Death Takes a Ride (The Cate Kinkaid Files Book #3): A Novel (10 page)

“No problem.”

“I have a couple of other small cases I’m working on, but I can get on this right away.”

“Good. And when you locate Timmons, you don’t need to talk to him or approach him in any way. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. I just need to know where to find him.”

“Are you saying he could be dangerous?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t be sending you after him if I thought he was dangerous. It’s more that I don’t want him knowing how eager I am to buy the bike or he’ll jack up the price even more. Just find out where I can get in touch with him, and I’ll approach him about the bike myself.”

“Okay.”

“In fact, I want this kept confidential all around,” Matt added. “I don’t want our customer to find this bike before I do and buy it himself. It can be a good moneymaker for us.”

“Our work is always confidential.”

12

Cate spent the morning serving a subpoena on an uncooperative recipient and worked on another case on the computer that afternoon.

She was trying to locate a husband who had skipped out on paying his child support, and, as so often happened, she wound up wishing she had Mitch’s computer expertise. Taking a break from that case, she tried digging up something on Andy Timmons and/or his motorcycle.

She found some Andy Timmons information, but the name wasn’t all that unique, and most of what she found wasn’t connected to the man Halliday wanted to locate. One thing she did determine was that the old Indian motorcycle was registered to him. She made a note of the address, which was not the Jefferson Street address Matt Halliday had tried.

Purely out of curiosity, she also tried Mace Jackson’s name on a search engine and then on a couple of Uncle Joe’s PI databases. The Jackson name wasn’t uncommon, of course, and she didn’t know if Mace was real or a nickname, so she didn’t find much that she could identify as specifically him, not even a vehicle registration or driver’s license. Which must mean there had been something else on the body that the police used to identify him the night he was killed.

What she did find in a small newspaper article from a Salem newspaper was that someone by the name of Mace Jackson had placed second in a fifty-mile bicycle road race there. It seemed an unlikely activity for a gunman, but there was that bicycle she’d seen out back at H&B. Crime and an interest in bicycling were not necessarily exclusive, she supposed. Maybe she could check—

She interrupted herself. No. No checking. Because, as she sternly reminded herself again, that wasn’t her case. Finding Andy Timmons and an old Indian motorcycle was her case.

To get her brain out of cyberspace, she went for a run at about 4:00. Later, Mitch brought Clancy over for another playtime in Cate’s backyard. He thought the big, active dog needed more exercise than just a walk on the sidewalks around the condo.

“Now don’t get your tail all in a twist about this,” Cate advised Octavia when she left the cat inside and went out to join Mitch and Clancy in the backyard.

Mitch had a new ball for Clancy. Cate saw Octavia watching from the window seat first, then from the outdoor playroom. When Clancy ran for a ball near it, she took a flying leap and buried her claws in the screen, apparently Octavia’s interpretation of a ferocious flying tiger. Clancy jumped back, but then he edged over to sniff at her furry white form clinging to the screen. Octavia, perhaps huffy that her leap hadn’t been more intimidating, untangled her claws from the screen and jumped to her jungle-gym apparatus. She watched from there until Mitch took Clancy back to the SUV and brought the sub sandwiches he’d picked up earlier into the house.

Cate noted Mitch’s sandwich had one end missing, and he admitted he’d broken off a chunk to give to Clancy out in the SUV. Cate, conscious of Octavia’s reproachful eyes on
her, evened the situation by offering a bite of ham from her sandwich. She and Mitch talked about his day setting up a new computer system for a bakery, and hers chasing down various people.

Mitch crumpled the wrapping paper when he finished the sandwich. “Any news yet about Clancy’s owner and when he’ll take his dog back?”

Cate stood up. “I’ll call Shirley and ask.” She’d been thinking about talking to Shirley anyway.

Mitch lifted a hand. “Hey, no hurry. You don’t have to do it right now.” He sounded almost alarmed, as if he hadn’t expected such express action from her.

Cate called Shirley’s cell phone anyway, but the call went to voice mail. She was stuffing the wrapping from their sub sandwiches in the trash when her cell phone jingled.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t answer when you just called.” Shirley sounded breathless. “I was on my way in to see Kane. I think they gave me a whole minute this time.”

“How is he?”

“His eyelids twitched. I think he was trying to open them!”

Cate suspected that could be a normal movement even in a coma, but she wasn’t sure. “Will you be at the hospital again tomorrow?”

“Saturday is just another work day at H&B, and I’m cooking dinner for Jerry tomorrow night. But I’ll come out to the hospital between when I get off work and when I start dinner.”

“What are you cooking for him?”

“Jerry is a meat and potatoes kind of guy, so I’m making fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and apple pie.”

“He’ll love that. You know the old saying, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“I’m not trying to get to Jerry’s heart.” Shirley sounded
appalled, as if Cate had just suggested she was setting a bear trap for an innocent bystander. “He’s at least ten years younger than I am. He won’t take any money for letting me use his pickup, and I just wanted to do something to repay him.”

“Okay, keep in touch. But remember that a relationship with a younger man is not a crime.”

“It doesn’t have to be a crime to be
ridiculous
.”

Cate didn’t, of course, tell Shirley she was also working for Matt Halliday now. Confidential. But she passed Shirley’s information about Kane’s eye twitch along to Mitch.

