by Dana Marton
He made two calls and was deciding who’d be third when Chase stopped by his desk. “Anything?”
“Nick Hale is in Florida for the winter, visiting his brother. Al Hanselman is in the hospital, switching to a new knee. Two names crossed off. Seven to go. I’m going to have someone look at that busted safe too.” Harper pushed his chair back. “ You?”
“Heading out on a call. Drunk and disorderly.”
“Don’t get shot in the ass like the last time.”
“Birdshot.” Chase shrugged it off. “Can barely call it being shot.”
“Was that what Luanne said?”
Chase groaned. “Not exactly.”
“It’s a sad day when a grown man can’t even risk his own ass without a woman giving him grief over it.”
“At least I have a woman who cares about my ass.”
“Plenty of women care about my ass.”
“Plenty of women think you are an ass. Not the same, bro. Not the same,” Chase swaggered away.
At the front desk, Leila put the phone to her shoulder, her face just a little too straight as she looked at Harper.
Harper shook his head. “Go ahead. Laugh.”
She did. Then she told him, “Dusty says he can come over right now.”
“Can he meet me at Lamm’s place?” Harper opened the blue folder he’d been keeping on his desk, added a few notes to it, then shoved to his feet, rattling off the victim’s address.
He was at the front desk by the time Leila hung up and said, “He’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks.” Harper handed her the blue folder. “Would you mind giving this to Mike when he comes in? I’d like him to look into something for me, if he has the time.”
Then he booked it over to Lamm’s place, arriving just in time to see Dusty pulling up in an old yellow Mustang.
In his midthirties, the guy had light brown hair brushing his shoulders, especially since he had his shoulders up, around his ears, his hands shoved into his pockets as he walked toward Harper. He didn’t look eager for the meeting, must have heard about Lamm on the news and didn’t like being called to a murder scene, but didn’t want to say no to the police either.
“Detective Harper Finnegan. Thank you for coming on short notice,” Harper said as they shook hands. “You live around here?”
“Dusty Chotkowski. Just down the road in Avondale. I was already in Broslin for a delivery.”
They walked up to the front door together, where Harper pulled the keys from his pocket and brushed the police tape aside from the front door. “Leila says you know a lot about safes. I’m hoping you can answer a couple of questions.”
He led the man in, then across the kitchen, skirting the dried blood on the linoleum floor.
Dusty swallowed hard and turned his head. When his hands started to shake, he shoved them back into his pockets. He had trouble getting the words out when he spoke. “That’s messed up, man.”
“Sorry you had to see it. Family usually arranges for crime scene cleaners, but the victim’s next of kin is in California.”
Harper made a mental note to call Lamm’s nephew again and tell him about the need to have the house cleaned if he ever hoped to put it on the market.
They were silent down the stairs. Then Dusty asked, his voice still shaky, “Since I’m here to look at the safe, I guess the old guy was killed for money?”
“Looks like it.” Harper led the way to where he’d shoved aside the pallet of food rations, the safe fully visible and still open, fingerprinting dust all over the metal. “What can you tell me about the injury to the door? Do you think it was busted open while it was locked, or someone used the keypad and then beat up the lock to make me think he didn’t have the combination?”
Dusty stared at him for a minute as if his mind was too scrambled to understand the question on the first run. But then he nodded, indicating he’d untangled the complexities of Harper’s query, and then he lowered himself to his knees next to the safe. “Am I allowed to touch it?”
“Go ahead.”
Dusty ran shaky fingers over the damage, the scratches, then the little metal bars that normally kept the safe locked. “I don’t know.” He turned to look at Harper over his shoulder. “This isn’t something I’ve ever had to figure out before.”
“Best guess.”
The man turned back to the safe and thought for a minute. “Someone busted the lock afterwards.”
“Opened it first?”
“Yeah. I think so. I think that’s what happened. Probably.”
Dusty stood, while Harper accepted that he couldn’t call him as an expert witness for court when the time came. Any half-decent defense attorney would rip into Dusty’s unsure mumblings with gusto and tear the case apart.
“Thank you,” he told the guy anyway.
“Yeah. Sure.” Dusty returned his hands into his pockets, his shoulders coming up next to his ears again. “Is that it?”
“That’s all. I appreciate the help.”
Harper walked him out, putting himself between the pool of blood and Dusty in the kitchen. Then Dusty jumped into his beat-up Mustang and took off, probably promising himself never to do another crime scene consultation.
Harper locked up before driving by Dave Grambus’s place again, since it was on his way. He tried not to be too frustrated over not having been able to get a more committed opinion out of Dusty. This was how most investigations went: two steps forward, one step back, a dozen sideways. He just needed to keep at it.
He checked out the parking lot at Grambus’s prison-block-gray apartment building before going in. Lamm’s missing Camry was nowhere to be seen, but the pale blue, late-model Cadillac registered to Grambus sat at the far end. Harper walked around the car. No blood anywhere, no bag of silver coins on the back seat.
He walked into the building and found apartment 03 on the ground floor without trouble. Knocked.
No response.
Knocked again. “Police!”
