Home for a Spell (14 page)

Or, to be fair, maybe the guy just had an odd sense of humor.

I recognized one of the residents from yesterday’s apartment tour. The upstairs neighbor, the teacher with the tight bod and the face full of well-applied makeup. I saw her there amid the others. The officers must have caught her on her way out the door, because school should now be just starting. Lucky her. She stood with her arms crossed and her high heel
tap-tap-tapping
, so I was pretty sure she knew she was late.

“Excuse me,” she said, finally bursting in on the conversation the officer was having with the leggy blond just ahead of her, whose teddy-bear-and-daisy-covered cotton shift and white pants hinted at an occupation in the health field. “I have to get going. I’m really late. I was expected in a half hour ago.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the young officer told her. “We have to ask questions of any and all residents.”

“Well, is there anyone else who could take my statement?” she asked. “Anyone at all? I really do have to get to school.”

“I’ll be finished here with this young lady in just a few minutes,” he told her.

She nodded, but I could see the exasperation in her raised shoulders and clenched jaw. I couldn’t blame her really. A lot of employers will tell you there is no excuse for lateness, that you should budget in extra time for surprises. I couldn’t imagine anyone having the foresight to plan in enough time for a dead body and a police investigation, though. A person would have to be psychic . . . and if a person were “connected” enough to anticipate today’s event, they would have made plans to be elsewhere.

Finally the officer finished with the blond and beckoned for the teacher. “Sorry for the delay, miss. I appreciate your patience.”

Stepping forward, she nodded. “I don’t mean to be impatient, but with budget cuts, the administration strongly discourages absences from its teachers. As I haven’t acquired tenure yet, my neck could easily be one on the chopping block if any teaching positions are to be eliminated. You understand.”

“Sorry about that. Could you please state and spell your name, and tell me your occupation and your apartment number here.”

“Alexandra Cooper.” She spelled it for him. “I’m an English teacher at Stony Mill High. I live in apartment 1C.”

After writing down all of this information, the officer looked up around him, attempting to locate her apartment and the vantage point that had come with it. She helpfully gestured toward her apartment windows. “Ms. Cooper, can you tell me where you were yesterday evening?”

“I was here, at my apartment. I left for a short time to pick up a pizza from Pizza Sam’s and to drop off a library book, but for the most part I was here in my apartment, grading papers with some romantic comedy on in the background.”

“And did you see the apartment manager, Mr. Locke, at any point in time yesterday evening?”

She shrugged. “I saw him once when I was glancing out the window, but I try not to see him at all, if you catch my meaning.” When the young officer lifted his brows in question to prompt her, she explained, “Mr. Locke was a pleasant enough man, but . . . he was odd. The less time I spent in his company, the more comfortable I was.”

“So you didn’t have a friendly relationship with him?”

“I didn’t have any sort of relationship with him at all,” she said calmly. “He was flirtatious, but I think he was that way with all of the girls here at the complex. To tell you the truth, he made me uneasy. But that could just be me.”

“How did he make you uneasy?”

She shrugged again. “Can anyone explain the feelings a person gives them? That’s just what it was. A feeling.”

“Did you see anything last night that, considering the circumstances, might be of help to us in our investigation? Did you see the victim with anyone?”

She shook her head. “Not later. Just as I was arriving home, I saw him come out of an apartment with that girl over there.” She nodded her head in my direction. “I imagine he was showing her the apartment in 1A, below mine. She seemed to have been coming from that general direction. And Locke evicted the woman who had been living there with one of my students, just a few weeks ago.”

“Evicted?”

“I don’t know why. I never asked Abbie. Cornwall is her last name. She’s a difficult girl. Rebellious. I see her lurking around here sometimes still. In fact, I thought I saw her yesterday, just down the road, on my way home. You might want to check with her, in the event that she was here later.”

“I’ll check into that. You didn’t see anyone else who might have seemed out of place to you? Any vehicles? Anything at all?”

