Evelyn David - Sullivan Investigations 01 - Murder Off the Books (2 page)

Chapter 2

“Stay here and take a nap. And don’t take anything apart that you can’t put back together by yourself,” Mac warned the Irish wolfhound as he parked a white panel truck, with Big Sal’s Appliance Repair painted in red block lettering on the sides. He’d driven the hearse for less than an hour before exchanging it for something a little less conspicuous and a lot easier to park. The panel truck was the best Jeff had to offer.

After gassing up the truck, the private investigator returned to the funeral home and parked in the side lot under the shade of a large oak tree. He rolled down the windows partway and checked to see that there was nothing lying around in the back that the dog could eat. They’d just had a late breakfast, but he wasn’t sure the French toast and scrambled eggs had satisfied her.

The truck was fully equipped. It had enough tools, wires, and broken appliances piled in boxes to look authentic. Hell, Mac thought, it was authentic. Salvatore Marini, Senior, had made a decent living with the truck until his infamous last job. Mac had read about it in the newspapers. His eyesight failing, the old man had crossed two wires that he shouldn’t have on a swimming pool pump. When he tested it, half of Arlington went dark. Jeff O’Herlihy had given him a nice send-off, deluxe hand-rubbed walnut casket and a violin player at the viewing, but Little Sal was a little short on cash until the estate settled. Jeff had taken possession of the truck only hours before.

“I’d let you wait for me under the tree, but you know what happened last night,” Mac muttered glancing over at the dog sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the side window and pretending to ignore him.

“You never should have gone into that house. You know that.”

The dog turned her head in his direction and whined.

“I don’t care about that cat. That cat belonged there. You didn’t. We were just going to watch the house. See who came and went. Make some notes. That’s all.”

The dog gave a sharp bark as if in disagreement.

“Okay. So maybe when that guy broke in I considered doing something, but–”

The dog barked again, interrupting him.

“Well, we’ll never know now, will we? Before I could get through to the cops on my damn cell phone, you scared him off and then chased into the house after that cat. I could have been arrested going in after you.”

Whiskey whined and then made a series of noises as though she were presenting justification for her actions.

Mac rolled his eyes. “Right. Now explain the ham.”

The dog ducked her head and turned away.

“That’s what I thought. You consider that while I’m inside pretending to shop for caskets.”

***

“That’ll be $27.95. Make out the check to Foley Hardware,” the repairman with the six-pack-a-day paunch grunted.

Rachel glanced at the new pane of glass in her kitchen door window and sighed. She quickly completed the check and handed it off with a curt thanks. She was already more than two hours late for work, but obviously couldn’t leave her house until the door was fixed. Although, how likely was it that a ham-stealing thief would be back? On the other hand, he did forget the mustard.

She felt something brush against her leg. “Thanks for all the protection,” she muttered. “You’d sell me out to Jack the Ripper for a stick of gum.”

The butterscotch fur ball looked up from her empty food dish in disbelief.

“I’ve been kind of busy,” Rachel said, getting out the kitty kibble and pouring it in the dish. “You might have bared those claws a little last night.”

The furry fraidy cat snorted at the dry food, waiting patiently for something good to appear in her bowl.

“Only part of you I saw last night was a tail ducking under my bed. I don’t know when you followed me downstairs.” Rachel opened a can of expensive feline morsels and plopped a sizeable dollop on top of the dry food. “While I was hiding in the closet I have to admit to wishing you were a Doberman, but I guess you came through for me at the end, didn’t you?”

Snickers meowed and Rachel flashed back to the long, slow seconds as she’d crept down the dark staircase, a hockey stick clutched in one sweaty hand, the polished banister in the other. Eleven steps to the bottom. Eleven steps without air.

Lightheaded, she’d taken a deep breath when her fingers had finally wrapped around the end of the banister. The house had been as silent as a tomb. She’d thought for a second that maybe the intruders were gone. She’d thought about looking for the phone. A sudden noise coming from the den at the back of the house had banished those thoughts.

