The Kiskadee of Death (19 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

T
en minutes later, we were back at Buzz's garage, where the ambulance was just leaving. Two more squad cars were parked in the driveway in front of the MOB float. Pacheco had radioed ahead and told the deputies to stick around until he returned, in hopes they would be arresting Birdy's killer.

Unfortunately, the identity of that killer was still unknown, no matter how hard I tried to recall what Gunnar had said to me three nights ago. Only three topics of conversation stood out in my memory: Pacheco's protectiveness towards Rosalie and Pearl, Rosalie's disgust with immigration laws that had split up her family, and Paddy Mac's overactive imagination when it came to guessing about how Birdy might have died.

If I took Pacheco and Rosalie out of that list, that only left Paddy Mac and his streak of blarney. But if he'd killed Birdy, why would he say even a word to anyone about how it might have happened, let alone suggest a string of possible scenarios?

That didn't make any sense. Killers didn't want to be caught, and so far, Birdy's killer was doing a great job of it.

Except for almost giving himself away to Mark and Pearl in the garage.

I bet that shook him up plenty when he realized someone was within earshot of his attack on Gunnar. I wondered who was more spooked at that moment: the kids or the killer? That made me wonder something else: if the kids hadn't made any noise, would the killer have lingered another moment to hide Gunnar's body, as he'd tried to hide Birdy's body under the canoe?

Was this guy a clean-up freak?

Maybe that was why Luce and me had received the “go home” note—he might have considered us loose ends that might unravel his murder plot. Sending us scampering home would have gotten us neatly out of the way of his plans. At this point, I was fairly certain the killer had dismissed us as threats, since three days had passed since we'd been warned, and no identification of a killer had been forthcoming from us or anyone else. Clearly, Luce and I were as clueless to whatever mystery-solving information Gunnar may have unknowingly passed along as the chief was to why Birdy had been killed in the first place and Eddie had been shot at.

He—at least we knew that part now, that it was a he—must have been convinced Gunnar, or what Gunnar knew, warranted taking the chance to kill him in Buzz's garage. That must have taken nerve—there were plenty of people milling around, any of whom might have caught him in the act of attacking Gunnar… except that the sap was a silent weapon, and the damage it inflicted could be mistaken for an accidental impact blow. Paddy, who'd spent years working in insurance, had told us that accidents weren't uncommon around float construction areas.

Good job, Paddy,
I thought ruefully
, you gave our at-large killer a perfect scenario for knocking off Gunnar.
Our killer had obviously taken that to heart, planning his attack on Gunnar for the final, somewhat chaotic, phase of float preparation.

Killing Gunnar was, then, a kind of insurance: without Gunnar, the last lead to the identity of Birdy's killer was gone, and he'd get away with murder.

Now that I thought about it some more, Paddy Mac had been creating scenarios for all kinds of mayhem in the last few days, according to Gunnar.

Was Paddy Mac a killer?

Or was the killer someone close to him who was secretly picking his brains to lay successful murder plans?

Yikes. I've heard of toxic friendships, but that one might just be over the top.

“Hey, Paddy, I'm thinking of committing murder. You got any good ideas for me to make it work?”

But if my theory about the drones being the real reason behind Birdy's death and Eddie's attack was correct, I was really going to have to come up with some fast creative thinking to connect Paddy Mac, or any of the birders, to it.

Fast creative thinking #1. Someone in the MOB was psychotically paranoid and thought the drone was spying on him, resulting in his uncontrollable compulsion to destroy the drone and the men working on it.

Huh. That wasn't too bad a theory for thinking on the fly. Maybe I could work with it.

I decided to try another.

Fast creative thinking #2. Someone in the MOB was dealing drugs and knew the drone was being primed to catch drug runners, resulting in the need to protect the business by killing off the drone and its operators.

But wouldn't another drone project just pop up in its place? Wrecking a program didn't sound like a permanent solution, but it could work as a temporary fix for the dealer, I supposed.

Okay, #2 wasn't totally bad, either, as long as the MOB dealer ­wasn't planning on being in the business long enough for the next drone project to get started. Given the advanced age of some of the MOBsters, maybe that wouldn't be a concern anyway.
Carpe diem
, and all that, you know.

The “go for the gusto” thing again.

Fast creative thinking #3.

Nothing. Nada.

