by Larry Enmon
Strange. Maybe I am a bad man.
About nine o’clock he called CIU and told them he’d be in later—running out a lead. Frank drove to Alma’s. No car in the driveway and no movement in the windows. He pulled in back and gazed around, listening. All quiet. He wandered through the lush garden. An intoxicating flower fragrance filled the air as he headed toward the pergola. Something had happened to him the night he came to dinner. Something strange, yet wonderful. Everything seemed so perfect that evening. Her lips were sweeter, the wine richer, and the sex had left him with an exhausted ecstasy. Had he been drugged? No, not drugged—enchanted. That was the only term that could describe it. Enchanted.
There was something about the garden that didn’t occur to him at the time. Many of the plants seemed unfamiliar. While he’d never admitted it to his fellow cops, Frank was a plant person. Most police enjoyed fishing, hunting, and playing with some kind of ball. Frank liked plants. The feel, colors, and varying textures of a well-kept garden filled him with joy. Not a very macho thing for a big city cop. But he never cared what others thought. He had a very laissez-faire attitude about most things. A long time ago he’d decided not to judge—lest he be judged.
He enjoyed going to the Dallas Arboretum twice a year. Every spring and fall he’d spend the day walking around the grounds admiring the plantings. He never asked anyone to join him because he didn’t want to be rushed. For hours he’d sit watching a stream meander through a grove of ferns, and just think. On his patio he’d created a private forest of potted plants and hanging baskets. He was well versed in most plants native to Dallas and Texas, but some of Alma’s stumped him. Something nagged at the back of his mind that this was important.
He opened his camera app and took pictures of a dozen trees, shrubs, and flowers he’d never seen before. Behind him, the sound of shrill giggling floated in the air. He snapped his head around, looking for the source—it stopped. He lowered the phone and scanned the area, then strolled in the direction of the laughter, his foot bumping a brightly colored gnome along the path. It tumbled over. Frank set it back in place and another round of giggling sounded from behind him. When he spun around, his heart almost stopped. Along the path he’d just traveled were three additional gnomes, blocking the way. Frank’s skin tingled and his stomach twisted. He wasn’t alone. He drew his gun and listened for movement. More giggling—from every direction. Dozens of voices formed a chorus that became louder every second. The air seemed alive with electricity and energy, as if something would explode. Frank took the short way back to the rear of the cottage, keeping a wary eye on who might be following. As he approached the back door, the cat he’d seen the night he came to Alma’s, the one that looked like the cat at Ricardo’s, raised its back, bared its teeth, and hissed.
Frank bolted awake and stared at his bedroom ceiling. A dream … a stupid dream. His eyes widened at the apparition at the foot of his bed. It was Alma, dressed in a ghostly white Druid robe with the hood partially covering her head. Her red hair bloomed from around the edges of the hood, yellow rose petals lay sprinkled throughout her long red curls. Her eyes had a stern look, and her index finger rested against her lips. She didn’t speak, but a shushing sound resonated from her lips.
Frank rolled over and grabbed his mini-flashlight from the night stand. He turned back and switched on the beam. In the one second he took his eyes off the apparition, it had vanished. Frank turned on the table lamp and searched the whole condo—nothing.
As he laid his head back on his pillow, he woke up for real. Focusing on the same dark ceiling again, he tried to catch his breath, his pulse pounding in his head. He turned the lamp on. The flashlight hadn’t been moved. Had he just dreamed about having a dream? He stood and ran a hand down his face and searched the condo—nothing. The doors remained locked and bolted.
Get a grip, Frank … a big grip.
Already four fifteen in the morning. May as well start the day.
As he worked out, showered, and ate breakfast, the dream stayed with him. What was the apparition trying to tell him? To be quiet, not to tell something to someone, or just be careful what you say? She’d appeared to him when he’d been snooping around her garden. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea—looking around Alma’s while she was at work.
