Murder in the River City (3 page)

Black continued. “Mr. Dooligan says several valuable autographed baseballs were stolen as well. My team is processing the evidence and we’ll do our best to catch who’s responsible. We’ve had a rash of robberies like this downtown, but until now, no one’s been seriously hurt.”

Dooley shook his head. “They couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hundred dollars. I take a deposit to the bank when I leave so we aren’t targets. Everybody knows that.”

“Perhaps,” Black said, “but people steal for a lot less than a couple hundred bucks.”

Shauna squeezed her grandfather’s labor-worn hands and looked him in the eye. “Tell me what to do.”

“Nothing, sweet girl, nothing. Just come to the funeral. I’ll be having a party here afterwards, of course.”

“I’ll make the arrangements for you.”

“Mack’s Catholic, though he hasn’t stepped foot inside a church since I’ve known him. Father Tim’ll take care of him.” He stared pointedly at the detective. “We can have the wake here, right?”

“We’ll finish processing the scene today. You should be able to have access tomorrow. I need to ask you a few more questions, if you can give me a moment.”

Dooley nodded, and Black excused himself. Shauna watched him walk over to the bar and talk in a low, indistinguishable voice with the other officers. What was he saying? Did he know more than he’d told them? Did he have an idea who was responsible?

Dooley said, “Friday. Friday we’ll have the funeral and the party.”

“Yes, Dooley,” Shauna said. “I’ll take care of everything. I don’t want you to worry about any of the details.”

“You’re a good colleen.” He squeezed her hands. “But I need to do something. We’ll do it together.”

Her grandfather’s eyes leaked as he stared at the damage behind the bar, but most certainly, he was thinking only of his dead friend. Shauna fumed. She wanted to hurt the bastard who’d killed Mack and made her grandfather look all his seventy-nine years. She didn’t think Dooley would fully recover from this tragedy. She doubted she would, either.

Watching the cops and crime scene people collect evidence and process the bar brought home the truth of the violence that had been done here. Mack was dead. For no reason other than money. Was human life that cheap?

She stared at the mirrorless bar. So much destruction for so little money. And Dooley’s baseballs—he’d collected them for years. He had just added a third shelf a few months ago. The Mickey Mantle alone was worth five hundred. And Barry Bonds, Ted Williams, the entire Brooklyn Dodgers. Babe Ruth was a fake, but Dooley kept it as a reminder that he was fallible, that even the smartest of men could be swindled.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Da, what’s that?” She pointed to the lone baseball behind the bar.

He laughed bitterly. “Babe Ruth. They left the only forgery.”

That was odd. It looked
exactly
like Babe Ruth’s signature. It took a sports expert to determine it wasn’t. The average sports fan wouldn’t be able to tell, certainly not someone who killed a bartender in a robbery.

“Shauna?” Dooley said. “What are you thinking?”

“Don’t you think it’s odd the killer left the only fake?”

Dooley shook his head. “Now, Shauna, I know exactly what you’re doing. Butting in where you don’t belong.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” she argued, her mind already thinking about this oddity. Dooley didn’t talk about Babe Ruth being a fake, but some of the old-timers knew. The ones who’d been around when Dooley found out several years ago that he’d been duped.

Was Mack killed by someone who knew more about baseball than even Dooley?

Or maybe, he was killed by someone they all knew—and trusted.

She jumped up and approached Detective Black as he spoke to one of his cops.

“We’re almost done here,” he began but Shauna cut him off.

“Don’t you think it’s odd the only baseball with a forged signature
wasn’t
stolen?”

Black looked from her to the baseball behind the bar. He then made a note in his notebook and asked, “What signature?”

“Babe Ruth,” she said.

“Was it widely known that it was a fake?”

“No,” she said when Dooley came behind her and said, “Yes.”

“Grandad,” she continued, “it’s not like you put a sign over the ball saying it was a forgery.”

“If someone asked I didn’t lie about it.”

She shook her head. “You played a game with them, guess which one was fake and you’d give them a pint on the house. Few people got it right.”

“’Tis true,” he conceded as he sat on a barstool.

Black said, “How much was the collection worth?”

