Deathmarch (Broslin Creek Book 7)

by Dana Marton

  Harper could relate. He’d done plenty of shift work at the PD.

  “By any chance have you heard your neighbor Frank Carmelo move around? Specifically, between six and eight p.m.?”

  “I heard him, all right. He has his TV on the wall that separates his bedroom from mine. He was watching his prepper DVD collection. When he has that TV on, I can hear every word. I heard enough to know how to put up pickled eggs. If I get fired because I sleep through my alarm, I guess I can rent a stall at the farmers’ market.”

  “Are you sure he was home? He didn’t just turn on the TV and go out?”

  Amy shook her head as she locked the door behind her. “He’d pause every time he went to the bathroom. Which is every half an hour. He has prostate problems.” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “The TV would go quiet, I’d nod off, then he’d be back and waking me up all over again. I banged on the wall until my hand hurt, but he doesn’t care. He bangs right back.”

  She looked Harper straight in the eye. “On nights Frank can sleep, it’s the girl on my other side. She’s putting herself through college by streaming live to the internet. People pay to watch her get naked and play with her toys. Not slut shaming. Girl power and all that. But she’s got one vibrator that I swear sounds like a sledgehammer. And then the damn moaning.”

  Harper glanced at Mike, who was looking everywhere but at the woman, red creeping up his neck.

  Amy Martin dropped her keys into her oversized canvas purse. “I don’t know how much longer I can go on with this level of sleep deprivation. This is how people snap.”

  Harper pulled out his notebook to cross Carmelo off his list.

  “I really have to go,” Amy said, mistaking the pen and paper for a sign that he had more questions. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be late.”

  Harper tucked away his notepad. “We appreciate your cooperation. If you ever decide to file a noise complaint, just come down to the station.”

  That had her stopping in her tracks. “Is that a thing? I could do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You come down and ask for Officer Mike McMorris. Have a good day, ma’am.”

  She nodded as she hurried past them.

  “Was that necessary?” Mike elbowed him in the side. The color in his cheeks said he did not want to come back to tell the neighbor that they’d received a complaint about her vibrator being too loud.

  Oh, to be a fly on that wall…

  “Hey.” Harper patted him on the shoulder. “We signed up to serve and protect.”

  Mike’s death glare promised retaliation, but his head was still in the current game. “Who do you have left?”

  “Brody Cash and Dicky Poole. Interviews scheduled for tomorrow,” Harper told him as they walked to his cruiser.

  “You think we could stop for pizza on the way back?”

  “You just had doughnuts.”

  Mike shrugged as he got in. “I thought it’d be enough, but now I’m thinking I need a real lunch.” He pulled the blue folder from the dashboard. “I’ll give you an update while we eat.”

  “I have work to do. We stop, grab a pizza, and take it back to the station. You can give me your update on the way.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Brittany,” Harper said as he jumped out of his pickup, accepting that he would be late for his Saturday morning shift. “You all right?”

  “Just a flat.” She smiled at him as she stood on the side of the road, all blonde perfection. She was a beautiful woman, in designer riding boots, black pants, and a formfitting white coat that just about sparkled.

  “Let me see.” He walked over to the back tire, and when he crouched, she crouched next to him, close enough so their knees touched. Considering how tight her pants were, he figured she wouldn’t be crouching long.

  “You haven’t been texting me back,” she said.

  “I’m investigating the Lamm case.”

  She held out her hand. A four-inch bleeding slash glistened on her palm. “I tried to take off the tire, but I cut myself.”

  “You have a first aid box in your car?”

  She shook her head, all that silky, perfectly ironed hair swishing around her shoulders. Her perfume was a little strong but pleasant. She preferred Dior, and he used to like it. Now he found himself partial to the faint scent of boot leather.

  Harper stood. “I have a kit in the pickup. Let’s take care of that cut first.”

  She followed him, sat in the passenger seat sideways, with her feet dangling outside, while Harper stood in front of her. He disinfected the cut with peroxide, then smeared antibiotic ointment over it, before he wrapped up her hand.

  She had her eyes on him the whole time. When she leaned forward, he stepped back.

  “I don’t think you’re going to need stiches.”

  “I miss you.”

  “You got a spare?” He tossed the kit into the back of his pickup so he wouldn’t have to reach past her to the glove compartment, then walked to her car and popped the trunk.

  Stared.

  Sighed.

  “You don’t have a spare.”

  “Don’t I?” She stayed in his pickup. “I never had a flat before. I guess I never noticed.”

  He closed the lid, walked to the front seat, grabbed the keys from the ignition and her purse from the passenger side. “I’ll take you home.”

  “I don’t want to go there. I just had a fight with my mom.” She pouted and very nearly put tears in her eyes, but she wasn’t as good an actress as Allie. “Can’t you take me to your place?”

  “No.” He locked her car.

  “But when Allie Bianchi got hurt, you let her stay.”

  “She had a concussion.” He got behind the wheel. “Somebody needed to keep an eye on her.”

  “I can’t go home. Please, Harper? I’ll just hang out and watch TV until you get back from work.”

  “I already have a guest,” he said as he pulled into traffic. “Allie is still there.”

