by Claire Booth
He smiled to himself. This might be the first time he’d wished someone was a criminal. Instead, it looked like this guy was doing what a lot of folks in early adulthood did, loafing around and goofing off. It was …
Sam stood suddenly. It was a shot so long, it’d be a miracle if it found its target. But if it did … He ran out to his squad car and headed toward Branson.
The guy wiped his hands on a rag.
‘I don’t recall any brown sedan with that make and model. And if I don’t remember it, it must’ve been somethin’ simple like an oil change. Not some big mechanical problem.’
‘Do you have records of service I could look at?’ Hank asked.
‘Records? On vehicles?’ He laughed and waved at his surroundings. ‘This ain’t no car dealership, sir. I can barely keep up with the regulation paperwork. I sure ain’t gonna be making more by keeping records on the cars that come in here.’
Hank supposed he had a point. It was a little two-bay garage that seemed to specialize in the kind of last-ditch efforts that kept crappy cars running until the next paycheck. He had a feeling this man was responsible for a hell of a lot of county residents being able to keep their jobs.
‘How often do you not get paid until the end of the month?’ he asked.
Neil in the mechanic’s coveralls chuckled. ‘Almost always.’ His face was covered in grease and sweat, but the gray eyes set deeply behind busy brows were kind, even at seven thirty in the morning. ‘I own the building free and clear and it’s just me, which means not much overhead. So most times, I can give folk some leeway if they need it.’
He continued rubbing at his hands as he studied Hank, which reminded him of his own wild hair and unshaven jaw. Neil waved him toward the tiny alcove in the back. ‘How about a cup of coffee? Just about to pour myself one.’
Hank must look even worse than he thought. He gratefully accepted, settled into the listing office chair on the customer side of the desk and took a long swallow. It was thicker than the motor oil stocked on the shelves, and it was wonderful. They sat in companionable silence for a bit.
‘You settling in to this sheriff thing?’
Normally, Hank would heartily assure the questioner that he was honored to have won the election several months ago and that he loved the job. But here, with the dawn breaking through the windows and the silence of a large space, he answered honestly.
‘I don’t know. I start to think so, but then something’ll happen and I feel like it’s all going to hell.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not much of a politician.’
‘I know. That’s why I voted for you.’
Hank coughed on his coffee. ‘Really?’
‘Yep. I like that. Plus, I know Gerald Tucker. And he’s an asshole.’ Hank burst out laughing. That was the best thing he’d heard in a long while. There was no love lost between him and his election opponent, a belligerent deputy who at best neglected his duty and at worst had committed arson on behalf of a local businessman. Hank hadn’t been able to prove that yet, but he had demoted the asshole to the jail night shift.
Neil kept talking. ‘We went to school together. He was a jerk then, too. So it was nice to see some new blood come along. And you seem to be doin’ pretty well. You solved that murder out on the Kinney property, right?’
It had actually been two homicides – a local hooligan who’d been stealing off the Kinney land and a seven-year-old boy, shot more than forty years ago and left to molder in a backwoods ravine. Hank didn’t bother to correct Neil, though. The fact that he knew anything about that successful case was gift enough.
They talked back and forth as the day started to heat the fumes in the garage bays. Neil had owned the shop for going on thirty years. He’d bought it off Speedy himself, after working for the old man for a couple years. He’d sure never get rich, but it was a living. And there was something ’bout being your own boss. Hank had to agree with that. He was about to ask after Neil’s family when a decrepit Chevy station wagon – wood paneled and everything – rattled into the gravel parking lot.
‘Neil,’ a high voice shouted over the slamming door ‘it’s spittin’ stuff again.’
Neil swung out of his chair. ‘Fine, Laverne. Just leave it there,’ he hollered. He turned slightly and shot Hank a stealthy wink. ‘One guess what her sister’s name is.’
Hank hid behind his mug until he could wipe the smile off his face. Then he excused himself, heading back to his car with a friendly nod toward Laverne and a wave to Neil. He’d learned nothing useful, but the stop had been valuable anyway.
TWENTY-NINE
Sam got into Branson so early the only things open on the Strip were the breakfast shows. And he wasn’t interested in those. So he killed time by grabbing a coffee at that new place. He’d avoided trying it – serious law enforcement officers didn’t walk around drinking out of cups that looked like they came from a Long John Silver’s Restaurant. But wow. It was fantastic. He wondered if the Chief had tried it yet. Probably not, because otherwise Sam would have heard about it, over and over.
He stretched his legs with a walk through downtown and then returned to the cruiser. By the time he pulled into the parking lot, the go-kart track was starting to gear up for the day. It was one of several that dotted Branson’s lengthy main drag. Each had multiple kinds of tracks with different levels of difficulty. This was the only one with an advanced enough course to require a valid driver’s license.
Sam hopped over the still-closed gate and strode up to the ticket booth. He had to bang twice on the closed window before someone came.
‘We’re closed, dude. You gotta – oh, hey, Sammy. Daaaamn.’ He gave the uniformed Sam a once-over. ‘I’d heard you was police now, but I didn’t believe it. Never woulda thunk it, huh?’