“Last time I had them appraised, all together they’re worth about four thousand dollars.”

“That’s a nice collection,” Black said. “Did you notice anyone in the bar paying undue attention to the baseballs? Did you play this game of yours recently?”

He shook his head. “Not for weeks. Maybe months. Mack might’ve,” he added.

“Did Mack have regular hours?”

Dooley nodded. “Wednesday through Sundays, four to closing.”

“Other staff?”

“Three part-time bartenders, but they don’t have a regular schedule and never close. I always close early Monday and Tuesday. They’re slow nights.”

She squeezed her grandfather’s hand, again relieved that he was alive. She asked the detective, “You don’t think someone who works here is responsible for killing Mack?” Before he could answer her question, she continued. “I think you should call everyone in and ask them about last night. Maybe Minnie or whoever was serving the bar noticed someone eying the baseballs.”

Black stared at her, unblinking. He didn’t look happy, but his serious expression didn’t change much so she couldn’t be sure. If he thought he could intimidate her because he was an imposing figure, he was mistaken. She did get intimidated.

“I plan to, Ms. Murphy,” he said. “I’ll be talking to everyone who worked last night, and I’ll make my way through the rest of the staff. But the M.O. fits several other crime scenes—robberies on Sunday and Monday nights, near or after closing, a lot of destruction, only a little cash taken plus whatever they can carry away—liquor, usually, or in this case the baseballs.”

Black said to Dooley, “If you could please make a list of all your employees and their contact information, including anyone you let go or who quit in the last two months, that would help.”

“I will,” Dooley said.

An officer came over and whispered something in Black’s ear. Shauna eyed the exchange. “Is that about Mack? Do you have a lead?” she asked when the officer walked away.

“Generally,” Black said, slightly bemused, “I get to ask the questions. There’s an Austin Davis outside, saying he’s your fiancé?”

“He’s
not
my fiancé.” Three dates. And she knew after the second it wasn’t going anywhere, but he’d already gotten the tickets to the theater and she didn’t have the heart to cancel. He just hadn’t accepted she wasn’t interested. Just because he was rich, he thought any woman would love his attention. She certainly wasn’t any woman, and his attention had become creepy.

Black raised an eyebrow. “We shouldn’t let him in then?”

She sighed. “He’s a friend. That’s all.”

“An ex-boyfriend who can’t take the hint,” Dooley said. “He’s being deliberately obtuse.”

“Don’t start on me, Dooley,” she muttered.

“I don’t like him.”

“I
know
.” Shauna put both hands on the back of her neck and squeezed, working on controlling her temper. Considering the circumstances, it was easier than usual, but Austin Davis was a sore spot between her and her grandfather.

She blamed Sam Garcia. If he hadn’t treated her like a lovesick fool, she wouldn’t have been so set on finding someone else to fill the void. Before Austin there had been other guys, but no one who got past the third date. The problem? No one could replace Sam Garcia.

And she had never even had him to call
hers.
She really was blind when it came to men. Three strikes, you’re out.

“I should have become a nun,” she muttered.

“Excuse me?” Black said.

Dooley shook his head. “Isn’t stalking someone against the law?” he asked, clearly not ready to drop the subject.

“
Grandfather
!”

“Are you being stalked by Mr. Davis?” Black asked Shauna.

“No,” she said at the same time Dooley said, “Yes.”

Black gave Shauna his card, then slid another one over to Dooley. “Any real problems, call me. I’m in homicide, but I’ll get you to the right officer.”

Shauna pocketed the card without looking at it. “It’s
fine.
We have more important problems here than an ex-boyfriend—do you have any idea who could have done this?”

Black didn’t answer her question. “Dooley, how long did Mack work for you?”

“Coming up on ten years.”

“Do you know if he had any trouble with customers? Maybe someone who didn’t like him?”

“Mack didn’t make enemies,” Dooley said. “He didn’t care much for Dodgers fans, but he didn’t make enemies.” Dooley stared at his empty pint. He slowly rose from the table. “I need to call his daughter.”

Shauna’s head shot up. “Daughter?”