Rachel looked at the can of cat food in her hand and the scene from the previous evening replayed in slow motion
….

The hockey stick hitting the floor with a clatter
…. Her fingers fumbling with the stubborn lock on the front door…. The cat yowling…. The sound of a chair toppling over in the kitchen…. The cold fear of someone rushing up behind her as she’d worked the deadbolt from the warped doorframe…. The relief when she’d remembered to kick the base of the door and the lock had slid open….

Snickers meowed again and Rachel’s thoughts returned to the present.

“Yeah, I know, it’s over. But I’m going to have nightmares for years about trying to get that door open.” Rachel added another spoonful of cat food to the dish. “Wonder what you saw in the kitchen last night?”

***

He sat in the waiting room, watching for her. Yesterday, he’d discovered that she’d been unemployed for the last two weeks, laid off from her job at Franklin’s funeral home. Apparently, she wasn’t so much laid off as traded. For once Jeff’s constant chitchat had actually yielded some useful information. He glanced at his watch and the open door of the empty office that a pinch-faced Myrna, Jeff’s ancient secretary, had directed him to.

Rachel Brenner was late showing up for work and Myrna was already well into her standard rant about the irresponsible work habits of people under sixty. But he’d expected Thayer’s sister to be late. Filling out police reports always took more time than the crime.

After an hour, Mac walked back to the panel truck and let Whiskey out to stretch her legs and patrol the wooded area behind the building. The dog was bored and so was he. It didn’t seem likely that Dan Thayer was going show up on his sister’s first day at work, but he hadn’t worked out a Plan B yet for finding the man and his employer’s missing money. He only hoped one of the O’Herlihys didn’t show up and blow his cover as a client.

“Can I help you find something or someone?”

He dropped his newspaper. Damn, he was getting sloppy. He could just as easily be facing the subject of his surveillance instead of a teenager with rainbow hair.

“I’ve noticed you wandering around. You didn’t seem to be with the Coughlin funeral party. Are you shopping for yourself or a loved one?”

Mac forced his face into a semblance of bumbling incompetence, thinking he didn’t have to stretch his acting skills to achieve that expression. He should have made sure he mixed with the mourners gathering in the chapel. He made a show of looking at her nametag, trying to buy some time. The lack of a preplanned cover story was his second error, counting the flat tire. His third if he counted Whiskey’s grand theft ham. Which he didn’t. He couldn’t control everything, he reasoned. The cop voice in his head said that was a load of….Okay, he took Whiskey with him on the stakeout so maybe that was his fault.

“Carrie, I’m-I’m,” he stumbled along blindly, “I’m trying to plan ahead. I’d like to see something in oak with a good seal.”

“Okay. I’m new and I’m mostly here to do hair and makeup, but I can show you the display models. When would you need to take delivery?”

“After I’m dead?” Mac hadn’t meant to make it sound like a question. “I have a small house and a large dog. Do you have anything for dogs? Maybe a sidecar type thing?”

Mac watched the rings in the girl’s eyebrows rise

Okay, so maybe next time he’d work on a better plan B.

***

Finally able to leave for work, Rachel contemplated taking her car rather than walking. The Blue Dog, as her son called the 1995 Dodge Caravan wreck she drove, had been in a bitchy mood for the last week, starting when it wanted, sputtering indignantly when pressed over 40 miles an hour, and emitting heat only on odd numbered days. Today, she didn’t feel like coaxing it. She walked the twelve blocks to the O’Herlihy Funeral Home.

