Nick of Time (A Bug Man Novel) (11 page)

“Okay, I get the message. Are you done with the ‘tough love’ routine now?”

“If I don’t tell you these things, who will?”

“Rose will.”

“That’s right—because we’re married and we always think the same way.”

“That’ll be the day.” They both grinned, and Alena wrapped her arms around Gunner’s thick waist and hugged him tight. She held out her left hand and looked at her engagement ring. “I guess a man is like a diamond,” she said. “You want a good one, but the better it is, the more you worry about losing it.”

Gunner kissed her on the top of her shining black hair. “Nick said to tell you he promises to call you tonight at exactly nine o’clock.”

“When will he come home?”

“Ask him yourself. He’ll call at nine.”

“Like he did last night?”

“Like he meant to.”

“Terrific,” she said. “That means I have to go down to Endor again.”

“Send one of your dogs,” Gunner said. “They can use a cell phone, can’t they?”

“I wish.” She continued to hold on to him with her head resting against his chest. “Then you think Nick really loves me?”

“If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have agreed to marry the two of you.”

She gave him one final squeeze, then released him and looked up into his eyes. “Pine Summit,” she said. “What the heck is he doing in Pine Summit?”

11

PINE SUMMIT, PENNSYLVANIA

W
hen Nick opened the door to the Pine Summit Sherriff’s Office, he heard a tiny tinkling sound above his head. He looked up at the doorframe and saw an old-fashioned brass bell dangling from a curling metal strip.
Nice homey touch
, he thought.
I wonder if they serve ice-cream sodas here
.

The office was small—essentially a single square room with an old oak desk that faced the front door and a smaller desk perpendicular to it on the right. The big desk was the apparent seat of power, if power was necessary in a town this size; judging by the number of photos and personal items displayed, the smaller desk belonged to an administrative assistant—a woman. There was an arched doorway on the left that led to some back room, probably even smaller than this one; Nick had no idea what it could be needed for.
Looks like a one-cop shop
, Nick thought.
I’ll bet the assistant’s only part-time
.

He took a step into the room and looked at the walls; the only official-looking item on the bulletin boards was the occasional push-pinned notice offering a modest reward for the return of a lost pet or a pilfered snowblower.
Tough town
, he thought. Most of the bulletin boards were covered by Pocono Mountains tourism brochures flaunting the local antique shops, B and Bs, and the big casinos down toward Stroudsburg; there were also plenty of Lake Region brochures filled with enticing photographs of nearby Lake Wallenpaupack taken from the bow of a boat. Nick smiled; it looked like the sheriff was sharing office space with the Chamber of Commerce.

There was a brass nameplate on the big desk with the name
YANUZZI
in bold letters; on the wall behind the desk there was a yellowed newspaper clipping displayed in a simple black frame. The headline announced, “From the FBI to Pine Summit,” with the explanatory subheading, “FBI Agent Edward Yanuzzi Takes Over as Pine Summit Sheriff.” Nick was just beginning to read the article when a man stepped into the arched doorway holding a white ceramic coffee mug.

“Thought I heard that bell,” the man said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Nick looked at him.
Now we know what’s in the back room
, he thought.
A coffeemaker and a La-Z-Boy
. The man was shorter than Nick, maybe five-eleven, but much stockier in build. His hair was thick and wavy, and even though the black was clearly losing out to gray there was no sign of thinning or receding. His chest was no longer wider than his waist, but Nick thought he looked like a man you wouldn’t have wanted to mess with in his prime. His face was the oldest part of him, thoroughly weathered and wind-worn, and his eyes were large and so deep a brown that they almost looked black.

“You must be Yanuzzi,” Nick said, pointing to the clipping.

“‘FBI Agent Yanuzzi Takes Over.’”

“That’s me.”

“Was there much to take over?”

Yanuzzi smiled. “What can I do for you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Polchak—Nick Polchak. Boy, you must have really screwed up with the FBI to end up here.”

“I take it you’re not a small-town guy,” Yanuzzi said.

“I guess not.”

“Well, some of us are. I left the Bureau about five years ago—came up from New York. My wife and I used to vacation up here every summer and we fell in love with the place—so I took early retirement and we decided to stay.”

“And take the job of sheriff? Doesn’t sound like the golden years to me.”

“A man can’t sit around all day.”

“ ‘From the FBI to Pine Summit,’ ” Nick quoted. “That’s what I’d call culture shock. Ever miss the Big Apple?”

“Not much,” he said. “In my line of work you tend to see the bad side of a town; this town doesn’t have one.”

“What about all these missing pets?” Nick said. “Sounds like a conspiracy to me.”

