Break No Bones (12 page)

Emma voiced the question I'd been asking myself.

"What was Cruikshank doing with Pinckney's walet?"

"Found it?" I threw out.

"Stole it?"

"Got it from someone who found or stole it?"

"Pinckney said the walet disappeared in February or March, right around the time Cruikshank kiled himself."

"Presumably," I said.

"Presumably. Maybe someone found the body hanging in the woods and planted the walet on it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Practical joke?"

"That would take a pretty morbid sense of humor."

"To create confusion when it came time to ID the deceased?"

"The walet was in the jacket pocket, right? Maybe Cruikshank borrowed, found, or swiped the jacket and never knew the walet was there. Did Pinckney say anything about losing a jacket?"

Emma shook her head.

"And why wasn't Cruikshank carrying any of his own personal effects?"

"The truly suicidal often leave their belongings behind." Emma thought a moment. "But why the Francis Marion forest? And how did Cruikshank get out there?"

"Astute questions, Madam Coroner," I said.

Neither Emma nor I had any astute answers.

I held up the AFIS printout. "Can I keep this?"

"That's your copy." As I laid the paper on the counter, Emma said, "So your Mr. Cruikshank has hanged himself."

"
Pete's
Mr. Cruikshank," I corrected.

"Is Pete here in Charleston?"

"Oh, yeah."

Emma cocked a lascivious brow.

My response would have made the cut for the U.S. Open of eye rols.

===OO=OOO=OO===

It was close to nine when I got back to "Sea for Miles." Two kitchen counters were covered with peaches and tomatoes. Tuesday. I assumed Pete had stumbled onto the Mount Pleasant farmer's market.

Pete and Boyd were in the den watching basebal. The Twins were whupping Pete's beloved White Sox 10–4. The Sox had been the team of Pete's Chicago boyhood, and when they placed their AAA farm team in Charlotte, Pete was resmitten.

"Cruikshank's dead," I said, without preamble.

Pete sat up and gave me his ful attention. Boyd kept his eyes on a half-empty popcorn bowl.

"No shit?"

"Hanged himself."

"You're sure it's Cruikshank?"

"Twelve-point AFIS match."

Pete moved a pilow and I dropped to the couch. As I described my adventures with Pinckney and then with the man in the trees, Boyd oozed toward the snack food, one body hair at a time.

"How did Cruikshank get this other guy's bilfold?"

"Who knows?"

"Emma intends to have another heart-to-heart with Pinckney?"

"I'm sure she does."

Eyes on Pete, Boyd tipped his head sideways and brushed his tongue across the popcorn. Pete relocated the bowl to a table behind our heads.

Ever the optimist, Boyd hopped onto the couch and pressed his weight against my side. Absently, I rubbed his ear.

"No question Cruikshank offed himself?" Pete asked.

I hesitated, remembering Emma's and my lack of astute answers. And the sixth cervical vertebrae.

"What?"

"It's probably nothing."

Pete chugged the remains of his Heineken, set down the bottle, and assumed a listening posture.

I described the hinge fracture on the vertebra's left transverse process.

"What's so odd about that?"

"The injury is inconsistent with hanging, especialy given the fact that the noose was positioned behind, not to the side of the skul. But it's more than that. The Dewees skeleton has an identical fracture in the same location."

"Is that a big deal?"

"I've never seen this trauma pattern before. Then I find two instances in one week. Don't you find that suspicious?"

"Explanation?"

"I have several, none persuasive."

"Indecision is the key to flexibility."

Boyd placed his chin on my shoulder, positioning his nose inches from the popcorn. I eased him sideways. He lay down across my lap.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Isn't this great?" Big Pete grin. "Just like real married people."

"We were real married people. It wasn't great."

"We're stil real married people."

I nudged Boyd. The chow moved across our laps and pressed against Pete. I started to rise.

"OK. OK." Pete held up both hands. "I poked around up at GMC today."

I settled back. "Did you talk to Herron?"

Pete shook his head. "Dropped a lot of scary words. Litigation. Mismanagement of charitable funds. Pot to piss in."

"Chiling."

"Apparently. I have an appointment with Herron on Thursday morning."

At that moment my cel phone sounded. I checked the little screen. Emma.

