Lark (24 page)

“Hey, you got the printout from MVD on the campers registered to our shift?” Horse asked.

“Somewhere.” Lark searched his clothing and located the crumpled list in his rear pocket. He tossed the wadded paper across the room. “What a hell of a wet dream that was.”

“It was the best possible guess we had, working with what we had,” the large officer responded as he attempted to smooth the paper into a semblance of neatness.

“It wasn't good enough, it didn't work. We didn't make a collar, and that's all that counts.”

“I guess.” Horse looked down at the list. “It was a lead that we tracked down. It will save the state guys some time.”

“Sure.” Lark wondered if there was still a bottle of bourbon in the bottom desk drawer. Recently he had been loosing his appetite for beer because it didn't take the edge off fast enough.

Horse bent over the crumpled paper. “I can't read all this. What kind of camper did Harper have?”

Lark was sure the bottle was in the drawer, and all that he needed was the energy to reach for it. “One of those fancy jobs. A Heritage.” He reached for the bottle, found it, and twisted off the cap and began to search for a glass. He would leave Horse out of this party.

“That's interesting. MVD has him registered with a Diplomat.”

Lark poured half a tumbler of bourbon into a coffee mug he had located. “Dammit, Horse, I'm not a rookie. I checked the marker plate and it matched with the printout.”

“Marker plates can be changed in ten seconds.”

Lark slowly turned to face his partner. The bourbon was forgotten. “It wasn't the murder camper,” he said. “It was a perfectly ordinary vehicle. The murder room has to have soundproofing. You heard the tapes. There's no way you could perform that crap without … I checked out a different camper, didn't I?”

“Looks that way.”

“He put off bringing it in. He had us made, and he knew damn well what we were looking for.”

“He rented a camper and switched license plates with his own plates.”

“Jesus Christ!” Lark said as he looked at his watch. “It's been two hours since shift rotation and the bastard has four days off.”

18

Herb Harper lived on an ordinary street of ordinary homes. The development was twenty years old, which meant that the shrubbery and trees were beginning to stretch into maturity and give the area a permanent aura. The only distinguishing features to separate one home from another were the lawn plantings and the presence or lack of carports.

Their objective was midway down the block, where a small sign on the front-lawn spelled out T
HE
H
ARPERS
in reflecting beads of glass. A Vega station wagon was the only vehicle in the drive.

“You want backup?” Horse asked as his finger reached for the transmitter button of the radio.

“We may be too late or we may be wrong.” Lark swerved to the curb and began to walk toward the house. The front door opened before he reached the stoop.

The diminutive woman behind the latched screen had bangs across her forehead that gave her a gaminelike look. She wore a blinding white apron below a peasant blouse. She was not so attractive or pretty as much as she was neat. She gave a small smile. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Harper?”

“I'm Rada Harper.”

“Is Herb home?”

“He left a few minutes ago for a few days of fishing.”

“Oh, shit!” Horse whispered behind Lark.

Rada Harper looked uneasy and began to edge away from the door. “What do you men want?”

Lark flipped his identification from his back pocket. “I'm Lieutenant Lark of the Middleburg police. May I talk to you?”

She looked dubious, but the door's latch fell away. “I don't know.”

Horse stepped forward. “It's really all right. We are police and the lieutenant is my boss.”

Still a brief hesitation, and then the front door snapped back and she unlatched the screen. “Please come in. Has there been some trouble in the neighborhood or at the factory?” She faced them with wide eyes and held one small hand to her lips. “Has Herb had an accident?”

“No, it's just a routine investigation. We're checking on campers and we understand that Mr. Harper owns one.”

“Yes, he does.”

Horse looked at the blank page of a pad he pulled from his pocket. He didn't need any reference material; he knew the names and makes by heart. “We understand he owns a Diplomat?”

“I think that's what it is.” She relaxed at the mundane questions. “Would you men like some coffee?”

