Murder at Tiger Eye

by Jim Riley

"Why would someone do that?" Donna asked.

  Niki stared at the flat tire. "I don't know. Evidently, someone doesn't like the way I'm doing my job."

  "Which one?" Dalton asked.

  Niki looked at him with arched eyebrows.

  "Which one?" Dalton repeated. "Which case? Scott's or Tommy's?"

  "I assumed it was a suspect from Scott's murder. But now that I think about it, this is something a teenager would do."

  Donna stepped right next to her.

  "Miss Niki, a lot of guys at the high school used to do silly things like this to get even with the other kids. I don't know if they would do it to you, though."

  "I don't know, girl," Niki continued to scan the lot. "What I can't figure out is how they got away so quickly. We were out here right after the alarm went off. We should have seen him."

  Dalton inspected the vehicle. He pointed at the window.

  "This might be the reason. He shot the window with a pellet gun. That's what set off the alarm, not when he got your tire."

  "That makes little sense. Why not wait until we came out after we finished eating? What was the hurry? He—"

  "Look out, Miss Niki," Donna shouted. The hourglass blonde shoved Niki hard, driving her to the pavement.

  The bullet struck the SUV in the fender right above the tire. It missed the two girls by only inches. Donna and Niki crawled to the rear the car. Dalton jerked out his .357 Magnum. He saw a fleeting figure behind the apartment house that sat on a lot in the rear of Frank's restaurant. He aimed, but did not pull the trigger, unsure if the figure was the shooter or an innocent apartment dweller.

  He raced to the apartment complex with Niki right on his heels. She readied the thirty-eight revolver in her hand. Dalton slowed when he reached the first building.

  A shadow passed to the side of the building, and both Niki and Dalton turned toward it with their weapons leveled. To their surprise, a mangy cur dog stepped from behind the wall, wagging its tail at the sudden activity.

  Dalton muttered and moved to the next apartment. An older lady cracked open the door.

  "What’s going on? You woke me up." She was not a happy camper.

  "Stay inside," Dalton shouted. "Somebody is shooting at people out here. It's not safe."

  The lady slammed the door, but then Niki saw her peeking out the window. The young investigator motioned to the woman to get down behind the windowsill.

  Niki’s heart pounded through her blouse as her eyes darted, trying to see everywhere at once. The old cur walked right to the base of her feet, waiting patiently for a loving pat. Niki barely noticed the canine, keeping her attention on the potential of danger ahead.

  Dalton raced to the corner of the apartment in the next row of buildings. He whirled around the edge, but no target appeared in his sight. The sound of a vehicle cranking up on the street behind the trees at the rear of the last of the apartments spurred Dalton to action. He sprinted through the small strip of woods, emerging into a rundown neighborhood on the other side.

  The vehicle was already out of sight, having turned the corner and going either to O'Neil Lane or Greenwell Springs Road. It could reach either in the matter of a minute. Without a good description of the car, both of the young people knew there was no chance of finding it among the heavy traffic on both streets.

  They were standing at the end of the street when Donna ran up to them, panting for air.

  "Did you all see him?" She asked between gasps.

  Niki shook her head.

  "He got clean away. Thanks for saving my life, though."

  The attractive youngster stood straight. "I almost didn't. I saw the rifle barrel sticking out of that bush by the apartment. It took me a couple of seconds to realize what I was looking at. I almost waited too long."

  "I'm glad you didn't," Niki holstered the thirty-eight revolver. "Now we know why he didn’t wait for us to come out. He couldn't wait over there too long holding a high-powered rifle. Somebody might have seen him."

  Dalton put away his gun.

  “Somebody really doesn't like you. Slashing a tire might be the actions of an upset teenager, but taking a potshot at another human being isn't. I'm betting on an adult.”

  Friday Morning

  Apartment Complex on Airline Highway

  The trio picked their way back to the apartment complex. They stopped at the end of the one next to the row of trees.

