All Sales Fatal (11 page)

“I can find her,” Helland said. “Thanks.” He hung up without saying more, and I banged the receiver down.

“The boss is dead?” Joel asked in a hushed voice, as if we were standing in a funeral home.

“Apparently,” I said. Hearing the anger in my voice, I added, “Sorry. I’m pissed that Helland wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Was it, like, a car accident or something?”

“Helland said he was shot. I suppose it could have been an accident.” The thought hadn’t occurred to me; I’d been focused on suicide or homicide. “Was Woskowicz a hunter?”

Joel shrugged.

“Grandpa!”

Joel gave me a funny look, and I shook my head, reaching for my cell phone. Grandpa was planning to search Woskowicz’s house after his bunny shift today. If I didn’t warn him, he might walk smack dab into a house full of police officers. I dialed Grandpa’s number but got no answer. Of course not. The Easter Bunny couldn’t have a cell phone ringing in his pocket while posing for photos. “Back in a minute,” I told Joel, hurrying to the Segway.

But when I reached the ground floor, the Easter Bunny’s little house was empty and a velvet rope barred entrance to the garden area. Damn. Should I drive over to Woskowicz’s house and try to head Grandpa off, or would that complicate matters? If the police were already there…

If the police had already arrived, there was nothing I could do, I decided. If Grandpa was in the house when they pulled up, he’d have to hide or slip out without being seen. He’d spent over forty years in the spook business—he was good. If he wasn’t in the house, he’d see them and abort.
With any luck, he’d gone home after playing bunny to shower and change, waiting for dark to start his B and E. But then why wasn’t he answering his phone? I had a niggling feeling his phone was off because he was in Woskowicz’s house. Hoping the police had only just discovered Woskowicz’s body and hadn’t yet gotten around to searching his house, I pointed the Segway toward the exit where I’d parked my Miata that morning, called Joel to tell him I was clocking out and ask him to retrieve the Segway, and headed into the lot at a brisk trot that annoyed my knee.

I tried Grandpa’s phone three more times on my way to Woskowicz’s place, drumming my fingers anxiously on the steering wheel every time a red light held me up or an indecisive driver slowed me. His phone automatically rolled to voice mail each time. Rounding the corner onto Woskowicz’s block, I took in a deep breath and blew it out in a relieved gust. No police cars blocked Captain W’s driveway or idled at the curb. They weren’t here yet. I didn’t see Grandpa’s car either, but that didn’t mean much. He could be using a car I didn’t know—he had access to a seemingly inexhaustible supply of nondescript vehicles—or he could be parked a block or two away. Good tradecraft dictated that he not signal his presence by parking directly in front of the target house. With that in mind, I cruised past the house and down a few blocks, not spotting any cars I recognized. Leaving my car one street over and two blocks down, I slipped a purple hoodie over my uniform shirt and walked back toward Woskowicz’s, hands dug into my pockets.

With dusk falling, few pedestrians were out and about, although a steady trickle of cars heralded the return of commuters. Headlights crept up to me and skimmed me time and again, and I kept my head lowered, my hood up, and my sunglasses on, hoping I looked more like a neighbor out for a little exercise before dinner than the Unabomber on a
recce mission. I approached the snug house. No stray beam of light in the windows betrayed a flashlight inside, no hint of movement suggested Grandpa was there. Still, I had to warn him, if I could. Hesitating only a moment, I walked up to the front door and knocked, for all the world like I was an expected guest. Not surprisingly, no one answered. Reluctant to holler his name or make myself suspicious by peering into windows, I knocked again, using a three-short, three-long, three-short pattern, Morse code for SOS. If Grandpa were there, he’d get the message.

I started back down the sidewalk, speeding up as another car turned the corner. It had a familiar profile, identifiable even from several blocks away. A squad car. I quickened my step. Struggling to keep my pace even, so my limp wouldn’t be obvious, I resisted the urge to turn and see what was happening. My muscles contracted as I tensed, afraid to hear the sounds that would signal Grandpa Atherton had been discovered: the whoop of a siren, a yell of “Stop! Police!” or the thuds of running footsteps. None of those sounds had reached me by the time I crossed to the street where I’d parked the Miata.

