by Leslie Nagel
“Ah.” Paul nodded. “One mystery solved.”
“I asked her to leave,” Mitch said fiercely, “but she’s very stubborn.”
Marc looked sympathetic, and Charley wondered if he was thinking of her. “Is that when you observed Wycoff attempting to enter the Reynolds residence?”
“No, sir.” Mitch shook his head. “The Peache residence. They’re the Reynolds’s next-door neighbors.”
Paul shot a glance at Marc. “How very suggestive.”
“I observed a man I subsequently identified as Benjamin Wycoff emerge from the rear of the Reynolds property and climb onto the Peache front porch. His demeanor suggested he was highly agitated. When he stopped in front of the door, I calculated that he was at least six foot five.” Mitch held one hand in front of him, palm down, then raised it a few inches above his own head. “A standard door opening is seven feet high; it’s easy to get a good gauge even from a distance. When the suspect produced keys and started to unlock the door, I could clearly see he was left-handed. That’s why I approached him, on account of the forensic reconstruction of the Prescott murder. The minute he saw the uniform, he drew down and started shooting.”
Paul asked, “You noticed he was tall and left-handed, and from those facts you made the connection to Prescott’s killer?”
“That, plus sneaking out of a missing suspect’s backyard before sunrise seemed pretty suspicious.” Mitch shrugged. “I guess I should have called for backup, but he was right there, and I just…”
“Outstanding work, Officer.” Marc smiled briefly. “Glad you didn’t get shot for that insight.”
“Thank you, sir. The lieutenant pulled both his DMV and police records, which is when I positively ID’d the suspect. Benjamin Wycoff is six foot six inches tall, two hundred seventy pounds. He’s also got two guns registered: a nine-millimeter Heckler and Koch, and a Colt .45 revolver. He was carrying the nine.”
Paul whistled. “Lucky for you he didn’t open up with his personal hand cannon.”
“Yes, sir,” Mitch said earnestly. “Of course, the Colt .45 is highly inaccurate at that distance.”
“Of course,” Marc said gravely.
“What’s our next move?” Paul asked. “Wycoff’s in the wind, and so is Reynolds. APBs will scoop ’em up sooner or later, hopefully sooner.” He brightened. “I suppose we could give Deadeye here a ride home, maybe review our notes over some breakfast?”
Marc said, “Given that Wycoff just became my prime murder suspect, I’d like to know where that Colt is.”
“It’s probably inside his house.” Charley hadn’t noticed Camille Bronsen approach, but she now stood inside the garage, Officer Landry at her side. “We’re going to need an army to search it, everyone in full hazmat gear. It’s a freaking nightmare.”
“We’ll just have to ask the lady of the house to navigate the junkyard for us,” Marc said shortly. “If Peache even suspected her nephew was involved in anything criminal, I’ll have her ass on obstruction and conspiracy. I want her taken in for questioning, Bronsen. Arrest her if you have to.”
Landry shifted and said, “Uh, that’s going to be a problem, Detective. She’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Her car’s in the driveway,” Camille supplied, “but I didn’t see a purse or wallet. The cats have been fed within the last hour or so. Beyond that, with the state of that house, it’s hard to tell which end is up.”
Landry rubbed a hand over his bald head. “A neighbor thought he saw her heading up the sidewalk, but with all the media and rubberneckers, he couldn’t be sure.”
“Damn it, why are all my witnesses disappearing?”
Camille gestured toward the window where Charley stood, less hidden than she’d thought. “Maybe she knows where Millie went.”
Marc’s head snapped right, his face registering furious disbelief as he spotted her. Charley sighed and stepped into the open, Sean at her side. Marc turned to Mitch. “Anything to add to your report?”
“No, sir.”
“As of now, you’re officially on suspension.”
“Good job, Officer,” Paul said gently as Mitch’s face fell. “I’d say you’ve done your share today.”
“Landry, give him a lift, then meet us back at the squad room,” Marc directed, his eyes on Charley. “With Cooper out, we’ll need an extra pair of hands.” Looking pleased, Landry followed Mitch out of the garage. “Camille, I want that second gun. Head back to the house and organize a search team.” Camille nodded and, with a reassuring smile for Charley, followed the others up the alley. Marc crossed the garage in two strides.
