Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Three Strikes and You're Dead (20 page)
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said, flashing his million-dollar smile.
“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s lovely.” I stole a look at my watch, not so much to check the time as to drop a subtle hint to Cole that I had other things to do than engage in a pleasant chat.
He took the hint. “Well, I won’t hold you up,” he said. “Better get your walk in before it gets too warm. And believe me, things heat up fast around here.”
“They certainly seem to,” I said with a laugh. I looked back up the road. No sign of the sheriff.
I assumed that was the end of our conversation. But he didn’t drive away, and I felt obligated to say something.
“What brings you here this morning?” I asked. “Visiting the Duffys?”
“I’m dropping off some papers for the judge,” he answered. “Didn’t see Jack’s car in the driveway, so thought I’d take a little ride down by the lake and shoot back there later.”
I almost told him why Jack and Meg had left, but thought better of it. Their meeting with the attorney was their private business, and it wasn’t my place to explain where they’d gone. “Maybe I’ll see you later at the house,” I offered.
“Yeah, maybe,” he said. “Enjoy your walk, Mrs. Fletcher.”
He pulled into a driveway ahead of me, backed out, and headed up the street toward the Duffys’. He waved as he passed, and I returned it as I resumed walking at a good clip. My watch indicated it was almost nine and I didn’t want to be late.
The lake shimmered in the early-morning sun ahead of me. So did the reflection off the windshield of a dark-colored car. Could that be Sheriff Hualga driving an unmarked police vehicle? I wondered. I’d been looking for an official police car, which represented sheer assumption on my part. Considering that our meeting was somewhat clandestine, it only made sense for him to drive a vehicle without markings. It was also possible that he’d dispatched someone from his department to pick me up.
As I neared the car I saw that the driver was a female. She rolled down the window and motioned for me to come to her. As I approached, I saw that there was a second person with her in the passenger’s seat. I’d almost reached the car when something quickly darted in front of me, causing me to stop short and gasp in surprise. It was a small animal with a back full of what looked like quills, and its face was not unlike those of the raccoons that occasionally attack my garbage pails back home. “What in heaven’s name—?”
The woman in the driver’s seat and the man on the passenger side laughed loudly. I recognized one of the laughs, and a moment later saw that the man was Sheriff Hualga. He leaned toward the driver’s window and said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s only someone’s pet hedgehog. He won’t hurt you.”
I smiled nervously.
Hualga got out and came around to my side of the car.
“Well, I do know I’m on Hedgehog Court,” I said, “but I thought it was just a name.” I’d never seen a live hedgehog before, but had always enjoyed a wonderful book by the British author and illustrator Beatrix Potter,
The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle
, in which the main character, a hedgehog, was a matronly washerwoman.
The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle
, in which the main character, a hedgehog, was a matronly washerwoman.
“Actually, an Arizona hedgehog is a cactus,” the sheriff said, opening the car door for me. “That’s probably what the street is named for. That little guy must have escaped his cage. We’ll call the animal-control people to take care of him.”
I got into the car and Hualga introduced me to the woman. “This is Detective Raff, Mrs. Fletcher. She’s working undercover on the Junior Bennett case, along with almost everyone else on the force.”
Detective Raff turned and extended her hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking it.
Detective Raff appeared to be about forty years old. She wore minimal makeup, just a bit of lipstick, and her brown hair was wrapped tight in a bun. She wasn’t in uniform and certainly didn’t look the part of a police detective, which, of course, is the idea behind undercover police work.
The sheriff was also not in uniform this morning, but the car was “in uniform”; unmarked police cars used by undercover cops always seem to be midnight blue sedans. At least that’s been my experience.
We pulled away and headed back toward Jack and Meg’s home. As we approached it, I saw that Cole’s car sat in the driveway.
“Do you know whose car that is?” Hualga asked.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s Sylvester Cole’s.”
“Cole, huh?” the sheriff responded. He turned to Detective Raff and said, “Ramos’s agent.”
The drive to the sheriff’s office was quiet for the most part, with the exception of the police radio, which chimed in from time to time. I took out a pad of paper and a pen and scribbled notes, hoping that my visit this day would shed light on: “autopsy report,” “fingerprints,” “aluminum bat.”
As we approached the driveway leading to police headquarters, two satellite TV trucks came into view. I didn’t need my face plastered all over the five o’clock news, and was thankful when Raff steered away from them and pulled up behind the building into a private area, where we entered through a back door.
The mood inside the busy station house was pleasantly positive and upbeat, almost festive, a far cry from most police headquarters I’ve experienced. Sheriff Hualga was certainly an affable leader. As we snaked through winding corridors toward his office, he high-fived clerks and other officers, asking, “How’s it going today?” and saying, “You’re looking good this morning.”
We arrived at his office, at the end of a narrow hallway. He pulled up a chair for me and offered to get tea or coffee.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
“Tea it is,” he said. “I’ll be right back. I could use a cup of coffee myself. Make yourself at home.”