Pushing open the front door, Rachel took a deep breath as she walked across the lush carpet. Arthur Franklin had kept his word, making sure that both she and Carrie had jobs, when he sold out to O’Herlihy’s. She was grateful for his intervention but a little nervous about working at O’Herlihy’s. The owner had a wild reputation–or at least wild for a funeral home director. Last year one of his funerals made the front page of a national newspaper. It was a graveside service that had ended in a family brawl when the client climbed out of the casket and declared the whole thing an April Fool’s joke. The only ones who found the stunt funny were the client and the funeral home director. Oh, well, at least the pay was better than what she’d been making. She’d just have to learn how to lighten up a little bit or maybe keep her office door locked.

Chapter 3

“Mrs. Brenner, are you okay? Do you have any idea of who broke into your house? Did they have guns?”

Her mile-a-minute interrogator was Carrie Taylor, teenaged friend of her son, part-time college student, and a part-time cosmetologist. Rachel smiled. Carrie had more earrings than common sense and changed her hair color as often as her underwear, although the purple streaked bangs were generally a constant. Carrie had earned her cosmetology license the year before and was using it to help pay for college.

Carrie had shown up before Rachel had even settled into her new chair. The teen had brought in sub sandwiches and sodas from the nearby deli, to celebrate their new jobs and to find out the scoop on Rachel’s break-in.

“Yes, no, and I doubt it,” Rachel answered before she took a large bite. The lack of breakfast had caught up with her.

“And…I meant to say earlier….” Carrie mumbled the rest of her sentence, her mouth full of tuna on wheat.

“What?”

The teen swallowed. “There are two cops–detectives–outside talking to some woman who has to be a hundred if she’s a day. Is that the legendary Myrna Bird? She was gone the day I met Mr. O’Herlihy. Anyway they were asking about you, the cops, not Ms. Bird.”

Rachel set down her sandwich and repeated her previous question, “What?”

“There are two cops out there,” Carrie nodded at the closed door. “The young one’s kind of hot. But the old one reminds me of my Dad on a bad day. Think they cracked the case already or are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I have no idea,” Rachel admitted, getting to her feet. “But I better find out. And you’d better get back to work.”

“Hey, I already handled a client–a living one.” Carrie giggled. “Can O’Herlihy’s arrange a funeral for a pet? Wonder if I need a separate license to do dog shampoos?”

***

“Good morning. I’m Rachel Brenner. Can I help you?”

“I’m Tom Atwood.” The young African-American detective flashed his badge. “And this is my partner, Eddie Gorden.” The older, white officer nodded in acknowledgment.

“Is this about the break-in last night? Did you find out who did it?” Rachel crossed the room and stood behind her new desk.

“What break-in?” Atwood asked.

“My house. Someone broke into my house last night. If you’re not here about that….” Rachel’s voice drifted off. “There was glass every–”

“Do you know Daniel Thayer?” the older cop interrupted, his obvious lack of interest in her break-in confusing.

“Know him?” Rachel’s voice rose. “Of course I know him. He’s my brother.” She looked frantically from one policeman to the other. “Did something happen to Dan?”

“We want to ask Mr. Thayer some questions,” the older cop said, his tone a warning that trouble was ahead.

“About what?” Rachel’s brain began trying to make sense of the situation. The cops weren’t here about the burglary. Something else had happened, something involving her brother.

“There’s been an incident at
Concordia College,” Atwood said.

“That’s…that’s where Dan works,” Rachel said softly, sinking into her seat. “What kind of incident?”

“What does your brother do at the college?” Gorden asked, ignoring Rachel’s question.

“He’s assistant comptroller. He started working there about four months ago. But why ask me? Why don’t you ask Dan?” Rachel faced the younger cop, looking for answers.

“Have you heard from your brother recently?” Atwood asked.

“No, we haven’t talked in several weeks. Why don’t you talk to Dan?”

“Seems your brother hasn’t been seen since Friday night,” Gorden said. “We’ve checked his apartment and he’s not answering his telephone or cell phone. I repeat, have you seen or heard from your brother?”

“No. But maybe he’s away on
….” Rachel faltered. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and faced the detectives. “Tell me what the hell is going on or I’m not answering another question.”

