The Sense of Death: An Ann Kinnear Suspense Novel (The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels Book 1)

by Matty Dalrymple

  “Listen, I’ve done something incredibly stupid and I think Ann might be in danger as a result.”

  “What?” said Joe, no longer sounding tired. The sounds of the ball game in the background muted.

  “I was still curious about the blue thing in Firth’s garage cabinet so I … I got it.”

  “How?” said Joe.

  “I’ll explain that later. Anyhow, it was a Ziploc bag of jewelry, woman’s jewelry. I’m betting that it’s the wife’s.”

  “Holy hell,” said Joe under his breath. “Where is it now?”

  “It’s in the trunk of my car.”

  “Holy shit,” said Joe, a bit more loudly, “what were you thinking?”

  “Let’s agree for the moment that I wasn’t thinking,” said Mike. “The thing is, I think Firth knows I have the jewelry and that I’m heading up to see Ann and I’m afraid he might try to hurt her. Hell, I’m afraid he might try to hurt me but he doesn’t know where I am at the moment.”

  “Does he know where she lives?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not easy to find it, we’ve made a point of that, but it’s not impossible. A couple of freaks have found their way to her house in the past. I just tried calling her and she’s not picking up. I’m thinking that maybe you could call the police up there and ask them to drive by and check on her.”

  “Does she know about the jewelry?”

  “No, I haven’t told her yet.”

  “Does anyone else know about it?”

  Mike paused. “I’m the one who was responsible for taking it.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” said Joe.

  Mike sighed. “My partner, Scott, knows about it.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Where are you now?” asked Joe.

  “I’m at a restaurant in Saratoga Springs.”

  “How far is that from Ann’s house?”

  “At least two hours.”

  “OK, you might as well continue on up there. Go to the Tupper Lake police station. If it’s really Firth and he’s after both of you, the police can keep an eye on you there. I’ll call up there and see what they can do. I’ll call you back and let you know what they say. Should I call you back on this number?”

  “Yes, it’s my cell.”

  “OK,” continued Joe. “Call me back if you haven’t heard from me by the time you get to Tupper Lake. Call your partner now and tell him to go to a busy public area and stay there until you or I give him a call. Tell him not to mention the jewelry to anyone. And don’t you mention the jewelry to anyone until we’ve had a chance to talk. Including Ann.”

  “OK,” said Mike. “Thanks, Joe.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” said Joe, “you are going to be in one big hell of a lot of trouble when you get back to Philly.”

  Having received a confusing but urgent-sounding call from Mike, Scott opened the door of The Foundry Bar and Grill and was struck by an onslaught of noise from the mostly early-twenties crowd. He pushed his way to the bar and reached it just as a couple vacated their seats—he slipped onto a stool and put his cell phone on the bar where he could keep an eye on it. When a bartender eventually wandered within gesturing distance, Scott ordered a martini which then sat untouched as he shredded his cocktail napkin. He tried to pace himself, allowing himself a glance at his watch only every five minutes, but each time he looked he found that only a minute or two had passed. He tried to distract himself with the television over the bar but even with subtitles the show was nonsensical.

  He was doing a count-down from sixty for the next look at his watch when a hand on his arm made him jump, sloshing martini onto his sleeve. He turned to find Alan, a fellow therapist at Bryn Mawr Rehab, at his elbow.

  “Hey, Scott, sorry about that! Lost in a daydream, eh?”

  “Yeah, a dream,” muttered Scott, mopping his sleeve with a couple of cocktail napkins he pulled from the bartender’s supply.

  “Hey, do you know Sean? From work?” Alan gestured at a vaguely familiar-looking young red-haired man standing behind him.

  “Sure,” said Scott. “Nice to see you.”

  The young man nodded and glanced around the bar nervously. Just coming out, Scott guessed.

  Alan flagged down the bartender and ordered two draft beers. “So where’s Mike? You bachin’ it tonight?”

  “Out of town, visiting his sister.”

  “Hey, I remember her, the psychic, right?” Alan elbowed his red-haired friend. “Scott’s partner’s sister is a psychic.”