His opinion was the same as her own, that an eye twitch wasn’t necessarily meaningful. “So, looks like I’m stuck with Clancy for a while yet,” he added.

“Where’s he sleeping now?”

“At the foot of my bed.”

“On the floor at the foot of the bed?”

Mitch paused before he made a more specific admission. “Well, uh, no, he’s on the bed. His staying with me is just a temporary arrangement, of course, so I figured that letting him sleep there was more practical than trying to retrain him.”

Oh yes. Very practical.

At midmorning on Saturday, Cate located the rooming house on Jefferson easily enough. She’d decided this address Halliday had given her was probably more recent than the one on the motorcycle registration.

It was an older, big blue house, not shabby, but it hadn’t had any recent contact with a paintbrush. A small sign said Rooms for Rent. A porch covered the front, with dormer windows above. There was a single doorbell beside a windowed door with a saggy lace curtain, which suggested the
renters didn’t have separate entrances. A tiny older woman in tight purple leggings, kneesocks, and Birkenstock sandals opened the door.

“I’m full up,” she said.

“Thanks, but I’m not looking for a room. I’m trying to find a man named Andy Timmons. I understand he lived here?”

“You a social worker?”

“Did Mr. Timmons have a social worker?”

“He was always tellin’ me, when his rent was late, that he was about to get disability payments, or a grant to go to school, or some other wild scheme he’d cooked up. I finally told him to take his old motorcycle and find some other living room to park it in.”

“He kept his motorcycle in the living room?”

“He was renting my studio apartment.” She jerked a thumb toward a detached building that looked like a garage remodeled into living quarters. Cate suspected “studio apartment” upgraded its status. “And yeah, I found out he was keeping his old motorcycle in there. On my carpet! Renters. You can’t believe the things they come up with.”

Cate had to admit that if she were a landlady, she might also object to a motorcycle in the living room, but all she said was, “The motorcycle may be a fairly valuable antique model.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care if it belonged to Elvis himself. Nobody brings a motorcycle in and parks it on my carpet. No way I’m ever going to get the oil stains out of that shag.”

“I’m wondering if you have any idea where Mr. Timmons went after he left here?”

“How come him and his old motorcycle are so popular all of a sudden?” She peered at Cate as if looking for concealed weapons. “Some guy was here looking for him a couple-three days ago too.”

Mr. Halliday, no doubt. Unless the potential collector-buyer of old motorcycles had his sights on Timmons too.

“But you don’t know where Mr. Timmons might be now?” Cate asked.

“No, I’m just glad he isn’t here. Rent always late. Always feeling I’d better count the silverware after he did come pay it.”

“He used the motorcycle to move out?”

“I don’t know how he moved out. He was just gone. He drove an old Ford pickup sometimes. But maybe the pickup belonged to that girl. Andy was only paying rent for one person, but I know she stayed overnight sometimes.”

The landlady’s face puckered in disapproval, although Cate couldn’t tell if she disapproved of the girl staying overnight or if the rent differential between one and two people was what concerned her.

The face of an older man considerably taller than the tiny landlady appeared over her head. “Ladies, excuse me,” he said. “If I can just slip out the door without disturbing you . . . ?”

He had an air of faded elegance with his bolo tie and dark jacket, silvery hair combed back in a style of yesteryear, but his blue eyes were bright and a bit mischievous.

“Hey, Duane, you were on friendly terms with that guy with the old motorcycle when he was living here, weren’t you?”

“Andy? Yes, of course. A young man with potential, but wasting his life, I’m afraid.” The man smiled, teeth so white and perfect Cate knew they couldn’t be his originals. “And, sadly, not open to counsel from someone who’s been there, done that, and now knows better.”

“Would you happen to know where he went when he left here?” Cate asked.

“I believe he had a young lady friend who was going to
let him stay with her for a while. At a trailer park, I think it was, out on Cushingham.”

“Do you know her name?”

“I’m afraid not. I never actually met her, but I saw her a few times. A lovely young woman. Beautiful dark eyes. Very pale blonde hair.”

“Okay, thanks. I appreciate the information.” Cate had the feeling the man could use some money and wondered if she could pay him for the information. She also realized this man would surely be insulted if she tried to do so. So all she did was repeat the words as he strode jauntily down the steps. “Thanks again. You’ve been very helpful.”

“‘Lovely young woman. Pale blonde hair,’” the landlady mimicked. She snorted. “She had hair bleached so hard it could stand up by itself. And enough mascara and eyeliner to start a clown store.”

Cate used her all-purpose noncommittal “um.”

“Duane is a lovely man himself. He always sees the best in everyone.” The landlady sighed and shook her head as if that attitude were a naïve fault. With a dark huddle of eyebrows, she added, “He wouldn’t think everyone was so wonderful if he was a landlord for a while.”

Or, Cate had to agree, if he were a private investigator.

Back in her car, Cate used her cell phone to locate two trailer parks on Cushingham. The road ran south out of town, a hilly, wooded area not far from I-5. The first trailer park she came to was for recreational-type vehicles, not the big single- and double-wides that were situated in the park where Shirley lived, although many of the RVs had small yards and fences and looked at least semi-permanent. Cate stopped at a fifth-wheel trailer with an office sign out front.

A beefy guy in black work pants and a cap with the trailer
park name on it opened the door. Hoping Andy Timmons may have done a legal registration with the park management before moving into the woman’s RV, Cate asked about him by name.