“That would be fine,” Horse answered in a soft voice.

Lark was uneasy and he whispered to Horse as Rada Harper went to the kitchen. “He's gone.”

“Don't you want firm info this time, Lieutenant?”

“Okay, but hurry it up.”

Rada Harper returned carrying a large glass tray containing a coffee percolator, cups, saucers, and cream and sugar. With a self-satisfied motion she placed it on the coffee table between them and poured. “I keep coffee going all day. I know they say it's not good to drink too much, but my goodness, we all need a pick-me-up around this time.”

Lark agreed with that and missed his bottle of bourbon. He took the cup she offered and stirred in a dash of cream. “Does Herb often go off like this?”

“Oh, yes. During fishing season he goes on a trip after each shift rotation.”

“Do you ever go with him?” Horse asked.

“Oh, no. When we were first married, I went fishing with him once, but putting those scriggly worms on hooks—ugh. Herb goes by himself.”

“Then you never travel in the camper?” Lark asked.

She sipped coffee and smiled over the rim of her cup. “Once in a great while. Last winter Herb took me on a trip to Florida. We had a grand time. That was his regular vacation.”

The living room was of the doily variety. Carefully crocheted doilies covered every arm and headrest of every available chair and sofa in the immaculate room. The front picture window with its side panel sparkled. A glass cabinet in the corner contained dozens of small ceramic animals that were meticulously arranged. “I bet you have to clean his camper after Herb returns from one of his trips?” Lark asked.

Rada Harper shook her head. “Herb never lets me inside. He says it's a man's world in there and he knows how upset I get when I see dust.”

“But you went to Florida in the camper,” Horse pressed.

“Yes, and that's the only time I've been inside. But that's all right, Herb never goes in my sewing room either.”

“The camper never leaves the yard except when Herb takes it fishing? He never takes it to work?”

“No. It was here all day until he came home and rushed off to his fishing.”

Lark was afraid that his clenched grip would shatter the fragile cup he held in his hand. Their suspicions were confirmed. Harper had switched vehicles and marker plates. The renter had been returned and now he was off in his own camper. “Mrs. Harper, when you were in Herb's fishing camper during the trip south, did you notice any changes he had made in the vehicle?”

“I don't know what you mean. I think I should know why you are asking all these questions.”

“It pertains to a minor accident investigation, but if you assure me that Herb hasn't moved his camper for the last several days, he can be marked off our list.”

“I'm positive that it wasn't moved until he left just a little while ago.”

“Out of curiosity,” Horse said, “has he done any interior work that altered the insides?”

Her hand fluttered to her chin and brushed across a cheek. “I don't know what you mean, unless you're talking about his stereo room.”

“His what room?” Lark sloshed coffee over the rim of his cup. He walked to the window and looked out with his hands laced behind his back. He knew he had startled Rada Harper and would let Horse continue the questioning.

“That's interesting,” Horse said. “Actually, what is a stereo room?”

“Well, I don't really know, but that's what Herb called it. You know how noisy highways are and so are the pull-offs where he sometimes sleeps. He took out most of the rear part and lined the walls with some sort of boards. Then he put in that acoustical tile to deaden sound. That way he can listen to his music and not hear any outside background noise.” She seemed pleased with the explanation.

It also kept inside noise from getting out, Lark thought as he turned and nodded to Horse.

“Mrs. Harper,” Horse said, “can I use your phone?”

“It's on the wall in the kitchen.”

“You have the plate numbers?” Lark asked.

“I'll never forget them,” Horse said as he started for the phone to put out the APB.

Rada Harper's hands were like captured birds as they fluttered in her lap and occasionally darted to her face to brush a cheek and fall back into her waist. “I think there's something you had better tell me, Lieutenant. This visit isn't about any accident investigation, is it?”

“No, Mrs. Harper, it isn't. Officer Najankian is putting out an APB for your husband right now.”

“A what?”

