Murder in the River City (2 page)

She waited in the idling car outside the bar while Joey and his friend Pete went inside to talk to Mack, the bartender. She didn’t like Pete—he was too slick, too good-looking. Too much like her ex-boyfriend who’d dumped her in Portland. But she didn’t have to like the guy; after this week, she and Joey would never have to see him again. They’d be flush, living wherever they wanted, never having to worry about paying the rent or eating. They could just have fun.

The back door opened and Joey walked out first. She didn’t like the look on his face. Fear? Maybe. Pete came out next, all attitude. Cocky jerk. She put the car in drive and rolled, lights off, toward them. They jumped in and Joey said, “Go, go, go.
Now
.” When he tossed a bag into the back, she glanced over. His hands were shaking. Sweat had dampened his collar.

“What happened?” she asked. “Did Mack get what we need?”

“Shut up,” Joey said.

She frowned. He’d never talked to her like that when they first started going out. It was his asshole friend, Pete. Ever since Joey got the call three days ago that his ‘boss’ was in town, Joey had been jumpy.

Pete got on the phone. “Plan B.” Callie heard a man on the other end talking really fast.

She whispered to Joey, “I thought you said Mack had—”

“I said
shut up.
”

She turned under the freeway and drove up J Street. She’d had no problem robbing Pat Dooligan; he’d fired her. But something didn’t feel right. Joey was too … scared. He was never scared.

Pete said to whoever was on the other end of the cell phone, “He got cold feet. … No, he didn’t know you were back. Just said he wanted out. … Yes, we took care of it.”

Callie didn’t like Pete’s end of the conversation. Her instincts, which had never served her well, began to itch, like maybe she had gotten with the wrong program. Maybe Joey wasn’t the nice guy she’d thought. Just because the sex was hot and he had a nice apartment and plenty of spending money, maybe things weren’t so good. Maybe they were kind of bad, in fact.

Pete said, “We’re heading there now.” He hung up. “Get on the freeway. North.”

Callie had to go down to 7
^th
Street before she could turn right, then right again on L Street to get back to I-5. She’d made a big damn circle, irritated they hadn’t clued her in earlier to their plans. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Shit, Gleason, does she ever shut up?” Pete said.

Joey hit her with the back of his hand. “Last warning.”

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. Joey had never hit her before.
Never.
She drove until Pete told her to get off the freeway, in South Natomas, about five miles away. The area looked familiar, but she didn’t recognize where they were until she saw Mack’s apartment building. She’d been here a couple times when she still worked for Mack, but that was before he found out she was skimming from the drawer. She didn’t understand what his problem was—Mack was no saint, yet he had a problem stealing from Pat Dooligan? A big fucking double standard, she’d always thought.

“Wasn’t Mack at the bar?” she asked. “Why are we at his apartment?”

They ignored her questions and Joey said, “Wait here.” He and Pete got out of the car and disappeared on the second floor.

She considered driving off and leaving them. But where would she go? She had Joey’s car, but no money—Joey had all the cash. She glanced at the gas tank. Not even half full. No way she could make it back home to San Diego. Her parents didn’t want her back—not only had it been four years, but she’d also taken their ATM cards. Before they had cancelled their accounts, she’d snatched nearly five thousand dollars.

Not that the money gotten her far. When it ran out, her boyfriend had dumped her.

Best to wait here, keep her mouth shut, and when the money came in at the end of the week,
she’d
be the one to dump Joey. He’d hit her in front of Pete, like he was trying to act all macho-man. She had too much self-respect to be a punching bag.

She knew people. A few guys who’d give her a room in exchange for sex. Not too bad a deal, until she figured out where to go next.

She looked in the back seat and saw the bag Joey had tossed back there. She glanced up at the second floor where Mack’s apartment was located. It was Sunday night; Mack always worked Sundays. Had something changed? It didn’t make sense to her, but Joey was being all weird about this job of his. She didn’t even know exactly how Mack fit in, only that he was holding a bunch of cash that belonged to Joey and Pete’s boss.