  “No kidding?” said Sean, still looking distractedly around the bar.

  “No kidding!” said Alan, “they even had a TV show about her. Right?” He turned to Scott for confirmation.

  “Right,” said Scott.

  “’scuse me,” said Sean, “I see someone over there I’ve got to talk to. Nice meeting you,” he nodded to Scott and slipped into the crowd just as the bartender delivered the two beers.

  Alan sighed. “Nervous someone he knows is going to see him. Hey, mind if I join you?” He slipped onto a stool next to Scott and slid the extra beer in front of him. “Since I made you spill your drink, this can be a replacement.” He took a deep draft of his beer and glanced around the crowd. “I’m going to stop going for the young ones. Too skittish.” He bumped Scott’s elbow with his own just as Scott was picking up his glass, causing the martini stain to be diluted with beer. “So, what are Mike and his psychic sister up to these days?”

  “God only knows,” said Scott morosely.

  Chapter 44

  Maura Meece and her partner Tony Taubert made good time on their way to Loon Pond—despite not using the lights or siren—until they got to Loon Pond Road itself where the gravel surface slowed them down. They had gotten Ann’s cell phone number from Joe Booth and Tony called the number several times on their way to the house but there was no answer.

  When they got to the bottom of the drive to Ann’s house they crunched slowly up the hill, pulled into the parking area, turned off the engine, and emerged from the car. The storm had passed but the sound of water falling from branches was loud. The windows of the cabin glowed cheerfully among the trees.

  Maura snapped the strap off her gun but left it in her holster; Tony, following her lead, did the same. Tony pulled two flashlights out of the glove compartment and passed one to Maura. They located the path to the house and started down it, straining to hear any out-of-place sounds over the drip of the rainwater.

  About halfway down the path Tony said, “You smell that?”

  Maura sniffed. “No, what?”

  “Something’s burning, something on the stove maybe.”

  Maura sniffed again and thought she did smell something this time. They were about fifteen yards from the house and had a view of part of the brightly lit kitchen but there was no movement as far as they could see.

  Maura unholstered her gun and Tony did the same. At a gesture from Maura they both stepped behind trees on opposite sides of the path.

  “Ann Kinnear?” Maura yelled. There was no response. “Miss Kinnear, this is the Tupper Lake police, are you in there? The Philadelphia police asked us to check up on you.” Still nothing. They waited a minute, Maura trying to see into the house and Tony peering into the woods behind them. The burning smell became stronger. “Miss Kinnear, we’re coming in,” yelled Maura. “With guns,” she added. Maura and Tony started down the path again, Maura in the lead.

  When they got to the porch Maura looked through the glass panes of the door into the kitchen and saw the body of a man sprawled on the floor, a pool of blood near his head. “There’s a man down,” she whispered to Tony who peered over her shoulder into the kitchen. They pulled open the screen door, the squeak of the hinges making them both jump, then pushed open the inner door and stepped into the kitchen, scanning the first floor as best they could as they entered.

  The small kitchen was a scene of carnage. The man had a gaping wound in his neck, his fingers around his neck as if to try to stanch t
he flow of blood. A few feet from him lay a large dog, clearly dead, its fur matted with blood that mingled on the floor with the man’s. Against the kitchen cabinets was the third victim, a woman in a slumped sitting position, propped up by the angle of the cabinets she had fallen against. One hand lay over a bloody stain on her side, the other gripped a gun.

  Maura bent down and took the gun out of the woman’s limp hand. “See if either of them are alive,” said Maura, “I’ll check the house.” Tony was kneeling over the man but it seemed pretty clear to Maura that he was dead.

  She had circled the small first floor and was on the second floor when Tony yelled, “The woman’s alive!”

  “Get an ambulance!” she yelled back and heard Tony making the call on the radio. Maura completed the check of the basement and then rejoined Tony in the kitchen. He had turned off the stove and moved a pan filled with the burned remains of what looked like beef stew off the burner. Maura also noticed the charred remains of curtains over the kitchen window.