My car gleamed a dull bronze under the light from a streetlamp that had sprung to life while I was gone. I bent to unlock the door. A
skritch
sound made me whip around.

“Boo!”

I jumped back, clanging my elbow against the side mirror. It took a split second to realize that the black-clad figure standing there, a huge grin lighting his face, was Grandpa. The relief and the scare, not to mention the stinging pain from my funny bone, made me mad. Rubbing my elbow, I said, “‘Boo’? What do you think this is? Middle school?”

“Sorry, Emma-Joy,” he said sheepishly. “Thanks for warning me. I got clear through a back window just as the police were coming in the front door. A neighbor must have
spotted me going in and called them. Damn, I’m losing my touch.” He looked chagrined.

“You’re not losing it, Grandpa. The police were there because Woskowicz’s body turned up. He’s dead.”

Grandpa let out a nearly soundless whistle. “Where? Who did it?”

I shot him a look. “What makes you think he was murdered?”

He shrugged, bony shoulders hunching under the black sweatshirt. “I’ve met the man, remember?”

“What… he had ‘murderee’ stamped on his forehead in invisible ink?”

“More or less,” Grandpa said, unperturbed by my sarcasm. “I’m sorry I worried you, Emma-Joy.”

“Hmph.” I refused to admit I’d been worried and had already been rehearsing how I’d tell Mom he’d gotten arrested. The fact that I’d goaded him into it—not that he’d needed much nudging—only made it worse. “What did you fi—never mind. Let’s talk back at my house. Want a lift to your car?”

“No thanks. I’ll meet you there.” With a wave of his gloved hand, Grandpa melted into the darkness.

In my kitchen,
clutching a mug of hot tea doctored with a healthy shot of bourbon, Grandpa stroked Fubar, who had deigned to leap onto his lap.

“Stupid cat,” I said. “Why won’t you ever cuddle with me?” Giving me a look that said he couldn’t risk his reputation by getting friendly with just anyone, Fubar sprang down and nosed the catnip-filled mouse that had gotten wedged partially under the refrigerator. Deciding it was not as lively as the real thing, he pushed through the cat door and disappeared, stubby tail held high.

I topped off Grandpa’s mug with hot water from the kettle and settled in the chair across from him as he tried to brush off the rust-colored hairs that peppered his black sweat suit.

“So, what did you find?” I asked.

He tented his upper lip and blew on the tea. “What I
didn’t
find is more interesting,” he said after taking a healthy swallow.

I looked a question at him.

“No computer,” he elaborated, “even though there were cables for one and a monitor and printer. No calendar or date book. No address book.”

“Maybe it was a laptop and he had it with him,” I suggested, “and maybe he keeps his appointments and addresses on the computer.”

“Possible, but I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Woskowicz was what—in his mid to late fifties? Most men in that generation don’t keep their lives on computers the way the younger generation does. And I didn’t find any of the other gadgets that would suggest he was the kind of technophile who’d be comfortable storing his life on the computer: no iPod, no PDA, no video game setup, no fancy docking station for recharging gizmos, not even a decent stereo system on his television.”

“Makes sense,” I admitted. “So you think someone tossed the place and made off with his computer?”

“Someone definitely tossed the place, and they weren’t very careful about it. Sloppy. So either they didn’t care if Woskowicz knew they’d searched his house—”

“Or they knew he wasn’t coming back,” I finished. Scooping up our now empty mugs, I crossed to the sink and rinsed them, thinking. My mind explored scenarios that might explain why someone would steal Captain W’s computer, calendar, and address book. Obviously because they
were afraid he’d made note of something incriminating, but what? “Did I tell you I found a gun in Woskowicz’s office?” I asked.

Grandpa’s eyes narrowed, a deltalike mass of winkles crinkling from the corners. “No.”