Some shuffling on the other side, then a response at last, although not one Harper had expected.
“Who gives a shit?”
“Mr. Grambus? Detective Harper Finnegan here. I’m going to need to ask you some questions.”
“You can do it from where you are. I’m listenin’.”
Harper glanced down the hall. “I’m sure all your neighbors are too.”
That did the trick. Grambus unlocked the door and opened it an inch, checking to make sure Harper was who he’d said he was.
“I know my rights,” he said. “Back in my day, we learned civics in school.”
Harper nodded. “Yes, sir. My father did too. He’s not shy about giving a person a lesson either, when he feels someone needs it.”
That bought some goodwill, and the man opened the door all the way. “Hurry up. It’s colder out there than a witch’s tit in a brass bra.”
Grambus led Harper to the kitchen, pointing him to an overstuffed chair. He wore blue tartan house slippers and faded jeans with two flannel shirts, which seemed excessive considering the heat was cranked up to close to eighty. His baseball hat, also blue, said TRUCKERS DO IT ALL NIGHT. He didn’t seem to have much hair under it, if any.
As Harper unbuttoned his coat, he scanned the large apartment. A once-cream sofa with a brown flower pattern dominated the living room. The white-glass light fixtures were straight from the fifties, and so was the tan shag carpet. The enormous new flat-screen TV looked out of place.
Harper began with “You must have heard about Chuck Lamm’s death.”
“Everybody heard,” Grambus snapped. “People being killed in their damn homes. What kind of world do we live in?”
He pinned Harper with an accusing look as if Harper were personally responsible for the decline of humankind’s morals.
“It’s a sad world and getting sadder all the time,” Harper told him, because agreeing with people often made them relax, made them feel like he was on their side. Then he used t
he sad state of the world to lead into his next move. “I heard you might have been into prepping with Chuck. I’d like to ask some questions about that.”
“Frank Carmelo should keep his big Italian mouth shut.” Grambus harrumphed. “You don’t brag about prepping. Otherwise, when things go bad, people show up to take what you have.”
“Is that why the club was secret?”
“We ain’t no club, for Christ’s sake. What are we, a bunch of knitting old women?”
“Sorry. Not a club, then—”
“Brotherhood,” Grambus said with pride, sitting up straighter.
“I heard you and Lamm weren’t the best of friends. He fired you from the paper mill?”
“He used to be a right asshole.” Grambus nodded. Then he shrugged. “I ended up in long-distance hauling. Made twice what I got at the paper mill, and I saw the country. I could have retired to Florida if I wanted to.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Hotter than two foxes screwing in a wool sock.”
Harper bit back a grin. “So no hard feelings between you and Lamm? Some might think you could have carried a grudge.”
“Bat piss. I’m not saying I didn’t knife his tires in the company parking lot a week after he fired me, but that was that. Hell, I barely remember the paper mill. It’s been forty years.”
Harper took out his notebook and pen. “So, Monday night. Could you tell me where you were between six and eight p.m.?”
Grambus harrumphed again. “Frank told me you’d be askin’ that.”
Sounded like Frank did have a big mouth, Harper thought as he waited for Grambus to answer his question.
“I was home in bed, watchin’ TV, not that there’s anything worth watchin’ these days.”
“Anyone I could ask to confirm?”
“As even the blind could see, I live alone.” The man glared. “And I can tell you right now, I don’t appreciate this line of questionin’.”
Harper didn’t let that deter him and stayed for another fruitless half an hour.
“One last thing,” he said when he was about done. “Do you know Allie Bianchi?”
“I knew her no-good father.” Grambus’s tone spoke of distaste.
“But not the daughter?”
“Didn’t even know he had a daughter.” The man paused, then shrugged. “Or maybe I did, and I forgot.”
“I heard you wanted to replace Chuck and lead the preppers yourself.”
Grambus ground his teeth. “Fuckin’ Frank.”
Harper didn’t correct him. “Did Chuck refuse to call a vote?”
“He didn’t have to call a vote.” Grambus glared. “Not like he was president. We want to vote, we vote. Anybody could call for it. Chuck was too damn controlling by half. Most everyone told me already that they’d rather have me in charge. I was set to call a vote at the next meeting. Would have beaten him seven to three. You can confirm that with the others. They’ll tell you if you ask.”
“All right. I’ll do that.” Harper thanked Grambus for his time, then left, glad to be out of the tropical heat of the apartment.
On his way to his cruiser, he spotted a pickup with a snowplow clearing up the edges of the lot. He veered that way and waved at the driver. Jose Gonzales, the super for the building, was a regular at Finnegan’s with his lovely wife, Martina, who was one of the lunch ladies at the high school cafeteria. Their children were grown and had moved to Philly for jobs. Harper knew the whole family. Kennan used to date one of the daughters.
Jose stopped the pickup and rolled down the window. “Harper. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. Quick question. Were you out here Monday evening in that storm?”
“Not the whole time. It turned pretty nasty pretty fast. Froze my balls off. My heater’s on the blink.”
“But you kept the lot clear?”
