All Sales Fatal (26 page)

“His name?” Now we were getting somewhere.

She shrugged. “He wouldn’t give it to me. Just said Dennis would know.”

Damn.

“The area code was 215, if that helps.”

“It might. Don’t forget to call Detective Helland.” I
hesitated. “I’m really sorry for your loss,” I said. “I know it’s hard to lose someone you love to violence.”

Tears slipped down her face, leaving trails in her makeup. Pulling a tissue from her skirt pocket, she dabbed at them. “Thank you, EJ,” she said. She followed me to the door and flipped the sign to “Closed” as I exited. “I need a few minutes.”

I called Grandpa
Atherton and arranged to meet him after work. “I don’t have long, Emma-Joy,” he cautioned. “Theresa and I are going to see Sting in concert.”

Most people’s grandparents liked Tony Bennett or Barry Manilow. My Grandpa liked Sting. At least he wasn’t into rap. Theresa Eshelman was his lady friend. She owned a child care center and didn’t object to his disappearing without notice on occasion or experimenting with listening devices and cameras. She’d even done some surveillance with him, but only on cases where there was absolutely no danger, Grandpa confided to me.

We agreed to meet at Theresa’s place of business, Intellitot Day Care Center, so they could leave for the Verizon Center as soon as the last tardy parent picked up the last waiting child. I arrived, still in uniform, to see Grandpa seated in a sandbox, legs crisscrossed, helping a two-year-old make a sand castle. He gave the turret a final pat with his plastic shovel when he saw me standing at the fence and unfolded himself awkwardly from the box. Saying good-bye to his new friend and brushing the sand off his casual slacks, he said, “Not as flexible as I used to be.” He moved stiffly toward the care-center door and entered the building.

As soon as he left, his little playmate smashed the shovel down on the castle, beaming with happiness. I spotted
Theresa through a window and waved to her. She waved back and continued wrestling a child into a cardigan.

Grandpa, who’d just emerged from the center’s front entrance, made his way over to me. “Isn’t she a doll?” he said, joining me at the fence. I knew he was talking about Theresa and not the cute little girl.

“Absolutely.”

As if embarrassed by his sentimental moment, he asked briskly, “What’s up, Emma-Joy?”

Knowing time was short, I gave him the one-minute briefing on what Helland had said this morning, my conversations with Aggie and Starla, and the results of my Internet search on the 215 area code and Allied Forge Metals. “Two-one-five is Philadelphia,” I said, “and Allied Forge Metals is incorporated in Delaware, just a hop, skip, and jump away, and—”

“A quarter of the corporations in America are chartered through Delaware,” Grandpa said, “but it’s certainly worth looking into.”

“Its headquarters is in Philadelphia. Furthermore, Mantua, New Jersey, is just across the river from Philly. That’s where the police were running a gun amnesty program that netted the gun used to kill Celio Arriaga.”

A Mercedes SUV rounded the corner and parked crookedly in the lot. A harried woman in a business suit dashed inside and came out moments later, leading Grandpa’s sandbox buddy and the cardiganed little girl by their hands.

“I think I’ll drive up to Philly tomorrow,” Grandpa said, slicking his white hair back with one hand as Theresa emerged. “I can make an appointment with Allied as the representative of a police department from, oh, say, Columbia, South Carolina, interested in hiring them to destroy weapons we collect from our about-to-be-inaugurated gun amnesty program.”

“Good thinking, Grandpa,” I said, having no doubt he could pull it off, as long as he didn’t try to convince anyone he was an active cop. No one was going to buy an eighty-plus-year-old police officer. I knew he had contacts who could get him official-looking business cards and ID, if necessary, and arrange to have someone answer the phone and vouch for him as a member of the Columbia Police Department. A happy thought struck me: “I worked Sunday and Monday, so I could take tomorrow off.”

“Come with me,” Grandpa said promptly. “We’ll have one of those Grandpa–Emma-Joy outings like we used to when you were younger. Remember the time we went to feed the ducks and you fell in the pond and your mother about scalped me?”

“Will you buy me an ice cream cone, double-decker?” I asked, grinning.

