Silence. He peered at the front loader in the shadowy alley. He knew Leo and Rosemary were squashed inside the cab. After he lock-picked the door, they'd made so goldurned much racket climbing in, every dog within three blocks had barked itself hoarse.
The ruckus drowned out their clumsiness, but it was a wonder half the neighborhood didn't converge to see what in blazes the fuss was about. Delbert smiled in spite of himself. How private dicks managed covert surveillance before TVs and central air made every house a blind, semisoundproof vault, he couldn't imagine.
"Team two," he whispered again. "This is command central. Do you copy?"
Rosemary, thank the Lord, had sense enough to whisper back. "Sorry. Leo dropped the talk-thing, and it's so dark, we couldn't tell where it went."
Delbert bit back a snide remark. "Can you see the target area okay?"
"Yes. I can see you, too."
He gasped and ducked down.
"Better, but I can still see the top of your head. The roof looks like there's a pimple sticking up from the peak."
Dentures clenched, Delbert said, "Can you see the ground where I showed you?"
"Sort of. It's darker out there than it is in here." A pause, then, "Leo wants to say hi."
"Surveil the perimeter, team two. Alert command, if the quo changes status. Clear."
Delbert stowed the blue walkie-talkie in his right hip pocket, then delved into the backpack for his night-vision binoculars. With his eyes riveted on Chlorine's back door, he sent a silent prayer to Giles, the patron saint of beggars.
A P.I. with four knuckleheaded amateurs for backup damn well wasn't a
chooser.
16
M
arlin held the remaining third of a double deluxe cheeseburger in his left hand. In the other was a cheap plastic pen with its barrel chewed down to the ink cartridge. A Marlboro smoldered in the ash saucer.
He was aware of the burger grease, tomato and pickle juice trickling down his wrist and dripping onto his desk. He just didn't give a shit.
The Beauford homicide was whipping his butt. He knew there had to be a patterna flashpoint, with trails leading up to it and one going out. He simply couldn't find the maypole for all the damned streamers flying every which way.
He'd give his right nut for a bull session with Hendrickson. The sheriff wasn't a trained criminal investigator, but had street smarts and instincts to spare. He asked the hard questions and didn't let ego squelch the dumb ones.
Declining that opportunity was a first. Tonight must be some special occasion for him and Toots. Anniversary of their first date, or something equally gag-worthy. Or he was just horny.
Marlin could relate.
Around the French fry he was chewing, he said to Phelps, "Gimme the quick and dirty on Montenegro, again."
The rookie gestured with his pork tenderloin sandwich. "Second interview, same as the first. Cesar admitted he had a thing for Bev Beauford. He thought it was mutual, then all of a sudden, she broke it off. No reason given. She just showed him the door."
Marlin swallowed the fry and took a puff on his Marlboro to keep it lit. Phelps's mother, Winona, the manicurist at the Curl-Up & Dye, pointed them at the taco pusher. That's how desperate they werefollowing up on tips from old broads with curlers in their hair and plastic bibs around their necks.
"The drone's got a couple of common assaults on his sheet. That makes my neck itch."
"They're old, though. And so's Montenegro. Both prior charges involved troublemakers at the restaurant." Phelps half smiled. "Cesar's a little rougher when he shows somebody the door."
"His alibi's weak."
"There's a six-to fourteen-hour window on Bev's time of death," Phelps argued. "I'd be suspicious of anybody who could account for that much time, any day of the week."
So would Marlin. The storms knocking out the electricity at Bev's house for approximately two hours further complicated the M.E.'s determination. She was alive to call the dry cleaners Wednesday evening, and dead at the time of the E-911 report, the next morning.
Evidence at the scene alluded to the time of death as within an hour of that last phone call. Speculation wasn't proof.
"Maybe the basement burglar altered his MO," Phelps said. "He wouldn't have to case Bev's house long to figure out she lived alone. She caught him in the act, and he panicked."
"I love how you think, Grasshopper." Marlin dropped his burger on the wrapper and wadded up the whole mess. "Let's see, our perp is a burglar we can't catch, who's entered every house before and since by busting out a basement windowexcept at Bev's, on account of there's no basement.
"His specialty is boosting electronics, but hers weren't touched. He operates at night, but hey, maybe he had a hot matinee date and needed extra cash. And instead of bailing out Bev's patio door when he heard the garage door go up, he stuck around and killed her."
The wadded dinner hit the trash can like a dull ta-da. "I like it. A two-for-one."
Strangely, Phelps seemed to have lost his appetite, as well. The tenderloin and his order of onion rings went into the take-out sack and into the garbage. If neither of them remembered to dump it, the rats would think Thanksgiving was early this year.
"I'm just trying to think outside the box," Phelps said.
"Uh-huh. Well, the paradigm synergy is analogous to the hypotenuse squared." Marlin shook his head. "We
wear
suits. We
think
like cops."
Not, he added to himself, like a close friend of the victim. That had been the smoke screen he'd thrown up for himself since the start. Like Junior Duckworth more or less said yesterday, their perceptions were limited to what Bev chose to project. Anything that didn't jibe with the woman they knew was subconsciously discounted, if not rejected.
Bev Beauford was a stranger. Marlin exhaled the last drag from his cigarette. Christ, his wife was a stranger to some extent.
People don't know themselves as well as they believe they do. What they're capable of, what their limitations are. If they did, there'd be fewer homicides and fewer family members that put their lives on hold to care for terminally ill or handicapped relatives.
Marlin stood and moved to the dry-erase board on the wall behind him. Wiping it clean forced a fresh start. "This is the box, Grasshopper." He divided the board into thirds. "Examine the contents."