  "Which bush did you see the rifle barrel sticking out of?" Niki asked.

  "That one right over there," Donna pointed at an azalea bush full of leaves but devoid of flowers. They could see an imprint in the moist soil covered with pine straw where the sniper waited for Niki to come to her vehicle.

  Dalton examined the ground under the bush, shoving aside limbs and leaves to get to a better view.

  "There it is," he excitedly pointed to the ground.

  Niki and Donna peered over his shoulder.

  "Can you tell what caliber it is?" Niki asked about the shell casing laying on top of dead leaves and pine straw.

  "Looks like a federal .243," Dalton replied.

  "Get it," Donna shouted. "We can use it to catch the shooter. We’ll have proof."

  "We’ll have an empty shell casing," Dalton chuckled. "Unless you have a fingerprint kit, a DNA kit in your back pocket, and access to the different databases to get a match, it won’t do us much good."

  "Oh," the dejected young woman sighed. "I didn't think about that."

  "No problem," Dalton backed away from the azalea plant. "I'm just as excited as you, but we have to let the police do their job. They're better at it than we are."

  "Then why did you hire Miss Niki?" Donna asked with a serious demeanor.

  Dalton was surprised by the insight of the question.

  "I guess I have confidence in the police to process and analyze the evidence. But they are looking at more than a murder a day. To answer your question, I have more confidence in Niki's ability and availability to find the evidence, use the analysis they do, and then find the killer."

  "Me, too," Donna grinned. "If she had all of their tools, she wouldn’t need them at all."

  Dalton winked at Niki.

  "Sounds like you've got a new president of your fan club."

  The strawberry blonde smiled.

  "You've got Junior, and I've got Donna. I win hands down."

  "No argument from me," Dalton said at the first of the squad cars rolled into the restaurant parking lot, sirens wailing.

  Friday Afternoon

  Yellow Jacket Fire & Safety

  "Mr. Phelps, this is Dalton Bridgestone. He’s our senator on the finance committee."

  David Phelps stared at Dalton.

  "I know you are. Your picture was all over the TV when they thought you killed your fiancé." He looked back at Niki. "Hey, you're the girl that figured out it wasn't him, out there on Spirit Island. I didn't put it all together when you were here the first time. My God, you're both celebrities."

  Dalton held up a hand.

  "No, David. We happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. Can we ask you a couple of questions?"

  "I've already answered your questions," he said. "I don't think I need to answer any more."

  “Are you refusing to cooperate with an ongoing Senate investigation?” Dalton asked.

  "I've already cooperated with it. Did she tell you I meet regularly with the state fire marshal?"

  Phelps sneered.

  "She sure did," Dalton smiled. "That's why I called him right before we came over here. He said to congratulate you on the number of extinguishers you are examining, especially since you're the only licensed representative for Yellow Jacket Fire and Safety. He was mightily impressed when he pulled your records."

  The small man wore the same stained khaki shirt with a buzzing Yellow Jacket logo and the same grimy jeans as he did during his interview with Niki two days prior. Neither had come close to a washing machine.

  The thin man's eyes widened.


  "I didn't give you permission to look at my records. I'm calling my lawyer."

  "You may need him, David.” Dalton emphasized Phelps’s name. "You got some explaining to do."

  "Like what?" Phelps's gaze shifted between Niki and Dalton.

  "Like how you inspected forty-two extinguishers in New Orleans and one hundred and sixty in Shreveport the same morning. What kind of plane do you fly?"

  "I—I don't fly no plane. I drive fast."

  "You must," Dalton laughed, and pulled out a piece of paper from this case. "Real fast. Because that same day, you inspected a fire system in Slidell, cleaned a restaurant exhaust system in Monroe, and replaced ten cartridges for a business in Lafayette."

  "There must be a mistake with the data," Phelps stuttered.

  "Are you in the habit of making mistakes on the dates on the official forms you submit to the fire marshal?"