He called CIU and told Terry he’d be in later—checking out a lead. Frank kept pinching himself and doing other things to cause discomfort to make sure he wasn’t dreaming again. Is this how schizophrenia starts?
He spent a couple of hours killing time, waiting until he was sure Alma had left home. His piddling consisted of exactly the same actions he’d taken in the dream. It was disconcerting, a Bill Murray, Groundhog Day moment. At nine o’clock he opened his door to leave, making sure to pinch himself before stepping out. He searched his pocket for his car keys. Crap, where are they? Frank traipsed back into his bedroom and scooped the keys off the dresser. As he turned back to the door, something caught his eye in the shadows at the foot of the bed, half hidden by the covers. Frank’s breath caught. No, that couldn’t be possible.
A yellow rose petal?
Frank stopped breathing as he approached the object. The pulse in his head pounded when he slowly bent down to retrieve it. As he focused in the dim light, he released the breath.
A Post-it Note.
* * *
Paul Sims took the elevator to the first floor and rushed down the hall. He tilted the Cracker Jack box to his mouth, crunching as he walked. When he marched into the Youth Division, Detective Jeanine Crawley met him.
“Where is he?” Sims asked, his head on a swivel.
She got in step with him. “Interview room two.”
“You’re not jerking my chain are you? Did he really say that?”
She gave him the look. “I told you what exactly what he told me.”
Sims tilted the box one last time and dropped it in a garbage can outside the interview room. He turned back to Crawley. “Does he have a record? Is there an attorney in there with him?”
“Paul, he’s only seven years old, for God’s sake.” She handed Sims the folder and he scanned the preliminary interview report.
“Oh. Yeah,” he said, and shook his head. Naw, this isn’t possible. “I still don’t believe it.”
Crawley posted her fist on her hips. “Some thanks I get. The second I heard the story I thought of your investigation. His mom says the kid has a touch of autism. She’s pretty upset, so be cool. You know how you are.”
Sims shifted his gaze from her to the doorknob and tucked the folder under his arm. Opening the door, a young woman with short brown hair sat beside the child, stroking the back of his head. Someone had given him a box of orange juice, and he slurped it through a straw. He barely noticed Sims entering.
“Good afternoon. I’m Detective Paul Sims,” he said, shaking the woman’s hand.
Her tense shoulders relaxed a little. “Hello, I’m Bea Harper.” She pulled a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear and eyed Sims with a cautioned stare.
Sims smiled and bent lower. “And who do we have here?”
The kid disengaged his lips from the straw long enough to say, “Ronnie.”
The little guy had freckles and a Dennis the Menace wild cowlick in back that stood straight up.
“Hello, Ronnie,” Sims shook the small hand. “Can we talk for a few minutes?”
This time the kid only nodded, preferring to finish the juice and not waste time answering.
Sims sat across from the woman and child and opened the folder.
“I would have come down sooner,” Mrs. Harper said, “but to tell you the truth I really didn’t believe him. That is, not until I heard about that man being shot just down the street.”
Sims grinned. “That’s okay. You’re here now.” He shifted in the chair and leaned closer to the kid. “Ronnie, can you tell me in your own words what you saw?”
Ronnie nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Sims fished his pen out and waited. The
kid just stared at him. After several seconds, Sims said, “Okay … so what did you see? From the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”
A playful look enveloped the small, impish face, and he handed his empty orange juice box to his mother.
“I was in my ship looking for the enemy when I saw her.”
Sims cocked an eyebrow. “Whoa, you were where?”
Mrs. Harper stroked the child’s head again and grinned. “He has a vivid imagination—too many movies. His ship is a tree in our backyard. Likes to climb it and play pirate.”
Sims winked. “Gotcha.”
Ronnie cupped his hands like he was holding a spy glass. “So anyway, me and Captain Jack Sparrow were scanning the seas when we saw her.”
“Her? Who’s her?” Sims asked.
Ronnie gave him a sour look. Probably hated being interrupted. “The lady.”
