Кроха - Dedication

Across the room, the two men and the young woman seemed to have forgotten their own troubles as they enjoyed the entertainment. Under the bunk, Joe and Dulcie were more frustrated than entertained. They wanted to follow Max and Tekla and listen, and they didn’t dare cross the room. They watched them vanish down the hall. They heard Harper’s door close, hard and decisively. Then silence. Their line of communication had gone as dead as an unplugged phone.

Cut off from eavesdropping, they curled up beneath the bunk into that drowsy seminap that serves a cat in times of annoyance, when things don’t go as planned.

Maybe Max would record Tekla’s statement at the same time that he made written notes; maybe they could listen later. But to what end? What would they learn? The woman was all vitriol and hot air. They were dozing and waking, listening for Max’s door to open, when Ryan came up the hall with Davis, and Dallas and Billy behind them. Ryan stopped at the desk.

“Evijean, we’re going to do some errands. Will you tell Captain Harper we’ll be back, so Billy can ride home with him?”

Evijean scowled and nodded. Ryan, turning away, was just beside the holding cell when she dropped her car keys.

Leaning down to retrieve them, she glanced in at Joe and Dulcie—she knew just where they’d be, with the lobby full of strangers. Her look said, Are you coming?

Both cats looked back at her blankly, their ears down in a no, we’re not, get out of our faces stare that made Ryan hide a laugh. Rising again, she went on out, following Billy. Joe knew she’d meant to drive Dulcie home to Wilma, not leave her running the roofs; but Dulcie backed away stubbornly.

There were only two civilians waiting now, the young woman having been seen and sent on her way. Joe was wishing they could make a dash for Max’s office when they heard his door open, heard Tekla whine, “ . . . but you’re the police. It’s your—”

“As I explained, Mrs. Bleak, this is not police business. This is between you and Ms. Flannery. If you want to file charges of misconduct, which I think would be hard to substantiate . . .” He was walking behind Tekla; she halted when she saw Ryan and Billy disappear out the glass door to the parking lot.

“What are they doing here?”

Max just looked at her.

“You will file charges against her!” she said shrilly.

As Evijean called the remaining two civilians to the counter, and Max walked Tekla to the door, behind their backs Joe and Dulcie made a dash past the counter and down the hall to the chief’s office.

When Max returned, Dulcie was curled up on the leather couch. She looked up purring at Max’s indulgent glance. From the bookcase, Joe got a gentle scratch on the head as Max sat down, picked up the form where he’d recorded Tekla’s statement. He scanned it into the computer, then slipped the sheets into a file in his desk drawer. Turning back to the computer, he pulled up the first section of Kathleen’s report, which she had sent from the coroner’s office. It included details of the condition of the clothing and of the body as clothing was removed. Joe skipped down to her list of Ben’s personal belongings: pocketknife, small grouting spatula, car and house keys, oversize bandanna, wallet, and a neatly folded packet of receipts from various building supply houses. No cell phone, no notebook.

Had these two items disappeared after the shooting, lifted from Ben’s pocket by the killer? Or had Ben somehow been able to hide them before he died? Standing on the ladder working on the roof, had he heard an uneasy noise behind him? Had he glimpsed someone standing below in the shadows of the surrounding trees? Had he seen the gun? In that split second, had he, in desperation, quickly stashed the items he didn’t want someone to find? But hidden them where?

Dallas had searched that whole area, had taken Ben’s toolbox as evidence, had climbed the ladder and searched the roof for debris and trace elements.

Did Ben have those items when he fell, and the killer snatched them? Or, Joe thought, am I chasing shadows? Is the notebook of no interest? Was there nothing in the back but a few personal thoughts, like a diary? Nothing among the phone’s pictures but building details? Am I fretting over nothing more than a collection of building specifications and material lists?

Juana had searched Ben’s apartment and searched Ben’s car for evidence, and Dallas had worked the rooms of the remodel. The detectives knew Ben had a phone and a notebook, so they should be as interested as Joe to know what they might contain—but they had found neither. Now he watched Max remove another file from the drawer and pull out a yellow pad, the kind on which he made random notes. Hanging half off the bookshelf, Joe scanned the chief’s brief notations about those who had been attacked. The full reports would be on the computer. Max made no move to bring that up on the screen—even for Joe’s convenience. The yellow pad was a place to contemplate, to perhaps jot down random thoughts about the victims.

Betty Porter, leaving work, M.P. Drugstore, streets stormy, nearly dark, hit from behind as she approached her car. Nothing stolen. Still had her purse, her billfold with credit cards and cash. Sent to ER, her spleen removed, recuperating at home, twenty-four-hour nurse.

Hazel Curt, walking home carrying groceries, again nearly dark. Hit from behind, knocked down, not badly hurt. Again, no robbery. She walked on home, called the department. No sign of attempted break-in. No further occurrence reported.

Luella Simms. Late afternoon. Attacked in parking lot of Village Grocery, loading shopping bags into backseat, knocked down but saw no one, nothing stolen. She was helped by a passerby, refused transportation to ER. Reported bruises, no injuries.

Elsie Rice, walking from her cottage at Pineview seniors’ residence to the dining room for breakfast, 9 a.m. Hit from behind, fell into bushes. Saw no one, heard no running. Davis took the call, photographed footprints in the damp lawn. Victim was cared for at the facility. No enemies in the facility that she knew of.

A notation in the margin: “Have received so far two dozen frightened phone calls, citizens sure they were being followed. Conducted interviews. No useful information.”

The last four names were the murder victims, Max had marked three with a penciled note: “San Francisco connection?”

Ogden Welder. 84-year-old retired banker. Walking home from the beach, 6:40 p.m., attacked from behind, critically injured, died, MP Hospital. Lived alone, Jasper Senior Apartments. Listed by the facility as having no family.

James Allen. Attacked 6:30 a.m. in driveway of his house, in his walker as he wiped windshield of his car. Had an order in his pocket for routine blood work, was headed for the lab. Heard nothing. Knocked to the ground, heard someone running, light footsteps like rubber soles. Saw no one. Statement was short, in severe pain. Died in ER 1:03 a.m. of a ruptured aorta. Attending doctor: Robert Ingleton. Officers Brennan and McFarland canvassed neighborhood. No witnesses, no newspaper delivery yet. Allen moved to MP from San Francisco with wife two years ago, bought small cottage on First Street.

Merle Rodin. Hit from behind, patio garden outside McKee Jewelry approx. 9 a.m. Found by passerby, transported to ER. Cause of death: blow to head with brick, severe contusion, blood but no prints on brick. See coroner’s report: Kathleen Ray.

Ben Stonewell. Shot in back of head while standing on ladder at construction job. Approx. 7:15 a.m. Dead when he hit the ground. See coroner’s report: Kathleen Ray. Moved from San Francisco eleven months ago. Unmarried. Went to work the same week for Flannery Construction. Basement apartment on Hayes.