Your Chariot Awaits (12 page)

“A search warrant?” I repeated blankly. “Why?”

He handed me several pages stapled together. “It's all in there.”

I had the feeling I should inspect the warrant line by line and not let him intimidate me, but the words were a blur of legalese. I was also suddenly aware that I was standing there with bare toes poking through the holes in my sneakers and bits of grass plastered to my legs. Not exactly your basic power outfit.

“The warrant, as you can see, has been properly signed and authorized by Judge Adkins.” He pointed to the scrawl of an unreadable signature. “You may come inside to watch the search if you wish, but you will be required to remain in one place and not interfere.”

“I . . . I think I'll just stay out here.”

He took the paper back. “When the search is completed, you will be furnished with a copy of the warrant along with an itemized list of any items seized.”

Two officers headed for my Corolla. Detective Sergeant Molino and the other officer advanced to the house.

“The door's unlocked,” I called, so they wouldn't think they had to kick it down. I had the feeling Detective Sergeant Molino would have been delighted if he'd had to do exactly that.

With the arrival of the sheriff's department cars, neighbors rushed out to their yards to watch, of course. Tom and his binoculars had moved to the gate for a closer look. Moose gave a few desultory barks.

I swallowed, suddenly feeling so alone and vulnerable. Like the many times we'd moved when I was a girl, facing yet another new school as the outsider, lonely, uncertain, and scared.

I thought I'd just continue mowing, trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, but after one length of the yard, my leg and arm muscles felt as if they'd gone through a shredder, and the mower seemed as unwieldy as a tank.

I gave up, parked the mower under the big maple on

Joella's side of the yard, and plopped down on the white metal bench in the shade. Then, wouldn't you know it, ol' Moose got out of the Sheersons' yard and headed right for my daisies. I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him home, but I couldn't be too mad. He was such a goofy, loving creature.

By the time I got back to the bench, the two officers were taking the floor mats out of the Corolla, emptying the glove compartment, and digging into the spare tire area under the floor of the trunk.

I tried to comfort myself with the thought that there couldn't be anything that tied me to Jerry's murder. Because I
wasn't
tied to it. And yet, could they find something that would look as if I were connected, something they could use as evidence against me?

I was thinking maybe I should go inside to observe the search, when another car pulled in behind the deputies' parked vehicles. I was astonished to see Fitz jump out. He spotted me and dodged around the crime-scene tape to get to where I was sitting under the maple.

“Hey, Matt told me some strange story about your limo and a dead body. I tried to call, but I didn't get any answer, so—”

I wasn't sure if I was glad to see him or not, considering his son's grumpy attitude on the phone. “How'd you know where I live?” I cut in.

“I'm a detective, remember?”

“A TV detective.”

“Yeah, well, I solved a murder once. Mr. Bolivar, who lived right next door to me down in LA, was poisoned, and the police were getting nowhere finding out who did it till I solved the case for them.”

I was impressed, though I didn't intend to show it. “So how'd you know where I live?” I repeated. My phone book list- ing, like that of many women living alone, doesn't show an address.

“I went by the Sweet Breeze and asked Joella.”

He sounded a little sheepish, but I figured that was pretty quick-thinking detective work.

“Anyway, I decided I'd come over and see if I could help. I thought maybe Matt had things mixed up, but it looks as if something did happen here.”

Fitz eyed the patrol cars, crime-scene tape, and two officers burrowing through my Corolla. I was embarrassed to see them set out a squashed McDonald's coffee cup, a pair of tangled pantyhose, half a mummified doughnut, and a book on growing daisies that was long overdue at the library. I couldn't believe there was so much trash tucked away in the nooks and crannies of the car. But it was good to see the library book. I'd been trying to find it for two weeks.

They laid everything out on the grass like finds from an archeological dig. The artifacts of Andi McConnell's life. Not pretty, but surely nothing there that could connect me with murder.

“So what did happen?” Fitz peered at me more closely. “Are you all right?”

It was a question I seemed to be getting a lot lately. “I'm not sure,” I admitted.

“Can I get you something? Water? Soda?”

“No, that's okay. You probably can't go in the house. They're searching in there too.”

He sat on the bench beside me. “Why?”

“The dead body in the limo. I . . . I think they think I killed him.”

“Who is it they think you killed?”

“Jerry Norton.”

“Boyfriend Jerry Norton?”

“That'd be the one.”

“I'm not going to ask if you did it, because I know you didn't. But tell me what happened.”

Once more I ran through my tale of hearing something in the night, coming out to lock the limo, getting hit on the head, Tom finding me and calling 911, and the deputies discovering the body in the trunk of the limo.

“Did they have a search warrant then?”

“No, I told them they could do it. The trunk was empty the last time I looked. They'd looked in the house too, before that, but they were looking for a possible intruder then, not evidence.”

“And you have no idea how the body got there?”

“All I know is I didn't kill him and . . . I'm scared.”

Unexpectedly he slid over and put his arms around me, and just as unexpectedly I was so glad he'd come. I leaned my head against his shoulder. I wasn't alone now. Fitz was here. Here not just because he was nosy, but because he wanted to help.

12

H
ave you been questioned?” Fitz asked.

“A deputy asked a few questions here, and then I had to go to the sheriff's station, where a detective asked a lot more questions and took my fingerprints. They said I didn't need a lawyer and didn't read me those . . . what are they called? Miranda rights.”

“They don't need to do that unless they're arresting you. What are they looking for here?”

“I have no idea.”

“They can't just barge in on a generalized fishing-and-snooping expedition. They're required to name what they're looking for in order to get a search warrant. Did they show you the warrant?”

“They did, but I was too shook-up to make any sense out of it. And I don't understand what there is to search for. The deputies or crime-scene people already took the shovel. And the limo, too, of course.”