She turned, grabbed the bag, and looked in it. Baseballs and cash, only a couple hundred dollars. They robbed the bar? This was peanuts compared to what they’d been talking about. Tens of
thousands
of dollars, from what she’d pieced together. What was going on?

She picked up one of the baseballs and turned on the overhead light. There was a smudge. Red. It looked like blood.

Her stomach churned. She looked back inside and found a bloody rag.

Oh, God, they hurt someone. Mack? Pat Dooligan? Who’d been in the bar? What had happened to them? Why was Joey acting all strange?

The door opened and she jumped. Pete grabbed the bag from her. “Nosy bitch.”

“Drive,” Joey told her.

“Where?” she asked.

“South.”

Great, she would be driving south, down the freeway, no destination. She almost said something, but Joey was so tense she decided to keep her mouth shut.

Pete was back on the phone. “It’s not there,” he said. “All I could find was his address book.”

She thought she heard yelling on the other end of the phone. She hid a smile.

“Got it,” he said and hung up.

“I can try talking to Mack,” she said.

When neither of them said anything, she pressed on. “You know, we had a thing for a while, I can convince him to turn over the list.” If they’d hurt him, maybe she could get him help. Or better, she’d go back tonight, after Joey was asleep, and be the hero. Take him to the hospital. Pat Dooligan would give her back her job. That would tide her over until she found another score.

Pete said, “You told her?”

“Nothing important,” Joey said. “Fuck it, Callie, can’t you just shut your big mouth?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just trying to help. You didn’t tell me anything.”

“Pull over,” Pete said, “next exit.”

“Why?” Callie asked.

“I’m not getting cell reception here. I need to make a call.”

“Is Mack okay? He’s okay, right?” she asked.

“Just fine,” Pete said. She glanced in the review mirror. His eyes told her he was lying.

They were at Discovery Park, a recreational area at the American River. She’d been here a couple times, but it was much too crowded in the summer.

At night, it was completely empty anytime of the year.

“In there is good,” Pete said. Callie pulled into the small parking lot. “Keep the car running. Gleason, I need to talk to you.”

They both got out of the car. Great. They were talking without her. She had had it. When they got back to the apartment, she was leaving. She didn’t care if she didn’t have any money. She had a few things she could grab.

Go, now. Leave.

She bit her lip. She put the car into reverse, fear giving her the only advice worth listening to. Joey opened the driver’s door. She hadn’t even seen him walk around the car.

He pulled her out. The car started rolling backward. She screamed. “What—Joey—what’s going on?”

Pete shouted, “Fuck, the car!”

Joey held her while Pete chased the car and put it in park.

She fought. She knew they were going to kill her. She broke free once, but Pete pushed her and she fell hard onto the rough ground. Blood filled her mouth and she spit it out, then tried to get up and run, but Pete had his knee in her back and wrapped his belt around her neck. She couldn’t see anything, the only sound Pete’s grunts, her racing heart, and the cars on the freeway. People were in those cars, people who couldn’t see what was happening.

I’m dying, people! Help!

She tried to scream again, but couldn’t get any sound out. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to kick; the belt around her neck pulled tighter. Her head ached, practically exploding in pain. Her lungs burned. Her vision faded.

The last thing she heard was “I knew she was going to be a problem the minute she opened her fucking mouth.”

Though Callie regretted every choice she’d made, only her last decision was fatal.

Chapter Two

Monday

Shauna Murphy ran down the wooden sidewalk, tears stinging her eyes, her curly hair bouncing off her back. She barely noticed her cotton dress clinging to her damp skin in the sweltering Sacramento heat, or people staring at her as if she were crazy. Her thoughts were focused on Dooley.

Please God, please. He can’t be dead.

She stumbled at the thought of her grandfather’s old body, broken and bleeding on the floor of his beloved pub. She grabbed a pillar to steady herself when she caught sight of the police cars, an ambulance and news crew double-parked on the street in front of Dooley’s Irish Pub. Taking a deep breath and swallowing thick tears, she pushed off from the support and sprinted down the block to the entrance.

“Whoa, ma’am, you can’t go in there.”

A burly cop reminiscent of a bear blocked the entrance, effectively stopping her momentum when she bounced off his chest.

