Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (14 page)

Elliot had been tired when he’d left the restaurant, and he was halfway home when his sense of duty kicked in, telling him he should go to the office and catch up on the work he had there. He enlisted the help of the tar-like brew that passed for coffee in the department. An image of Cyndi staring at him through the window of the taxi still haunted his thoughts while he clicked on the icon that took him to his e-mail. Among the unread messages, one stood out with the label NO IDENTITY.

Probably spam. He sipped his coffee and opened the e-mail to make sure he wasn’t going to delete something important.

Sorry about your paint job, but I had to get your attention. I hope you got the point, otherwise my artistic medium might have to get a little closer to your heart, or should I say your flesh. I could have taken your girlfriend tonight, but that wouldn’t have been very sporting of me. Let the John Doe rest in peace, Elliot. Don’t make me tell you twice.

Elliot read the message over and over. On his fourth time through, with the disturbing content still filtering through him, he felt the pressure of someone’s hand gripping his shoulder. He jumped up from the chair and spun around, only to find himself staring into the face of Michael Cunningham.

Cunningham didn’t look happy. In fact, Elliot had never before run into him late at the office—whatever was bothering him had to be serious. “What’s up?” Elliot asked.

 Cunningham took a while to answer. “I need to have a word with you.”

Elliot had once stolen a bicycle, a crime he could’ve easily gotten away with, but he’d felt so bad about it that not only did he return the bike, he also spent half a day repairing it before taking it back. The feelings that now ran through him were not dissimilar. To make matters worse, the congenial Detective Cunningham, whom everyone liked, had taken an adversarial stance. “What’s on your mind?” Elliot asked.

“You know damned well what’s on my mind.”

Cunningham was right. Elliot knew what was bothering him, and being the one dating the man’s girlfriend sent a surge of guilt through him that couldn’t be undone by giving her back. Nor could he convince himself, now that he’d started to get to know her, that she would prefer to be with Cunningham. Had Cyndi, feeling as bad as Elliot did about the rendezvous, spoken to Cunningham about it? Perhaps it was nothing more than pure instinct on Cunningham’s part. “Why don’t you enlighten me?” Elliot asked, feeling worse than ever.

Cunningham’s cheeks reddened. “She means a lot to me.”

“I can understand that.”

Cunningham glanced away, looking at his feet for a moment before bringing his eyes back to Elliot. “Then understand this. She’s my girl, Elliot. My girl.”

“Isn’t it her decision too?”

He nodded. “You’ve been dating her, haven’t you?”

Elliot thought about that for a moment. “We had dinner.”

Cunningham squared his stance. “You stay away from her, Elliot. Completely away.”

He stabbed a finger into Elliot’s chest. Elliot grabbed Cunningham’s hand, pulling it away and down to his side. His other hand balled into a fist. Elliot didn’t want this to get ugly. Still restraining Cunningham’s hand, he brought it back up across his adversary’s chest and backed him into the filing cabinet. “You don’t want to do this, Cunningham.”

Cunningham tried to free himself, but Elliot held firm, increasing the pressure until the cabinet threatened to tip over. “Come on, buddy. Take it easy. We’re both adults. We can find a more amiable solution to our problem.”

“You’re the problem,” Cunningham said. “And there’s only one solution. You need to back off and stay away from Cyndi.”

Elliot relaxed his grip. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

It wasn’t what Cunningham wanted to hear. He jerked his right leg up against the cabinet and lunged toward Elliot. His ploy was only marginally successful, but it was enough for him to wrench himself free from Elliot’s grip.

He didn’t waste any time. He threw a right cross. Elliot ducked under it, then came back up. He could’ve had Cunningham clean, but he used his forearm instead of his fist and again shoved him into the cabinet, this time with more authority, wedging his arm against Cunningham’s throat, driving him upward.

The look on Cunningham’s face said he was furious, but it also showed that he was beginning to understand that his current tactics were not going to work.

“I don’t want to fight you, Michael.”

“You should have thought of that before you—”

Cunningham’s gaze hardened and focused over Elliot’s shoulder.

“Is there a problem here, boys?”

It was Captain Harry Lundsford.

Elliot released Cunningham and stepped away. “No, sir. Just a little overzealous horseplay. Sorry if we disturbed you. It won’t happen again.”