“Monday and any other day, all through winter. Too many older people in the apartments. Never know when one of them might need an ambulance.” He shrugged. “I came out every hour or so. Snow’s easier to keep up with if I don’t let it pile up more than a few inches.”
Harper nodded. “You know Grambus’s car, right?”
Jose pointed to the Cadillac without having to look around first. Either he’d already noted it as he was working on the parking lot, or Grambus liked to park in the same place.
“Would you remember if it was moved Monday night at all?”
Jose thought for a moment before he shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I can’t tell you for sure. Snow was coming down hard. I wasn’t keeping track of individual cars. I was just making sure not to hit them.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll let you get back to work. Next time you come into Finnegan’s with Martina, I owe you guys a beer.”
Harper jumped into his cruiser and turned the key in the ignition, then pulled out his list. Dave Grambus got a check mark. Initial interview completed. Harper didn’t draw a line over the name, however. Motive was likely a bust. But, either way, Grambus had no alibi, so he would remain on the suspect list.
He checked the remaining names, decided on Louis Brown next. But before that, he wanted to swing by and see Allie. And first, he needed to do something else.
* * *
Allie tossed a log into the fireplace in her room at the bed-and-breakfast and used the poker to make sure it was far enough in not to roll back out onto the carpet.
Her stomach growled. Every imaginable food waited in the restaurants of Main Street, but she didn’t feel like being stared at. Nobody’s ever died from skipping a couple of meals.
Her stomach growled again, possibly loud enough to wake up her guardian angel, because a knock sounded on the door, and Shannon O’Brian said on the other side, “I brought you something, dear.”
Allie hurried to let her in.
The woman held out a stack of T-shirts for her. “All clean. Too small for me these days. I thought you might like…”
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Brian. I could seriously use some clothes. I really appreciate it.”
Allie rifled through the shirts, pulled out one that was brand-new, then unfolded it, unable to hold back a surprised laugh. “This might be my favorite.”
The print on the T-shirt said: BITCH ON WHEELS.
She turned the shirt toward Shannon.
“Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry. I didn’t look at them, just grabbed them from the shelf. I was in a wheelchair for a while last summer after surgery. My sister sent me this shirt. Sixty-five now, and she’ll never grow up. I’m so embarrassed,” Shannon pressed a hand to her chest.
“If you don’t want it, please let me keep it. It’d cheer me up no end.”
“If you’re sure. But you can’t tell anyone you got it from me.”
“I promise.”
Shannon dropped her hand. “I would have brought you some pants too, but none of mine would fit.”
“It’s all right. Thank you. I’ll be getting my suitcases back soon, I think.”
“All right, dear.” Mrs. O’Brian offered a still distraught but sincere smile. “I’ll leave you to your evening.”
Allie had barely pulled the T-shirt over her prison overalls, to make them a little less depressing, when another knock sounded.
“It’s Harper. Open the door.”
Okay, her guardian angel was definitely still sleeping. “No.”
“Allie?”
“Last time I let you in, you arrested me.”
“I’m not here to arrest you.”
“Are you here in an official capacity?”
A pause. “I’m here as a friend.”
“Friends don’t arrest friends.”
“Could we please talk about this face-to-face?”
“No.”
“I brought you food.”
Dammit.
She opened the door, ready to give him a piece of her mind, but before she could, Harper held out a giant plate covered with aluminum foil in one hand and half a dozen plastic
bags in the other. “Brought your clothes too.”
There was a patience to that man, a kindness, Shannon had said when talking about her Henry. Nope. Allie was not going to think about that.
“We’re keeping the suitcases,” Harper said, “in case the lab asks for another swab, but you can have what was inside.”
She let him in without a word, choking on her prepared rant as he strode past her.
He checked over her new T-shirt, the corner of his mouth twitching.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “What? No comment?”
“My father tells me the most important part of manly wisdom is knowing when to keep your mouth shut around a woman. I tend to agree.”
“Huh. You matured. Who would have guessed?”
He let that go too. He dropped the bags on her bed, then strode to the small table by the window and set down the food. “Hope you’re hungry.”
Since her stomach growled again, there was no sense pretending that she wasn’t. “Haven’t had anything since a boiled egg and a wedge of toast for breakfast.”
“No lunch?”
“The B and B doesn’t serve lunch.”
“You could have walked to Finnegan’s.”
“I wasn’t sure how your mother would feel about me showing up again. Wouldn’t want to end up with hot potato soup over my head.”
“My mother is sorry that she wasn’t as nice to you the other day as she should have been.”
“Sure she is.”
Harper nodded toward the covered plate. “She cooked this dinner.”
Allie walked over, lifted the foil, and bit back a groan. Baked ham, salt potatoes, and steamed broccoli—more than she could possibly eat, an entire family platter.
“This looks really good. So, no laxatives? For sure?”
Harper’s lips twitched. “Want me to do a taste test?”
She dropped into the closest of the two chairs as if she were a marionette and her stomach was pulling her strings. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she inhaled. She stabbed a slice of ham, cut, and ate like a pirate. Only after the third or fourth bite did she become aware of the amused look on Harper’s face.
She stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Sorry. I was hungrier than I thought. Thank you.”