Winded and sweating from her sprint as well as the morning heat, she tried to speak. “My. Grand. Dad. I—”

“Slow down, young lady. This is a crime scene; you can’t go in there.” His voice was nauseatingly placating, and a flash of temper rose in her throat, as red as her hair. She counted to three and took a deep breath.

“Officer, my granddad is in there,” she said as calm as possible.

“No one is allowed inside, ma’am.”

“Dammit, he’s my
grandfather
!” She pounded his chest once with her fist.

The nice cop persona disappeared and out came the mean bear. “Stand back or I’ll put you in handcuffs and you can spend the day in jail for assaulting a police officer.”

“Oh, please!” Shauna wasn’t intimidated. She waved toward the news vans. “Fifteen minutes ago I heard a man had been killed at Dooley’s and I get here and the police are all over the place and you won’t let me go in and
my grandfather owns this pub!
Maybe the press knows what you refuse to tell me!”

The officer looked sheepish, but held the company line. “We haven’t issued a statement to the press, they are—”

“I want to speak to your superior,
now
!”

“Thompson, what’s the problem?”

If Shauna had pictured the mean cop as a bear, it was a baby bear, because
this
cop was a grizzly bear. Six and a half feet tall with dark hair and dark, probing eyes. He wore regular street clothes and Shauna assumed he was a detective.

“Are you in charge?” she asked, hands on her hips, not willing to show the big cop he intimidated her.

“Detective John Black. And you are?”

“Shauna Murphy and my grandfather is in there and this man won’t let me in and I need to know he’s okay and not—not—not—” She couldn’t say it, didn’t want to think it.

Dead
.

Black said to the cop, “I’ll take care of this.” He took Shauna’s arm and led her into the pub. A cold draft from the air conditioner hit her over-heated skin, bringing goose bumps to the surface.

“If your grandfather is Pat Dooligan, he’s alive and kicking,” Black said.

“Thank God.” She crossed herself out of habit and twelve years of Catholic school. Relief made her lightheaded. She took another deep breath, and this one worked to steady her nerves. “Where is he?”

“Shauna girl!”

Spry, nearing eighty with the energy of a man half his age, Pat Dooligan claimed “a nip of Guinness every hour or so” kept him physically fit.

“
Da
.” Relieved, Shauna rushed over to where he sat at one of the pub tables on the far side of the bar, away from the yellow crime scene tape that blocked off half the room, including the antique mahogany bar. A CSI and deputy coroner stood behind the bar, looking down, conversing, their backs to the room. She couldn’t see the body, but the jagged sound of a long zipper made her shudder.
A body bag
, she thought. So final.

“Dooley, tell me what happened.” She ran a hand through her tangled curls as she looked around. Everything looked distorted because the bar-length mirror had been broken and the reflections she’d expected to see were gone.

“It’s Mack.” Dooley rubbed his forehead with one hand and picked up a pint of dark beer with the other. Shauna had never seen him look so old.

“No.” The tears she’d held back spilled over her lashes. Mack had been a bartender at Dooley’s for longer than Shauna could legally drink.

“He closed last night.” His clear blue eyes watered as he watched the deputy coroner wheel the gurney out the front door.

Shauna covered one of Dooley’s hands with her own and turned to the detective who stood next to them, watching with cool, dark eyes. “What happened?” she demanded.

“Our investigation has just started, Ms. Murphy, but sometime after closing Mack Duncan was attacked and killed in an apparent robbery. The cash register was emptied, as well as the tip jar. There is no sign of forced entry, the front door was locked, but the rear entrance was unlocked when Mr. Dooligan arrived.”

“I was angry,” Dooley said, his voice full of emotion. “Angry that Mack hadn’t locked up. And then—”

“Shh,” Shauna said. “You didn’t know.” She wished her grandfather hadn’t found Mack dead. He shouldn’t have had to see his friend and employee murdered. Guilt ate at her gut.
She
should have been here this morning.
She
should have opened the bar like she’d done for years before taking over the day-to-day management at her family’s construction company after her father’s heart attack.