  “That bitch!” The nice melted right off Brittany. “Are you sleeping with her?”

  “Not your business. The hit-and-run might involve her ex-boyfriend, so I’m trying to keep her safe.”

  Brittany opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, then folded her arms around herself. “She’s probably lying. Does she know she’s coming between us?”

  “There’s no us, Britt. We’re not a couple. We never were. If I gave the wrong impression, I’m sorry.”

  While she argued about that, seductively and passionately, Harper drove her straight to her parents’ place less than half a mile away, and then he let her out in the driveway.

  She fixed him with what Harper used to privately call the-princess-is-not-pleased look. “You’re going to regret this and come begging. And I’m going to forgive you, but I’m going to make you suffer first.”

  She slammed the door behind her and marched away.

  Thank God, because Harper couldn’t take this much drama in the morning. He could definitely not live with someone like Brittany, he thought as he backed out of the driveway and headed toward his original destination.

  Allie had problems, sure, but they weren’t imaginary or her own making. In fact, his morning with her had been so drama-free, she’d still been sleeping when he left for work. And he’d wished she’d been awake so they could have had breakfast together.

  He pushed all that from his mind as he rolled into the parking lot at the station.

  Robin wasn’t in yet. Harper glanced at the clock on the wall. Half an hour left before Brody Cash’s appointment.

  Time enough to review the case, so Harper printed out what new information he had, then carried the stack to the conference room where he had the murder board up. He was in a hurry, but not in too much of a hurry to pick up a call from the boss.

  “Captain. How is Quantico?”

  “Summer camp with bombs and automatic weapons.”

  “Take me with you next time?”

  As the captain laughed, Harpe
r spread out his typed-up observations on his remaining suspects. The corkboard on the wall was too small to hold all the pages.

  “Any news on the hit-and-run?” The captain started with the small potatoes.

  “The SUV was borrowed from a driveway for the night, the best I can tell. Still can’t track down the ex. Called his employer. Supposedly, he’s on vacation. They have no idea where. I’m working on it.”

  “How about the Lamm case?”

  “Cleared Dave Grambus yesterday. Guy can’t put on boots. Gout. It’s a miracle he can walk. Cleared Frank Carmelo too.”

  “Grambus is the I-know-my-rights type. He fought a parking ticket once for six years. I’m surprised he cooperated.”

  “We have their gold, but their silver stash is still missing. He wants us to get on with the case.”

  “What cleared Carmelo?” the captain asked. “My money was on him. Still waters. Those are the ones to watch out for with a crime like this. People who sit quietly in a corner and plan.”

  “Neighbor heard him in the apartment.”

  “Are you interviewing anyone today?”

  “Brody Cash this morning, then Dicky Poole this afternoon.”

  “First time talking to Dicky?”

  “He was in Florida, fishing. Then he wasn’t answering his phone. Couple of times I swung by his place, he didn’t answer his door either.”

  “Avoiding the police.”

  “Sure looks like it. Maybe he has a reason. I’ve got a lot to talk about with that one.”

  “Keep me in the loop. Good luck. I have to go,” the captain said before he hung up.

  Harper picked up Brody Cash’s file, but he barely had a chance to open it before Robin’s voice came through the phone intercom.

  “Harper?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey. I thought you might be there. I just got in. Passed Brody Cash in the parking lot.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be out in a minute.” He scanned his notes from his previous interview with Cash, then looked over his pinned timeline of the night of the murder.

  Cash was waiting for him at the reception desk. No lawyer. Either he had nothing to hide, or he was trying hard to act like he had nothing to hide.

  “This way.” Harper escorted him to the interview room, paying attention to his boots. Round toes.

  He also did his best to gauge the man’s physical condition. He’d missed that before and made a mistake with Grambus.

  Harper’s father still chopped wood, hauled supplies up and down the basement stairs for the pub, and went wild hog hunting once a year. Harper just didn’t see guys his father’s age as all that old. Except the members of Lamm’s crew were over a decade or two older, weren’t they?

  Once the interview room door was closed, Harper began with “How is your back these days?”

  His thick hair neatly combed, the retired teacher wore the same Mr. Rogers cardigan he’d worn at their previous meeting, but this time, he didn’t have his back brace. Maybe he only needed it periodically. Or maybe he’d only put it on before to fool Harper.

  “Better today. I make sure to exercise when I can. I swim at the YMCA three times a week.” Cash took his seat behind the table before he asked, “Any developments in the investigation?”

  “Still eliminating people from the list.”

  “You do that. I want the killer caught. Ask away, young man.”

  Harper turned on the recorder he had set up on the table already, then he called out date, time, and people present, continuing with “Let’s talk through your timeline again for the day in question. Last Monday. Start with lunch.”

  “Microwave macaroni and cheese. Took a nap after that instead of going swimming, on account of the weather and because my back was hurting. Then I read a book. George Washington’s new autobiography. Now there was a survivor.” Cash’s eyes lit up. “Lived through tuberculosis, diphtheria, smallpox, dysentery, quinsy, carbuncle, pneumonia, and malaria. Nearly drowned twice. Lived through the burning of Fort Necessity and the massacre there. Twice he had his horse shot out from under him in the same battle. Oh, and in that same battle, four bullets hit him!”

