Dog Days Page 4

  “Again, we’ll need to canvass that street again. Did anyone see Tom, or anyone else, at the store the latter part of last week? Did anything look out of place? I know you already talked to most of them, but we need it done again. Some folks around here need us to jar their brain cells loose. Ask shopkeepers if they remember any specific customers, at that time Friday evening. Any you can’t get to today, make a note and tag them when they’re next open for business. We need that timeline filled in.

  “Again, Lavender was the last to see him that we know of. She has stated that Tom left the house around six Friday evening. Doc McCabe’s time of death is around 10 PM, so we have an unaccounted for gap of three or four hours.

  “Where was Tom for those missing hours prior to his death? How did he get from the store to the creek? From what specific point did the killer ditch the body, assuming that’s how it went down? Where are Tom’s wallet, keys, and cellphone? Where’s the man’s truck? Was the perp acting alone, or did he have help?”

  “Is it possible his wallet, keys, and cellphone went into the water with him?”

  “It’s a possibility, Gus.”

  Declan signaled. “I don’t think there’s more than one killer. There would have been more evidence of a struggle between three people in that small space.”

  “Good observation. Anybody else?”

  “I kinda have to contradict his statement.”

  “Why?”

  Declan looked across the table. “Yeah, Rick. Why?”

  “Well, what if the other person was just the driver, and stayed in the vehicle the whole time until he or she saw the killer dragging Tom’s body towards the door?”

  Declan grunted.

  “That’s good.” Wyatt was nodding. “We’re thinking. Keep it up. Anything else?”

  I noticed some fidgeting. “Becca?”

  “Um, no.” She crossed her arms and shook her head. “It’s nothing, really.”

  Wyatt leaned forward. “We’re brainstorming, anything goes. What are you thinking?”

  “It’s just that”—she unfolded and sat up straighter—“when we pulled him out of the water, I noticed his shirt was ripped up. How do we know he didn’t get held up somewhere, like snagged on a branch, or something? Maybe the floodwaters pulled him loose. Maybe tracing backwards from where the caller first saw him, we could determine where the body was … hung up. And going further upstream, we could maybe figure out where he got dumped.”

  “Good theory. Why don’t you grab someone and go check it out? Fill us in at the morning briefing.”

  “I hope the flood didn’t wash away all the evidence.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Don’t want to step on any toes, and I know you want this thing settled and done, but it’s early days, and we haven’t really started shaking anything loose.” Paul was bouncing a pen against the tabletop. “Speaking for all of us, we may not have many ideas right now, but we’re going to be thinking about it—can’t help but do that.”

  Rick was nodding. “He’s right. Our brains will be gnawing on it whether we’re aware of it or not, and will keep on chewing until we find this guy, and this is done.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I agree.”

  “Thanks, Paul. Okay then.” Wyatt glanced at his notes. “Good. Briefing tomorrow at noon. Take a walk down Market Street. Hit any businesses that are open. Ask questions. Find out stuff. No need to come back here unless you’re on duty tonight.”

  “That would be me.”

  “Coordinate the radio transfer.”

  Declan nodded.

  Amid the good-byes and good nights, I was silent.

  Wyatt pulled up a chair and sat, gingerly. “What’s up?”

  “Just processing.” I turned to face him. “We’ve sure got some smart people working with us.”

  “Indeed, we do.”

  “I was so against expanding our comfortable little trio, but now I can’t imagine not having the others around.”

  “Neither can I. When the council first made its announcement, it felt personal, like they didn’t trust my leadership. But that wasn’t it at all. And, if they hadn’t started the interview process when they did, this police department would’ve had to be run by little ol’ you.”

  “Ha. A fiasco for sure.”

  “Nah. You’d have done your best.”

  “I would have been too worried about you to be much good.”

  “Aw, thanks, sweetheart.” He shifted, held out his hand. “Magdalena, come with me.”

  Duh. I’m his ride. Besides, how could I resist that smile? That man? “Sure. What’ve you got in mind?”

