Кроха - Dedication

This meant Detectives Ray and Cameron would have custody of the evidence, would examine and photograph it, log it in, seal it in the appropriate individual bags, and transport it to the station to the evidence room. Joe watched Max and Dallas remove the ladder. Dallas shot another round of pictures and then, with John Bern, carefully lifted and wrapped the body in clean sheets—as clean as they could be kept. Joe watched them seal Ben into a body bag. Feeling sick and cold, he started suddenly thinking about Ben’s construction notebook.

He had seen Ben, alone at odd hours, as during a coffee break, writing in the last pages of the little spiral-bound tablet. Not making his usual brief measurement and product memos on the front pages, but writing away in longer passages at the back, frowning, deeply occupied; he had watched Ben drop the notebook in his pocket if anyone came to join him. What was on those pages?

Could Ben have known the killer? If this wasn’t a random shooting, if someone had killed Ben on purpose, would the notebook shed some light on the murder?

He’d like to have a look, but there was no way. He watched Max and John Bern carry the body to Bern’s van. When they had him strapped in place, Dallas turned back to the house, picked up the ladder that he had already fingerprinted and photographed, set it in place and climbed up to examine and photograph the roof where Ben had been working. Watching him, Joe crouched in reflex when Tekla’s angry voice echoed sharply from down the street. He reared up above the bushes to look.

Down at the corner, Ryan and Clyde stood facing Tekla Bleak, her angry harangue exploding in their faces. She was alone, Joe didn’t see Sam. Maybe she’d left him in the van, parked beyond Ryan’s truck nosed into the sawhorse barrier. Tekla’s voice was shrill enough to take a cat’s ears off. Joe had to grin at Officer McFarland’s annoyed scowl.

“Of course it’s your fault! Whose fault would it be! One of your people murdered right here in my house. How could you let such a thing happen! Why would you allow this? I can’t live where someone’s been murdered, where there’s been a dead body! How could you . . .”

Joe threaded through the hedge, raced through the backyards to the corner and slipped under a lavender bush. The murder was Ryan’s fault? Right. This woman was certifiably nuts. He wanted to leap in her face, show her what claws felt like.

“It’s a good thing Sam isn’t here, I can’t have Sam upset and distraught—”

“Where is Sam?” Ryan said, to distract her. “He’s always with you.”

“Why is that your business? Sam’s home with Arnold, the boy has a cold. Don’t change the subject, Ms. Flannery. I cannot have this mess in my yard. I cannot have police all over my property. This is intolerable. I won’t—”

She looked shocked when Clyde forcibly took her arm and turned her toward her van. “I suggest you wait in your vehicle, Tekla. Captain Harper will want to talk with you. You don’t want to tramp around mingling your footprints with those of the killer?” Clyde asked, smiling. “You don’t want to add your footprints to the possible evidence? This is a crime scene now. This is police territory.”

Tekla jerked her arm away from Clyde and turned her back. She was standing stiffly by the barrier glaring at McFarland when a second squad car drew up, nosing into the shade beneath a cypress tree. Detective Juana Davis got out, square, dark uniformed, and severe. The no-nonsense officer was still limping, her knee replacement giving her trouble. Ignoring Tekla, she put her arm around Billy and took Ryan’s hand, her dark Latina eyes warm and caring. She talked softly with them for a few minutes, then turned to Tekla, her black eyes unreadable, a cop’s closed look. Silently Tekla looked at her. Joe settled more comfortably among the bushes hoping Davis would question Tekla right there, where he wouldn’t miss anything—Davis would question Billy and Ryan, too, for whatever information they might have, whatever they had observed.

These first interviews were best done at the scene, when the crime was fresh. Where had the ladder been stored? Did Ben have a key to the house or garage? Did Billy? Had any of them given someone else a key? Did Ben always come to work so early? Was Billy sure no one else had been there when he arrived? But it was Tekla’s answers that Joe burned to hear. Davis would ask where Tekla had been this morning, would ask for all kinds of details while, later at the station, Dallas would repeat those questions and more, the detectives alert for incongruities, for conflicting answers.

Now, at the far side of the house, Dallas was searching for trace evidence where the body had been removed. Soon he would photograph the ground there, would process for fingerprints on the window frames, would examine and take samples from all the surround. Before they finished up this morning, the officers would search Ben’s car and his apartment; both were now a part of the crime scene. Meanwhile Joe waited impatiently for Tekla’s interview, for Davis to sit her down right there, on the porch steps, to conduct the inquiry

But instead, Davis walked Tekla to her squad car, got her settled, and began the preliminary questions. Joe was poised to slip over under the car or ease up on top beneath the cypress branches when Max came out of the house and down the steps. He put his arm around Ryan and drew Billy to him. Curious, Joe waited.

“Juana can do your interviews later,” he told them. “As soon as Davis is through with Tekla, she’s headed for Ben’s apartment. I’d like you two to follow her, get the rescue cats and their cages out of there so she can work that part of the scene. I have an officer up there, he got a key from the landlord. I don’t want the place unguarded until we’re done with it.” The rescue cages were unlikely receptacles for any item of interest, but in a search, they needed to be cleared.

Ryan and Billy waited through Juana’s interview, sitting on the steps close together out of Dallas’s way. Joe did slip under the squad car but he couldn’t hear much; Tekla’s voice was sullen and low. When at last Tekla stepped out scowling and got into her van, and Ryan and Billy headed for Ryan’s king cab, Joe Grey slipped into the truck bed. He was startled nearly out of his paws when Dulcie landed beside him in a flying leap from beneath the hedge.

“What the hell!” he hissed. “How long have you been here? Can’t you be more careful! Those are our kittens you’re carrying! My God,” he snapped. “Are you all right? Are they all right?”

Dulcie smiled sweetly. “I’m fine, the kittens are fine. It was just a little leap.” She rubbed her whiskers against him. “Wilma heard the call on the police scanner.” She yawned in his face. “Scanner woke me up. Guess I slept in this morning, I was so full of mice. She . . . Wilma called the station to find out what had happened. I left her crying,” Dulcie said sadly. She settled quietly on the folded tarp beside him, and there were tears in her own eyes. “I still can’t believe it. Ben. Such a dear, gentle fellow.”

Joe clawed at the jackets that lay tossed in the bottom of the truck, pulled them up onto the folded tarp to make a softer bed for her. She gave him a whisker kiss and curled up there. She looked so sad. The engine started and they were on their way, following Juana’s patrol car up to Ben’s place. Joe supposed that until Ryan found new foster homes for Ben’s rescue cats they would reside in the Damens’ downstairs guest room.

Riding in the truck bed close to Dulcie, he wondered if Ben’s notebook had been in his jacket pocket when he died, along with the cell phone he always carried. Why did the notebook keep nudging at him, why did he think it important? And now the phone, too—the phone he’d seen more than once aimed casually at Tekla’s feet as Ben stood near her ordering supplies or checking on a delivery.