“Absolutely.”

“You’re plotting something,” Theresa observed when she came up to us. A tall woman in her sixties with short, silver-streaked hair, she had a calm air about her, an unflappability that I suspected was key to her success as a day care owner.

“Always,” Grandpa agreed happily.

At home, I
occupied myself looking for job advertisements from police departments, expanding my search to the whole United States. I’d been hoping for a job within a few hours’ drive, at most, from Grandpa, but that wasn’t panning out, so I looked at an ad from Leavenworth, Kansas, and another from Huntsville, Alabama. I’d contented myself with leftovers for dinner and was forking up the last of my meal while downloading a few applications, when the phone rang. I answered, noting it was almost nine thirty.

It was Edgar Ambrose, who explained that his car had
broken down just south of the Woodmoor exit on I-95 and he was going to be at least an hour late for the midshift. “I’ll cover it,” I assured him. “Get there when you can.”

“I owe you,” he said, hanging up.

Staying up until midnight or so was no big deal, so I climbed back into my uniform at ten without a lot of heartburn. Fubar looked affronted when I walked to the door. “Sorry, buddy,” I said, “but duty calls. This is the downside of being the boss.”

Fubar let me know what he thought of my new responsibilities by stalking away, stubby tail held upright.

Twenty-one

The mall at
night is a different place than during the day. With the parking lots and garages empty except for a car or two left by diners who imbibed a bit too much at Tombino’s and wisely went home in a taxi, or by commuters who carpool, the mall looks like it’s surrounded by a moat of asphalt. Inside, too, without the escalator’s hum and the fountain’s splash, or the footsteps and chatter of shoppers and merchants, the mall is strangely silent. Quigley insists on turning out as many lights as possible, so a bluish twilight cast by overhead fluorescents pervades the halls. The shops, locked behind their grilles, lie in darkness.

We’d had one guard last year who got so spooked by the silent mall that she hated working the midshift. That, of course, prompted Captain Woskowicz to assign her to it as often as possible. She quit. Last I heard, she had gone to one of those vet-tech schools that advertise on TV and was working for a veterinarian in Centreville. I didn’t mind the quiet; in fact, I liked it. My problem with the midshift was the
monotony. As the sole officer on duty, the person working midshift had no one to talk to, and patrolling an empty mall was 99 percent boredom interspersed with the occasional moment of panic (a break-in attempt or shots fired in the parking lot) or frustration (overflowing toilets in the bathroom and no plumber on hand).

Tonight, the security officer who gave me the turnover briefing reported that nothing unusual had happened, and I settled down in front of the monitors, stifling a yawn. I hoped Edgar showed up before too long. I hadn’t been seated for more than ten minutes when the phone rang. Hoping it wasn’t Edgar calling to say he’d be delayed longer than expected, I answered. “Fernglen Security. Officer Ferris.”

A woman’s voice, fluttery with tension or fear, said, “Hello. This is Glenda Wachtel. Is this the mall security office?”

“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?”

“My husband Mike owns the Make-a-Manatee store.”

Wachtel—of course. “Yes?”

“He hasn’t come home tonight.”

I could feel her trying to sound calm, but her worry leaked over the line. “Did you try his cell phone?”

“Yes, but he’s not answering. He closes the store at nine—sometimes a little earlier if there’s no business—and he’s always home by nine twenty.”

I checked my watch: ten seventeen. It seemed a little early for a spouse to push the panic button, but maybe Mrs. Wachtel was a chronic worrier. “Would you like me to go down to the store and see if he’s there?”

“Oh, yes, please,” she said gratefully. “I’m sorry to bother you… I’m sure you think I’m a ridiculous worrywart, but it’s just that… recently… well, what with his leg in a cast and everything…”

“No problem. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes one
way or the other. If he gets home in the meantime, leave me a message.” I took her number and hung up, happy to have something to do. Leaving a note for Edgar in case he showed up while I was out, I stepped on the Segway and traveled to Make-a-Manatee, indulging myself by speeding since there were no shoppers to run into.