  Tony had pulled Ann away from the cabinets and gotten her into a prone position with what looked like an oven mitt under her head. He had a dishtowel pressed to her side.

  “Does it look bad?” asked Maura.

  “Haven’t any idea,” said Tony, looking queasy. “It’s off to the side, not in the middle, so that’s probably a good thing, right?”

  “That’s Ann Kinnear, I saw her on TV once,” said Maura. Ann’s face was ashen and her labored breathing was accompanied by a slight whistling sound.

  “Think she got it in the lung,” said Tony. “I hope the EMTs get here quick.”

  The ambulance arrived about ten minutes later.

  Chapter 45

  As the wail of the ambulance receded, Maura pulled out her cell phone and dialed Joe Booth’s number. He answered at the first ring.

  “Booth.”

  “Hello, this is Maura Meese up at Tupper Lake. We’re at Miss Kinnear’s cabin—there had been an altercation, Miss Kinnear was shot, she’s alive, the ambulance just left.”

  Maura heard a whoosh of air from the other end of the call. “Could you tell how bad it was?”

  “She was shot in the torso, it’s hard to say ...” Maura didn’t mention that Kinnear’s face had taken on the grayish, pasty look of shock victims by the time the ambulance had arrived. Maura had only seen two gunshot victims in her career and both had had that look and neither had survived. “There was another victim, a man, white, dark hair, mid-thirties ... any idea who that is?”

  “Yes, I think so. Is he alive?”

  “No—also shot.”

  “Can you send me a photo of the body so I can confirm the identity?”

  “I can’t really just snap a picture and text it to you.”

  “I’d appreciate knowing as soon as possible, could you send a picture to the precinct?”

  “That should be OK. Don’t mean to be a stickler but if a crime scene photo got out it would be my job.”

  A few phone calls and e-mails later, Joe was sitting at his PC in what passed as his home office—his kitchen table—looking at photos of Biden Firth’s body sprawled on Ann Kinnear’s kitchen floor. In the wide shots he could see a dog’s tail and part of a back leg intruding into the frame—shit, not the dog too, Joe thought. In the close-up shots, Firth’s eyes were open, his lips parted in a snarl. Joe cropped the picture to show only the face, not the pool of blood surrounding the head, and printed out a copy. He flipped through the rest of the photos, skipping quickly over the one featuring the gaping gunshot wound in Firth’s throat.

  He dialed Maura’s number.

  “Maura Meese.”

  “Joe Booth. The body is Biden Firth, I’ve been investigating his wife’s murder here in Philly.”

  “No kidding? The husband was a suspect, I assume?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, it seems like Mr. Firth has wrapped that investigation up for you—”

  “Yup. But at what a price.”

  Joe heard a shout in the background from Maura’s end, “What should we do with the dog?”

  Maura called back, “Bag it and take it to the morgue, they may want to retrieve the bullets.” Then, to Joe, “Uh, what should I do with the dog when they’re done with it?”

  “I’ll come get him.”

  “Sure thing, I’ll let them know.” There was a pause, and Joe could faintly hear the familiar sounds of a crime scene team in the background. “Hey, listen, I didn’t mean to be a smart ass about ‘wrapping up the investigation’—”

  Joe shook himself and snapped off the power on his computer monitor. “No problem. I’ve got to make some phone calls. I appreciate the help.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll keep you up to date on developments.”

  After confirming which hospital Ann had been taken to and disconnecting with Maura, Joe called Mike and redirected him to the hospital.

  Then Joe called Walt, having gotten the number from Mike, and arranged for Walt to pick him up at Brandywine Airport in the morning. He was too tired to make the drive that night—having Walt fly him would save him several hours and he wanted to talk to Mike in person as soon as possible. He also called Margaret Fraker and gave her the sketchiest of details about the death of Elizabeth Firth’s husband. Then he packed an overnight bag, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

  Chapter 46

  Shortly after 2:00 a.m., in the waiting room outside the ICU where Ann was recovering from her surgery, Mike’ s cell phone buzzed, showing Scott’s name.