“Oh, okay—the lady.” Sims nodded in agreement.
Ronnie positioned his hands again. “She leaned against the back fence of that place they have the old cars.”
Mrs. Harper said, “Jacob’s Spare Car Parts is behind our house. Lots of wrecked and salvaged cars there.”
Sims recorded it in his notebook.
Ronnie leaned in closer and his eyes grew wide. “She had one of those guns like the American Sniper used. Long, with a thing on the end.”
Sims took a breath and sat back. His mouth went dry. “Go on.”
Ronnie was in his own world now. His little eyes glistening, reliving the glory of the day. He repositioned his hands, like holding a rifle, and closed one eye as he aimed the imaginary weapon at Sims. “And POW, she shot it.”
Sims jumped involuntarily. He was afraid to ask, but did. “What did she shoot?”
Ronnie shrugged. “Don’t know. Couldn’t see that far.”
Sims checked Mrs. Harper’s address in Detective Crawley’s notes. Just a few blocks from where the banger got splattered against the back of the club. He glanced up, and Ronnie had this look of expectation.
“So … you saw her actually pull the trigger?” Sims asked.
“Yup.” Ronnie smiled.
“I should have come down sooner, but when he told me I thought he was only goofing off.” Mrs. Harper sat on the edge of her chair, wringing her hands.
Ronnie’s brow tightened as he turned to his mom. “I don’t goof off.”
“Did it make a loud noise?” Sims asked. “You know, when she shot.”
“Nuh-uh, like I said, it had one of those things on the front of the gun.”
“A suppressor?”
Ronnie squinted. “A what?”
“You know, a silencer, so it wouldn’t make any noise.”
The kid nodded and flashed another smile. “Yeah, right.”
Sims patted the kid on the shoulder. “Think you’d better tell me what this lady looked like. How old?”
Ronnie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Older or younger than your mom.”
“About the same.”
“Hair?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, she had hair,” Ronnie said, crossing his arms.
His innocent expression almost made Sims laugh. He repositioned in the seat. This would take longer than he thought.
Forty-five minutes later, Detective Sims reviewed the notes as the kid and his mom walked out. Now this made no sense. Nothing the little guy said was believable, except the part about the rifle and leaning against the fence. The part about the short-haired blonde lady, nice dress, and Sunday go-to-meeting shoes, which Ronnie’s mother interrupted to mean “high heels,” sounded made-up. But there were other things in the kid’s eyewitness account that made Sims wonder.
Frank described a redhead at Ricardo’s house. Now a blonde was involved. Wig, or dyed her hair? Frank and Rob would love this.
23
Alma Hawkins smiled at Dr. Plebe sitting across from her in her office. He was a kindly old soul, but he got on her nerves. He prattled on and on about the new guidelines in the religious studies department, and she quickly tired of listening, so she just nodded. If he wasn’t such a good mentor and hadn’t been such a comfort after Clare’s death, she would have blown him off. In those dark days after burying her daughter, Alma had told him things about herself … things she now regretted having shared.
“… and the degree hours are all out of balance,” he said. “Don’t you think?”
Alma hadn’t heard a word he’d just said. She showed her best serious look and nodded. “Absolutely.”
He nodded back. “That’s just what I told them.”
She touched a stack of papers on her desk and made a show of checking her watch. “I really must get to these. Only have two hours.”
His brow relaxed. “Of course, I understand.” He rose. “Thanks for the talk.”
After he left, she pulled the papers in front of her and her computer chimed. She opened the browser and logged onto her home alarm system. With hidden cameras on the front and back porch equipped with motion detectors, she got a notification anytime someone walked up.
She studied the figure for a moment. Well, well, well … wonder what Detective Frank Pierce wants?
Alma had thought about him a couple of times since their tryst. Best lover she ever had. Shame she didn’t want a man in her life at the moment. He would be a nice pet to keep around.