“Do you understand what your lies might have cost that young man today? If you’d been honest with me about Wycoff’s violent behavior, I would have had him brought in yesterday.” His fury ran just below the boiling point as he leaned into Charley’s face. “He may well be Calvin Prescott’s killer. Now he’s gone, on the run. And that is your fault, too. Because you lied to me.” Marc pronounced the last five words with deadly emphasis.
“Marc, please.” She reached for his arm. “I’m sorry about the shooting. But I still need to tell you what else we—”
All at once the lid blew off, and Marc was seething. “Why can’t you do what you’re told?” he shouted, shaking off her touch. “Just once, Charley, couldn’t you follow a simple order? I asked you to stay out of Calvin’s murder investigation, and you deliberately disobeyed me.”
“What did you say?” Her eyes narrowed as she squared her stance to meet his.
“Uh, pard?” Paul said tentatively, but Marc ignored him, ignored the warning signs of the gathering storm.
“You run around meddling in police business, putting yourself in danger, distracting me from doing my job—”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some kind of backward child.”
“Putting yourself at risk, when I specifically—”
“I don’t work for you,” she snapped, her own temper coming to a boil. “I am a free agent, Marc. You can’t order me—”
“Free agent? Is that what that was at the DCC?” Marc bellowed. “Snuggling up to this asshole and drinking brandy at seven in the morning?”
“Okay, I’m gone.” Sean stepped backward and slipped off down the alley. Paul looked as if he’d have liked to join him.
“For your information,” Charley said hotly, “I didn’t call Sean. He saved me. He was driving by when I ran out of the woods. And instead of viewing everything through your infantile jealousy, you should be thanking Sean for cracking the Purple Tang case for you.”
That brought Marc up short. “The Tang case? What are you—”
“Benjy Wycoff is K-Man.”
Marc and Paul gaped at her. “Wycoff and Reynolds,” Marc finally managed. “They’re neighbors. But Cooper only just—how did you—”
“Sean knew him in grade school, and that was Benjy’s nickname.” Before he could respond, Charley continued, voice tight with fury. “My ‘meddling’ just solved the biggest drug case in Oakwood’s history. You’re welcome. And if you’d get that stick out of your butt and think about the case instead of yelling at me, you’d start trying to figure out who planted that golf club.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job. You violated—”
“Well, that’s outstanding police work.” Her tone was scathing. “I make one little error in judgment—”
“One little error? Charley, you have—”
“Furthermore,” she continued, raising her voice to cut over his, “I suspect Holland and Jamie Mulbridge are up to something sneaky, possibly illegal. They’ve got millions on the line with their land deal. If you ask me, that’s more than enough motive to find the missing will. Or,” she added as inspiration struck, “to hire someone to find it for them.”
“A real estate deal?” Marc was incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me? Unless they’ve committed a murder in my city, I don’t give a shit what Jamie or Holland Mulbridge are doing,
and I don’t want to hear another word about that almighty will! I am investigating a homicide, woman. Thanks to you we’ve lost our prime suspect, a man that you could have reported yester—”
Paul’s phone chimed with an incoming text. “Preliminary forensics on the golf club,” he said as Charley and Marc glared at each other. “Blood type is a match for Prescott; DNA’ll take a couple days. They lifted several clean fingerprints off the handle and got an immediate hit. They’re Benjamin Wycoff’s. That clinches that,” he said, “at least for me. He’s our killer. But no way he plants a club with his own prints on it.”
“So you’re looking for a DCC member with motive.” Charley folded her arms to contain her anger. “How about Holland? Or Jamie, if he’s in town and staying off the radar for some reason. I wouldn’t put it past Holland to lie about where he is.”
“What is your obsession with those people?” Marc demanded. “There is absolutely no hard evidence that either one of them is involved in Prescott’s murder. Besides, I asked Holland point-blank, and…” He hesitated. “She claimed that her brother’s not in town.”
“Claimed?” Charley pounced on the word. “You think she was lying, don’t you?”
