Spare Change (35 page)

Both Pete Harmon and
Sergeant Gomez nodded reassuringly; then late in the afternoon Sam Cobb was
released with a warning that he was expected to head straight back to the
Eastern Shore and never again come within one hundred yards of Ethan Allen
Doyle. “Next time,” Gomez said, “we won’t be so lenient.”

Scooter Cobb

I
got problems—big problems! That fucking Mahoney is
out to nail me; I know it. He started with that shit about needing shoes, next
thing I know he’s claiming the kid told him me and Susanna was having a thing.
I should’ve never gotten mixed up with her and her crazy ass husband. I can say
that now; but eight months ago, the only thing I could think about was the itch
I had morning, noon and night.   

Mahoney says the kid told
him I killed Benjamin, but it’s probably more of his made-up bullshit. Nobody
was there. Nobody. Not the kid, not nobody. You think I’m stupid enough not to
know if somebody’s standing there watching?

My boy Sam’s gonna find
out what the kid has to say. If it’s a bunch of horseshit about me and Susanna
getting it on, I ain’t worried. Shit like that goes on all the time, no big
deal. Sam will make sure I know what’s happening; he’s a good boy. Real loyal.
Not smart as his brother, but real loyal.

Course, if it turns out
the kid really did see something—well then…

When the Time Comes

B
ecause of the cast on Sam’s right leg, he had to leave
his car parked in front of the Wyattsville Arms apartment building and hire a
yellow taxicab to drive him the full way to the Norfolk Ferry Terminal. The
trip was considerably more than he’d figured on and left him with barely enough
to purchase a ferry ticket. Inside the terminal he hobbled to a telephone booth
and placed a call to his father’s diner. “Pop,” he moaned, “I got a problem.”
Sam explained how he’d had his knee broken and was going to require a ride home
from the ferry terminal.

“What about the kid?”
Scooter asked impatiently.

Misunderstanding the
question, Sam answered, “Oh, he’s not hurt.”   

“Hurt?” Scooter repeated. “I
don’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not he’s hurt. I wanna know what he’s
got on me, what he had to say.”

“Well, he didn’t actually
say much…”

“Anything about seeing me
beat up his old man?”

“No, but…”

“But what?” Scooter snapped.
“Say what you’ve got to say!”

Dreading this moment, Sam mumbled,
“I didn’t talk to the kid.”

“What the hell? You was
there, right?”

“Yeah; but the grandma hit
me with a baseball bat and busted my knee before I had a chance to talk to the
kid.”

“So, go back and talk to
him.”

“I can’t Pop.”

“Can’t?” Scooter stormed,
“What kind of shit are you giving me? When I say do something, you do it! Now,
get your ass back there and find out what the kid knows!”

  “Look, Pop, I’m real sorry
about your predicament, but there’s no way I’m going back. First off, I
couldn’t get there even if I wanted to; I’ve got a cast on my leg and can’t
drive. My car’s still over there in Wyattsville. Second off, I—”

“Your car’s still at the
kid’s place?” Scooter asked, his voice suddenly sounding considerably more
conciliatory. “So somebody’s gotta go pick it up?”

“Eventually,” Sam answered,
“but right now I need a ride from the ferry terminal.”

“No problem,” Scooter said,
“You gonna be on the five-thirty?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered,
bewildered by this sudden change of attitude. 

“Okay, I’ll be there. Now
what’s the address for the car, I’ll have somebody get it.”

“You don’t need to bother
about that right now Pop.”

“No bother! I owe you. Now,
where exactly is this place?”

“Wyattsville. Take Route
four-sixty north, till you pass through Richmond then swing over to
Thirty-three and go west. It’s the third exit; Bolder Street. My car’s parked
smack in front of the Wyattsville Arms, you can’t miss it.”

“Wyattsville Arms, huh?
Okay.” 

“Pop? You
are
gonna
meet me at the ferry terminal, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Ten seconds after he’d hung
up the phone, Scooter Cobb was behind the wheel of his car, headed south toward
the ferry. He’d left the diner without a word to anyone, no indication of where
he was going or when he’d be back.