“Late Saturday afternoon, Vince Malwick was found dead in the clock tower of
Concordia College. Some alumni got quite a shock when they climbed up for a view of the campus,” Atwood said.

“Malwick? He’s Dan’s boss. Was it a heart attack or
….” Rachel left open the question, not really wanting to hear the answer. She knew that the police wouldn’t be in her office if Malwick had died of natural causes.

“He was murdered,” Gorden said.

“I’m sorry. But what does this have to do with Dan?”

“We’re investigating everyone who worked with Malwick. Seems that co-workers heard your brother and Malwick arguing on Friday afternoon. They believe that Malwick fired your brother. One more time, Mrs. Brenner. Where’s your brother?” Atwood asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to Dan in weeks. But there’s no way….”

The older cop took out a business card and pushed it across the desk. “If you hear from your brother, call us.”

Rachel waited until the door closed behind them before reaching for the telephone and dialing her brother’s number. The answering machine picked up after four rings.

“This is Dan. I’m not here. Leave a message at the beep.”

“Dan, it’s Rachel. Call me at the O’Herlihy’s Funeral Home as soon as you get this message. It’s important.”

She hung up frustrated. Swiveling her chair around to face her computer, she called up her home e-mail account. She paused for a moment, then typed, “Where the hell are you?” But then immediately re-thought her first instinct and went for the obvious. “Call me immediately.”

***

Whiskey sniffed the bag and then raised her eyes to Mac in disbelief.

“They’re tamales.”

The dog growled and took two steps back.

“Sorry. I thought it was worth a try.” Mac chuckled and tossed the takeout bag towards the dumpster that was located in the parking lot near the repair truck. “No, Golden Arches nearby. The deli was too crowded.”

They both watched as the brown, grease-stained bag hit the metal and bounced onto the pavement.

Whiskey barked, letting him, and anyone in the general vicinity, know that his hook shot needed work.

Mac glanced around, noticing that several women, dressed in black, with small children, were watching him.

Whiskey barked again.

“Hey, I don’t need any attitude from you too.” Mac sighed and walked towards the dumpster. “It’s not as though I’ve been having a wonderful time either. This detective business is harder than it looks. We’re both going to have to adjust.”

The wolfhound dashed in front of him and picked up the bag, begging him to play.

“Unlike you, I got almost no sleep last night. I am not going to chase you.” He got close and reached out his hand. “Give me the bag.”

Whiskey backed up a dozen feet, the bag hanging from her mouth.

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t have time for
this; I should be inside making sure the police don’t haul off my best lead. Put it down.”

Whiskey dropped the bag and immediately started to squat.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned, noticing out of the corner of his eye that their audience was getting bigger. The Coughlin service must have finished. “Don’t you dare, not if you ever want to see another hamburger.”

The dog hesitated, then sat down, squashing the sack.

“You’re not funny,” he whispered as he leaned against the 125-pound canine, trying to shift her, so he could retrieve the bag. “This is a serious place. Do you see anyone acting amused? Do you see me smiling?”

Whiskey whined and licked his face from chin to ear.

Mac heard their audience burst into laughter and couldn’t help but grin at the pleased expression on the large dog’s face.

***

Rachel was halfway through the casket invoices when the phone rang. She grabbed for the receiver.

“I’m fine,” she said as soon as she heard the fear in her son’s voice. “Did Carrie call you?”

 “I’m coming home,” the college freshman declared.

“Don’t be silly.” Rachel smiled as she looked at the photo she’d just unpacked and placed on the corner of her desk. It was one of her favorites. A candid shot showing a mop-topped, gangly young man with gold-rimmed glasses, and a crooked grin, flanked on either side by his best friends, Ray Kozlowski and Carrie Taylor. “That watch cat of yours, however, was a total bust.”

“Hid under the bed?”

“Faster than a New York minute.”