“Uh, pard?” Paul ventured. “Cooper left a voicemail last night. Jameson Mulbridge flew into Dayton sometime Wednesday. We’ll need to verify what flight he was on, but if he landed early enough, he could’ve planted the golf club.”
Charley smiled triumphantly, but Marc wasn’t backing down. “How do we know he’s even a member?”
“Oh, we know.” Paul offered the printout he’d gotten from Virgil Ames. “Not only are Holland and Jamie Mulbridge members, but Holland entertained two guests in the dining room Wednesday evening. It was a slow night and the desk’s only manned until five—she could’ve easily planted the bloody club before her guests arrived.”
“Two guests?” Charley asked sharply. “Was one of them Jamie?”
Paul checked the printout. “A nonmember, and another member, name of Duncan Drake. Holland paid the check about nine-fifteen p.m.”
Duncan Drake? Charley frowned. Why did that name sound familiar?
“You’re buying this crazy theory?” Marc demanded of Paul. “Anything linking those two to Prescott’s homicide is purely coincidental.”
At this, Charley’s patience abruptly ran out. “Who’s always saying there’s no such thing as coincidence?” She jabbed a finger at his chest, causing him to rear back, eyes wide. “A murder.” Jab. “Burglaries connected to that murder.” Jab. “A drug ring.” Jab. “A woman lying about her brother’s whereabouts and possibly more.” Jab. “All of it connecting directly to Mulbridge House, and all of it solved, at least partly, by me.” She stepped back. “As for meddling in police business? On top of everything else, I’m the one who preserved your murder weapon, you jackass. You’re welcome again. If it weren’t for me, you’d be nowhere on this case. If you’re too fatheaded to admit that, then we have nothing to say to each other.”
And with that, blinking back tears of rage, she limped from the garage and down the alley, headed for home.
Chapter 19
“Intervention!”
Charley opened one eye just as a tall, black-clad figure launched itself from her doorway through the air toward her bed, arms and legs outflung like some kind of ninja starfish. Before Charley could react she was pinned, her attacker landing hard, bracketing her body beneath the quilt with his hands and knees. Fighting back a scream, she focused on the face of her assailant.
And groaned. “St. James, you ass.”
“Wakey, wakey.” Dmitri grinned down at her and planted a big, wet kiss on the end of her nose. “Sleepyhead, get out of bed,” he sang. “The day’s begun, let’s have some—oof!”
Charley’s knee connected solidly with his midsection. Too bad he hadn’t landed a few inches farther north, she thought. Would’ve served him right. “Get off me, you dork.” Dmitri retreated to the second twin bed, massaging his abs. “How did you get in? I told Lawrence I didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“He let me in. A very healthy lunch will be ready in fifteen, BTW.” He batted his lashes. “I’m invited.”
“That traitor will feel my wrath.” Charley dragged her pillows into a squashy pile and leaned against the headboard. “What are you doing here?”
Dmitri flopped onto his back and ticked off on his fingers. “You got hit by a car, you’re lying here with a taped ankle and an almost re-dislocated shoulder, and you had a huge fight with our favorite detective. Where else would I be?”
“How on earth did you hear about—” Charley sighed with resignation. “Dumb question. God, this town. Is Vanessa okay? She seemed pretty upset.”
“She’s upset?” Dmitri growled. “Believe me, that discussion is far from closed. And that goes double for you, Evel Knievel.”
“I’m fine.” She held out a hand and he clasped her fingers, bridging the gap between beds. “I’m surprised you didn’t drag Frankie up here to help scold me into obedience.”
“I tried.” Dmitri’s brow wrinkled briefly. “She’s home in bed, too, when she’s not praying to the porcelain god. She thinks maybe she caught Ebola from all that crap in Millie’s house.” Dark eyes huge with love and concern met hers. “You’ve had a rough couple of days, princess. Want to tell me about it?”
Charley stared up at the ceiling. She should have been at Old Hat, running her business and training her new employee. For the first time in the three years she’d owned and operated her precious shop, she dreaded the thought of going into work, of facing Heddy’s sympathetic smile, Vanessa’s cheerful curiosity, the total lack of customers, the view of the Safety Building across the street—particularly a pair of windows that marked the location of the detective section. She squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to block out the memory of Marc’s fury and sense of betrayal. Even Sean had run out on her rather than get dragged down into her stupid drama. This morning had not been her finest hour.