Captain Lundsford looked skeptical, but he nodded and continued down the walkway between the cubicles. As soon as the captain disappeared into his office, Elliot gathered his things and started for the elevator.

Behind him, Cunningham said, “This isn’t over, Elliot.”

After leaving the department, Elliot stopped at a grocery store and picked up a few cans of dog food, then drove to Brighid McAlister’s house. He’d been giving it some thought and he’d decided he didn’t want Brighid’s dog to end up in the animal shelter, or perhaps suffer an even worse fate on the streets of Tulsa. Those who worked for animal control had good intentions, but it didn’t always pan out for the animals. Rather than requesting the key and explaining what he intended to do, he’d simply coax the dog outside.

Elliot parked the car just down from Brighid’s house, then got out and made his way to the back of the house. Not wanting to attract attention to himself, he didn’t use a flashlight and he stumbled a few times before reaching the back door. However, as soon as he popped the top on one of the cans of food and waved it around a few times beside the pet door, the little fellow came wiggling out. As if he’d been waiting for Elliot to come for him, the dog took the time to frolic around, greeting Elliot by licking his hands before jumping on the food. He was young, less than a year old, Elliot suspected.

He waited for the dog to finish the food, then scooped him up and went back to the car. After placing the puppy on the passenger seat where he could keep an eye on him, he started the car and drove home to Broken Arrow.

Once there, Elliot fashioned a makeshift bed from a cardboard box, throwing some old towels in the bottom for comfort. As soon as he put a bowl of water beside the box, the dog appeared to understand it was his and hopped in. Elliot considered the long-unused dog door for a moment, then unlocked the small flap, pushing it open a few times to show the dog it was there. The dog was familiar with such things, having used one at his old house, and Elliot’s backyard was fenced.

The room where he’d put the puppy was the rather large area designed to function as a breakfast nook. A dimmer switch controlled the light, a chandelier that hung low over the table. Elliot set the light to a low setting, then took a shower and went to bed.

The next morning, he sat at the breakfast table, sipping a cup of coffee and marveling over how quickly the dog was adapting—other than demonstrating a slight propensity to bark at odd hours—when the doorbell rang. Elliot put down his coffee and answered the door. He found Joey Anderson and his mother standing on the porch.

Joey held his clenched hands in front of him, and he looked as if he might jump over the threshold. “Can I see him, Mr. Elliot?”

The look on Kelly Anderson’s face said it all. “It’s the dog. He kept us up half the night.”

Elliot glanced at the Glock sticking out of his shoulder holster, then grabbed his sport jacket from the coatrack and put it on. “Sorry. I just picked him up last night.” The dog stood between Elliot’s legs. “He was sort of homeless.”

Kelly Anderson’s face softened. “He has quite a bark. What kind of dog is he?”

Elliot picked up the pup and handed him to Joey. It just seemed like the thing to do. Eying the dog’s build and coat, he stepped aside. “Mostly beagle, I think. Would you like to come in?”

Kelly shook her head. “We won’t keep you. But do try to keep . . . What’s his name, anyway?”

Elliot looked at Joey. The dog, his tail wagging a fast circle, licked Joey’s face. “I don’t know. What do you think, Joey?”

“I call him Colorado.”

Kelly Anderson’s mouth curved into a smile as she watched Joey and the dog, but her voice was authoritative. “You can’t do that. I think Mr. Elliot should choose the name.” Turning to Elliot she added, “It was our dog’s name. Joey’s father called him that.” Pausing, she shook her head. “It’s a long story. Anyway, about the barking . . .”

“He’s just confused right now. I’m sure that’s all it is.”

 She nodded. “Just try to keep him a little quieter, all right? Joey, give Mr. Elliot his dog.”

Joey glanced at his mother, then at the dog, and finally at Elliot, his eyes pleading.

“Colorado will need someone to watch after him when I’m not here.” Elliot said. “Perhaps Joey could help me out, check on him in the backyard now and then.”

“Is he my dog, Mr. Elliot?”

Kelly Anderson gave Elliot a look that said: Don’t you dare. But then she reached over and stroked the pup’s head. “He is a cute little fellow.”

