I HADN’T EVEN gotten back into my car when Timmy Jones, my buddy from the sheriff’s office, pulled up in his marked unit. The cold wind blew his thinning blond hair in a swirl around his wide head. The look on his face told me he had news. It didn’t look like good news.
My mind raced with all the possibilities: Bailey Mae had just been found dead at the foot of a cliff, or her body had washed up on the shores of the Hudson. I’d done a good job of tamping down the darker visions of what might have happened to her. Pretty much the whole day had been spent either looking for her or avoiding thinking about what might have happened to her. That was one of the reasons I’d helped Mrs. Moscowitz. I was good at avoiding tough issues. The private investigation business was my main means of not dealing with my own emotions. If I was distracted by something else, I couldn’t dwell on the past. On dead fiancées. On missed opportunities. On my screwed-up family.
My stomach did a flip-flop as Timmy slowly walked around the front of his patrol car and then up the short driveway to face me. The frustration of his silence made me bark out, “What is it?” My voice couldn’t hide the dread I felt.
Timmy started slowly, looking for the words. “My partner and I were knocking on doors, asking about Bailey Mae near her house.” He paused and ran his hand through his hair.
“Timmy, get to the point,” I almost snapped.
“Sorry. The old couple down the street from your cousin Alice’s house, the Wilkses, were found dead inside their own house.”
“Dead? From what?”
“They’d been shot.”
This made my head spin. I even had to put my hand on the hood of my car to steady myself. “Shot? Bob and Francine Wilks have been shot?”
Timmy just nodded and mumbled, “In the head.”
This was just too bizarre. I spoke to the elderly couple every day. If I didn’t see them while I delivered the paper, I’d run into them at the diner or Luten’s grocery store. Something didn’t add up. All I could do was look at my friend and say, “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 8
MY MIND WAS still racing as I followed Timmy, driving at his normal, conservative pace. Shit like this just doesn’t happen in Marlboro. Maybe in Poughkeepsie or even Newburgh. But not here. What the hell was going on?
I was anxious to get to the crime scene but realized I needed to be with Timmy to get past any of the other cops, so I chugged along behind him. I figured I might be of some help. I’d been through a number of forensic and crime scene schools in the Navy. Since then I had been through more than a few similar classes at Dutchess Community College. I probably understood these things better than the local cops, who never had to deal with them. At least when I was a master-at-arms in the Navy, I’d seen a few crime scenes on base. And I knew the local cops’ weakness: They didn’t want to call in the state police unless it was absolutely necessary.
Timmy knew my background and got me past the yellow crime-scene tape and the disturbingly young patrolman who was standing guard. I got a few odd looks from the other cops, and the only detective on the scene completely ignored me as she silently made notes in the corner.
The bodies were still in place as someone from the coroner’s office took photographs. They were sitting right next to each other, as if watching TV from the ancient plaid couch they probably bought in the seventies. Single gunshots, probably from a 9mm, had left holes near the center of each of their foreheads and had caused just a trickle of blood to run down each pale face. It was neat and probably quick and professional.
I glanced out the window and saw that the sun was starting to set. Where had the day gone? Then I noticed it. I moved toward the kitchen, careful not to disturb anything, and stared for a moment until Timmy eased up beside me.
He said, “What is it, Mitchum?”
I nodded toward the counter. “That’s one of Bailey Mae’s coffee cakes.” I leaned over and touched it, then broke off a corner and popped it in my mouth. “It’s fresh. She was here.”
CHAPTER 9
IT WAS AFTER midnight when I finally left the Wilkses’ house. The sheriff’s office was still there collecting evidence and taking photographs. In fairness, I didn’t have to prepare and document a criminal case. All I wanted to find out was who shot the friendly older couple and where Bailey Mae fit into all of it. That was what kept me there so long: I had been looking for other clues that pointed to where Bailey Mae was and what had happened to her.
Who says nothing ever happens in Marlboro? It had been a long, hard day.
After I snatched a few hours’ sleep, I was preparing to deliver my papers early again. It gave me some normalcy and allowed me to be out in the town in case I saw something that could help.
Even Nick, the guy who dropped off the bundled papers, was interested in our sleepy little town for a change.
The husky teamster said, “I heard about your cousin. I’ll keep an eye out.”
I was stunned. I had been starting to think he didn’t even speak English.
Then he pointed at the front page of the first paper strapped in the bundle and said, “Shame about the old couple, too. You guys need to get your shit together.” Then he was gone.
He was also right. One of the reasons I stayed in Marlboro was because of the atmosphere. It is a nice place to live with nice people around. Even if I am related to a bunch of them.
By the time Bart and I were rolling in the loaded station wagon, a sleet storm had made the roads a crapshoot and visibility shitty. I had never seen the weather turn so cold and ugly this early in the year. It matched my mood about Bailey Mae’s disappearance.
No one was out this morning as I cruised the streets slowly, tossing papers to some houses and walking them up to the front door at the homes of really old or infirm people. It hurt to drive past the Wilkses’ house and not throw a paper. The yellow tape was still up, but the house was dark and no one was around.