I was out of fast creative thinking.

“Didn't you tell me you did background checks on all the MOB members?” I asked the chief as he put the squad car in park and turned off the engine.

“I did,” he said. “And I found no criminal records.”

“How about mental health records?”

The chief turned to face me. “What are you thinking? That we've got a nutcase taking out birders for the heck of it?”

I told him my two new motive theories. “So if any MOBster has a history of psychiatric care, don't you think that's worth looking at again?”

“At this point, I'll look under rocks if I have to,” Pacheco said. “My niece is a murder witness.” He spoke quickly into his radio. “I should hear back in a few minutes. I've got our researcher on it right now.”

We got out of the car.

“Where's Pearl?” Rosalie cried, running to Pacheco as soon as she saw us.

I looked around for Luce, but didn't see her. I dug my cellphone out of my pocket to see if she'd called or left a message, but there was nothing.

“Where is she?” Rosalie demanded. “My Pearl. Tell me she is all right!”

Pacheco put his hands on his mother's shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Mom. Pearl is fine. She's safe. She's at the police station. She's giving a statement.”

I was impressed: Pacheco was an excellent liar. If I hadn't been there and seen with my own eyes that he'd left Pearl at Rosalie's home, I never would have guessed the man was lying through his teeth about his niece's whereabouts. Under the circumstances, I decided Pacheco's deception was probably the most effective way to protect Pearl. As long as no one knew where she was, there was no chance anyone—in particular, Birdy's killer—could find her.

Protect… protection…

Protection racket!

That was it—the phrase I'd been looking for when I was thinking about mobsters collecting money in the old movies. Mark had said “collection,” but it was “protection,” as in Chicago-land mob honchos sending thugs to shake down shop owners for money, or else they beat up the owners with their saps and wrecked the store.

That was the phrase I'd been trying to remember, but now it didn't seem quite the right fit for whatever it was that was trying to break into my consciousness. I was certain I was getting closer to some piece of information that would point to Birdy's killer, but I just couldn't bring it into the sharpest focus.

I walked into the garage to find Luce.

“Bob!” Pacheco called to me from his car. “I got a call back. We have a hit!”

I gave him a thumbs up sign, but before I rejoined him to find out who our hot suspect was, I found Paddy Mac and asked him if he'd seen Luce.

Paddy flashed his big Irish grin. “Schooner took her inside the house after you left with the chief. He offered to sit with her until she heard from you.”

He looked pointedly at my hands. “No cuffs. Luce said you were innocent. She told us that the kiskadee did it.” He smiled again. “So who is he, Bob? Who killed Birdy?”

I decided to follow Pacheco's example.

I lied.

“We have no clue, Paddy.”

At almost the same moment, Chief Pacheco snagged my shoulder and turned me to face him.

“It's Schooner,” he said. “He's our hit.”

I ran for the door into the house.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

L
uce!” I shouted as I burst into a polished oak hallway inside the garage door. “Luce!”

Voices came from the end of the hall, sending me at a run in their direction. I skidded through a doorframe and into a kitchen.

Luce was standing in front of a stovetop that was about five feet long, stirring something in a pan. I could hear sizzling noises and the aroma of roasted chicken and chili peppers hit me like a cresting ocean wave.

She looked up and frowned. “Are you all right, Bobby? I figured it was just a matter of time until you were able to convince the chief he was wrong about you, and you'd be back. Rosalie got me started on this taco filling to help me pass the time. She said she made it for Birdy for last Valentine's Day. Isn't that sad?”

Valentine's Day.

Why did that suddenly seem so important to me? Somewhere in my head, a bell was ringing.

Luce laid down the wooden spoon she'd been using and came to give me a hug. “Are you all right?” she repeated. “You don't look so good.”

I didn't feel so good. There was a bell ringing in my head, and I'd just found my wife—my newly pregnant wife—calmly cooking chicken when I thought she might have been grabbed by a psycho killer. I guess I got a little concerned.

Like maybe my pregnant wife was going to get killed.

I kept Luce firmly enfolded against me for another minute.

“I love you,” I whispered in her ear, relief and the adrenaline drop making my knees wobble beneath me. I kept holding on to her until I was sure I stopped shaking.

Luce pulled away in my arms and searched my face. “What is going on?”