  Technically, it’s his vehicle, but since he’s not cleared to drive yet—even though he does on occasion—I’m the designated driver.

  That makes him … grumpy.

  He held out his hand. “Let’s go.”

  We ended up at Dizzy’s Ice Cream Emporium—fancy name for a soft service ice cream stand—at the far end of Chestnut Street, halfway to Jasper. Wyatt ordered my usual, a CMP (Chocolate ice cream, with melted marshmallow, and peanuts over the top. A cherry, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream are optional, in case you didn’t know), and his banana split. We took our decadent desserts out to one of the picnic tables on the veranda to eat.

  Wyatt couldn’t have picked a better spot for our date. He’s learning my weaknesses. Yes, I have more than one. This particular indulgence (as do most that involve the sweet tooth) has a self-imposed limit because I love soft serve ice cream, the more the better, so ordering a small—especially when I’m craving a large—is the only way I can justify it and still maintain my girlish figure.

  After picking up Harley, we pulled into the drive at my place. There was something lying (laying?) in a heap on the front stoop. I was about to exit the Jeep to find out what it was, but Wyatt caught my arm.

  “Let me. Please?”

  I sat back, no longer so anxious to know what was there. The belly was queasy. Our guard dog had his nose pressed against the passenger window, and was growling.

  “Good boy, Harley.”

  While Wyatt went to investigate, I scanned the area, but no one was around. One of my neighbors may have seen who dropped it off. I made a mental note to give them a call.

  Wyatt came back to the Jeep with his cop face on, and I rolled down the glass. He leaned in. “Whose turn is it, again?”

  “Crud.”

  He nodded, absently petting Harley, who’d bounded to the driver’s side and was crowding me.

  I tried to think. “Declan, right?” It hadn’t been two hours since we left the office, but my brain was scrambled by the atrocity on my porch stoop—and I didn’t even know what it was.

  We hadn’t set up official night or weekend rotation schedules, as of yet. They’d all just been taking turns being on call. The fact that this was one of those times didn’t bode well.

  “Declan? Wyatt. Got a problem, are you free?” He squeezed my hand. “Great. At Maggie’s. Bring the camera, gloves, and a big bag.” He closed the phone.

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  Absolutely infuriating. “When is it going to stop?”

  “When we catch him, babe.”

  This nonsense was taxing my moods and sanity. I couldn’t relax and was having trouble sleeping. At work, I was always on edge, especially when the phone rang. This stupid stalker (I refuse to call him mine, though he is fixated on me) had been escalating his antics since the beginning of the year.

  All five NUGS were fully briefed.

  Things had been relatively quiet the past several months—ever since the chase and shootout back in the middle of January—and I told myself it was, or maybe it was, because a couple of Rick’s shots had hit their mark and the idiot was out of commission.

  Guess he must have healed some, if he was ever really injured.

  What if we had
come right home, instead of stopping at Dizzy’s, would the package still have been delivered? What if Harley had been here, instead of at Wyatt’s?

  I hugged my little pooch, rubbing my face in his fur. We may not have had him long, but he’d ingratiated himself so far into our lives, I couldn’t imagine life without him.

  Declan arrived a short time later. He and Wyatt photographed the thing from every conceivable angle. Wyatt disappeared around the side of the house, and returned with one of my snow shovels. Declan scooped up the mess and dumped it into the bag, then proceeded to hose down the stoop while Wyatt filled out the evidence form and sealed the sack.

  Guess they weren’t going to let me see what it was.

  Shudder.

  Probably a good thing.

  On his way past, Declan saluted me, continued to his SUV, loaded up, and backed out of the driveway.

  Wyatt re-joined me inside the Jeep, and tried to avoid Harley’s affectionate tongue. “We’ll use the garage entrance.”

  I frowned. Didn’t we always?

  Wow. If it was so bad that he wasn’t even going to tell me what it was, I was definitely better off not knowing.

