Cut and Run (27 page)

Wolfe glanced around, trying to decide what to do. He had a bad feeling about the situation—somehow, he didn't think an ex-cop like McCulver would leave his house open like this. He took a deep breath, drew his gun, and stepped inside.

The living room wasn't large, nor was it tidy. Newspapers were stacked on the couch, the coffee table was crowded with empty beer cans and a stack of pizza cartons, the rug looked like it hadn't been vacuumed in months. The bright, flickering hues of a computer screen in the corner caught his attention; online advertising cycling around the periphery of a webpage. He walked over for a closer look and saw the source of the music: a pair of headphones plugged into the computer.

“Hold it right there,” a voice said to his left.

Wolfe turned his head slightly. Garrett McCulver stood in the hall, a .45 automatic in his hand.

It was aimed at Wolfe's heart.

C
HERISE
D
AMEO
looked so nervous sitting in the interview room that Natalia almost felt sorry for her. Tripp, on the other hand, was looking at her like she was a red piñata and he was a bull with a baseball bat.

“So, Cherise,” said Natalia. “We got the results back from the blood sample we took.”

Cherise tried to smile. “So, how long do I have to live, Doc?”

Natalia didn't smile back. “That depends on the appeals process, I guess. And whether you get the death penalty.”

“Wh-what?”

“Your blood was a match to blood found at the crime scene of Hiram Davey's murder. His book was going to reveal you were the body double in Marssai Guardon's X-rated video, and that would have gotten you in deep trouble with your folks—deeper than you could handle. So you killed him, and stole his laptop.”

“No! That's—that's not what happened at all!”

Tripp leaned forward. “No? You had a lot to lose, Cherise. Miami's a real playground, as long as you have money—but once the 'rents cut off your allowance, you're not allowed in the sandbox anymore. No more parties, no more clubbing, no more drinking Cristal with celebrities by poolside. You couldn't handle saying good-bye to all that, so you said it to Hi Davey instead.”

“You've got it all
wrong.
I didn't kill
anyone.
” She started to cry.

“Your blood says otherwise,” said Natalia.

“My blood? I can explain that.”

“Go ahead,” Tripp growled.

“Okay, I was at Davey's place. And I
did
go there because I was afraid he was going to tell people about me in his book. Marssai thought the whole thing was just a big joke, but I'm not like her—she's got all these plans to make money, but I don't. I couldn't stand being broke, I just couldn't.”

“So far, you're not helping your case much,” said Tripp.

“Okay, okay. It's just—this is
embarrassing,
all right? I convinced Davey to change his mind.”

Natalia raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I
slept
with him, okay? I figured if I was nice to him, he'd be nice back. I mean, it wasn't like he was covering up some big crime, right? All he had to do was not use my real name.”

“And the blood?” asked Natalia.

“I was nervous. We were cutting up some limes to do tequila shots and I cut myself. You know how you can do that sometimes, and if the knife is sharp enough you don't even notice right away? Look.” She held up her hand—the index finger had a Band-Aid wrapped around it. “Can't you do some kind of CSI test thingy to prove I'm telling the truth?”

“Let me take a look at that,” said Natalia. Cherise held out her hand and Natalia carefully peeled the Band-Aid back. The skin beneath was white and wrinkled, with jagged edges around the wound itself. “Cherise, what kind of knife were you cutting the limes with?”

“A steak knife. You know, one of those ones with the ripply blades, like a saw or something.”

Natalia sighed. “Well, this cut is consistent with one made by a serrated knife—and Davey's wounds were made by a straight-edged blade. I guess you're telling the truth.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” said Cherise. She took a long, shaky breath. “I was so afraid.”

“It's all right,” said Tripp. His own face had softened. “Maybe you should rethink some of the people you hang around with, though. Keep running with that crowd, and sooner or later you won't be so lucky.”

“I will. I will, I promise.”

“So what time did you leave Davey's place?” asked Natalia.

“I didn't stay for long afterward—I told him I had a party I had to go to. It was around eleven, I think. I was a little worried he might want to come with me, but he didn't even ask. He just looked kind of sad when he said goodnight.”

“Well,” said Tripp, “Davey might have been a goofball, but he wasn't stupid. I think he knew the score.”

“He didn't
have
to sleep with me,” said Cherise, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

“No, he didn't,” said Tripp. “But sometimes, being used is better than being alone.”

 

Despite the heat, despite having to dive in murky pools that might hold any number of hostile or poisonous animals, Delko was almost sorry when Calleigh found the binoculars. Diving always helped center him, cleared away any mental cobwebs. When he was underwater, it was like some part of him woke up, a part that had been patiently waiting for him to return to the sea—or it might be just the focus that came with knowing he was in a dangerous environment, where inattention to any detail might kill him.

Maybe it was that focus that finally gave him the clue to solving the Dragoslav case, or maybe it was just dumb luck that he noticed something in the water with him. He paid no attention to it at the time, but the image of it kept coming back to his mind's eye, even after he'd left the 'Glades and returned to the lab. He thought it was just simple natural beauty at first, the way it had diffused the sunlight shining through it from above, but the image was accompanied by a nagging feeling of something left undone, something important he'd forgotten. Even more frustrating, for some reason he associated the image with—of all things—wheelbarrows.

And then he remembered the story he'd told Wolfe, and everything clicked into place.

He actually laughed out loud, causing the only other person in the lab—Natalia—to look up from her notes. “I miss something?” she asked, smiling.

“No,
I
did. Something obvious. Something right in front of my face the whole time.”

“If it was a snake, it would have bit you?”

“Not a snake,” said Delko. “A fish.”

Natalia nodded. “Ah, the infamous fish I've been hearing about. Sounds like a case my vic would have loved.”

“Hiram Davey, right? How's that going?”