She’d limped home, lied to Bobby and Lawrence about where she’d been, and then, battered and heartsick, dragged herself upstairs, peeled off her filthy clothes, and crawled under the covers.
Instead of tackling the challenges before her, she’d fled to the safety of her green and white bedroom, with its eyelet curtains, pastel patchwork bedspreads, and double closets in comforting apple-pie order. This room was her oasis, a cool, quiet haven where she could dream and recharge her emotional batteries. But as Dmitri waited patiently, she forced herself to admit that she’d fled here not to rest, but to hide, literally cowering under the quilt to avoid the mess she’d made.
As she replayed the events that had led to this sorry pass, the specter of Marc’s fury was replaced by Calvin Prescott’s kindly face, blue eyes twinkling from behind his spectacles. She swiped angrily at the sudden tears that threatened. What was she doing, lying here, wallowing in self-pity? Sure, she was a little banged up, but an innocent man was dead. There was work to be done, Marcus Trenault be damned. Kicking off the coverlet, she sat up and swung her feet to the floor.
“Here’s the short version. Benjy Wycoff killed Calvin to avoid being exposed as a thief and the ringleader of the Purple Tang.”
“That’s it?” Dmitri sounded acutely disappointed. “Mystery solved? What about Augusta’s missing will?”
“Mystery not solved, at least not completely,” Charley corrected. “I’m shelving the question of the missing will, at least for now. It’s what Benjy was looking for and the reason Calvin’s dead, but that’s not the whole story. While Marc and I”—her heart clenched—“were discussing the case earlier, I was reminded that Benjy is a self-serving dirtbag.”
“This is news?”
“Don’t you get it?” She pulled on her fluffy green bathrobe. “Someone must’ve hired Benjy to search for that will. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. He’d never take on so much risk unless someone paid him to.”
Dmitri snapped his fingers.
“And that mysterious someone put the golf club in the display case. Now I get it. So, who’s our prime suspect?”
“Holland or Jamie Mulbridge.” At his look of surprise, Charley elaborated. “They’re both DCC members, so they have knowledge of and access to that display case. Holland was there Wednesday night, and I just found out Jamie arrived in town sometime Wednesday. Holland lied to the police about that, too,” she said grimly. “And they both have plenty of motive to suppress any documents that might get in the way of their redevelopment plan.”
“You really think they’re that desperate to build fourteen houses?” Dmitri asked skeptically. “I thought they were loaded.”
“What if there’s more to it than that?” She tested her shoulder—not too bad. “From the beginning I felt certain there was more going on. With time so short before the vote, we need to focus on Gallagher’s Island and the Mulbridges’ secret plan to develop it.”
“Secret plan?” Dmitri sat up and faced her with renewed interest. “Tell me more.”
“Remember my dad’s colored map?” She quickly explained what she’d seen in Holland’s suite and her reasons for suspecting Jamie’s involvement in a backdoor land deal. “Where there’s a Phase One, there’s probably a Phase Two. And where else would you put Phase Two but smack-dab in the middle of the big, empty tract right next door?”
“And this is illegal in some way?”
“I have no idea.” Charley shoved impatiently at her hair; Dmitri chuffed, grabbed a brush, and began working through the tangles. “Not without more information. But even if it’s technically legal, it’s going to raise a hell of a stink, probably enough to torpedo Oak Bridge Estates for good. Whether or not Holland knew about Phase Two before, she knows now and she hasn’t said a word. That makes her a coconspirator.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Dmitri said slowly, “but it gets worse. Certain ignorant people already think you’re in cahoots with Holland, right?”
Charley closed her eyes as she considered this new aspect of the disaster. “Sweet Mother Earth, you’re right. If Phase Two exists, and if it goes public and I’m not the one to expose it? I may as well close Old Hat right now. Marc doesn’t believe—” She pushed past the wall of despair that awaited whenever she let her guard down. “We don’t have time to convince the police to investigate. If we’re going to prove either Holland or Jamie hired Benjy, we need leverage, and that means information.”