  “Damn!” said Mike. He answered the call. “I am so sorry! I forgot to call you back!”

  “What’s going on there?” said Scott. “Are you OK? Is Ann OK?”

  “I’m OK. Ann was shot—collapsed lung and a chip off her rib—but so far it looks like she’s going to be OK.”

  “Oh my God, he shot her? The guy who killed his wife?”

  “That’s what it looks like, Joe’s checking. He shot Beau, too.”

  “Beau? Is he OK?”

  “No, he died,” said Mike and for the first time the enormity of what had happened swept over him and he felt tears come to his eyes. “He killed Beau,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I wish I was there.”

  Mike wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and for a minute he was seven years old again, helping his dad and Ann bury their dog Scout in the back yard. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I'm outside the Foundry,” said Scott. “They just closed. I didn’t know where else I could go at this time of night to stay in a crowd.”

  “It looks like you don’t need to worry about it anymore, he’s dead—it looks like Ann got the gun away from him and shot him.”

  “Oh my. Poor Ann. I’m going to drive up there first thing in the morning,” said Scott.

  “Let’s talk about it in the morning. I’m not sure what I’m going to be doing myself, let’s figure that out first.” Mike had visions of himself driving back to Philadelphia to turn himself in to authorities.

  “OK, we’ll decide tomorrow,” said Scott.

  “Scott, you didn’t say anything to anybody, did you?”

  Scott sighed. “I’m going to forgive you for asking that because I know you’re upset,” he said. “Sweetie, if I told you I’m not going to tell anyone, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” said Mike, resting his forehead in his hand, his elbow on his knee. “What a mess.”

  “It will look better in the morning. You call me as soon as you wake up, or if there are any updates on Ann.”

  “I will,” said Mike. “Scott, you’re the best.”

  “I know,” said Scott, with a smile in his voice.

  Chapter 47

  Walt picked Joe up at Brandywine at 8:00 the next morning and not only flew Joe to Lake Clear but drove him to the hospital as well. Joe got out his wallet when Walt pulled up at the hospital. “How much do I owe you?” he asked. He thought he might hav
e to give Walt a down payment and owe him the rest later, having no idea how much such a service would cost.

  Walt waved him away. “This one’s on the house,” he said.

  Mike was sitting in a chair by Ann’s bed and stood up when he saw Joe standing in the doorway.

  “Hey, A., look who’s here.”

  “Hey,” said Ann in Joe’s general direction.

  Joe came into the room. “How are you feeling?”

  Ann shrugged and winced.

  Joe put a small potted African violet that he had picked up in the hospital gift shop on the bedside table.

  “Hey, A., look at that, isn’t that nice.”

  “Nice,” said Ann.

  “She’s kind of out of it,” Mike said to Joe. “Painkillers.”

  “Well, that’s understandable,” said Joe. He turned to Mike. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “A., we’ll be back in a minute, OK?”

  “A minute,” said Ann.

  Mike and Joe went down the hall to an empty visitor sitting area with a TV in the corner playing The Wizard of Oz. Joe turned off the TV and they sat down.

  “It was Biden Firth that shot her,” he said, holding up the cropped picture of Biden’s face.

  “That’s Biden Firth?” said Mike, taking the photo.

  “You’re surprised?” asked Joe.

  “We did a job for that guy in Harvey Cedars, New Jersey, a couple of weeks ago. He said he was hearing voices in a house down there. He said his name was Bob Dormand.”

  Joe smiled grimly. “Bob Dormand is his father-in-law’s name, and I’ll bet the house he had you look at was his in-laws’ house. Place on the bay?”

  Mike nodded. “Why did he hire us to look at his in-laws’ house?” he said, more to himself than to Joe. “And if he was going to try to kill her, why didn’t he do it there?”

  Joe shrugged. “I’m assuming he found out about her reaction to his house, maybe he just wanted to check her out himself. And if he had wanted to kill her there he would have had to kill both of you, and it would have been a little hard to explain how the same person who had warned some buyers away from his house in Philly ended up dead in his in-laws’ shore house.”