  In the kitchen, I washed my hands and opened the fridge for butter and eggs. Harley sat nearby, watching my every move.

  Wyatt opted for a shower.

  It wasn’t until I’d mixed the flour, salt, and baking soda that I realized what I was doing.

  The stress of the last eight months had taken its toll on my baking supplies, and I’d had to restock several times. It got to a point where, when he saw me with a cookie container, Rick made a beeline for anywhere else.

  July, (and so far) August, though less of a strain emotionally, were brutal in terms of heat and humidity—often reaching triple digits. Baked goods, from me at least, had been almost non-existent. It would have been a sin to fire up the oven.

  Today was sweltering, too, but….

  I glanced up.

  Barefoot, hair still damp, my man lounged in the doorway. “Are you that mad?”

  “What? No, I’m not mad. Well, not at you, at any rate.”

  “Good.” He straightened to stroll across the kitchen. “I made a judgment call, and didn’t even think—”

  I cocked a hip and pointed my spatula. “Wyatt.”

  He stopped short of the counter. “Yeah?”

  “I’m not mad. You took care of it so I wouldn’t be subjected to … whatever that was. I’m grateful.”

  The spatula went to scrape the sides of the bowl.

  Shifting to smoosh his (nice firm) tush against the sink, he folded, then unfolded his arms. “Okay.” Stuck his hands in the cutoff short’s pockets. “Then why are you making cookies?”

  The mixer was blending butter, sugar, and eggs. “Because I’m upset that someone left that … thing, on my front stoop.”

  “Ah. Well, let me just say this, and you can hit me if you think it’s warranted, but I’m kinda glad. I’ve had a hankering for your cookies.”

  “Really?” I tried to bite back the mirth, but didn’t quite manage it. “A hankering? For my cookies?”

  He was grinning. “But you’re wearing too many clothes.”

  My laugh bounced around the room. To hear it coming from me was a nice surprise, and the release felt marvelous.

  Harley let out a couple happy barks and started jumping in circles.

  Wyatt pulled me into a hug. “It’s good to hear you laugh again.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Leaning in, I held tight for a minute, absorbing the flow of positive energy. “Would you like to help?”

  “That’s what I’m doing, isn’t it?”

  I wiggled in his embrace. “Watching won’t cut it this time, bucko.”

  “Aw, shucks, ma’am.”

  I stepped out of his arms. “Would you like to help?”

  “Sure. Tell me how.”

  “First, go find my Tears for Fears disk, and load it in the CD player. We can dance between trays.”

  No, I’m not too young to enjoy that group.

  “Say no more, sweetheart! You’ve got a Moody Blues, too, right?”

  “Duh!”

  “Excellent.”

  The three of us—without Wyatt overdoing it—danced the night away. Well, until 10:30. Then we went to bed.

  Chapter 4

  … SATURDAY MORNING…

  * * *

  … August 15th…

  * * *

  WE LEFT HARLEY at my place.

  From the number of vehicles in the parking lot, the whole crew was already waiting. I picked up the container of cookies and we went inside.

  There was a GoCup on my desk. With a smile, I turned and nodded to Declan. “Thanks. I made cookies last night. Help yourselves.” Rick grinned and stood, then I added, “Declan, you get to go first, if you want.”

  Rick’s hands went to his hips, but he looked to be amused, not mad. “Huh. Guess I need to start bringing you coffee.”

  “Not counting what happened last night, the difference is, he doesn’t expect anything in return. Right, Declan?”

  “Interesting theory.” The man winked. “But, you’re right. Besides, we coffee addicts have to stick together. I thank you for the offer, I’m sure they are exceptional, but I’ve had my quota of sugar for the day.”

  So polite. Someone raised him right.

  Ricky was frowning. “What happened last night?”

  “Later.”

  Wyatt leaned out of his office and yelled down the hall. “Becca here?”

  She was just exiting the LADIES ROOM. “If I were any closer, you’d step on me.”