He made it to the terminal
in record time, whizzed right past the parking lot and edged into a lane of
cars driving onto the Norfolk bound ferry.

W
hen Jack Mahoney arrived back at the station house, he
had two messages waiting for him. The first was from his wife who had indicated
it was urgent he call home as soon as possible; the second from Detective Pratt
at the laboratory. Seeing as how his wife had specified,
soon as possible,
he dialed her first.

“Jack,” she said tearfully,
“Boomer died. He was perfectly fine one moment and then all of a sudden he just
fell over dead.”

“Well, Christine,” Mahoney
sighed sympathetically, “Boomer was well on in years. Most Saint Bernards don’t
live twelve years, Boomer was—” 

“You’ve got to do
something,” she wailed.

“Do something? What can I
do? When a dog’s dead, he’s—”

“Boomer’s in the middle of
the living room floor! The kids are curled up alongside that big furry body and
crying their poor little hearts out. Just listen!” Christine extended her arm
and turned the telephone receiver in the direction of the living room. “You
hear that?” she asked. 

“I hear it,” Jack answered,
“but what am I supposed to do?”

“Come home; come home and
get this dog out of here!”

“I’m in the middle of a
murder investigation!”

“I don’t care what you’re in
the middle of—your children are contracting germs by the millions hanging onto
that dog’s body! You know how much they loved Boomer! Right now they’re crying
hysterically and working themselves into an emotional state. Now, is it too
much to ask that you give them some consideration?”

“No,” Jack sighed, “it’s not
too much to ask. I’ll be there shortly.”  He hung up the receiver and sat
looking at the second message for a few moments—it was five-thirty, chances
were Pratt was already gone home.  Lab people weren’t ones to hang around after
hours unless they were in the middle of some red hot investigation and Jack
could tell Pratt didn’t consider this one a priority. Nonetheless, he picked up
the receiver and dialed.

“Pratt,” the detective
answered.

“Glad I caught you,” Mahoney
replied. “Anything new on the shirt?”

“We got a match. Most of the
bloodstains came from the male, Benjamin Doyle; but on the left arm there were
trace amounts from the female, Susanna Doyle. I sent an analysis report; you
should have it by morning.”

“Thanks,” Mahoney said and
hung up. Now, he no longer had a choice; like it or not, he had to arrest
Scooter Cobb. “Poor Emma,” he sighed and pushed back from his desk. 

Normally, Jack would have
addressed the situation with Captain Rogers immediately; he would have
requested another detective to accompany him and gone directly to the diner to
arrest Scooter—but there was this situation with the dog. How long, he figured,
could it take to haul the dog’s carcass from the living room to the back woods?
He’d be back within the hour and then he could do what he had to do. 

As it turned out, the
children, and Christine as well, insisted upon a proper burial for Boomer. They
insisted upon singing three rounds of
Jesus loves Me
and going through a
eulogy which consisted of each child’s lengthy description of loving Boomer.
After it ran on for twenty minutes, Jack complained, but when Christine glared
across the mound of dirt with a look that could kill, he kept quiet for the
remainder of the service. After Christine herded all three children into the
car and drove off toward Tastee-Freeze, he returned to the station house. By
that time it was quarter of nine.

When he got there, Paul Puglisi
was the only detective still in the station house. “Are you available to go on
a pick-up with me?” Mahoney asked.

“Yeah,” Puglisi answered, “who
you got?”

“Scooter Cobb.”

Puglisi who was nearly the
size of Scooter but in better shape, raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, boy,” he said,
“we’re gonna have our hands full on this one. What are you bringing him in
for?”

“Murder; we’ve got blood
evidence that ties him to the Doyle killings.”

“Does Sam know?”

Mahoney shook his head
sorrowfully and gave a shrug. “I sure as hell hope not,” he said, “because he’s
already got a gigantic problem.”

