Die Like an Eagle (31 page)

“Can do,” I said.

“Roger.” Horace handed me back my phone.

“The Clay Swamp Road,” I said. “That's out near Biff Brown's scrapyard.”

“Sounds like,” Horace said. “Mind if I plug my phone in to charge it?”

“Knock your socks off.”

I focused on driving. And on resisting the temptation to race to the scene of the crime. The roads were horribly slippery, and it wouldn't help matters if I followed Horace's example and ended up in a ditch.

We finally spotted Vern's car parked on the shoulder with its blue lights flashing.

“Pull over here,” Horace said when we were still a quarter of a mile from Vern. “Rain's probably washed away any evidence that would have been on the road, but better safe than sorry.”

I watched as he sloshed down the road toward Vern's car. Vern got out to meet him. Horace waved good-bye to me—okay, I can take a hint. I took my time making a three-point turn on the roadway and managed to get a glimpse of Callie's red truck off in the woods on the left side of the road.

Then I headed back to town. After all, the chief had said he wanted to see me. Odds were he only wanted to cross-examine me on exactly when I'd talked to Biff, or maybe whether I'd noticed any telltale damage to his car. I had a feeling he'd be disappointed by how little I had to tell him. Ah, well.

When I pulled into the station parking lot, I saw an SUV that had seen better days sitting just inside the entrance, with a familiar face behind the wheel—Gina. Formerly Gina Brown, though I couldn't recall the maiden name she was now using instead. I waved, but she just sat there, staring, with an expression of frozen distress, as if she'd spotted a scorpion crawling on her dashboard.

I parked a couple of spaces down from her, grabbed my umbrella, and walked down to her SUV. When I knocked on her door, she started and hit the horn, then jerked back, took a couple of deep breaths, and rolled the window down.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I'm—” she began, and then stopped herself, as if realizing that “I'm fine” would be not only inaccurate but completely unbelievable. “I can't go in there,” she finally said.

“Do you need to?” I asked.

“Yes.” She nodded decisively—no, convulsively—half a dozen times. And continued sitting.

“Why do you need to go in there?” I asked.

She closed her eyes and shook her head as if the notion of explaining was overwhelming. We stayed there for several long minutes, her sitting with her eyes closed, me standing outside the driver's window.

“Would you like me to go in with you?” I asked finally.

She didn't say anything for a few moments. Then she rolled up the window—that didn't feel like progress. Neither did seeing her bend over—to hide from me, or merely to get something from the floor of the passenger side of the SUV? I was relieved when she opened the door and stepped out, hauling two canvas Caerphilly Market tote bags full of papers and file folders.

“Want me to carry one of those?” I asked.

She shook her head and pulled them closer to her body. I settled for holding the umbrella over her and her file collection and walking by her side across the parking lot, at a pace so slow an arthritic turtle could have lapped us. She stopped at the station door and looked as if she was thinking of bolting, but I held it open and smiled encouragingly. She stepped inside and eyed her surroundings as anxiously as if she had just entered a medieval torture chamber with racks and thumbscrews, rather than a clean, well-lit lobby with vintage molded plastic chairs in festive purple and orange, and an unusually random collection of aging magazines.

I spotted Caroline Willner behind the desk—evidently Mother had drafted her as one of the volunteers.

“May I help you?” Caroline asked.

Gina just stood there.

“I think she wants to see the chief,” I said. “Isn't that right, Gina?”

Gina nodded.

“Maybe you could tell the chief she's here?”

“Can do,” Caroline said. “But she can't go in with those bags. Not unless we search them. Can you bring them over here so I can do it?”

Gina hugged the bags to her chest and shook her head slightly.

“It's okay,” I said to Gina. “She's not going to take anything.”

“It's just routine,” Caroline said.

Was it? I didn't remember ever having my purse or tote searched when I visited the chief. Then again, I was known to everyone on the force and presumably considered reasonably trustworthy. Routine might be different when it came to the wife of a murder suspect, and someone whose ex-sister-in-law had already instigated gunfire here at the station. Especially since, when you came down to it, Gina herself looked a little wild-eyed and unpredictable.

“Just put them down here for a minute,” Caroline said.

Gina shook her head again. I glanced at Caroline. She rolled her eyes.

“How about if I take a quick look,” I said to Gina. “I won't even have to touch anything—you can take things out and show me. What's in there, anyway?”

“Evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” We all looked up to see Chief Burke standing in the archway that separated the reception area from the hallway—evidently he'd overheard our conversation and come out to see what was wrong.

Gina was frozen again.

“Gina?” I said, as gently as I could. “You know Chief Burke, don't you? He's the one who needs to see your evidence. But—evidence of what?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and for a few moments I thought she was about to faint—I actually took a step closer so I could try to catch her if that happened. But then a determined expression spread over her face. She opened her eyes, lifted her chin, and threw her shoulders back.

“Evidence that my future ex-husband is a lying, cheating, conniving son of a—gun,” she said.

She set the totes down on the floor in front of her, shoved her hand in one, pulled out a fat file folder, and slapped it down on the front desk in front of Caroline.

“Evidence on how badly he cheated the college when he did that big plumbing project for them three years ago.” She reached down and pulled up another file. “Evidence of how he paid off the building inspector to approve his substandard work on the Clay County High School Annex.” Another file. “Evidence on how he paid off Tolliver Pruitt to keep quiet about his roof caving in.” Another file. “Evidence on where he buys the phony green cards for his undocumented workers.” She picked up both totes, turned them upside down on top of the reception desk, and shook them, spilling another dozen or so fat files onto the pile. “You'll even find a file about how he cooks the Snack Shack books so no one will figure out that he's been stealing all the profits for years.”