Even the diner was nearly empty because of the weather as I hustled in through the driving sleet. Bart, as usual, elected to sleep in the back of the car.
I slipped onto a stool at the sparsely populated counter as Mabel walked up with a plate already in her hands.
“What’s this?”
She gave me one of her dazzling smiles and said, “I knew you’d be in and knew you’d feel like scrambled eggs.”
“How’d you know that?”
She just shrugged as she slid the plate in front of me. The smell was intoxicating and it really was just what I wanted.
Mabel lingered, and I could tell she was troubled by something. I didn’t push it, since I noticed her checking to be sure no one was close enough to hear our conversation. She leaned on the counter and put her face close to mine. She still had that goofy look in her eyes that tends to make me uncomfortable.
She said, “Listen, Mitchum, I need to tell you something.”
I didn’t answer, just waited for it to come out.
“I’m worried. I’ve seen the same strangers here for the past few days. I didn’t think it meant anything, but with Bailey Mae missing and now the Wilkses dead, I feel like I need to tell someone.”
She had my attention. “I’m listening.”
“Two men and a woman came in right as we opened at about 5:30 yesterday and this morning. It reminded me that I’d seen them before, a few weeks ago. They’re not from around here.”
“What makes them suspicious?”
“Who in their right mind would hang around this town if they didn’t have to?”
“Me, for one. But tell me more about these strangers. What did they look like?”
That’s when she surprised me. Instead of describing the strangers, she pulled out her phone and showed me a photograph she’d snapped of them leaving the diner. Two guys in their thirties with good builds and short hair and a tall woman about the same age who wore her dark hair in a neat braid down her back. Nothing unusual about them except they were all in good shape.
I had Mabel text me the phot
o, and then I gave her a stern look.
She said, “What? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want you risking yourself snapping photos of who-knows-what. You can tell me anything, but don’t do anything stupid. Let’s figure out what’s going on first. Don’t stick your neck out.”
That was my job.
CHAPTER 10
I CONTINUED MY search for Bailey Mae by looking around Marlboro and the surrounding area, and I showed the photo from Mabel to the people I came across. No one seemed to recognize the three strangers from the diner.
My family had blanketed the area well. There were now flyers up on virtually every telephone pole, and most people that I visited had already talked to one of my cousins or my mother.
I decided to try a new tack and headed down to Newburgh to talk to the cops there. Newburgh was a much larger city and had seen better times. It had a crime rate that bucked the national trend by rising every year, and it was now considered one of the most dangerous small towns in the country. The city had a dingy look to it that I was afraid would never clear up.
The Newburgh cops knew me. Partly as a local and partly, unfortunately, as the brother of one of the town’s drug dealers. My status as a veteran overcame some of that, but the cops still weren’t thrilled with my brother’s profession. Fortunately, most of the cops knew I wasn’t on that level. What kind of an idiot would bust his ass on a paper route every day if he was really a drug kingpin?
The police station house was located on Route 300, not far from the State of Mind Tavern. The station was quiet when I stepped inside and walked toward a heavyset desk sergeant. I knew the big guy was from Buffalo, and I appreciated that he listened to me, paid attention, and even looked at the photo of the three strangers in Marlboro.
“I’ve already been keeping an eye out for your cousin and asking a few questions, but no one has seen her down here in a few days. I guess you already knew she would hang out over at the tavern with your brother sometimes.”
I nodded my head, making sure I didn’t add my approval to it.
A tall, muscular patrolman who had already been on the force when I’d gotten back from the service stopped to see what we were talking about. The cop was named Tharpe and I recognized him from high school. He wore his brown hair in a crew cut like he just got out of the Marines. He took a look at the photograph on my phone and said, “Sorry, dropout, don’t recognize any of them.” Then he turned and pushed through the swinging double doors into the control room off the lobby.
I’d heard it before. Sometimes “dropout,” sometimes “washout.” I got it. I didn’t make it to the end of the SEAL course. It was just something I had to deal with.
A few minutes later, as I was headed out of town, I turned a few blocks out of my way to go past the State of Mind Tavern. The parking lot was packed and music pulsed from inside. There aren’t a lot of nightspot options in Newburgh.
I immediately spotted Natty standing at the edge of the parking lot, speaking on his cell phone. As I pulled the station wagon to the curb, he looked up and immediately walked toward me, ending his call.
Natty said, “Hey, Mitchum.” As he stepped up to the car and leaned down, he looked into the backseat.
I knew what he was looking for. I said, “Bart’s at home.”
“Why? Thought he went everywhere with you.”
“Who can tell? Maybe he liked the warmth of the house and knew I’d be in and out of the car.” When we were kids, Natty and I loved The Simpsons. I would pretend to be Bart and Natty played Homer. It was a blast. I have no idea when we split. Probably in high school when he found an easy way to make a buck.
Natty made a quick scan of the area, then looked back at me and said, “What brings you down here?”
“Bailey Mae.” Then I held up my phone and asked, “You ever seen these three before?”
Natty studied the photograph and said, “There’ve been a few more strangers around lately, and maybe I saw these three around somewhere. Let me think about it some more.”