When Mahoney and Puglisi
arrived at the diner they were expecting trouble. Knowing Scooter Cobb, they
expected him to heave stacks of dishes at them, slam his fist into a coffee urn
and send it flying in their direction, whack a heavy boot at their shins, then
punch and cuss for all he was worth. What they didn’t expect was for him not to
be there. “You got any idea where he is?” Mahoney asked Bertha.

“Nope,” she answered. “He
flew out of here like his pants was on fire and I ain’t seen or heard from him
since.”

“What time was that?” Puglisi
asked.

“About Five o’clock; it was
before the dinner rush. He got a phone call and then out he went. He didn’t say
one word about how I’m supposed to handle the cooking and serving when people
are lined up waiting for dinner. I’m one person, how am I supposed to handle—”

“You know who was on the
phone?” Mahoney asked.

“You think I got X-ray
hearing?”

“Did he maybe mention a
name? Or a place where he’d be going?”

“No. I got better things to
do than eavesdrop on other people’s fighting.”

“So,” Puglisi said, “he was
arguing with somebody?”

“Might’ve been; he don’t
tell me his business.”

With thoughts of Emma
jumping to his mind, Mahoney told Puglisi, “Let’s check his house,” and they
turned to leave.

“Hey,” Bertha yelled, “what
about me? I’m supposed to quit at ten, and there ain’t nobody here to take
over. What am I supposed to do?”

“Soon as I find him, I’ll
let you know,” Mahoney called back.

“Well make it fast ‘cause I
been on my feet all day,” she grumbled; but by then they were gone.

When the two detectives
arrived at the Cobb house, Emma answered the door with red-rimmed eyes and a
pasted-on smile. “Would you like some coffee? Cookies, Maybe?” Her voice was
hollow, thin as an eggshell. 

“No thanks, Emma,” Jack said
sympathetically, “we’re looking for Scooter.”

“He’s not here,” she
answered, registering a look of surprise. “Have you checked the diner? He ought
to be there, he usually works till after eleven.”

Jack nodded. “Bertha said he
left early this evening.”

“Without telling her where
he’d gone?” 

“I’m afraid so,” Jack
answered.

Puglisi, already eyeballing
the room, asked, “Mind if we take a look around?”

Mahoney glanced over at his
partner and gave a slight shake of his head, but Puglisi was a by-the-book man,
and pursued the issue. “Of course, if you got something to hide…” he said,
suspicion hanging all over his words.

“Look around if you want,”
Emma answered; but by then Puglisi had already started trekking through the
house. Once he was gone from earshot, she whispered to Jack, “He’s not here, I
swear he’s not.”

“I believe you, Emma. Puglisi,
he’s just following procedure.”

“I’d tell you if he was. I’d
tell you for sure. You’re the only one I’ve got to look out for me and Sam. I
swear, Jack, I’d tell you.”

He didn’t say anything right
off, but simply took her hand in his and patted it reassuringly—soft and easy,
the way he would have done for his own mother had she not been dead for some
fifteen years. “Don’t worry about Sam,” he finally said, “things have a way of
working out for the best. I spoke to Sergeant Gomez over in Wyattsville—Sam’s
been released and should be home sometime this evening.”

Emma registered the
slightest trace of a smile; “Thank you, Jack,” she whispered, “thank you.” 

After Puglisi had thumbed
through the house, and satisfied himself that Scooter was nowhere about, they
left Emma and headed for Sam’s apartment. Jack figured with Sam being released that
afternoon, he’d probably be home by now; a man with a full cast on his leg
wasn’t all that mobile, he reasoned.

Sam, as they soon found out,
never made it home. What they didn’t know was that he was still sitting in the
Eastern Shore Ferry Terminal waiting for his daddy.

You might wonder why Sam,
who’d been sitting there for hours hadn’t called the diner, to ask if his daddy
had left and when he’d be arriving; but Sam knew Scooter wasn’t a man to
question. He got there when he got there! Argue the point and you’d wait twice
as long.