“You really okay? Ray said–”

“Carrie called Ray too? Look, Sam, I mean it. I’m fine. Don’t worry. The police think it was a prank. Maybe some kind of initiation. I can’t believe they took my ham.” She tried to get the whine out of her voice, but didn’t quite succeed.

The chuckle on the other end was worth it, she decided.

“You know who’s working the case? That guy on your basketball team, a couple years ahead of you, I can’t remember his name. The younger brother was in your class.” Rachel searched her pockets unsuccessfully for the cop’s card.

“I know. I heard Joe Bryant joined the police force,” Sam supplied. “His uncle was a cop.”

Remembering her latest encounter with cops, she asked, “Have you heard from your uncle?”

“I got an e-mail from Uncle Dan about a week ago, asking me some questions about our fantasy baseball team. Why?”

“I can’t seem to locate him. Don’t worry about it. I’ve left a couple of messages asking him to call me, so he’ll probably be in touch soon.”

“Well if I hear from him, I’ll tell him that you’re looking for him. Look, I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. I gotta run or I’ll be late for chemistry.”

“I wouldn’t want that.” She laughed. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay, love you. Good luck with the new job.”

“Love you too.” She held the phone a few moments, smiling softly, then turned her attention back to the numbers in front of her. She’d gotten through the last month’s account receivables, when she heard a ding from her computer.

“Roy Rogers” was the subject line of the waiting e-mail. Rachel looked around her empty office, irrationally fearful that someone might see the message; a message that was as short as it was cryptic.

“I swear it’s not what you think. Keep checking your mail. I’ll be in touch. Tell Sam not to trade Clemens. Love ya.”

“Shit,” Rachel swore under her breath, quickly deleting the e-mail. “What the hell have you done now?”

***

After his tug-of-war game with Whiskey, he drove back to her house to wait. Thanks to his dog, he’d become a minor celebrity among the funeral crowd. He left before he attracted the attention of the funeral home employees. Since she was on foot, he figured Rachel would come straight home from work.

He knew a lot about her from the records that a friend at the DMV had let him view in exchange for some football tickets. Rachel Elisabeth Thayer Brenner.
2587 Rittenhouse Street, Northwest, Washington D.C. Forty-two-years old. Brown hair. Blue Eyes. Height five-seven. Weight 125. No wants. No warrants. One ticket in the last year for faulty brake lights.

Turning a page of a wrinkled newspaper, Mac surreptitiously observed the house.

“What do you think Whiskey? Do we wait a little while longer or maybe leave and come back after five?”

He glanced at his stakeout partner. The dog seemed to be grinning at him.

“Oh shut up. It’s not funny, and despite the rave reviews of the parking lot crowd, neither are you,” Mac grumbled. “We wasted half the day. Dan Thayer never showed and I don’t think Jeff’s new makeup girl believes I’m in the market for a dog casket.”

A sharp bark barely preceded a fierce rapping on the driver’s window.

***

“This is my wife, Kathleen,” Jeff said, adding “And I think you met Sean the other day. They’ve come to steal me away for dinner.”

Rachel shook hands with her boss’s wife and nodded at the teen who was lounging on the sofa in O’Herlihy’s office.

Kathleen smiled. “How was your first day?”

Unlike her husband’s fading red hair, Kathleen’s was a deep auburn. Rachel was pretty sure it was Autumn Ginger #5. Rachel grinned. Professional hazard. She’d done too many years of hair and makeup work before concentrating on accounting. At Franklin’s she had kept the books and done the monthly billing. Jeff wanted her to be available to do both accounting and cosmetology at O’Herlihy’s. She didn’t really mind. She had done both when she’d worked for her grandfather a lifetime ago.

“I’m afraid it was more like a half day. Your husband was very understanding about some police business I had to deal with.”

Kathleen shook her head. “Jeff mentioned the break-in at your home. Is there anything we can do to help? Jeff’s best friend could advise you on some security precautions. He’s got his own business.”