"Gulet tracked down an address for Cruikshank. Place is off Calhoun, not far from the MUSC complex. He dropped by, managed to pry the landlord loose from his
Rocky
DVD long enough to learn that Cruikshank had been a tenant for about two years, but hadn't set foot in his apartment since March. Landlord's name is Harold Parrot, a real humanitarian. When Cruikshank fel thirty days behind in the rent, Parrot stuffed his belongings into cartons, changed the locks, and recycled the unit."

"What happened to the cartons?"

Pete raised questioning brows and mouthed the word "Cruikshank." I nodded.

"Parrot stacked them in the basement. He assumed Cruikshank had skipped town, but didn't want trouble if the guy showed up wanting his stuff. Gulet got the sense Cruikshank scared the nappies off Parrot. Gulet and I are going back in the morning, thought you might like to join us."

"Where?"

Emma read the address and I wrote it down.

"What time?"

Pete pointed a finger at his chest.

"Nine."

"Shal I meet you there?"

"Sounds like a plan."

Pete's pointing became, wel, more pointed.

"Mind if Pete rides along?"

"Sounds like a stunningly more entertaining plan."

===OO=OOO=OO===

The day began badly and went downslope from there.

Emma rang shortly before eight to say she'd had a rough night. Would I mind meeting with Gulet and Parrot on my own? She'd explained to the sheriff that I was officialy consulting on the case, and requested ful cooperation from his office.

I heard the bitterness in Emma's voice, knew what it was costing my friend to admit that her body was failing. I assured Emma I'd be fine, and that I'd touch base as soon as I left Parrot's.

Pete was flipping shut his mobile when I entered the kitchen. He'd caled Flynn. Though dismayed by the circumstances, Buck was pleased to hear that Cruikshank had been located. Buck was even more pleased over the upcoming Herron meeting and the possibility of some answers to his several questions.

Pete had also phoned a buddy at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD. The man was not surprised to learn of his former coleague's death. He'd known Cruikshank during the PI's days on the force. In his words, Cruikshank was a barrel in the mouth waiting for the pul of a trigger.

Gulet's Explorer was already at the curb when Pete and I turned from Calhoun onto a dead-end side street. Though once lush and residential, the avenue's oleander-and-elderberry-wine charm had long ago been boot-heeled by modern redevelopment. Offices and commercial buildings stood brick to petticoat with grand old beles hanging on by their Confederate nails.

Emma's address brought us to an antebelum survivor with an archetypicaly Charlestonian design: narrow across the front, deep down the lot, side verandas upstairs and down.

Pete and I got out and started up the walk. Though cloud cover kept the temperature down, humidity ruled the day. Within seconds my clothes felt limp against my skin.

Approaching the building, I took in more detail. Rotting wood, faded paint, more trim than Brighton's Royal Pavilion. An ornate plaque above the door said MAGNOLIA MANOR.

No magnolias. No blossoms. Side yard a tangle of kudzu-clad scrub.

The front was unlocked. Passing through the door, Pete and I stepped from syrupy warmth into slightly cooler syrupy warmth.

What was once an elegant foyer now served as a lobby, complete with bannistered staircase, sconced wals, and chandeliered ceiling. The sparse furnishings exuded al the charm of a dental office. Laminated wood sideboard. Vinyl couch. Plastic plant. Plastic runner. Plastic wastebasket filed with discarded ads.

Two rows of nameplates suggested the house had been divided into six units. Below and to the right of the buzzers, a hand-scrawled card provided the number of the resident manager.

I dialed. Parrot answered on the third ring.

I identified myself. Parrot said he and Gulet were in the basement, and directed me down the central halway to the back of the building. The stairs were through a door on the left.

I gestured Pete to folow me.

The celar door was located where promised. And wide open.

"Cruikshank didn't choose the old manor for its security system," I said in a low voice.

"Must have been attracted by the cutting-edge interior design," Pete said.

From below, I could hear Gulet and Parrot speaking.

"And the name," Pete added. "The name's got a certain panache."

As Pete and I clomped down wooden stairs, the temperature plummeted at least half a degree. At bottom, the air smeled of decades of mildew and mold. I was unsure whether to breathe through my nose or my mouth.

The celar was as expected. Dirt floor. Low ceiling. Brick wals with crumbling mortar. The few concessions to the twentieth century included an ancient washer and dryer, a water heater, and low-wattage bulbs hanging from badly frayed wires.

