3 A Brewski for the Old Man (22 page)

When I’d eaten just about everything in sight, I asked, “So have you got Ray John’s killer yet?” Styles grimaced. “That’s why I’m here.” “You think I’ve got him?”

“You have to come in, alibi or no. Your truck was there. Marley wasn’t in the room with you so you’re still the best bet for the killer.”

“Do you really believe I killed Ray John?”

“No, but your truck was at the scene of the crime. You or Marley or Lacey Cagel drove it there, you being the most likely.”

“Oh, come on. What happened to me was a long time ago and wasn’t near as bad as what happened to Lacey.”

He pointed his knife at me. Ruth Ann would have had a few words to say to him about that — it was a thing that was never done in her trailer. “You wanted to help Lacey Cagel. The question is, would you kill to protect her?” “Of course not, she isn’t my daughter.”

He tilted his head to the side and considered it. “You still are capable of it if you thought it was the only way to stop him. And it was your truck. You are the most likely person to drive it out to the Preserves.”

“Or someone who snuck into the parking garage and used the key under the front bumper. What about the security cameras?”

“They show the truck going in and out but not who was driving it. The person who went into the garage was smart enough to avoid the cameras.”

Which is what Lacey would do if she were stealing my truck. Ray John would have passed along everything there was to know about security cameras. He was the kind of guy who liked to show off his knowledge and he had nothing else to talk about.

“Both Marley and Lacey have made statements,” Styles said, pouring me more coffee. “Now it’s your turn.” “What did Lacey say about Ray John?”

“Everything was goodness and light — no problem, he never touched her, she never cut her wrists, and until we have some reason to, we can’t push her any harder. Her mother backs up everything she says.”

“So it’s just me with a reason to kill Ray John.”

“And the other women we tracked down whose kids he abused, but you’re the favorite.”

“Well, as I always say, it’s nice to be popular but hell to be the rage. Accusing me of murder never gets old with you, does it?”

“I’ve been looking at other possibilities.” He looked like he was in pain.

“And?”

His look of pain didn’t go away.

“Are you having any luck with that?” I prodded again.

“Not so far. We’ve talked to dozens of people at the Preserves. It isn’t what they’ve said but what they aren’t saying. No one is sorry he’s dead, that’s crystal clear, but they all claim they know no reason for his murder. They all hated him but now he’s dead they just want to forget about it. No one wants to stir up any mud and they’re all insisting the reason for his death comes from outside the Preserves.”

“How do they explain the killer getting in?”

“Various ways, it seems at sometime or other they’ve all snuck in or out without using the main gate. Maybe you can tell me how it could be done.” “How would I know?”

“You know who was there driving your pickup and you know how they got in and out.”

“I’ve only been inside the place once, as someone’s guest, so I’m not the best one to ask about the place.”

“But you know who drove your truck out there.”

“Says who? Did you find the gun that shot Ray John?”

“No.”

“What kind of gun was it?” I tried to sound casual.

“Why?” Styles asked.

“I just wondered.”

He was watching me closely as he replied, “It was a twenty-five caliber.”

“And you didn’t find it, so the murderer probably still has it.”

“Or he threw it in the lake.”

“But you dragged the lake.”

“Now, how do you know that?”

“Someone told me the police were dragging the lake in the Preserves.”

“We can’t be sure it isn’t still there.”

“Or that the murderer won’t use it again.” He sat up straighter. “Do you have reason to believe that will happen?”

“God no, absolutely not, but if you kill once, I’d think it would be easier to do it a second time.”

“Rena Cagel thinks you killed R.J. Leenders. She’s telling everyone who will listen that you did it. You need to come in and make a formal statement.”

“Okay, but it has to be quick. I’ll be bankrupt if I don’t get my ass into the Sunset.”

“Let’s go now.” He crumpled his paper napkin and tossed it on his plate. “I’m not on duty yet so I’ve got the time to take your statement.”

I nodded, only half-thinking about making a statement, while the other half of my brain was working out possibilities. Somewhere there was something I’d forgotten. There was also something I wanted to ask Styles, but I couldn’t remember what.

Styles started stacking up the dishes.

“Leave those,” I told him. “Mrs. Whiting will be in. It’ll give her something to do and something to tsk over, leaving dirty dishes, how disgusting.” I got to my feet. “I have to do my hair and I need my own wheels. I’ll follow.”

He frowned. “You have a lousy record of doing what you promise.”

“Scout’s honor.”

He still wasn’t believing it and quite rightly too. “If you aren’t there in an hour, I’m sending out a patrol car to bring you in.”

He pointed a finger at me. “One way or another, you’ll be there this morning.”

“So get going already. The sooner you get out of here, the faster I can make myself beautiful.”

“You’re always beautiful,” he said and then flushed. He turned quickly away from me and headed for the door.

“Of course I am,” I said, picking up my keys off the bar and following him.