  “Is that how he died?” Harper said, partially because he was interested, and partially because keeping a suspect talking was always the right strategy. “I’m embarrassed to admit I can’t remember.”

  “The bullets only ripped his clothes. He died years later. As far as I’m concerned, his doctors killed him.” Cash scowled. “He had a sore throat, and they let out half his blood. Burned him too, to raise a blister. Then made him vomit. When that didn’t work, they gave him an enema.”

  Harper’s cheeks clenched. “How does any of that help a sore throat?”

  Cash brought up his hands, palms up, in the universally known gesture of beats me. “At least my doctors didn’t kill me. You read history, it puts things in perspective.”

  Harper nodded before redirecting the conversation to the day of the murder. “What time did you have dinner?”

  “After six. Since I last talked to you, I’ve been trying to think back. I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I usually go to bingo at church on Mondays and eat pizza there, but I had my car in for an oil change. They hadn’t called me until after six to pick it up. Anyway, I walked down, came home with the car, ate my sandwich, then read some more about Washington.” He held up his index finger like people did when they were about to make an important point. “He didn’t have wooden dentures, by the way. That’s a bunch of baloney. He had a few fake teeth made from ivory and the rest from the teeth of his slaves. And another thing—”

  “How did Lamm and Dicky Poole get along?”

  Cash shrugged. “They butted heads a time or two, but nothing to kill over, for sure.”

  “What did they disagree on?”

  “Dicky didn’t think Chuck’s place should be our only foxhole. Anything happened to it, then what? Dicky wanted to split our stores and keep half at his place. Chuck disagreed. He said if the worst happened, he didn’t want to have to defend two locations.”

  “What did you think?” Harper asked.

  “I could see why Chuck would think it’s not smart to split your forces right when trouble’s coming your way.” Cash shifted on his seat. “But I could also see Dicky’s point. What if there was an emergency and Chuck decided to keep the whole stockpile for himself? Possession being nine-tenths of the law and all that. Is putting all your eggs in the same basket ever the right strategy?”

  “Did you think about taking some of the supplies over to your place?” Harper asked. “Seems like a reasonable request to me. And Chuck wouldn’t hand off any of it. That had to make you angry.”

  Cash nodded, then caught himself. “It wasn’t like that. Dicky and I talked about it. But I didn’t go over to Chuck’s place to take anything by force.”

  “And Dicky?”

  Cash shook his head. “I called him after your visit on Tuesday and asked him. He said he didn’t feel good Monday evening, so he went to bed early. He was queasy all the way down to Florida on his flight. When I caught up with him, he was resting at the hotel, in bed.”

  Right. “Mind if I ask how many winter boots you own?”

  “The pair on my feet. I don’t go out a lot in winter. My balance isn’t the best. That’s why I swim instead of going for walks.”

  “I’d like to have your boots tested.”

  Cash kicked them off then and there, wiggling his toes in gray wool socks that had red tips. “Have at them.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation. You’re free to go. I’ll bring you some jailhouse slippers from the back.”

  He also grabbed a medium-size evidence bag. He was dropping the boots into that, Cash already gone, when Chase stopped by. “What did he say?”

  “A lot about George Washington, not enough about the case.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Harper handed him the plastic bag. “Cash’s boots need to g
o to the lab. If they find any traces of blood on them, that’ll get me a search warrant.”

  “Doesn’t look like the print on the front door.”

  “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.”

  “If he was, why would he hand over the boots?”

  “Maybe he washed them well enough to think he could fool the police.”

  People had, even a few years before, but not anymore. The crime lab in West Chester that Broslin PD used had received a significant upgrade in the past year. If there was blood to be found in the tracks of those boots, the lab was going to find it.

  The thought of his father’s old teacher behind bars, however, failed to fill Harper with satisfaction. He wanted Dicky to be the killer, the asshole who’d pushed his way through Allie’s door ten years ago and demanded sex from an abandoned teenager as a way to pay rent.

  Harper was itching to look the bastard in the eyes and tell him he knew everything. He wanted the satisfaction of slapping cuffs on him and sending him off to prison.

  “Off to check on your girlfriend?” Chase asked. “I hear you have lunch with her every day.”

  “Going to look at a building lot with Kennan today.”

  “Just started sleeting. Not the kind of day for walking around outside. Won’t be able to see shit either. Tell your brother to pick a better day.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Tell Allie I said hi.” Chase smirked. “Can I be the best man at the wedding?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  Chase snorted. “Some detective.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Allie listened to Harper come up the stairs, could smell the incredible aroma of the lunch he was bringing. Again. God, they had a routine. Like married people.

  She didn’t know what to do with that thought, so she set the bewildering idea aside and drew another deep breath, appreciating the mouthwatering scent.

  “Yes, that would be great. Thank you,” she told the Grand Master of the Coatesville Strawberry Festival before she hung up. She’d spent the entire morning setting up gigs, plugging holes in her schedule, and making considerable progress.