked the cat repeatedly. “Is it you, Mr. Man? Are you the champ?”
He’d been calling Jeffrey the Heavyweight Champion for a few months. It all started with him calling the gray cat Jefe, pronounced heffey, which he mistakenly believed was Spanish for Jeff, but turned out to actually mean chief or boss. After a few weeks of calling him Jefe, it evolved into Heavy. The cat had put on about half a pound over the winter, and wasn’t overweight but did appear suitably embarrassed at being called Heavy or Heavybuns or, occasionally, Hefty Bag. One day, the cat had walked across Logan’s face with his full weight, and Logan reported that it felt like being punched. Thus was born the nickname of Heavyweight Champion.
“Ding, ding,” Jessica said, which was her way of ringing the proverbial dinner bell, and we all took our usual seats and dug in.
The vegetarian chili was delicious, as was the cornbread, which was dotted with hot jalapeno peppers. Logan made a fuss about needing more sour cream and getting his face burned off, and we teased him about being wimpy about spicy foods. It was just the usual teasing we did over dinner, but Logan got quiet and didn’t tease us back. One corner of the cornbread was blackened, and he didn’t say a word to Jessica about her tendency to burn at least one portion of whatever she baked. He liked calling her Pyrocook, but, strangely enough, he didn’t use the term once during dinner.
When it came time for dessert and eating the flaky apple turnovers from that morning, he excused himself, saying he had to make a few calls and get to bed early.
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