“Where's Schooner?” Chief Pacheco demanded. He stood inside the kitchen door, his hand on the butt of the gun in his belt holster.

Luce looked from me to the chief.

“I'm right here,” our fellow Minnesotan said, walking into the kitchen from an attached four-season porch. “You want me for something?”

“Yes,” Pacheco said. “I need to ask you a few questions. After you.” He motioned for Schooner to walk ahead of him back to the garage. “Let's go sit in my car for privacy.”

The two men exited the room, and Luce left me to check on her chicken.

“We think there's a chance Schooner might be involved in Birdy's murder,” I told Luce after I heard the door into the garage shut down the hallway. “Pacheco just found out that our MOBster from Duluth had some psychiatric problems in the past. It might explain why Birdy and Eddie were targeted if Schooner had some kind of—paranoia—about the drones.”

Luce stirred the cooking meat and shook her head. “Schooner isn't psychotic, Bobby. He had PTSD when he came home from his combat duty tour in Vietnam back in the 1970s. He's had to get counseling and treatment over the years. He's a vet, like Birdy and Buzz. He told me all about it while you were gone.”

She paused in her cooking and looked up at me. “It made the time go fast, especially since I had no idea what was going on with you and the chief. And I have a whole new appreciation for what some of our soldiers experienced in that war, Bobby. Schooner had been in those underground tunnels where the Viet Cong were hiding. He had to learn to move soundlessly, he said, or else he was risking having his head blown off.”

“So he could certainly have snuck up on Birdy,” I gently pointed out to her. I knew my wife: once she befriended someone, she was loyal to a fault. I didn't want her to kick herself later when we found out that Schooner's mental health problems had turned him into a killer.

“And if he was a soldier in combat,” I reminded her, “he had hand-to-hand combat skills. The chief is doing his job, Luce, and the sooner he can identify Birdy's killer, the easier we can all breathe.”

She laid the spoon down again and put a hand on her hip. “Didn't you guys go after Pearl and Mark? Pearl's a witness to a crime, isn't she? She'll be able to tell the chief who killed Birdy and shot at Eddie and tried to kill Gunnar.”

For a moment, I was confused. I'd assumed that none of the people who'd seen me leave with the chief knew what had really happened in the garage with Mark and Pearl.

“How did you know it was Mark in the kiskadee costume?” I asked her. “And who said Pearl was a witness to a crime?”

“I did,” Poppy Mac said, her head popping out from around the doorway into the four-season porch. I could hear the excitement in her voice. “Pearl knows who the killer is. That makes her a witness.”

Witness.

The ideas tumbling around in my head suddenly fell into place and clicked together.

Protection.

That was it!

That was the odd piece of information Gunnar had given me, but he'd assumed it was a joke: Paddy Mac once said that he was in the witness protection program.

And, as far as I knew, only two types of people qualified for those programs: innocent people who needed protection from criminal retribution for their witness, and guilty people who got immunity from the law because they helped put guiltier people in prison. Poppy had told us they'd moved around a lot, and she'd never gotten to know the neighbors.

And that Paddy used to work in collections, and that they had plenty of money.

Enough money, in fact, for Paddy to buy a ticket for a seat on the first commercial space ride for his wife as an early Valentine's gift.

A seat that had just opened up.

A seat, I realized now, that had belonged to Birdy Johnson, according to that framed news article I'd read in Fat Daddy's dining porch. Birdy and Buzz were going to be on that flight with the first passengers.

But now Birdy was dead, and his seat was going to someone else.

Poppy Mac.

What a coincidence.

I looked at Poppy's animated face, my adrenaline kicking back in.

I had a really bad feeling Paddy Mac was not the innocent type of witness protection person, and that his former job in collections wasn't about museum curating, as we had stupidly assumed.

Crap.

I got it now.

Paddy Mac had been an enforcer for a real mob, collecting protection money.

“Poppy,” I said, sliding in front of Luce, all my instincts focused on protecting my wife and our newly unborn child. “The ticket for the spaceship that Paddy gave you—you were the first person on the waiting list, weren't you?”

Poppy nodded. “Yes! How did you know that?”

“He didn't, darlin'. I'm thinking he just put it all together, didn't you, Minnesota?”

I turned around to see Paddy Mac standing in the doorway to the hall.

He held a small gun pointed at my heart.