Natalia sighed. “Coming along. We've narrowed the suspects down to a crazy woman obsessed with frogs or a career con man. I'll let you know.”

“Frogs, huh? So I guess you're looking for who croaked him.”

Natalia gave him a look.

Delko grinned. “Hey, I've been getting hit with fish jokes for the last two days.”

“So you take it out on me?”

“Sorry. Didn't think you were so sensitive.”

She frowned. “I'm not. I mean, I can take a joke as well as—”

“'Cause you seem a little…jumpy. Or would that be hoppy?”

Her look turned into a glare. “Oh, very clever. Fish boy.”

“Frog princess.”

“
Sushi
scientist!”

Frank Tripp walked through the door. “Get a room,” he said. “One with a waterbed, from the sounds of things…Natalia, the warrant's ready. I'm just heading over to the bowling alley.”

“I'll come with you. Later, Aquaman.”

“I'll pass along your regards to any tadpoles I run into,” he called after her.

 

Natalia was doing her own version of fishing—which had less to do with a hook and a line than throwing a stick of dynamite into the water and seeing what floated to the surface. She already knew about Gordon Dettweiler's previous arrests; now she was going to use that knowledge to apply some pressure. Based on Dettweiler's prison record and his possible involvement in a homicide, she'd obtained a warrant to search his home, his vehicles, and his place of business, looking for either the knife used to murder Hiram Davey or the laptop that had been stolen from Davey's home. She didn't think she'd find either, but it would let her shut down the alley for the day while it was searched; that wouldn't look good to all the community businesses contributing to the bowling tournament. Maybe if she pushed him hard enough, she could get him to make a mistake.

Natalia handed the warrant to Dettweiler at On a Roll Bowl personally. He read it with a growing look of dismay on his face, which gave Natalia a great deal more satisfaction than she'd expected.

“This is—this is harassment,” said Dettweiler. “You want to search my home, my car, and my boat? Fine. But at least let me keep the alley open.”

Frank Tripp, standing behind Natalia, shook his head. “'Fraid not. This place is closed, as of now.”

“For how long?”

“Until we're done,” said Natalia sweetly. “We'll let you know.”

“This ain't over,” Dettweiler growled. He stuffed the warrant in the back pocket of his jeans and stalked off.

“You play hardball,” Tripp said, watching Dettweiler leave. “I think you just stomped all the good out of that good ol' boy.”

“I may have a manicure,” said Natalia, “but I can still throw a punch.”

 

Natalia honestly didn't expect to find anything in Gordon Dettweiler's house, vehicles, or business; if he'd killed Hiram Davey, he was too smart to make a mistake like keeping the murder weapon or the laptop around. But even smart killers slipped up, and it was her job to spot those slips.

She searched the house first. It was nothing remarkable, a two-bedroom bungalow on the outskirts of Homestead, but it was well-defended; Dettweiler had installed bars on all the windows, steel-cored doors at the front and back with heavy-duty locks, and a top-of-the-line security system. “What are you protecting?” she murmured to herself as she stepped through the front door and disabled the alarm system with the code she'd been given.

Whatever it was, she didn't find it. She confiscated all the knives in the kitchen, but didn't find anything like a laptop. It was hard to believe the house belonged to someone with Dettweiler's folksy personality; the resident seemed to favor expensive wines, Danish Modern furniture, and French cuisine. If it weren't for other indicators—a photo of him with a woman, his name on discarded junk mail, and the label of a prescription cream in the bathroom—Natalia wouldn't have believed he actually lived there. Gordon Dettweiler was clearly a very different person in private than in public—as no doubt previous victims of his scams had already found out.

The boat and four-by-four he drove were more in keeping with his down-home persona, sporting a gun rack and winch on the SUV and plenty of bass-fishing equipment on the boat. That made sense; they were places he interacted with the world, places where his carefully designed façade was on full view. Natalia began to understand why the house had been so heavily fortified—it was where he kept the real Gordon Dettweiler, the one who read the
Wall Street Journal
and listened to classical music. The boat looked like he lived aboard it at least part of the time, and she was willing to bet none of his “friends” had ever set foot in Dettweiler's house—if they even knew he had one.

She took some filleting knives from the boat, then moved on to the bowling alley. It had a lunch counter, and she confiscated everything with an edge she could find. Tripp walked through the front door just as she was bagging the last blade.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Won't know for sure until I process everything at the lab. But so far, it doesn't look good.”

Tripp glanced over at the empty lanes. “You know, I've been giving this a lot of thought. The only way I can figure out for Dettweiler to make a profit out of this tournament is if he controls who wins.”

Natalia walked out from behind the lunch counter. “What, you mean, like paying someone to throw a game?”

“Nah, that wouldn't work in a tournament. You'd have to give someone an unbeatable edge, then bet heavily on them. If they were in on it, you wouldn't have to worry about the prize money either—just divide up the entry fees and whatever sponsor money you'd managed to generate. The gambling profits would be the big payout.”

Natalia frowned. “How, Frank? I mean, it's a pretty simple game—what do you do, glue the other guys' pins to the floor?”

“I don't know. But this might be our chance to find out.”

“What do you have in mind?'

“The warrant specifies that we're looking for a laptop or a knife, right? Well, there's all kinds of maintenance spaces behind and beneath these alleys—perfect hiding place for a murder weapon or a missing piece of hardware.”

“You sound like you have something in mind, Frank.”

Tripp scratched his chin. “Noticed something when we served the warrant—Dettweiler's pal Leroy was rolling a few, at the same lane he was the first time we showed up. Threw a strike, then sat down like it tuckered him right out.”

“I don't follow.”

“Let's just say I'd like to take a closer look at the lane. Indulge me, okay?”

“Sure, Frank. Let's check it out.”