“An all-points bulletin to have every police agency be on the alert for Herb and pick him up when they find him.”

The hands became more agitated. “But why? There's no more gentle man in the world than Herb.”

“Before I go into that, did he give you any hint as to where he might be going today?”

“Herb never tells me exactly where he'll be. He says he doesn't really know where the fishing will be good until he gets there. He tells me generally, like that he's going into the Berkshires or something like that.”

“Is that what he said today?”

“He said he was going up to Litchfield County. That's in Connecticut.”

“I know where it is,” Lark snapped as he rushed to the kitchen phone where Horse was still talking to the dispatcher. That county was in the northwest quadrant of the state and contained the foothills of the Berkshire Mountains. It was a heavily wooded area filled with lakes, high hills, and a series of ponds and campgrounds. He snatched the phone from Horse's hand.

“This is Lark. On that APB, notify the Litchfield State Police Barracks that the suspect is possibly heading toward their area in a camper. Tell them that he is dangerous and a high-priority murder suspect.”

“Gotcha. You can be reached at this number?”

“Affirmative,” Lark said as he hung up.

The kitchen, like the remainder of the house, was clean to the point of obsessiveness. The floor had been recently waxed, and Lark could see his reflection in the burnished surface. Samplers, containing such phrases as “We Love Our Home” were on the wall, and bright copper-bottomed pots were hung from evenly spaced hooks. It was a room that a life had been dedicated to maintain.

Rada Harper stood in the doorway. Her small curled fists covered her mouth as she looked at him with frightened eyes. “What has Herb done?”

“He's a murder suspect, Mrs. Harper,” Lark said in a monotone.

“Oh, my God.” She crumpled to the floor and lay in a neat heap at Lark's feet.

“You had better phone for a policewoman,” Lark told Horse.

They stretched Rada Harper on the couch, where she unconsciously curled up in a fetal position. While Horse made more phone calls, Lark toured the house.

The front door opened directly into an L-shaped living room with its compact dining area. The kitchen was off the apex of the L while a narrow hall that led toward the side contained the bedroom doors.

The first room was obviously Rada Harper's sewing room. A small desk was set against one wall, a sewing machine with a myriad of attachments faced the window. Over the desk was a bulletin board with note reminders of household items to purchase and dental appointments to be kept.

The second was a man's bedroom. Heavy maple furniture predominated, with a set of military brushes exactly centered on the shining dresser. Lark made a cursory check of the bureau drawers and discovered neat balls of socks and the division of underwear and other clothing strictly segregated. The final room was feminine, with a canopied bed that would have been more fitting for a pubescent girl rather than a mature woman.

“Why are you going through my things?” she asked from behind him.

“As I said, Mrs. Harper, Herb is a suspect.”

“That's impossible and ridiculous. Ask anyone who knows him and they will tell you the same thing.”

“I know Herb from the plant. I worked with him for several days, and frankly, I'm as surprised as you are.”

“I don't understand what's going on. Herb is a perfect husband, a good provider, a thoughtful man.”

“You sleep apart?”

Her brittle facade shattered as wisps of fear that changed to anger crossed her face. “We don't do those things. We don't find it necessary.”

“I see,” Lark said noncommittally. “Could I see the cellar?”

“There's nothing down there but the washer, canned goods, and Herb's fishing things.”

“If you don't mind.”

“This way.” She led him down the hall and into the kitchen, where she stopped. “Herb has always worked. He never misses a day, even when he had the flu, he insisted on going to work. He's generous with my household allowance, and he's an assistant coach with the little girl's softball team.”

Lark inwardly groaned. They'd have to check that one out. “Sometimes people aren't what they appear to be.”

“I couldn't live with a man for thirteen years and not know what sort of person he is.”

“Some men hide their feelings in places you would never suspect.”

“I don't believe this is happening. I really don't.”

“The cellar?”

“Do I have to allow this?”