Under Unknown Subject, he dictated as he wrote. "Some inside knowledge of police procedure and forensics. UnSub wore gloves, turned down the thermostat. Was almost certainly acquainted with vic. Was either at the scene when Bev arrived, or she let him intime indeterminate. Premeditation, probable."
"And afterward," Phelps said, "UnSub staged a burglary to make it look like the motive."
"That's one theory." Marlin added it to the board. "What if the Unsub staged it to cover a search? Distract us from something removed from the scene?"
"Except nothing was stolen. The missing jewelry's been accounted for." Phelps wagged a finger. "Oh, I get it. Not merchandise. Something incriminating."
"Possibly," Marlin said, with completely disguised pride. The kid could think when he put his mind to it. "Make Bev the target, instead of a wrong-place, wrong-time victim and it alters the perspective."
The list he wrote under Vic bothered him, but not as much as letting his wheels spin for three days. "Bev was all about appearances. Larry couldn't keep his dick in his pants, but divorce wasn't on the table. He's dead, Bev's finances are in the toilet, but if she stops being her daughter's sugar mommy, Kimmie Sue won't love her anymore."
"Whoa." Phelps sucked his teeth. "That's harsh."
"Also logical. Nobody's perfect, kid. Die in your sleep and the cops won't autopsy your life. Bev didn't, and I'm just warming up."
He went on. "Okay, she hooks up with Cesar Montenegro. He's eligible. He's loaded. He's also moving too slow to plug the leak in her net worth. She peddles her jewelry to stay afloat. When that's gone, she starts cleaning the closets for a yard sale."
He rolled his eyes. "God forbid, she get a job. Appearances, again. Folks might think she was hurting for dough because Larry was a lousy provider. That trumps adultery to people. Have your fun, but take care of your family."
Phelps pushed up from the chair and walked over. "Then Bev dumps Montenegro. Then she gives away the yard-sale stuff to the First Baptist resale store." He scratched his head. "That doesn't compute."
Marlin ignored the verb. Grasshopper wasn't Hendrickson, but he was learning. "It does, if she stumbled over a gold mine." He returned to his desk and hoisted a library book. "Cruises aren't cheap, and Hannah was right about that mail-order catalog. Maybe Bev was angling to snag a rich dude on the ship, but it smells more like hers was about to come in."
He lit another cigarette and flipped through the call records again. Fingertip skating down a page, it stopped at Chlorine Moody's number above the one for Glo-Brite Cleaners. "Chlorine said Bev called her about another donation to the church?"
"Uh-huh. Mrs. Moody's the cochair of the committee that runs the church's resale store. Mrs. Beauford wanted some furniture picked up as soon as possible."
"Did she say what? A couch, mattress
"
Phelps hesitated. "I, uh, I didn't ask. I can call her back and"
"You dumb
fuck.
" Marlin threw the cigarette at the ashtray and dug through the papers on his desk. "Not you, kid. Me." Grabbing his reading glasses, he compared the convenience-store receipt with the call to the cleaners. "An hour and six minutes."
He whirled on the rookie. "Bev came home and left a frozen dinner in the car, called Chlorine, didn't unload the groceries for another hour and six minutes, called Glo-Brite, and then somebody strangled her?"
Phelps looked from one time notation to the other. "I should've caught that."
"
I
should have caught it, for crissake. Bev was dead before that last call was made. I can't prove it, but I'd stake my retirement fund on it."
"But" Phelps held up his hands. "Okay, bust me down to traffic for being stupid, but why would the killer call Glo-Brite? I mean, really, that's"
"How you'd make sure it comes up as the last number dialed, when a nosy cop punches star 69 at the scene," Marlin finished.
Phelps pondered a moment. "I see where you're going. What I don't see is a connection, let alone a motive."
"I don't, either, but the trail's been in front of us all along. I've got a hunch it's a long, twisty son of a bitch, too. But if we can find the flash point, the pattern will snap into place."
The rookie seemed skeptical. Dubious was nearer the mark. Might be, Phelps just wished he hadn't trashed his dinner, because the fat lady wasn't quite as ready to sing as he'd hoped.
Marlin motioned at the power strip screwed to the wall above Phelps's desk. "Unplug my cell from the charger, will ya?"
The rookie lobbed it to him, then sat down at his desk. Frowning, he reviewed his copies of the case notes and call recordsa confused young bloodhound in search of an alleged trail.
Marlin keyed the speed-dial code for Hendrickson's home phone, then ended the call before it connected. If and when his hunch solidified was soon enough to alert the sheriff. As he switched to his voice mail box, his eyebrows rumpled at the Valhalla Springs office number being among the string of missed calls and messages.
Hendrickson probably told Hannah about the intern searching the courthouse basement for Royal Moody's file. Later was also soon enough to listen to Toots give him grief about it.
"Divide and conquer, Grasshopper. Get me the registration on Chlorine Moody's vehicle. Next, back in May, could be June, Bev placed three calls to this GMEI outfit, whatever the hell it is. Google me up a corporate pedigree. I want to know if it's public or private, who's on the board of directors and shareholder info."
"Follow the money," Phelps said.
"Damn right, whether it's coming in or flushing out."
Marlin pushed aside a file to uncover a phone number and an extension written on the blotter. "After my new best friend at Ma Bell answers a couple of questions about traffic on Moody's line, we're going to her house to ask a few more, in person."
* * *
David grinned as he presented the cheesecake as if it were a culinary sacrifice to the gods. The crust visible through the glass pie dish was made from Hannah's favorite cookies, crushed as fine as sand. Chunkier bits were sprinkled across the top, contrasting with the luscious creamy filling.
She moaned and shook her head. "You're evil and that's the eighth deadly sin."
"You know you want some."