Her impatient gaze said it all. “This is an apartment complex, Officer. Filled with young women. There are vehicles coming and going all the time, day and night. I can’t say that I would recognize a strange vehicle unless it tried to run me down in the parking lot.”

“Ever seen Locke with anyone?”

“No.”

“What about your neighbors? Ever seen Locke spending time with any of them?”

“No. Listen, Officer, I really think I’ve given you all the information I have to give. If I weren’t already late, I’d be happy to stay and answer any question you can come up with, but I really do need to get to work. I am giving a big test second period, and I need time to run off the copies for the students.”

He let her go this time, taking her phone number and asking her to please call if she thought of anything at all that might be of help in the investigation, no matter how small. I was about to approach Tom and ask him if we could be excused as well when someone unexpected crossed my path.

Jeremy Harding.

As in, Liss’s ex-brother-in-law.

What on earth was
he
doing here?

I poked Marcus with my elbow to get his attention. “Do you see what I see?”

He leaned close to me, pressing his lips against my ear. “What? Or who?”

Jeremy Harding had been estranged from Liss ever since the previous fall, when his late wife, Isabella, fell victim in the very first murder that had taken place in Stony Mill in my entire lifetime. Liss had very nearly been indicted for the death of her own sister thanks to some sketchy circumstantial evidence . . . but to be completely truthful, her falling out with her brother-in-law had happened well before the real killer was discovered. Theirs was not a relationship based on mutual trust and admiration. And, having met the man once before, I could see why. He wasn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy kind of guy. In the meantime, however, he hadn’t seen fit to put his postmodern monstrosity of a house up for sale. He and Liss were still neighbors in their respective Victoria Park country homes, both anomalous among their more traditional farmhouse neighbors, though I think each probably wished the other would find a reason to leave.

I didn’t have time to wonder out loud why Jeremy Harding would appear at the site of a brand new murder investigation. As it turned out, I didn’t need to wonder. He provided that tidbit of information all on his lonesome.

He stalked out into the middle of the proceedings in his expensive suit and dark sunglasses and, using the voice of someone used to presenting a front of authority, demanded, “Who’s in charge here?”

Tom separated from the officers who were working the crime scene and came forward. “That would be me. Special Task Force Investigator Fielding. Who are you?”

“Jeremy Harding. I own this apartment complex.”

Wow. Talk about strange connections and coinkidinks. Wait ’til Liss heard about this.

While I was trying to process the day’s most recent wrinkle, Tom said, “I’m assuming you will be able to provide some sort of identification to that effect.”

He took out his identification and presented it to Tom. Tom gave his business card the once-over and began writing down all the information.

“Keep it,” Harding snapped. “Just tell me what the hell is going on here.”

Tom kept his cool. As a matter of fact, he was cold as ice. “Why don’t you tell me what you know, sir?”

An irritable Harding said, “I received a phone call from my assistant, who had fielded a call at the office from one of your people. All I know is that there has been some sort of accident on the premises, so I hurried over . . . to find all of this. So I ask you again, Officer . . . Fielding, is it? What is going on here?”

Tom had lowered the pitch of his voice, but as they were grandstanding a mere fifteen feet from us, we heard him well enough. “Your manager here has been the victim of an attack.”

“Locke?” Harding barked. “Well, where is he? Is he all right? Is he being taken to the hospital? How serious of an attack are we talking?”

Tom cleared his throat. “Mr. Locke has been killed, sir.”

Six little words were all it took to strip the bite out of Harding’s bark. His mouth fell open. His face paled in the slanting morning light. “Locke is dead?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, sir.”

“H-how? When?”

“Last night. The medical examiner’s office is preparing to remove his body from the premises as we speak.”

“Here.” Harding closed his eyes and scrubbed a palm down over his mouth and chin. “Here.”

“Sir, how much do you know about your employee?”

Harding shook his head. “As much as any absentee employer knows about their employees, I would imagine. We performed the usual background checks as to his work record. His prior experience claims checked out, so we trusted him to perform his job as required.”