I gave him the details. He looked thoughtful as I concluded, “No doubt the police will search his office tomorrow, especially if his death was a homicide. They’ll find the gun. I’ll put the file cabinet key in his desk drawer where they can’t miss it.”

Grandpa rose with a
cree-ick
from his knees. Leaning over to kiss my cheek, he said, “Be careful, Emma-Joy. Woskowicz always struck me as a wily operator. Not Mensa material, but street-smart. I’ll bet you next month’s Social Security check he was into something dodgy and it bit him. Let the police figure out what happened. I don’t want you getting bit, too.”

Ten

Sunday should have
been my day off, but I went to Fernglen anyway, knowing the police investigation into Woskowicz’s death would be going full throttle, even on the weekend. My white shirt was crisply ironed, black slacks free of lint and cat hair, and my chestnut hair brushed to a shine and pulled off my face in a French braid. I expected a visit from the police today, probably Detective Helland, and I wanted to look my professional best. At least, that’s what I told myself. I was proven right as soon as I arrived at the mall parking lot: Helland pulled up in his car just as I shut the Miata’s door.

“I thought you’d be here early,” he greeted me, offering a cup of coffee. His white-blond hair shone as the rising sun struck it, creating an almost halolike effect. Fjord gray eyes appraised me when I hesitated before taking the cup.

“Thanks,” I said. “To what do I owe this?” I hefted the cup. “No, wait, let me guess. You’re here to delve into Captain Woskowicz’s movements, and it’ll go faster if I can set
you up to talk to the people who might have seen him the day he disappeared. Close?” I eyed him sardonically as aromatic steam curled from my cup.

“Bang on,” he admitted with a smile that conceded me a point.

Damn, he was attractive when he smiled. “What did the autopsy on Arriaga show?” I asked.

Helland gave me an assessing look that showed he knew I was asking for a little quid pro quo, some information in return for my help. “Nothing we didn’t expect. Shot with a .32-caliber bullet, probably between nine p.m. and four a.m., body moved after death.”

“That’s it?”

Helland shrugged. “He had traces of cocaine in his system, and the GSR test was negative.”

If the gunshot residue test was negative, Celio hadn’t fired a gun recently. “Thanks.” I smiled my appreciation for his information. “You know there won’t be anyone here yet, don’t you?” I said, leading the way into the mall. “The stores don’t open until eleven on Sundays.”

“That’ll give us time to look at the camera footage before starting our interviews.”

I felt an involuntary hiccup of pleasure at his use of “us” and “our.” Suppressing it—the man had undoubtedly taken many interrogation classes where instructors taught you how to bond with suspects—I told him I’d already reviewed the camera data. “There’s nothing much there,” I said. “He spent the bulk of the day in his office and talked to only a couple of people. I’ve already spoken with them,” I added, forestalling the comment on the tip of his tongue. “He didn’t say or do anything out of the ordinary.”

“Quite a display of initiative,” Helland said, looking down his aquiline nose at me. His tone was not appreciative.

I pushed through the office doors and said over my shoulder, “At the time, you were totally uninterested in Woskowicz’s disappearance.”

A brief head tilt acknowledged my point, and I concentrated on not feeling smug. Edgar rose as we entered, and I introduced the two men. Edgar’s softball-mitt-sized hand swallowed Helland’s when they shook.

“So,” Edgar said, rubbing the top of his head, “Woskowicz, huh? Dead. That’s something.”

“Indeed. When did you last see him?” Helland asked. “Did he say or do anything unusual?”

Edgar shook his head slowly. “Tuesday night.”

“That’s the night Arriaga got shot!” I said.

“Was Woskowicz in the habit of coming by at night?” Helland asked.

Edgar snorted. “Not.”

“So what did he want?”

“Said he’d forgotten to put together a report Mr. Quigley’s office wanted. He had me pulling data off the computer for an hour or so. Put me behind on my patrols.” Edgar’s tone made it clear he thought keeping to his schedule was more important than helping Woskowicz do paperwork.

“When did he leave?” I asked. Helland frowned at me but let the question stand.