Elliot couldn’t stop the smile that was spreading across his face. “As a matter of fact, I had planned on looking for a home for the dog. I’m not here very much, and a pet needs someone to interact with. Maybe Joseph could take him for a few days, on a trial basis.”

Joey nodded. “I can take care of him. Please, Mom. I promise I do a good job.”

Kelly tried to look upset, but her happiness at seeing Joey bond with the dog showed through. “A few days, Mr. Elliot. And if it doesn’t work out, he’s coming right back to you.”

“Fair enough.”

“You probably planned this whole thing, didn’t you?”

Elliot thought about that for a moment. “No,” he said. “My plans haven’t worked out so well.”

Kelly Anderson was, though, a mother, a demanding position in its own right, and yet her situation carried an extra dose of responsibility. She gave him a friendly smile that told him she’d picked up on his implicit meaning. “It’s easy to feel that way from time to time, Mr. Elliot.” Putting her hand on Joey’s shoulder, she said, “Ready, sport?”

Joey nodded and started across the lawn. About halfway, he stopped and said. “Thank you, Mr. Elliot.”

Elliot waved. “You’re welcome. You’re going to do just fine.”

Kelly Anderson held a dubious expression. “Take an inventory of the good things in your life,” she said. “That usually works for me.”

Chapter Nineteen

At 8:30 a.m., Elliot walked into the office of Felicia Mullins, a forty-year-old who taught dance at a private school, sponsored by the Open Arms Unitarian Universalist Church. “I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “I’m investigating the death of Brighid McAlister, and your name showed up on a blackmail list she was keeping. She was holding some potentially damaging photographs, and you were making payments to keep her from going public with them.”

Ms. Mullins fumbled for her chair and sat down, both her color and her posture fading in the pale light that filtered through the glass blocks of the north wall. Her hands moved about her desk, straightening papers. “You’re telling me that Brighid McAlister is . . .”

“Quite dead, Ms. Mullins.” Elliot strolled over to the east wall where photographs of students, girls ranging in age from ten to fifteen, were displayed. “Nice-looking kids,” he said.

“So you came out to ask me about my involvement with Brighid, is that what this is all about?”

Elliot turned away from the wall and came back to the desk. “It’s about murder, Ms. Mullins. Fear of exposure is a powerful motive.”

“Surely you don’t think . . . No, I would never do anything like that.”

“Then you won’t mind telling me where you were between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and noon on January sixth?”

A daily calendar sat precisely centered near the front of her desk, and Ms. Mullins turned a few pages back, paused for a moment, then folded them back into position. “I wasn’t here that day. I wasn’t feeling well.”

“If you weren’t here, then where were you?”

“At home, of course.”

“Can you verify that?”

As if she were applying some type of lotion, Ms. Mullins rubbed her hands together. “Verify?” she asked. “I’m not sure.”

“You might want to give it some thought,” Elliot said. “It’s important. Did you have any visitors, did the postman come by, or perhaps a delivery person, anyone who might confirm your story?”

She massaged her temples, then shook her head. “There’s no one. I was alone.”

Elliot flipped the calendar to January 6 to see if anything was written there. The notation simply read: VACATION. He returned the pages. “Do you own any firearms, Ms. Mullins?”

“Firearms? You mean like guns or weapons?”

“That’s precisely what I mean.”

“Then the answer is no. I abhor violence of any form. I find it repugnant.”

“I don’t care for it myself,” Elliot said, “though I do see quite a lot of it.”

“In your occupation, I guess one would.”

“That’s right. You get to know people pretty well, sensing at times when they’re telling the truth . . . or not.”

“What are you saying?”

“If I searched your office, would I find anything?”

“I don’t know what you would be looking for, but I doubt you would find it here.”

“How about your home?”

Ms. Mullins’ face lost a little more color. “You would need a warrant for that, wouldn’t you? It would take time.”

Elliot pulled the warrants to search her home and her office from his coat pocket and placed them on the desk. “I’ve already taken care of that.”

Tears formed in Ms. Mullins’ eyes. “I didn’t kill Brighid, Mr. Elliot. I swear it.”

“But you’re holding back. What are you hiding?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve told you nothing but the truth.”

“My instincts tell me otherwise.”

She buried her face in her hands, then brought them away again. “You’re going to arrest me, aren’t you?”