Dooley sighed heavily. “They don’t talk much. Mack wasn’t around when Missy was growing up, not understanding when he was so young what was important. He tried to get to know her, but, well, she didn’t much want to get to know him. Still, she sent pictures of his grandson recently. They started talking, a little here and again. Missy oughta know he’s gone.” Dooley shuffled through the storeroom to his small office.

Mack had never spoken of a daughter or grandson. He had never talked much, kept to himself, did his job, and Dooley depended on him, especially as he got older.

Detective Black said, “What about you? Were you close to Mack? Know of any trouble he was having?”

She shook her head, her mind racing through the last few weeks. “I don’t come around here as much as I would like. That’s going to change now.” Dooley needed her. It was as simple as that. She could bring the books here at night rather than staying late at the office.

Her phone rang. She put it on silent, but not before glancing at the number. “Damn,” she muttered.
Austin.
Why couldn’t she just make a clean break?

Because she didn’t want to hurt him.

It was worse what she was doing now.

“Trouble?” Black asked.

“No,” she snapped.

A cop approached and whispered in Black’s ear, again. Shauna tried, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. But Black immediately said, “Tell them I’m on my way. Make sure Simone is taking lead on forensics and send at least two extra cars. In this heat, we’re going to need crowd control with all the people going to the river.”

He turned to Shauna. “We’re done here. You have my card. Call me if you need anything.”

She jumped up. “But—”

“Ms. Murphy,” Black said while responding to a text message on his phone, “most crimes like this are just what they appear to be—this one, a robbery.” He pocketed his phone. “I assure you this is a priority for our department, and I want to catch these guys as much as you. I have to go now—I’ll be in touch.”

He strode off without looking back.

The cop had another case. Mack hadn’t been dead half a day, and already there was another homicide, another problem to be solved. She didn’t want to be frustrated with Detective Black—she knew the dire straits of the police department and the severe budget cutbacks—but whoever killed Mack had to be put in jail.

Shauna didn’t like that the detective hadn’t taken her observation about the Babe Ruth baseball seriously. Maybe he hadn’t taken
her
seriously.

Her phone rang. She grabbed it again.
Austin
. “I’m coming,” she said without a hello. He’d texted that he was worried about her, and while she appreciated the thought, she wasn’t his girlfriend to worry about. All Shauna wanted to do was figure out how to make the police focus on Mack Duncan’s murder.

If they didn’t catch these guys, she’d constantly worry about her grandfather and everyone else who worked at Dooley’s. Because in the back of her mind, she still couldn’t help but remember the first image that had flashed in her mind: that of her grandfather, dead.

Chapter Three

His first official day back on the job Detective Sam Garcia caught a homicide.

Sam flashed his badge and was let into the parking lot, half of which was cordoned off by yellow caution tape. The American and Sacramento rivers met in the 160-acre Discovery Park. He and the Murphys had swam in the river and hiked in these woods years ago. Sam had been an only child and had adopted the raucous Murphy family as his own. Back then, this part of the river had been almost pristine; now, Discovery Park was over-crowded and unkempt from illegal camping and careless visitors.

He realized he hadn’t been here, except as a cop, for more than fifteen years.

Sam ignored the gaggle of media as they were unloading their equipment. How had they beat him? Police scanners, no doubt. But still, they inundated him with questions he had no answers for. If he had, he would still have responded with the same, “No comment.”

“Welcome back, Sam,” Officer Riley Knight said when Sam walked under the crime scene tape.

“Thanks. Good to be home.” When he accepted the position in Los Angeles two years ago, it had seemed like the right thing to do. His life had been falling apart, professionally and personally, and L.A. was an opportunity for advancement and change.

But Sam wasn’t an L.A. cop at heart, and he missed his friends and family in Sacramento. When the Sac PD chief called him about an opening on the homicide squad, he said yes.

“Is John here?

“On his way,” Riley said.

Though they didn’t have assigned partners, the homicide teams worked as a unit, and John Black was the senior detective for his team. Two years ago when Sam had been with the gang unit, he and John had crossed paths often as gangs and homicide went hand-in-hand. John was one of the few cops who hadn’t turned his back on Sam when it came out that Sam had turned his partner in for accepting bribes.