Frank cupped his hands over the front door window and put his face against it. Moments later his reflection showed in the rear window.
Yes, a shame. But she’d gotten what she needed from him. Her hand rested on her stomach, and she took in a long satisfied breath.
Her plans didn’t include staying in Dallas, anyway. Always planned to move on. Staying in one place too long came with hazards. She already had Dartmouth wooing her to relocate. A more northern exposure would be better.
Frank stepped back from the door and swung his head toward the back garden. Alma leaned closer to the monitor. What was he doing? He took out his cell phone and strolled down the garden path. She considered driving home to confront him but changed her mind. Better try and figure out what he was up to first.
* * *
“Bullshit!” Rob said and tossed the report on Sims’ desk.
Sims sat back in his chair, twisted a piece of taffy out of the wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. “That’s what I thought when I heard it.”
Frank read the report for the second time, his mind calculating how something like this could be. He flipped back and forth from one page to the other. Was it Alma? Wearing a blonde wig?
“So do you believe him?” Rob asked.
Sims chewed a couple of times and swallowed. “Story sounds good, until you get to the part about the dressed-up blonde with a silenced rifle.” Sims grinned and popped another piece of taffy.
Rob looked over at Frank.
Frank laid the report on the desk. The last thing he needed was a new wrinkle in the investigation. “Congratulations, Sims. You just took a complicated case and made it more complicated.”
Sims licked the tips of his fingers. “Don’t quite know how to handle this. Any ideas? Can’t say I want to buy in on the theory of a hit man who is a hit woman, especially one who dresses up to kill people.”
When Sims said “hit man,” Rob focused on the desk and didn’t look up.
Frank cleared his throat. “What I’m about to tell you is on the Q.T. We received information about a contract on Antoine Levern out of New York. Came from a confidential federal source.”
Sims’ spine stiffened. “Go on.”
“All we have is a name. Jesse,” Rob said. “That’s the one with the contract.”
Sims frowned. “So when were you going to tell me about this?”
Rob hung his head again. “Federal wire tap, Sims. We were keeping it in CIU until we got a confirmation.”
Frank stood. “It was only a rumor, but now …”
“Now it’s real,
” Sims finished the sentence.
“Yeah,” Frank admitted.
“So, is this thing the kid saw a B.S. story, or what?” Sims asked.
“It sounds B.S. except the part about her pocketing the empty shell case,” Frank said. “That’s not a detail a seven-year-old would understand, or make up, unless he actually watched it happen.”
“My thinking exactly,” Sims agreed. “If this kid is making this up, he’s wasting his time in second grade. He should be writing scripts for Hollywood.”
“So do we start looking for a blonde with a rifle, and forget about the redhead?” Rob asked.
Frank stared morosely at the desk and his voice was a whisper. “That’s not the question.” He met eyes with Sims and Rob. “The question is: how are they related?”
* * *
“A female shooter? Is that what you just said?” Edna asked. She sat behind her desk and rapidly clicked her pen—an aggravating habit that made Rob crave a dip of Copenhagen. Rob had lost the coin flip, which meant he had to tell her about what Sims just told them minutes earlier. Rob had lost a lot of flips lately. He was starting to wonder if Frank was somehow cheating.
Frank lounged in the full slouch at the other end of the lecture sofa and remained silent. Rob was convinced Frank wouldn’t show the kid the photo lineup he’d shown the gangster the other day. To do that would entail explaining why he’d included a SMU professor as a suspect. Terry sat in his usual chair, pursing his lips and shaking his head.
“Never heard that one before,” Terry said. “But that part about pocketing the shell case has me concerned.”
Rob didn’t reply.
Edna broke the stalemate. “Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s say there was a woman who did the shooting. A woman with short blonde hair.” Edna rested her elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “We already have one woman with long red hair. If the kid is correct, is it the same woman? Has to be. Based on precedent, it’s unusual for there to be two women as suspects in a murder investigation.” She glanced at Terry for confirmation.