As I nodded and started to pull away, my brother reached in through the window and put his hand on my shoulder. “Be careful, little brother. This isn’t the Navy. There’s no telling who’s nuts. I’ll get back on Bailey Mae’s trail tomorrow. I have all of my associates out looking. We’ll find her.”
Maybe my brother had changed. At least that’s what I kept thinking as I spent another hour stopping at a couple places on the way back to Marlboro. Bailey Mae had vanished, and she had seen the Wilkses sometime before they were murdered. That didn’t leave me with a good feeling.
Once I was in Marlboro, I saw my cousin Todd and his wife out knocking on doors. It made me realize how grim things had turned in our little town. Everyone loved Bailey Mae. I had to stop the car at that thought and correct myself out loud. “Everyone loves Bailey Mae.”
CHAPTER 11
IT WAS AFTER nine when I rolled up to the diner for a shot of coffee and a snack before going out again on the only case that mattered to me.
Before I even sat down, Walter, a middle-aged man from town, approached me.
He was nervous and always spoke fast. “Mitchum, Mitchum, got a second?”
I was too tired to answer. He took it as a yes. I rubbed my eyes as he blurted out, “I’ve got a job for you.”
All I could do was stare and let him finish his thought.
“My wife is gone. Missing. I think she’s in the city with her personal trainer. I can pay. Double your normal rate.”
I shook my head.
“Triple.”
In my head I thought, Triple of nothing is still nothing, but I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
He turned and left the diner in a huff.
Now Mabel and I were alone. She actually sat in the booth with me, something she never did.
I said, “What are you still doing here?”
“Worked a double. I need money for college. I’ve been taking classes over at Dutchess Community College, and I just got my GED at the end of the summer.”
That was one of the first things to cheer me up all day. I said, “That’s great. Any idea what you want to study?”
She just shrugged her shoulders, and we stared at each other for a few seconds. Finally Mabel said, “It’s not easy, is it?”
“What?”
“Life.”
“Not always.”
She put her chin on her hands and it made her cute face seem even younger. “You really wanted to be a SEAL, huh?”
“I dreamed about it as a kid. I practiced for it. I did it all. Ran, studied karate, pull-ups, push-ups, anything I thought would get me ready. I even became a history buff because I read that all great soldiers were students of history.”
“What happened?”
“I underestimated my ability to do a basic and simple skill.”
“What’s that?”
“I couldn’t swim well enough.”
“You didn’t know that before you applied?”
“I thought I just needed more practice. And I did get better, but not good enough. I was right at the top of the class, that’s why they cut me a break about my swimming ability at first. Ultimately it wasn’t meant to be. And I nearly drowned in the Pacific. It’s deeper than you think.”
Mabel laughed at that and her smile changed the whole room. It made me smile for the first time in two days.
She said, “So you could shoot and fight, but not swim.”
“Basically. Now I just try to do my part in other ways.”
“Like the PI stuff?”
“Sometimes.”
“You don’t ever feel bitter about the SEALs?”
I forced a smile. “I don’t think the Navy would want that. Life’s too short to waste it on regret.”
She reached across and placed her hand on my forearm. “You’re a good egg, Mitchum.”
I put my hand over hers and said, “So are you. Now let’s both go and get some rest.”
I gave h
er a ride to the double-wide trailer that used to belong to her mother and refused an invitation inside. Right now all I needed was to lie down with Bart for a few hours and sleep as best I could.
CHAPTER 12
I WAS AS tired as I could ever remember being as I pulled the station wagon up the narrow driveway and came to a stop twenty-five feet from my front door. I liked my simple house with two bedrooms and an attic a hobbit couldn’t fit in. My front porch light was on a timer and illuminated the pathway, but the inside was pitch-black. That wasn’t good. I always left one light on in my kitchen. Normally, I could see it through the front window, and it cast a little light across the whole house. I didn’t want Bart walking into a wall in the dark. Someone had turned it off.
The only defense I had was my Navy knife, which I dug out of my front pocket and flipped open. I use it as a tool, but its original purpose was as a weapon. The door was still locked, and I wondered if the light had just burned out. Still, I entered carefully, slightly crouched with the knife in front of me. Clouds had obscured the moon, and the inside of my house could have been a cave.
I was relieved to hear Bart’s nails click along the tile as he came to me. But he whimpered slightly, something I rarely heard. I felt my way to the wall and flipped the switch that turned on the single light. Instantly my house seemed more natural. It was a light I was used to. Then I walked around and turned on several more lights, taking some time to lean down and comfort Bart. The dog was spooked. His wide little body, a cross between a boxer and a bulldog, was shaking.
The place looked in order. I checked the back door and the windows, and everything was secure. But there were a few little things out of place. The magazines on my coffee table were too straight. I wasn’t that neat. They were usually plopped in an uneven pile. The drawers in my kitchen were not quite how I had left them. I remembered grabbing a pen and paper to make a grocery list and leaving my main junk drawer a mess. It was still chaos, but not the same chaos that I left it in.
The River Murders Page 2