Junk was crammed everywhere. Stacked newspapers. Wooden crates. Broken lamps. Garden tools. A brass headboard.

Gulet and Parrot were on the far side of the room, an open carton on a workbench between them. Gulet was holding a manila folder in one hand, rifling its contents with the other.

Both men turned at the sound of our footsteps.

"Seems you're becoming a regular fixture with our coroner." Gulet realy did have a way with openings. "I've got no problem with that, long as everyone understands borders and terrain."

"Of course." I introduced Pete, and gave the briefest explanation of his interest in Parrot's former tenant.

"Your Mr. Cruikshank was one busy fela, Counselor."

"I'm only indirectly concerned with Cruikshank—"

Gulet cut him off. "The man kiled himself in my town. That makes him my problem. You're free to tag along with the doc, here. But you get any ideas about freelancing, you keep that train in the station."

Pete said nothing.

"Miz Rousseau says you're looking for a young lady name of Helene Flynn." The usual flat tone.

"I am," Pete said.

"May I ask why, sir?"

"Helene's father is concerned because she broke off contact."

"And when you find this young lady?"

"I'l tel Daddy."

Gulet regarded Pete for so long I thought he was going to send him packing. Then, "No harm in that. My child dropped out of sight, I'd want to know why."

The sheriff closed and waggled the manila folder.

"This should make for some fascinating reading."

13

GULLET REVERSED THE FILE SO WE COULD SEE THE HANDWRITTEN name on the tab. Flynn, Helene. The date matched the time of Buck Flynn's initial contact with Cruikshank.

Handing the folder to Pete, Gulet turned back to the carton and resumed rummaging, puling out a folder, reading its tab, sliding it back among the others.

Pete scanned the contents of Helene Flynn's file.

I observed Parrot. He was an elderly black man with kinky hair side-parted and slicked down hard. Nat King Cole in a tank undershirt. Right now he looked jumpy as someone expecting a kidney punch.

After puling a few more random files, Gulet turned to Parrot.

"You packed al these boxes, sir?"

"Not the files. They's exactly as Cruikshank left them. I done those uns over there." Parrot pointed to a stack of cardboard boxes.

"You did colect every last one of Mr. Cruikshank's possessions, now didn't you, Mr. Parrot? Nothing got misplaced or lost or anything along those lines?"

"'Course I did." Parrot's gaze hopped from Gulet to me, then dived to the floor. "I didn't make no list, if that's what you're asking. I just boxed the stuff."

"Uh-huh." Gulet skewered the landlord with a look.

Parrot ran a hand across the top of his head. Not a hair budged. The stuff was more glazed than a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

Seconds passed. A ful minute. Somewhere out of sight, a faucet dripped.

Parrot repeated the hair thing. Folded his arms. Dropped them. The sheriff's eyes remained glued to Parrot's face.

Finaly, Gulet broke the silence. "You don't mind if I take Mr. Cruikshank's things along for safekeeping, now do you, sir?"

"Don't you need a warrant or some kinda official paper?"

Not a muscle fiber flickered in Gulet's face.

Parrot's hands flew up. "OK. OK. No problem, Sheriff. I was just trying to be legal. You know. Tenants' rights and al."

There were eight boxes. I took the file carton. Pete and Gulet started with two boxes each. While the men made a second trip to the basement, I phoned Emma from the Explorer. Though she sounded better, her voice was stil weak.

I reported that we were heading to the sheriff's office. Emma thanked me, and asked that I keep her informed.

Twenty minutes after leaving Magnolia Manor, Pete and I turned behind Gulet into the lot at the Charleston County Sheriff's Office, a low-rise brick and stucco affair on Pinehaven Drive in North Charleston. Two trips relocated the boxes to a smal conference room.

While Gulet caled the Charleston City Police, Pete and I began with Cruikshank's belongings. Pete took the Flynn file. I started with the boxes.

The first yielded bathroom towels and toiletries. Toothpaste. Plastic razors. Shaving cream. Shampoo. Foot powder.

The second contained kitchenware. Plastic cups and dishes. A few glasses. Cheap utensils.

Box three held the larder. Frosted Flakes. Froot Loops. Dried spaghetti and macaroni dinners. Cans of Campbel's soup, baked beans, Beenie Weenies.