Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

Eric McCrea knew that most cases were cleared with systematic, step-by-step investigation, methodical and well analyzed. Still, there was an element of luck to police work, too, and he didn’t know a single cop who’d disagree with him on that score.

Eric McCrea was about to get lucky.

He had been working his way down the list of McNabb’s family and friends, trying to find someone who might give the weasel up or at least tell the truth about his relationship with his wife. Eric had spoken to two co-workers already that morning, respectable, solid family guys who lived on quiet streets and kept their lawns mowed. Neither of them had ever socialized with Wyler McNabb, except for the company parties BWI Opperman put on. Neither of them knew much about Tally McNabb other than that the couple had been together since high school. No one recalled Wyler talking about or spending time with another woman.

“He sucked when he was on construction,” one man said. “Got fired off the resort here. He got rehired as a foreman, though, and he actually did better at that. He wasn’t dumb. Just allergic to hard work.”

An opportunist, Eric thought. Lives off others.

“He was kind of an asshole,” the other man said. “Thought he was smarter than he was and wanted you to think so, too.”

Arrogant, Eric thought. Confident he can get away with murder.

The next stop on the list was in an entirely different neighborhood-the Meadowbrook Estates Park, a tightly packed collection of rusting, rattling single-wides that had neither a meadow nor a brook to soften the hard-packed dirt between the concrete slabs and hook-ups. This was the home of Morris Slinger Jr. Fetch, as he was known, was one of those guys who managed to live off a combination of disability, small-time dealing, and the generosity of his friends. The most generous of whom was Wyler McNabb.

Eric was pleased to see Fetch’s Camaro beneath a fabric-topped, PVC-pole car park. He had tried the place yesterday, but his target had been gone. He pulled in, blocking the Camaro, and got out.

He banged on the door. Behind and around him, he could hear the pop and scrape of aluminum latches on aluminum frames, as Fetch’s neighbors stuck their heads out to watch the show.

“This is the Millers Kill police,” Eric roared. “Open the door!”

The door opened. Fetch stood inside, tall, blond, and still gangly, even though his teens were well past him now. “Hey. Sergeant McCrea.” He was trying for some enthusiasm. “What’s up, man?” He plucked at his T-shirt. “I’m clean. You can walk right in and see for yourself. Clean as a whistle.”

“I’m looking for a buddy of yours. Wyler McNabb.”

“Wyler.” Fletch’s voice relaxed. He stopped tugging his shirt out of shape. “Yeah, man, I just dropped him off at his house, like, less than an hour ago. What’s up?”

A flare of excitement shot up Eric’s spine and detonated inside his skull. He kept his face blank and his voice hard. “Where were the two of you?”

“At the Mohegan Sun. They had this off-season special, Monday night to Friday morning. Our room was, like, dirt cheap and we got free breakfast, too.”

The Mohegan Sun. The Connecticut casino was on Kevin’s list of out-of-state locations. Easy to follow up on.

“You were both there. The whole week.”

“Yeah.” Fetch mimed pulling a slot machine lever with one long, skinny arm. “It was just for the gambling, man. The casinos, they’re way strict. They even think you’re carrying, next thing you know security’s tossed your ass out the door and you ain’t gettin’ in again.”

“Why’d you take your car instead of his?”

Fetch shrugged. “He asked me if I wanted to drive. He paid for the gas and tolls and shit.” His face creased with concern. “You know, for real, Wyler likes a good time, but he don’t party. He don’t use shit, and he don’t move it. If that’s what you’re looking for, you’re going to come up with nothing.”

Eric thought, for a moment, about calling in the CSI and impounding Fetch’s Camaro. Just because they had spent four glorious nights in some resort didn’t mean they hadn’t snuck back home for a little wet work. In which case, there might be fiber or skin or hair inside that car. He decided against it. If they hadn’t already cleaned and vacuumed after McNabb’s death, he was pretty sure Fetch wasn’t up to the task of sanitizing the environment himself.

“I want you to stay here.” He jabbed his finger at Fetch, not quite touching him. “You stay here, and the car stays here.”

Fetch’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Okay. Uh, for how long?”

“Until I tell you. Got it?”

Fetch nodded.

Eric gave him one more look, the one that said, I will mess you up if you cross me , and strode back to his unit. He waited until he had pulled out of the mobile home park to pick up his mic. “Dispatch, this is fifteen-twenty-five.”

“Fifteen-twenty-five, this is Dispatch, go ahead.”

“I’ve got a forty on Wyler McNabb. He was dropped off at his house within the last hour. He was supposedly at the Mohegan Sun in Connecticut since Monday afternoon. Can somebody verify that stay for me?”

“Roger that, fifteen-twenty-five.”

“I’m proceeding to 16 Musket Way to bring the suspect in for questioning.”

“Roger that, fifteen-twenty-five. Do you require backup?”

Did he require backup? Hell no. Not against a limp-dicked woman-killer like McNabb. “Negative on that, Dispatch.” If McNabb did come after him, so much the better. He told Harlene what she would want to hear. “I’ll proceed with caution, Dispatch. If anything looks off, I’ll call for support.”

He hadn’t thought much of Tally McNabb’s cheating. Sure, it had been common among troops in Iraq, but so were sand fleas-and he sure wouldn’t have taken one of those into his bunk. Even if she had slept with every guy in her unit and then shown pictures of it to her husband, by God she had been one of their own. A brother in arms. He wasn’t going to let her down at the last.

Approaching the house, Eric saw the first sign McNabb was home. The garage doors were open, and McNabb’s ATV had been rolled onto the blacktop. Eric entered through the overcluttered garage and pounded on the kitchen door. “This is the Millers Kill police. Open up!”

There was a long pause. Finally, a voice said, “Prove it.”

Oh, for chrissake. “Look out your front window, asshole. You can see my cruiser sitting at the foot of your drive.”

Another period of silence. Then, “Whaddaya want?”

“I want you to open up this goddamn door before I kick it in!”

The door cracked open. Eric slid his boot into the opening, leaned against the edge of the door with his shoulder, and greased right through. “Hey!” McNabb backed away, bunching his hands into fists. “You can’t do that.”

“We’re like vampires, asshole. You open the door, we get to come in and stay.”

“What the hell do you want?” McNabb was dressed for the outdoors: ripstop woodlands camo pants and a matching shirt. A blaze-orange vest and bill cap were hooked over a kitchen chair.

“Going someplace?”

“I’m meeting some buddies. We’re going riding. No law against that.”

“Riding where?”

“We got a course set up behind the resort. Anybody who works for the company can use it. You can check. Nobody’s trespassing.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass whose woods you’re tearing up on that oversized roller skate. I want you to come with me to the station. We need to have a talk with you.”

“Am I under arrest?”