As we came out into the hall, the door to the penthouse next to Clay’s opened and Mrs. Finestein came out, carrying her little Yorkshire terrier. Her eyes opened wide and she stopped. She was looking at the towel wrapped around my head and jumping to conclusions.

“Business,” I said, pushing Styles in front of me. “Never enough time,” I added, keying in the ground floor for him. “Be there,” he ordered as the doors closed.

I meant to follow him to the station, I truly did, but I still couldn’t stop thinking about the goons from Ohio. On the way to the truck it hit me that Tully might not have told me the whole story. He said he found Ziggy’s address in the camper, but had he also found the name or telephone number of the person who hired the muscle? What would he do if he knew the name of the guy who set the dogs on Uncle Ziggy? And an even bigger worry was where was Tully now and what was he doing?

It was the coffee that made me suspicious. On the way back to town, I suggested we go through a drive-through for coffee and Tully begged off, said he needed a shower. So did I, but not that bad. Coffee came before everything else for Tully and me, so what was the old bastard up to? Panic exploded in my chest and I started begging that deity that I disclaimed to keep Tully safe and for once, just this once, don’t let him do anything stupid. I was promising all kinds of acts of contrition if Tully could only be somewhere safe.

I tried my cell but it didn’t work in the parking garage. I pulled out and headed for the hospital. Maybe he went to tell Uncle Ziggy about events on Soldaat Lake. Tully’s truck wasn’t in the hospital parking lot and unless he snuck by the dragon on the desk he wasn’t in the hospital. Visiting hours didn’t start until ten and she wasn’t likely to let anyone in.

Would I get lucky and find his beat-up truck if I drove through the neighborhood of new houses behind Uncle Ziggy’s scrapyard? I headed for the over-priced suburb.

I drove slowly up and down the streets but there was no sign of Tully. What would he do if he found the person who hurt Ziggy? In Tully’s old Baptist head it would be an eye for an eye or maybe fire for fire. Bad thought, bad thought — surely not even Tully would go that far, but I found myself listening for fire trucks and watching over the rooftops for black clouds rising into the crystal-blue sky.

None of those things happened. It was just a pristine suburban neighborhood, with people leaving the pale stucco houses for school and work. I gave up and headed for the police station.

Styles was livid. We sat in a tiny room across a small wooden table from each other on straight-backed wooden chairs. The walls were totally unadorned except for an apple-green paint, chipped and gouged where chairs had been pushed into it.

This small claustrophobic room brought back to me all the shock and horror, all the emotions and all the pain, of my husband’s death. I tried to decide if it was the same room we’d been in when Styles showed me the plastic bag with Jimmy’s wedding ring, taken off Jimmy’s severed hand.

Styles turned on the tape recorder and started asking questions. One thing was certain, anyone listening to the tape wasn’t going to think he was cutting me any slack. The man sure as hell sounded like he thought I shot Ray John Leenders. But there was one question that really got to me. “Did Marley Hemming kill Ray John Leenders?”

“What? Are you crazy? Why would Marley kill him?”

“Someone drove the pickup out there that night. If it wasn’t you, then it had to be Marley Hemming.” “Why? Why would she kill him?”

“Perhaps you weren’t the only one he abused fifteen years ago.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

His face turned puce. “Sorry,” I added quickly. “I just meant Marley had no reason to kill Ray John. She wouldn’t kill anyone anyway. Oh, she might trample you if you got in front of her at a real good yard sale, but that would be an accident, wouldn’t it?” He didn’t smile.

“So that leaves you,” he said. “You drove out to the Preserves. You took a gun with you and you killed Ray John Leenders.”

He held up his hand to stop my protest. “Your truck was there. You, Marley Hemming, or Lacy Cagel drove it there. You tell me which one it was.” “Or someone stole it.”

“Let me see,” he said, scratching his head, pretending to actually consider it. “Someone slipped into the parking lot of a high-security building, stole a red pickup with distinctive plates, drove out to the Preserves and shot someone and then took the truck back. How well do you think a jury will take to that story?”

Put like that, even I, loaded with optimism, didn’t having a real good feeling about it but it was all I had to work with.

He started asking me about holding a shotgun on Ray John and threatening to kill him.

“Why is that still on my record? I was just a kid and no charges were filed.”

“There isn’t a record, just a cop with a long memory.”

“Then I’m not talking about it.”

“The fact remains, you had a gun and threatened to kill Ray John Leenders and now he’s dead.” “But it wasn’t loaded,” I protested.

“Did you know the shotgun wasn’t loaded when you picked it up, Ms. Travis?”

“Well, no, but I didn’t shoot him, even though he was beating on Ruth Ann. Why would I shoot him now?” None of this seemed to be helping me. “I want a lawyer,” I said. All those hours of watching
Law And Order
had taught me that much about the law, always ask for a lawyer.

“Why?” Styles said. “You aren’t under arrest, at least not yet.”