  "Yeah. No. I mean, I don't know. It could've happened once. I'm a busy man." Phelps slouched in his chair.

  Dalton whistled.

  "You must be. From the records, you’re at different businesses in different parts of the state at the same time on several occasions. The fire marshal and I are wondering how you can be two or more places at once."

  "Maybe I got workers. They could inspect those businesses."

  Dalton shook his head.

  "Nice try. You're the only licensed agent for the firm. No other individual can put your sticker on their equipment. Want to take another stab at it?"

  "I'm—I'm just fast," Phelps shrank in his chair.

  "One other thing. I got a record of your bank deposits from the bank. Before you ask, I got a subpoena from a federal judge. It seems that you only deposited half of what you charged the businesses. Right at fifty percent every time."

  Phelps glared at him, then at Niki.

  "I told the bitch that a lot of companies pay me in cash. Sometimes I forget to deposit all those payments."

  Dalton nodded.

  "I'm sure the IRS will be anxious to know how much you forgot to deposit. I happen to be good friends of one of the lead auditor's in Washington."

  "Wait. Wait. Wait," the dirty man pleaded. "We're supposed to be talking about those murders, not my bank account."

  Dalton smiled.

  "I thought you didn't want to answer our questions, David. Have you changed your mind?"

  The safety professional shrank even more.

  "What do you want to know? I'll answer your stupid questions."

  "Great," Dalton grand. "Where were you last night?"

  "Asleep. I told the—I told Miss Dupre that I sleep alone every night."

  "What time did you go to bed?"

  "After the football game. They show one on TV every Thursday night. I really enjoy them. I get some peace and quiet, get me some beer, nachos, and have a great time all by myself."

  "What time did the game come on?"

  "7:30, I guess. That's always when they come on."

  "What were you doing prior to the game, David?"

  "I—I was drinking beer. I got an early start."

  "Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts last night?"

  The small man shook his head. "Nope. I was here by myself."

  “And this morning?” Dalton continued. “Where were you between 8:30 and 9:00 this morning?”

  "In bed. I'm a late sleeper."

  "Until nine? Are you sure?" Dalton expressed surprise.

  Philip's sighed.

  "I told you I'm a late sleeper. I don't usually get up until right before ten."

  Dalton whistled.

  "And you still have time to single–handedly manage more accounts than most of your competitors combined."

  Dalton winked at Niki. "That is truly amazing. I am really amazed. Aren't you amazed, Miss Dupre?"

  "Absolutely," Niki said with a ton of sarcasm. "And I’m not easily amazed. I might have to watch Mr. Phelps a few days. He practice the seven habits. Shoot, it sounds like he invented number eight and number nine."

  Philip's wiped his stubbled chin.

  "You guys aren't funny. Why are you asking me about what I was doing last night and this morning? What's this all about?"

  "David, you’re confused again. We ask the questions, and you provide the answers. Hopefully, better than the ones you’ve given so far. Okay?"

  Phelps nodded.

  "Do you own a hunting rifle?" Niki asked.

  The little man snorted.

  "We are in Louisiana. You know, Sportsman's Paradise. I course, I have a lot of rifles."

  "Are any of them chambered for a .243 bullet?"

  "I've got a rifle and a pistol, both in the .243. So what?"

  Niki glanced at Dalton. Neither had considered a pistol in the popular caliber.

  "What make of bullet do you use?" Niki asked.

  “Whatever is on sale. Remington, Federal, Winchester, whatever.”

  "Do you have any Federal ammo here now?"

  The dirty man squinted. "I suppose so. I don't like where this is heading."

  Niki pressed ahead. "Are you willing to show us the rifle and the pistol?"

  David Phelps shook his head.

  "Not without a subpoena. I know a little about the law. You might have justifiable reasons to get my bank accounts, but you ain’t got no reason in this world to look at my guns. No, Sir. No reason."

  "You're refusing to show us the guns?" Niki asked.

  "Damn straight, Bucko. This is still America."

