Ник Сайнт: Purrfect Secret

She admired the ivy-covered brick exterior of the tabloid magnate’s house, and the stone steps leading up to heavy oak doors.

“Security?” she asked as she followed Chase inside.

There was a hubbub of police activity, and Odelia nodded greetings to several Hampton Cove PD officers she personally knew. Having a police chief for an uncle awarded her a lot of advantages as a reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette: often she was the first one on the scene, and the first one to glean interesting bits of information. And sometimes, like now, she was even invited to join in on the investigation. The only thing she didn’t have was one of those windbreakers with the word WRITER printed across the front and back.

“Oh, he had security,” said Chase, “only whoever did this was smart enough to know their way around the system.”

They walked through an ornate entrance hall, every bit of wall space covered in laminated covers of the National Star . Clearly Dick Dickerson had been proud of his work.

They took a right turn past a huge statue of Dickerson dressed like Napoleon, complete with prancing black stallion, and walked into what looked like the tabloid king’s private study. And that’s when she saw it: a trail of greenish sludge on the floor, leading to the biggest safe she’d ever seen. It looked like one of those ginormous bank safes.

And then she caught a whiff of the smell and she winced.

“It gets worse,” Chase said when he saw her expression.

And it did. As they approached the safe, she saw that the floor was covered with two inches of the same green-and-white sludge, and the stench was beyond horrible. Inadvertently she brought a hand up to her face to cover her mouth.

Lying face up in all of that muck, was Dick Dickerson.

Chapter 6

Odelia was glad she hadn’t brought her cats. They didn’t need to see—or smell—this. Two people from the Suffolk County coroner’s office were examining the body. They were wearing face masks. Not a bad idea. She probably should have brought that clothespin.

“Poor guy,” she said as they walked back out of the safe. “Not a pleasant way to go.”

“No, it sure wasn’t,” said Chase.

“What was he doing in that safe?”

“We think he must have been lured there—did you notice he was dressed in his pajamas?”

Actually she hadn’t. She’d been too busy trying to fight the nausea the smell created. “So how did they do that?”

“We have no idea. But he didn’t lock himself up in that safe. And there are no signs of a struggle. So he must have walked in there voluntarily, then had the safe door close up on him.”

“How did the duck poop get into the safe?”

“They thought about this,” said Chase, as he led her out of the office and back into the hallway. “In fact this must have taken careful preparation. This wasn’t some half-assed job they put together at the last minute.”

“They? You think there was more than one assailant?”

“Oh, yes. This was not a one-man job.”

He walked her around the house, along a wood chip mulch path that snaked along the side. She saw several patches of nice-looking petunias, geraniums, million bells and impatiens. And of course some of the popular deer-resistant annuals like angelonia, snapdragons and helichrysum. Like everywhere on the South Fork, deer liked to roam wild and free in Hampton Cove, devouring whatever they could dig their hungry teeth into.

They’d reached the back of Dickerson’s huge house, and Odelia frowned when her eyes met a scene she wouldn’t normally associate with the fastidious billionaire: a huge tanker had been backed up to the house, a five-inch hose connecting it to a wall vent. Next to the tanker, a tractor had been parked.

“This is how they got the duck poop into the safe,” explained Chase, pointing to the hose. “That’s where the vault vent used to be. Dickerson had a safety built into the vent to prevent liquids from being introduced or birds nesting in there but they simply ripped the whole thing out and fed the hose straight into the vault’s HVAC system.”

Odelia stared at the huge tanker, which looked just like any fuel tanker, only this one had obviously been used to transport something different from oil or gasoline. “Where did they get the tanker? And the duck poop?”

“Geary Potbelly. He’s the only duck farmer left on Long Island. We already arranged for an interview. He says one of his tractors and one of his tankers was stolen last night, a tanker full of liquid duck poop ready to be taken to the poop processing plant.” Chase gestured to the tanker. “This here tanker and that there duck poop.”

Odelia pursed her lips. “This was an organized setup, Chase. Not some kid coming in from the street bearing a grudge against Dickerson. Whoever did this planned this out in advance.” She studied the hole in the wall up close. “They must have had blueprints.”

“Possibly,” Chase admitted. “And you’re right about this being a professional crew.”

“So you’re looking at organized crime?”

He nodded. “Like you said, they needed a lot of know-how to pull this off. Then again, there are crews who do this work for hire. Anyone could have contracted them.”

“Anyone who wanted Dick Dickerson dead. Any candidates?”

“Oh, plenty,” he said. “In fact we’re working on a list right now. Turns out Mr. Dickerson was not exactly the people’s favorite. Exactly the opposite, in fact.”

“People he insulted with his articles?”

“Amongst others. If you want you can join me on some of the interviews. With Alec out of town I could use the extra pair of eyes and ears. Not to mention your keen mind.”

“Oh, so now it’s my mind you’re suddenly interested in, huh?”

“Not just your mind,” he admitted with a wide grin as he pulled her close.

There was some more kissing until a cough interrupted them. When Odelia looked up, she found a man dressed in coveralls staring at them. He was fiddling with his cap.

“So can I take her back then?” he asked.

“Yes, you can, Bert,” said Chase.

“Is that…”

“Bert is in charge of the duck poop tanker,” said Chase. “He works for Potbelly.”

“What a way to make a living.”

Bert mounted the tractor, adjusted his cap, spat on the ground, then proceeded to maneuver the tractor in front of the manure tanker. He jumped back down, and hooked the tanker up to the tractor, then hopped back into the powerful rig, and then he was pulling that mastodon from Dickerson’s lawn, giving Odelia and Chase a nod as he did.

“Murdered by duck poop,” said Odelia as they watched the tractor drive off.

“There’s a certain irony to it, though, right?” said Chase.

“You mean a peddler of poop being killed by poop?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It is ironic. But it’s still murder, Chase. And we still have to catch whoever did this.”

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more. But you have to admit there’s a sort of poetic justice to the whole thing, if you consider the lives Dickerson destroyed by printing his brand of filth.”

Chase was right. Even though she was a reporter herself, the kind of stuff the National Star engaged in could hardly be called journalism. Half of what they wrote was invented, and the other half grossly exaggerated. And all of it intended to provoke, intimidate, ridicule and cater to the lowest common denominator or possibly even lower.

No, she didn’t think Dick Dickerson would be missed. But he was still a human being, and he’d been murdered, so whoever was responsible needed to be brought to justice.

And she was just about to follow Chase back to his pickup when her phone rang. When she took it out she saw it was an unknown number. Not unusual for a reporter.