He really hated running into people from high school.
‘Hey, Trevor, how’s it going? You been here long?’
It was just a small window of time that gave him problems. If they were more than three years ahead of him or two years behind, they automatically accepted him as a deputy, no problem. But if they fit in that five-ish-year time frame, all he got was snickering and stupid comments. This guy’d graduated the year ahead of him.
‘Man, you ever shot somebody? How about arrested? You know who you should arrest – that girl who rode our bus—’
Sam bit back a groan and held up his hand in what he hoped wasn’t too rude a way. He explained what he needed – twice – and Trevor finally understood enough to let Sam into the little office behind the booth.
‘It’s a pretty tricky track. So we gotta card everybody. And the boss makes us copy all the licenses. For insurance, maybe? I dunno. Anyway, we keep a couple months back, more or less.’ He slapped a big box down on the desk.
One hundred and eighty-two sheets of paper later, Sam’s long shot hit the mark. The face of his murder victim stared up at him. The name was Gavin Patrick O’Connell. And the license was from Minnesota. This guy really got around.
Sam permitted himself a very pleased chuckle. Then he flipped to the next sheet, just to see if his entire theory was correct. And it was. Because there he was – Johnny Gall. They’d come to the track together. He started to pull out the sheet and stopped. It wasn’t Johnny Gall. It was John Kalin. A New Mexico license. With an age of twenty-two.
This must be the ID used to rent the apartment. Sam tried to stop his hands from shaking with delight as he carefully removed the two copies from the stack. He let out a long, slow breath and headed out. Seconds later he was back, grabbing the whole box for ‘investigatory purposes,’ he told Trevor sternly. He left his high school past gawking at him as he cruised out of the parking lot, solid gold evidence on the seat beside him.
A woman who looked like she should be selling expensive cosmetics and hollow gold jewelry on a TV shopping network was standing in the otherwise empty parking lot when Sheila and Dale Raker pulled in. She did not look happy to be there. She also didn’t look like the stage manager for a coun
try music show. They both eyed her warily as they sat in Dale’s unmarked BPD car.
‘We’re supposed to meet somebody named Frank Rasmussen,’ Dale said. ‘That does not look like a Frank.’
Sheila laughed. It did look like someone Sam described to her Tuesday, in terms that weren’t exactly complimentary.
‘I think that’s the travel agent who arranged Euford’s house,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got no idea what she’s doing here.’
A bland Nissan rental sedan pulled into the lot and parked a few spaces away. A slightly paunchy man of medium height got out. He was wearing black jeans, a Steely Dan T-shirt and a very broken-in pair of Doc Martens. Dale shook his head.
‘He looks almost as out of place as she does.’
‘Well,’ Sheila said, ‘at least he’s the right gender.’
They climbed out of the car, and the man strode over.
‘You guys the cops?’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Frank. Just rolled into town. Got an email saying that you’d probably stop by here today. How you doin’?’
They introduced themselves, and Dale asked if he had a key. Rasmussen fished out a ring full of them, saying the construction company had sent them along. Dale nodded. The folks at the company were the only reason they even knew Rasmussen was coming.
‘So why you guys here? Was there a break-in or something?’
Dale smoothed down his wrinkled tie. ‘Someone who was involved in the refurbishment of this theater was murdered over the weekend. So we’d like to just take a look around inside.’
‘Damn. That’s crazy. In this little place? That’s never even happened in the big cities I’ve worked.’
All three turned toward the Country Song building, and Rasmussen seemed to notice Vivian Gillam for the first time.
‘Uh, can we help you? Are you with them?’
Dale stayed silent, probably curious to hear what she’d say. Sheila, on the other hand, knew exactly why the woman was there.
Gillam folded her hands primly in front of her, bracelets clinking quietly.
‘I am not with them. I am here as a representative of the show’s financiers. So I’ll be coming inside with you.’
Rasmussen took it in stride, shrugging and heading for the door. Dale followed, but Sheila moved aside, forcing Gillam to go in front of her. She followed closely behind the woman she’d come to know very well in the last day. Vivian Gillam lived in a small but meticulously luxurious Lake Taneycomo home that did not carry a mortgage. She had a small Lexus SUV, a local library card, and a former address in Chicago, which she apparently left four years ago after the death of her husband.
The little group made its way through the lobby, which didn’t look half bad, Sheila had to admit. They walked into the theater itself, and Rasmussen disappeared. Seconds later, the house lights came on, and then after a bit, the stage lights.
He reappeared, smacking his hands together happily and pointing out various features. Sheila surreptitiously gestured for Dale to take the stage manager. She wasn’t leaving Gillam’s side.
The older woman was trying to disguise the fact that she didn’t know where best to stand in order to observe everything the pesky police were doing. Sheila edged closer and waited for her to make a move. Eventually, she walked down the aisle to the front and found the side stairs to the stage. She wandered around aimlessly with Sheila right behind.
Dale disappeared. Sheila knew he’d be searching Euford’s brand new dressing room.
‘Shouldn’t you be asking the manager some questions?’ Gillam said without turning from her inspection of the stage curtains.
‘Oh, we’ll get to him eventually. Right now, I’m more interested in you.’