“The shovel? What does a shovel have to do with it?”

So again I had to explain my chase and assault on Jerry's car. It was not a story that improved with repetition, but Fitz made no comment.

“The shovel was lying out in the driveway right by the limousine, so I think it was probably the murder weapon. And maybe what someone hit me with, too.”

“Let me see where you were hit.”

If it had just been nosiness, I'd have told him to take a fly-ing leap into the Bay, but I heard real concern in his voice. I slid around on the bench and parted my hair with my fingers.

“Joella cleaned it up and put some salve on it. It feels kind of goopy.”

He peered and then fingered the lump gently. “There's still a fair-sized bump, but the break appears to be scabbing over. I'm no expert, but it doesn't look like the kind of wound a shovel would make. The edge of a shovel with any force behind it would probably make a pretty deep gash. This looks as if it was done with something more blunt.”

“Joella suggested the flat part of the shovel rather than the edge.”

“Could be. But why would the cops suspect you of any-thing if you were attacked too?”

“Would they be searching my house and car if they didn't suspect me?”

“Good point.”

“Your son was upset with me. I told him I'd pick up your clients in the SUV since I can't do it in the limousine.”

“Matt's a great guy, and I love him dearly, but sometimes he can be a pain in the you-know-where. He's a nittygritty perfectionist and likes everything to run according to schedule.
His
schedule. But I don't want you driving all the way over to Sea-Tac if you don't feel up to it.”

“Mowing the lawn today probably wasn't such a bright idea, but I think I'll be okay by tomorrow. I don't want you to have to do it and miss your appointment.”

In spite of all my other worries, I was still curious about

Fitz's meeting with a lawyer. My fishing trip didn't produce any results, however. Instead he grabbed the mower and attacked the lawn, pausing a couple of times to kick aside fresh mounds of dirt the lawn critters had pushed up. He used special care around my daisy beds, lifting the drooping stems so he could mow under them and not take off the blooming heads. With his energetic style, he also finished the mowing in about half the time it usually took me to do it.

By that time the two officers had finished with the Corolla and gone inside the house. They'd added several more items to the lineup of artifacts from the car: a box of macaroni and cheese, various scraps of paper, and a broken comb.

All four men exited the house at the same time, a flying wedge of them, Detective Sergeant Molino in the lead. He started to hand me the official-looking papers, but Fitz stuck out his hand.

“I'd like to see those, please.”

Detective Sergeant Molino gave me a questioning look.

“This is my friend—” I broke off, and it took me a moment to come up with Fitz's real first name. “My friend, Keegan Fitzpatrick. And I would like him to see the search warrant,” I added firmly.

“Then you may show it to him at your leisure,” the detective said, stubbornly thrusting the papers at me. “The list of items seized is attached.”

For the first time I noticed one of the other officers was carrying a baggie with a small jar of white tablets.

“Why do you want my calcium pills?” I asked, astonished.

Another baggie in his other hand.

“And my basil. What are you doing with that? And my thyme!” I added indignantly. “My friend Letty at F&N gave me those. She raises her own herbs.”

Detective Sergeant Molino looked uncharacteristically non- plussed. “Calcium? Basil? They weren't labeled—” He recovered quickly and added smoothly, “The lab will make proper identification of the materials.” With the definite hint that just because I said they were calcium and basil and thyme didn't make them so.

The officers removed the crime-scene tape on their way out and drove away. Fitz was still studying the search warrant.

“What does it say they took?”

“One bottle of unidentified white tablets, two plastic bags of unidentified crushed green organic substances. Maybe they're making spaghetti down at the station.”

“But I don't understand. Surely this isn't what they came to look for.”

“No—” Fitz flipped to an earlier page. “They were looking for drugs. Apparently they thought your unlabeled calcium pills and spices could fit in that category.”

“Drugs!”

Then I remembered. Tom and his wild suggestion that Jerry and I could have been involved in drug trafficking. Would they do a search based on that? Or had they suspicions of their own? Police had busted several home-based meth labs around Vigland in the past year.

“But the big search was probably for what's right up here at the top of the list. A handgun, .38 caliber.”

“A gun! I don't have a gun. I've never had a gun! And why would it matter if I did? Jerry was killed with a shovel.”

“Are you sure?”

I reconsidered. “No, I guess not. There was supposed to be an autopsy this morning.”

“They were also looking for ammunition and a silencer. And a Rolex watch.”

“But I'm the one who told them Jerry's Rolex might be missing! Would I tell them that if I'd hidden it in my own house?”

“And then they also did what the police usually do, which is make a catchall list of small items: papers and records connected with drug deals, drug paraphernalia, etc. That way they can look in all the small spaces they couldn't look in if they listed only larger items.”

“You know a lot about this.”

“I did a fair amount of research and worked with the police on situations we were using on the show to be sure we got them right.”

“I'm glad you were here today. And thanks for mowing my lawn too.”

“Glad to do it.”

“Well, I guess I should go in and get cleaned up.” That green shadow of cut grass sprayed by the mower still clung to my legs and ankles. And there were my bare toes, of course, peeking through the holes in the sneakers.

“Maybe I should come in with you. It may be a mess in there.”

“A mess?”

“Police aren't noted for leaving everything neat and tidy after a search. We used that situation a couple of times on the detective show.”

I realized now that I didn't know what TV detective show he'd been on. Crime and detective shows are not high on my list of TV preferences, so I'd probably never heard of it, but to be polite I thought I should ask.

“It was called
Ed Montrose, P.I.E
. The initials were for Private Investigator Extraordinaire. It wasn't any huge hit, but it ran for about four years. Though that was almost twenty years ago. A couple of older guys on the city police force remember it, but I don't suppose anyone else does.”