Hualga’s office reminded me of a quintessential bachelor’s pad. Pictures hung crooked on the walls. A couple of crates overflowed with papers. On his desk was a picture of a teenage girl who I presumed was his daughter. There were several plaques on a chair that he evidently hadn’t gotten around to hanging yet. Two Styrofoam cups, one lying on its side, sat atop his brown wooden desk. A plastic tray that resembled an in-box had a sign taped to it on which was written in black capital letters, EX TEMPORE. “Without preparation.” Maybe he approached the business of policing with that philosophy, I thought. Next to his desk was a table with a computer and speakers on it, and next to that were several formidable metal file cabinets. Taped to the side of one of them was a photocopy of an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo. I got up to take a closer look.
“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I turned to face Detective Raff in the doorway with her arms crossed. Did she think I was about to riffle through the files?
“Oh, hello, Detective,” I said, startled. “I was getting a closer peek at this picture. I know his face, but I can’t—”
“That’s Jon Stewart,” she said, “from Comedy Central’s
Daily Show.
The sheriff is a huge fan.”
Daily Show.
The sheriff is a huge fan.”
“Of course,” I said. “Yes, it’s a funny show. Our sheriff back in Cabot Cove, Maine—that’s where I live—is a big fan as well. I see it’s made out to the sheriff.”
“Yes,” she said, entering the room and joining me by the file cabinets. “Mr. Stewart was here recently for some sort of promotional appearance, and the sheriff got to meet him. He’s a sweetheart. The sheriff asked for a signed photograph and Mr. Stewart didn’t hesitate to give him one.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “It’s always heartening when a celebrity takes the time to accommodate his or her fans.”
“You certainly fall into the category of celebrity,” she said, taking a chair in a corner of the office as I returned to my seat.
“Oh, I hardly think so,” I said, “but I do have some very loyal readers. Whenever I get to meet them in person—which I love to do—I try to go out of my way to show my appreciation. After all, without readers an author has nothing.”
The sheriff interrupted our conversation as he returned carrying the tea and coffee. I was glad that Hualga wasn’t one of those bosses who considered such chores beneath him.
I took a sip of my tea while Hualga searched through a pile of papers and folders on his desk.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come on in,” Hualga said.
A clerk handed him an envelope. “This was just delivered,” she said.
He opened the envelope and pulled out its contents. “Good,” he said. “Junior Bennett’s autopsy report.” He scanned the first couple pages of the report. “Hey, Raff, look at this.” She walked to his desk and read over his shoulder. He looked up at her and raised his eyebrows.
“Sorry to hold you up, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I’ve been anxious to get this.”
“Please,” I said. “I don’t mind at all. I’ve spent enough time with Sheriff Metzger to know that when a much-anticipated autopsy report comes in, it takes precedence over anything else that may be going on.”
“Appreciate your understanding,” he said.
I waited silently until he’d concluded his reading of the report.
“Anything unexpected in it?” I asked, deliberately curbing my enthusiasm so as not to appear eager to read it.
“Nothing glaring,” he said, picking it up to read it again.
“I assume the report indicates that Junior was indeed hit with a blunt instrument, consistent with the preliminary report?” I said.
“That’s right,” he replied. “The autopsy shows that Mr. Bennett’s nose was broken and that his two front teeth and left incisor tooth were chipped. There was also a split lip. And a blow to the left side of his head.”
I quickly considered what he’d just said. “Sheriff, the split lip, cracked teeth, and broken nose are consistent with being struck in the face by a fist. But it wouldn’t be consistent with a blow to the left side of the head with a baseball bat, would it?”
“Hard to say,” he responded. “It is interesting, though.”
He carefully placed the autopsy report back into the envelope and was equally careful to place it out of my reach on his desk. He clasped his hands together, sat erect in his chair, and said, smiling, “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m really sorry to have kept you here so long. I want to ask you just a few questions. As you can imagine, this is a big case, with some important people involved. I’ll be honest with you. While I need to question you as part of the investigation, I’m also hoping to tap some of your experience with murder. We have more than our share of auto theft here, but not many murders.”
“I’m happy to help,” I said, “although I must warn you that my ‘experience,’ as you term it, has usually been purely accidental, classic examples of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Or at the right time,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you, not only as a best-selling author but as a pretty successful amateur sleuth, too.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “I’ll do anything I can to help clear Ty.”
“You’re that certain he’s innocent?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You can’t be plainer than that. Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, I have a problem. I know of Ty’s troubled past, and unfortunately the rest of the nation now does, too. This is a sexy story that’s all over the news. Problem is, Ty’s past paints a picture of a troubled ballplayer who might have been experimenting with drugs, who was definitely associated with a gang in his younger years, and who maybe killed his teammate for money, drugs—”
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