Gillam pivoted slowly. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Who’s your contact person at Entertainment Services?’ Sheila said. ‘How’d they get in touch with you in the first place? Where are they headquartered? How much are they paying you? Do show payments go through you, too? How closely do you monitor Euford Gunner? Is that something they instruct you on as well?’
She thought a full-on onslaught would rattle Gillam more than a more decorous back-and-forth exchange. She was right. Gillam stepped back in surprise at the barrage, entangling herself in the curtain. That was an unanticipated bonus.
She angrily swatted away the folds of fabric and jabbed a finger at Sheila.
‘I don’t have to answer your questions. I don’t have to talk to you at all. This is harassment.’
‘No. This is obstruction. We are conducting a homicide investigation. That overrides everything.’ She drew out the last word. ‘So you have two choices. You can answer me now, or you can wait until I come back with an expanded search warrant for all your business records. If you’d rather do the warrant, I get it. It might make it easier for your shadowy bosses to understand why you talked, if you’re forced to comply with a warrant. So that’s why I’m going to be nice, stop asking you questions, and allow you to sit yourself down in the front row there, away from me, until we’re done in this building.’
The look on Gillam’s face made plain that she disagreed with Sheila’s definition of nice. So Sheila told her what not-nice would look like. Gillam quickly took a seat. Sheila was moving away from the edge of the stage just as Dale hollered from the back. She found him just where she thought – Euford’s palatial dressing room. Why did one man think he needed a space the size of a racquetball court just to get ready for a show?
‘It’ll be a lot more crowded in here.’ Rasmussen popped out from a door on the right, smiling at her expression. ‘There’ll be costume racks, and the makeup and hair people, and of course, all the guitars. I got a note that he insists they stay in here at all times when not in use.’
He closed the door, which led to a bathroom, and slipped out behind Sheila and back toward the stage. She turned to Dale, who was crawling underneath the brightly lit counter that lined the wall on the left.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I need an evidence bag.’
Men. Never carried what they might need. She whipped one out and placed it in his outstretched hand. At least he’d remembered gloves. She pulled on a pair of her own as she waited for him to extricate himself. Which was almost as entertaining as Gillam in the curtains. Finally, after several soprano grunts and mutterings, he hefted himself to his feet and dangled a bagged cell phone in front of her. At her lack of reaction, he flipped it around so she could see the case. Sparkly blue paisley. OK, now she was interested. That was certainly out of place in what had been a construction zone and was now a testosterone-heavy music theater.
She started to speak, but stopped when Dale held up a finger. He turned the phone to face her again and punched the home button through the bag. The screen lit up with the smiles of Lauren Blenkinship and Kayla Anderson. Sheila let out a long, low whistle. It was the only response she could think of.
‘I know,’ Dale said. ‘What the hell is the phone of a girl chased almost to her death doing in a locked-up-tight theater?’
Sheila spun slowly around. ‘We need this entire place printed. I can’t believe this …’
Dale handed her the bag and dug his own phone out of his pocket. While he called the BPD evidence techs, she poked her head under the counter and then walked its length. When Dale got off the phone, he found her crouched so she was at eye level with its surface.
‘You evaluating the quality of the granite?’
‘Shush,’ she said. ‘I’m looking at the dust. There isn’t much, but see –’ she straightened and moved over, almost to where Dale’d found the phone on the floor and pointed to a faint smear – ‘it looks like maybe a bag or something was set here. The phone might have fallen out.’
Dale nodded. ‘I can’t wait to see what fingerprints are in here. The guys are on their way. And Chief Utley himself is working on getting a search warrant for the whole building. It seemed like it’s probably going to be necessary, considering the hassle tha
t fancy lady was giving you.’
Sheila grinned. This day was getting better and better all the time.
THIRTY
‘Yeah?’
Hank paused, then bit back a groan. He’d mixed up the numbers. This was not Nina DeRosia.
‘You got something to say?’ Jenkins the Jerk growled. ‘I’m a sergeant with—’
‘I know,’ Hank interrupted. He identified himself, which at least stopped Jenkins’ threat of prosecution for a prank call. ‘I just wanted to see if there’re any updates regarding the fatal crash near Airport Road.’
‘Are you kidding me? It’s only been three days. Don’t you know how these things work?’
Hank pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed himself as Jenkins launched into a tutorial on the exacting work performed by the Major Crash unit, and himself particularly. He stared up at the water spot on the ceiling of his office and waited until the belligerent bastard took a breath.
‘That’s great. So when do you think you will have a development to report?’
‘When I’m damn good and ready.’ The phone clicked off.
Hank slumped forward and let his head clunk against the desk. He wanted answers. Clunk. Now. Clunk. He wanted a mechanical problem, a heretofore unidentified factory defect, an act of sabotage. Clunk. Anything to explain the crash.
There was a shuffling sound from the doorway. He raised his head and found the Pup staring at him and starting to back away. Hank sat up quickly and waved him in. Sam sat cautiously in the opposite chair, obviously debating whether to say anything about the headbanging. Hank didn’t want to hear it.
‘So, what’s up, Sammy?’