“I see. Because you see, sir, a funny thing came up when we ran Mr. Locke through our system.”

“Oh yes?”

“Mm. Were you aware, sir, that your employee had a prior arrest record?”

Harding’s eyebrows shot up. I had to say, mine did as well. When I realized it, I tried harder to maintain the disinterested face of neutrality. “No,” Harding was saying. “No, I was not aware of that.”

Tom’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Perhaps that fact eluded your check. Tell me, sir, what had you managed to find out about your employee during the period he worked for you?”

I couldn’t help noticing that every time Tom used the words “your employee,” Harding’s lips tightened perceptibly. “Decent manager. Turned in his reports and spreadsheets promptly. Didn’t appropriate funds for his own benefit. Single. No family that he ever spoke of. Any of this helping you, Officer?”

Tom’s expression remained cool. “Not really. What do you know of your employee’s schedule yesterday?”

“Nothing at all. Locke maintained his own schedule. He knew what he was responsible for, and that dictated his schedule as required. I wasn’t involved one way or the other.”

“So you couldn’t tell me if he had a late appointment last night.”

“Sorry, no.”

“The damage in the office. I’ll need someone to walk through and categorize what has been destroyed or missing.”

At the word “damage,” Harding tensed visibly. “I’ll do that now. If you’re finished questioning me, that is.”

“For the time being,” Tom conceded. He leaned his head down to speak into his shoulder mike, then told Harding, “Officers Hayden and Olds are working the office. They will assist you. I’ll head that way in a few minutes.”

Before I could say or do anything to attract Tom’s attention, he moved back to the pool area while Harding headed over to the office.

“How long do you think they’re going to keep us here?” I asked Marcus.

“I doubt it will be too much longer,” Marcus assured me. “They’ve already taken what information we have. It’s not like they don’t know where we live or how to get in touch.”

“True.”

It would have been true, if Harding hadn’t reemerged from the office straightaway, clearly on a tear. “Excuse me, but . . . the computer is missing. Locke’s computer,” I heard him say, faint but distinct.

“Yes, sir,” the young officer—Olds?—acknowledged. “The computer was shattered to bits by whoever did this. Or an accomplice. That hasn’t been ruled out, of course.”

Harding gritted his teeth. “That computer holds key business records,” he ranted. “Damn it, I need those files. How am I supposed to piece together Locke’s recent receipts and expenditures without them?”

“Gee, I don’t know, sir. Shame, too, about the computer. It was brand new, I understand.”

“And where are the backup drives? Did they take those, too? Hold on a sec.” Harding frowned. “What did you say?”

“I said, it’s a shame about the computer, with it being so new and all.”

“No, you’re mistaken. The computer wasn’t new.”

“Sure it was, sir. Locke paid for a new one just yesterday, as I understand it. Bought it from that gentleman over there.” Officer Olds pointed in our direction.

Harding turned on his heel and, leaving the good officer in the dust, stalked toward us. “Uh-oh,” I told Marcus. “Head’s up.”

Marcus rose to meet him.

“Now you just hold on a minute,” Harding commanded, holding up a hand to stop him. “Yeah, you. I need to talk to you a minute.”

“What can I do for you?”

Harding stopped in front of Marcus and planted his hands on his hips. “Well, for starters you can tell me who authorized the computer I understand you provided to my employee here.”

Harding was making an ass of himself, but as I recalled, that was nothing new. “Mr. Locke authorized it himself, sir,” Marcus explained, the soul of patience.

“Locke didn’t have authorization to purchase new equipment. Where’s the old computer? You have that, too?”

“No, sir. The computer was a rebuild complete with revved-up hard drive and processor, using the existing chassis.”

“You telling me you got rid of my old property?” Harding’s face had taken on an ugly purple-red hue.

“No, sir, what I’m telling you is that the computer that was smashed
was
your old computer with some new and improved inner parts.”