  He turned his head. “Ah. Sorry about that. Okay, then. Conference room in five, people.”

  We grabbed coffees and cookies. I went back for my steno and pen.

  “Let’s get started.” Wyatt cleared his throat. “For those left out of the loop, which is everyone except Declan, Maggie, and me, there was an incident last night. An … object was left on Maggie’s doorstep that Declan and I processed. As we speak, said specimen is on its way to the county forensic lab for analysis. Although we’re pretty certain what it was, the procured item will remain unidentified until there is an official confirmation.”

  “So that’s what happened last night?” Rick shifted forward. “It was that bad?”

  Declan inclined his head. “It was gruesomely hideous, yes.”

  Rick looked at me.

  “They wouldn’t let me near it.” I shrugged. “Wouldn’t tell me what it was, either.”

  The group all had their own reactions.

  Paul nodded to me. “Thus the baking storm.”

  I blinked. He’d only been here a few weeks. Was I that predictable?

  Don’t answer that.

  “This isn’t the first incident, but it’s been a while.” Rick pushed out of his chair to pace. “Still. Why haven’t we been able to figure out who this cretin is?”

  Wyatt sat back, watching. “This latest token is the most grisly—grisliest?—yet. And, from our reactions, I’d say his little present is doing its job. What other reason could he have for leaving … any of the things she’s found?”

  “Except that,” I tapped my pen on the steno. “The person who was supposed to find this most recent gift, didn’t see it in all its nastiness.”

  Gus spoke up. “But look at it this way, this guy is psycho. Maybe there isn’t any reasoning in his … giftings. Maybe it doesn’t matter who found it.”

  “She’s right. All of you are.” Paul pointed at me. “In your initial summary of events, when I first got here, the emphasis was on his obsession with you. But except for two instances, he hasn’t tried to hurt you.”

  “Seriously?” Rick was angry. “Those two instances—as you call them—came damn close to being fatal.”

  “I realize that. My point is, maybe those two times were too close even for his comfort.” He squinted at Rick. “If he really wanted to kill her, I don’t think he’d have missed.”r />
  “Good point, Paul.” Wyatt took a breath. “This stalker isn’t letting us forget he’s around—which is a good thing, in a way—and we need to document everything he does. But, though no less important, and as much as I would rather continue this discussion and pool all our resources into finding this guy, we need to investigate Tom’s murder while it’s still early in the case. It’s already past the first 48 hour window, and was before we even knew about it.

  “Becca, you didn’t have a lot of time, but was there anything to find?”

  “Um, yes, actually. I’m reasonably sure I found the spot where his body got hung up.” She pulled a laminated handmade map from a stack of papers in a folder. “I marked the roads and landmarks as best I could, to show where I believe he was. I also took a picture on my cell.” She brought up the photo and passed it around the table.

  Her phone made it to Wyatt. “May I see the map, too?”

  I moved closer. Officer Barrows may be a rookie, but she’s got good instincts and insights.

  She continued her discourse. “As you can see, there are strips of plaid material, of the same color pattern as the decedent was wearing at the time of his extraction from the water, caught in those branches that hang in the water. I collected a sample.” Extracting a plastic evidence bag from the folder, she passed it to Wyatt. “I realize there are a lot of men in this town who wear plaid shirts, but under the circumstances, it seems pretty conclusive that this is where Mr. Grayson’s body was snagged for at least a day or two.”

  Just a side note, to calm the…. Men wear plaid in every season, not all of which are long-sleeved and made of flannel, or chamois. Most short-sleeved plaids are made of cotton, and very cool—or so I’ve been told.

  “I agree. Good job, Becca.”

  “Thank you.” She gave a nod. “I was planning to do another search farther upstream this afternoon, to see if I could discover where he might have been dropped into the creek.”

  “Good idea. Who wants to go along?”

  Five hands.

  “Huh. Okay. Whoever is on call today should probably stay here. No telling how long that trek will take.”

  Rick slapped the table. “Well hell.”