Ник Сайнт - Purrfectly Hidden. Purrfect Kill. Purrfect Boy Toy

“See?” she finally said. “I say one little thing and immediately you fly off the handle.”

“I was just trying to set the record straight.”

“And I was merely pointing out a few hard truths about your species and—”

“No, you weren’t. You were spreading falsehoods, and I, for one—”

“You can’t handle the truth, cat!” suddenly the parrot shouted, and both Dooley and I were taken aback for a moment.

“Now look who’s the violent one,” I said.

“Oh, don’t talk to me about violence,” said the bird. “Violence is having your wings clipped just because some vet was given bad information at the university.”

“Trouble with your vet, huh?” I said. “Trust me, I’ve been there. Do you know that last time I went to the vet she pulled three teeth? Three teeth!”

“Oh, three teeth is nothing,” said the macaw, and lifted her wing then parted her feathers. “See those scars? That’s where she stabbed me with a needle the other day. Allegedly so she could administer a vaccine, but we know better, don’t we?”

“Oh, yes, we do. This vet kept poking me with so many needles I thought for a moment she’d mistaken me for a pincushion!”

The bird laughed heartily. “What’s the name of your vet?”

“Vena Aleman.”

“Mine, too!”

She stared at me, a smile on her face. “Well, maybe you were right. Maybe not all cats are vicious.”

“It’s the vets that are the vicious ones,” I said.

“Too true,” she said, and flew over to where we were sitting, and held up one foot. “Put it there, pals.”

So I high-fived her, and so did Dooley.

“You should drop by more often,” she said. “It’s nice to shoot the breeze like this.”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Next time we find the dead body of one of your old neighbors in the basement we’ll be sure to tell you all about it.”

She laughed, and so did Dooley and myself. And when moments later the bird’s owner walked in, and saw her macaw fraternizing with no less than two cats, she yelled up such a storm I thought for a moment she had macaw blood herself.

Chapter 27

When Odelia entered the garage of Courtyard Living, she noticed that an older man who’d been sweeping the floor suddenly put down his broom and started walking away.

“Mr. Crocket?” she called out, her voice echoing in the large space. A flatbed truck used for gardening purposes stood parked in one of the garage bays, and large pallets stacked with bags of manure and mulch lined the far wall.

The man, if he’d heard her, didn’t heed the call. Instead, he moved even quicker.

“Mr. Paddy Crocket!” she shouted, and broke into a jog. “Can I have a word with you please, sir?”

“Leave me alone!” the man growled, and had almost reached the large garage doors when he was momentarily waylaid by a truck entering the garage. It was all Odelia needed. By the time the truck had rumbled past, she’d already caught up with him.

“Hello, Mr. Crocket,” she said. “My name is Odelia Poole and—”

“I know who you are,” said the man. “I overheard you talking to the boss just now.”

She wondered how he’d managed that, but then remembered hearing a noise when she’d been talking to Amabel. It must have been the man’s silent footfall.

“I just want a quick word with you about Boyd Baker,” she said as she fell into step beside him. “Amabel told me you’ve worked here the longest, and that you may remember Mr. Baker.”

He had a distinct stoop, a ratty white beard, and a pockmarked face with shifty eyes but he was still pretty sprightly, trying to get away from her as fast as he could.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said.

“I just need some information about Mr. Baker. Did you know his body was found buried in my parents’ basement yesterday?”

“Of course. I read your articles, Miss Poole. It was all over the garage this morning.”

“Well, then you will also know that his relatives would very much like to know what exactly happened to Mr. Baker. All this time they thought he’d run out on them, while in fact he was right underneath their feet.”

The man gave her a quick sideways glance. “Don’t print my name in that newspaper of yours, Miss Poole. I don’t want any trouble, you hear?”

“I won’t print a word you tell me, or your name. Everything off the record.”

He halted in his tracks. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

He nodded curtly. “I remember Boyd. Nasty temper.”

“Nasty? What do you mean?”

“I mean the man was a drunk and a bully. And a thief and a liar, if I’m going to spill my guts and spill it properly. He was involved in some kind of gang.”

“A gang?” She remembered her grandmother’s words about the kind of rumors swirling around about Boyd Baker. Gran had told Mom things used to disappear each time Boyd was on a job, and his personnel file seemed to confirm this.

“They stole stuff. Valuable stuff. Every time a member of that crew had a job at some place, stuff would mysteriously disappear, and a couple days later Boyd and the others would suddenly show up with a brand-new car, or some fancy new clothes or an expensive watch. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, Miss Poole.”

“I saw in his personnel file that the police came here to talk to him.”

“I remember. They figured he was the ringleader, but I don’t think so. I think the real ringleader was Earl Paxton.”

“Earl Paxton,” she said as she jotted down the name.

“I wouldn’t bother looking for him. He died a long time ago. After he was fired.”

“And Boyd was part of his crew, you say?”

“Oh, yes, he was. Thick as thieves with Paxton, Boyd was. They used to hang out at the Rusty Beaver every night, talking big, and spending money like water. Back then the cops weren’t as sophisticated as they are now, and it took them a while to catch on. But once they did, Paxton was arrested, and then Boyd suddenly disappeared.”

“He was found with a diamond brooch on his person,” said Odelia, and showed the older man a picture of the brooch.

He tapped it and smiled, showing a nice set of gleaming white dentures. “This is the kind of stuff they used to steal. Made a small fortune, too.”

“And you were never involved?” she asked, quasi casually.

“No, I wasn’t. I was too young and too fresh. They only trusted the people who’d worked here a while, and they didn’t trust no outsiders. In fact when I said something about these accusations and rumors once, Boyd actually cut me.” He stripped up his coverall sleeve and showed Odelia a tiny white stripe. “See? That’s where he cut me. Happened fifty-something years ago but I remember it like it was yesterday. No, Miss Poole. Boyd Baker was a bad man, and if he was murdered he got exactly what he deserved.”

Chase had been going through the archives and gradually getting more and more covered in dust and spider webs. He cursed the genius who’d scrapped the budget to transfer all of these old files to digital format. So far he hadn’t found anything useful, but he had a hunch, and over the years he’d learned better than to ignore those hunches of his.

There was more to this Boyd Baker case than met the eye, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Dolores had asked him if he’d have put in so much effort if the body hadn’t been found in what practically amounted to his own basement, and he’d told her that didn’t matter one bit. A crime had been committed, however long ago, and justice needed to be served.

And then when she’d asked him if he’d have dug so deep if the body had dated back to the eighteen-hundreds, he’d told her there was no statute of limitations on murder, though he had to admit he might balk at investigating a crime that happened over a century ago.