The store’s darkened windows reflected a ghostly me as I approached. I slowed to a stop and got off in front of the grille, jerking on it. It gave a metallic rattle but stayed put. Locked. I shone my flashlight into the shop but saw nothing unusual or out of place. No body, for instance. I purred down the wing and around the corner to the service hall that ran behind the stores. The door leading to Make-a-Manatee was also locked and nothing caught my eye. In all likelihood, Mike Wachtel had stopped for a beer on the way home or to run an errand, and had forgotten to tell his wife. Still, I wanted to be thorough, to set Glenda Wachtel’s mind at ease, so I returned to the main hall and glided to the mall entrance, planning to check the parking lot.

Figuring that Wachtel parked as close as possible to his store, I exited into the chilly night air and scanned the lot. No cars. No injured man lying on the asphalt. The muffled
whoosh
of traffic drifted over from I-95, busy even at this hour. I turned toward the garage. Might as well check it while I was out here. The Segway stuttering over the asphalt, I approached the garage and angled up the ramp. Shadows dominated the echoing space, but I made out the silhouette of a sedan parked against the right-hand wall. Kicking myself for not asking Mrs. Wachtel what kind of car her husband drove, I approached it, automatically noting the make, model, and license plate as I drew nearer.

A feeling of unease settled over me, like someone had tossed a horsehair blanket over my shoulders, and I dismounted the Segway, wanting more mobility than the
vehicle provided. Wishing I had a weapon, I stepped closer to the Pontiac. A slight sound, like a heavy exhalation, made me turn, but I saw nothing. Adrenaline keyed me up; hyperalert now, I illuminated the rear of the Pontiac with my flashlight beam. The light revealed dull green paint and showed an empty interior when I shone it through the rear window. No one inside, unless they were ducked down on the floor. I relaxed a tad, dropping my arm, and the beam skidded off the trunk to the concrete where red droplets gleamed wetly.

Blood. Fresh blood.

I caught my breath and quietly backed away from the car. When I was far enough away that no one could jump out of the car and take me by surprise, I sidestepped until I could see the driver’s side. A crumpled shape lay beside the door. My flashlight revealed Mike Wachtel, lying half on his stomach, cracked glasses askew on his face, cell phone stomped to bits just past his outstretched fingers, which were purple and swollen. His face looked like he’d gone three rounds with Mike Tyson, with blood leaking from his nose and split lip. The cast on his leg rested at a weird angle, and I suspected he’d broken the leg again. I dialed 911 for an ambulance as I approached the still figure.

Dropping to my knees beside him, I felt for a pulse on his neck and found one, reasonably strong under the circumstances. His skin was still healthily warm, so I figured he hadn’t been lying here in the cold garage for too long. I relayed that to the 911 operator, wishing I had a jacket or a blanket to drape over him to help ward off shock. I stood and looked in the car, spying a fleece jacket on the front passenger seat. Carefully easing the door open with my hand covered by my shirt hem to avoid smudging fingerprints, I leaned over and tugged the jacket toward me. Something in a pocket weighted it down, and I jerked it impatiently. The jacket
clunked against the center console, knocking over an empty soda can, and then it was free, hanging heavy in my hand. What did Wachtel carry in his jacket—a shot-put ball? Jamming my hand into the pocket, I felt my fingers close around the familiar contours of a gun. Slowly, I withdrew it. A. 38. I laid it on the driver’s seat and tucked the jacket around Mike, who stirred and moaned but didn’t regain consciousness. Then I told the 911 dispatcher I was hanging up and called Glenda Wachtel to tell her I’d found her husband.

The ambulance, the
police, and Mrs. Wachtel arrived simultaneously, just as Edgar called me on the radio to let me know he was in the security office. I explained the situation to him briefly, told him I was going to drive Mrs. Wachtel to the hospital, and asked him to fetch the Segway from the garage. The woman was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane and had clipped the door of her van on a support column when she pulled up; clearly, she shouldn’t be driving. She hovered near the EMTs as they treated Mike, bleating her husband’s name until one of the EMTs gently but firmly moved her out of the way.