  “Yes, it is,” Niki replied. “We’ll be leaving now. Enjoy your visit with the fire marshal and the IRS,” she paused. “And they will drop by.”

  Niki and Dalton left the depressed old man alone in the unkempt grimy office. Before they shut the door, he pulled a bottle of cheap whiskey from a desk. It was going to be a long, long night at Yellow Jacket Fire & Safety.

  Friday Afternoon

  Central High School cafeteria

  "Do we really have to do this?" Dalton asked for the third time.

  "Quit complaining, senator." Niki did not bother to look at him this time. "Consider this part of your never–ending public service that you brag about in your campaign ads all the time. Except this time, there won't be any TV cameras to film you for the ten minutes you're at those things."

  "That's not fair. I always stay longer than ten minutes," he grinned. "It takes that long to make sure my makeup is on right, and my hair is combed."

  "Forget about sneaking out. You're going to be there the whole time. You might as well put all those public talents to work and stir up some peanut butter and jelly. Who knows? It might be a skill set you can use when the voters get tired of you and elect someone younger and more handsome."

  He feigned shock.

  "Younger, maybe. More handsome. Not this century." Then he laughed. "If they were voting for young and handsome, I never would have won the first election. Anyway, I've never made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my life. My mom always made them for me."

  Niki wagged a finger. "Well, mommy isn't here tonight. Little Dalton is gonna have to be a big boy and make sandwiches all by himself. If you have trouble, maybe we can get a six-year-old to come by and show you how."

  “I'll bet that I make more sandwiches than you.” Dalton dared her.

  "This isn't a first-grade competition. We’re there to see which one of our suspects switched the sandwiches."

  "And how are we going to accomplish that? You know, even if one of them did it, they don't have to do it again. Tommy is already gone."

  "Which one do you think did it?" Niki asked.

  Dalton rubbed his chin.

  "Between Ricky and Paula, I'd have to put all of my money on Paula."

  "Are you being sexist or do you have a real reason?"

  "Me sexist? Surely, you jest. I can't be sexist. That wouldn't look good in my next campaign."

  Niki shook her head.

  "Do all politicians think only of getting re-elected? You're sup
posed to be in DC to solve America's problems."

  "How can we solve them if we don't get re-elected? I'm just kidding. I have real reasons."

  Niki cocked one eyebrow.

  "And those would be?"

  "You heard both stories. They contradict each other in so many ways, it's not funny."

  "So you believe Ricky?"

  Dalton nodded.

  "Paula was not truthful with you in the first interview. There's really no reason to believe she was completely truthful the second time you two talked. I think she was being deceptive in both."

  "You might be right. We'll keep an eye on both of them tonight."

  "I'm still not sure what we're looking for. There are no more substitute sandwiches."

  Niki frowned. "I guess that I really want to get a firsthand look at how the whole process works. Then maybe we can say which one might have had the best opportunity."

  "I'm still gonna make more sandwiches than you."

  Friday Afternoon

  Central High School cafeteria

  They pulled up in the lot next to the Central High School cafeteria. When they walked in, a fit lady in her mid-forties greeted them.

  "Hi. I'm Lois Turner. He can I help you?"

  Lois wore jeans and a Central Wildcat jersey with number ‘one’ on it. The back of the maroon jersey had the name Turner covering the shoulders.

  Niki stepped in front of Dalton. "Miss Turner, I don't know if you remember me or not. I'm Niki Dupre. I was a cheerleader at Central a few years ago."

  "Niki. How are you?" Lois replied.

  "I'm fine. This is my friend, Dalton Bridgestone. He—"

  "You don't have to tell me about him. Everybody knows Dalton Bridgestone. It's an honor to meet you, Senator." Lois stuck her hand out and Dalton shook it.

  "Thank you, Miss Turner," Dalton replied.

  "Please call me Lois. What do we owe the pleasure to? Do you have an interest in the Wildcats football program or did Niki drag you down here?"

  Niki answered for him.