 

Chapter 25

Caroline and I were staring at the files. You'd think the chief would have pounced on them with glee, but he was also staring at them with a slight frown on his face.

“May I ask how you came by these documents?” he asked.

Uh-oh. The answer was probably that she'd stolen them from her husband. Did that mean the chief couldn't use them? Not even if they contained evidence that could convict Biff of crimes?

“Shep brought them to me,” she said. “A couple of weeks ago, when he heard I'd filed for divorce. He'd been making copies of anything he thought was hinky for some time now. He called all this his life insurance policy, and said he was afraid Biff was onto the fact that he'd been collecting it and would come to his house and steal it. So he asked me to hide it.”

“In Biff's own house?” I asked.

“Which I'd kicked him out of,” she said. “Shep carried the box up to the attic, and I moved the files into another box that had been there forever, one of a bunch full of old letters and photos from my side of the family—not something Biff would ever have any reason to look at even if I let him back into the house long enough to go up to the attic. And we knew Biff knew that Shep and I never could stand each other, so he'd never expect Shep to give them to me to hide. And Biff is looking for them—ask the Clay County sheriff. Shep and his ex-wife both had break-ins two weeks ago, and last week Shep's old fishing buddy had one. I'd bet anything it was Biff, or someone helping him, looking for those.” She gestured to the files. “And Shep told me if anything happened to him, to make sure they got to the sheriff. I figured he actually meant in Clay County, but since Sheriff Whicker is as crooked as a dog's hind leg and in Biff's pocket to boot, I brought them to you.”

By the time she got all that out, she looked more than a little wobbly, so I pulled over an orange plastic chair and eased her into it. Caroline brought her a glass of water which she gulped gratefully.

The chief had stepped over to the counter and was examining the files.

“Some of these, if they contain evidence of crimes that took place in Clay County, may be out of my jurisdiction,” he said. “But I will review all the files carefully with the county attorney before sending copies to my counterpart there. And Mr. Brown may find that defrauding the college was a particularly bad idea.”

“Caerphilly College carries a lot of weight here,” I said.

“And I believe their recent plumbing project was at least partially paid for with federal grant money,” the chief said. “Never a good idea to rile the Feds. Mrs. Brown—”

“Ms. Crocker,” she said. “I'm going back to my maiden name.”

“Ms. Crocker,” the chief said, with a nod. “May I suggest that you could recover yourself more easily in my office? I have more comfortable chairs, and you would not be subjected to the prying eyes of anyone who happens to walk through the station.”

She nodded. I gave her a hand up from the chair, but once up she seemed steady on her feet.

“Meg, if you could help me with some of these files,” the chief said. “Before you go,” he added, no doubt to make sure I didn't misinterpret the request as an invitation to take another of those comfy chairs and kibbitz on his conversation with Gina.

“Happy to,” I said.

I helped get Gina settled and deposited my share of the files on the chief's desk.

“You just relax,” he said to Gina. “Let me refill your water.” He took her glass, then followed me out into the hall.

“It would be better for Mrs.—Ms. Crocker if this matter of the files were kept discreet for now,” he said as we strolled down the hall toward the lobby, where the water cooler was.

“I understand,” I said. “But someone may have seen her. She seems to have spent quite a while dithering out there in the parking lot before I came along and helped her get up the nerve to come in.”

“And I will be advising her to tell people that she came down at my request for a routine interview about her brother-in-law's death,” he said. “I actually was planning to talk to her today anyway. I'm relieved that we were able to get her out of the reception area before Ms. Peebles came back out. I get the distinct impression the two ladies aren't on the warmest terms.”

“Callie's here?” I asked. “And you're letting her go again?”

“Well, she is the victim today,” he said, with a ghost of a smile. “Alleged victim, at least. She does seem to have it in for Mr. Brown, so we'll be considering the possibility that she invented the story of being run off the road to cause trouble for him.”

“I was surprised to see her at the meeting last night,” I said. “Wasn't she in jail?”

“Once she sobered up we let her out on bail,” he said. “And as expected, over a dozen hard-core denizens of the Clay Pigeon will swear that she didn't leave the premises until nearly dawn the night of the murder.”

“And you believe them?”

“I'm keeping an open mind.” He had grabbed a paper cup from the dispenser by the cooler and was filling it. “If the gun she pulled on Sammy and Vern should turn out to be the same one that killed Mr. Henson—well, I don't think the testimony of a few barflies would be that hard to impeach. Especially since it could turn out that half of her alibi witnesses were already in the Clay County drunk tank by midnight. On the whole, though, I don't think she's a very plausible suspect.”

“You don't think she's capable of shooting someone?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “No question. I can absolutely see her shooting him. But I think if she'd done it she'd have left him lying wherever she shot him. I have a hard time figuring out how she could possibly have transported him from the crime scene—wherever that was—without getting a speck of blood on herself or her vehicle. And he's a big man, and she's—well, not tiny, but not exactly very athletic—do you really think she's capable of lifting over two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight? And the same applies to Ms. Crocker, incidentally. Although however dubious I am of her ability to have hefted her brother-in-law's corpse into the porta-potty, the fact remains that she is not alibied for the murder and I don't discount the possibility that in the dark she could have mistaken Mr. Henson for the husband she is so eager to be rid of.”

“Or maybe it wasn't a mistake,” I said. “She did say Shep had collected those files she's turning over to you. What if she found out he was collecting information that might implicate her along with Biff? She could have killed him, stolen his files, taken out anything that pointed to her involvement, and then turned over the files to you to ensure that you knew Biff had a motive to kill Shep.”

“It's a thought.” And not one that made him happy, to judge from the look on his face. “I will keep my eyes open for any suggestion that she might be more involved in her husband's business than she admits. But in the meantime, the evidence she brought in could shed a very fascinating light on the crime.”