Yanuzzi walked to his desk and pulled out the chair. “I’m assuming you didn’t stop by just to be a wise guy.”

“No, but I like to stay in practice,” Nick said. “I just drove up from Philadelphia. I work with an organization down there called the Vidocq Society. Ever heard of us?”

“Vidocq,” Yanuzzi said. “Sure—the guys who take on all the cold cases.”

“I’m impressed,” Nick said. “Of course, you used to be FBI.”

“Never heard of you when I was with the Bureau,” Yanuzzi said. “But I had a deputy a few months back; he was trying to clear up a couple of old cases and he read about you guys in some law enforcement journal.”

“
Had
a deputy? Then I take it he doesn’t work here anymore?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Any idea how I can get in touch with him?”

“Any idea how I can get “That wouldn’t be easy.”

“Why?”

“He’s dead.”

Nick paused. “He just died in the last few months?”

“Back in December.”

“Mind if I ask how?”

“Mind if I ask why you want to know?”

“C’mon, Sheriff, I can look it up in the local newspaper.”

“Help yourself. You asked me.”

“Fair enough,” Nick said. “I have a friend in Philadelphia—
had
a friend, I should say. He was murdered a few days ago.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Me too. My friend was also a colleague of mine—a forensic botanist. We were both members of Vidocq.”

“What is it you do, Mr. Polchak?”

“It’s
Dr
. Polchak, actually. I’m a forensic entomologist.”

“You’re a bug man.”

“That’s what they call me. I looked over my friend’s phone records from the last few months and I found quite a few calls to a number in this area code. I cross-checked the number with a list of law enforcement officials who presented cases to Vidocq in the last few months, and guess what I found?”

“Your friend made phone calls to my deputy.”

“No wonder you landed this job. It’s not unusual for a Vidocq member to stay in touch with a presenter after he visits—it happens whenever a member thinks he has something to contribute to the ongoing investigation.”

“And your friend had something to contribute?”

“He thought he did—he wrote to me and told me so. He thought I might be able to help out too, so he invited me to join him at the next Vidocq meeting—but when I showed up he wasn’t there.”

“And you think your friend might have been murdered because of the cold case my deputy was working on?”

“It’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I’d call it a possibility. So what is it you want from me?”

“I want to see the evidence for the case your deputy was working on—notes, photographs, physical evidence, everything you’ve got.”

Yanuzzi just looked at him for a moment. “You said you checked your friend’s phone records.”

“That’s right.”

“So Vidocq is looking into your friend’s murder?”

“Not exactly,” Nick said. “Vidocq won’t consider a case until it’s at least two years old—until the local authorities have given up on it.”

“Then you must be working with the Philadelphia police.”

Nick hesitated. “We . . . have an understanding.”

“Uh-huh. ’Cause those phone records you looked over would probably be considered case evidence, and I’m pretty sure Philly doesn’t make a habit of handing case evidence over to civilian personnel—and neither do I.”

“Okay,” Nick said, “you got me. I’m not here with Vidocq and I’m not working with the Philadelphia police. This guy was a friend of mine, okay? A very old friend—and I want to make sure nothing gets overlooked.”

“And you don’t think the boys in Philly are up to it?”

“They have a way of . . . missing things.”

“Like phone records?”

Nick felt his face getting hot. “Look, I’m a forensic professional. I’ve consulted with law enforcement agencies all over the world—including the FBI. What can it hurt to let me take a look at that evidence? I mean, it’s a cold case, right? It’s just sitting in a box somewhere.”

“And it’ll keep right on sitting there,” Yanuzzi said. “Sorry, Polchak, I appreciate your loyalty to your friend and all, but you can’t just walk in here and ask to see case evidence. It has to be an official request from another law enforcement agency—you oughta know that.”

“And you should know that I don’t need to see your evidence. Your deputy made a presentation to Vidocq, remember? I have a transcript of his presentation.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I wanted to see what you’d say.” Nick smiled.

“Thanks, Sheriff—you’ve been very helpful.”

At the door, Nick turned back. “By the way, you never told me how your deputy died.”

“Hunting accident,” Yanuzzi said.

“Hunting accident . . . In other words, somebody shot him.”

“Happens all the time up here. Big deer-hunting area.

People come from miles around for the first three days of buck season in December—some of them shouldn’t own a gun. ‘Three-day wonders,’ we call ’em. They hang out in the bars all night, then stumble out into the fields the next morning— bad combination. We had a local woman shot dead hanging out her laundry a couple years back. Does a woman look like a buck to you?”

“I’ve known a couple with horns,” Nick said. “Where was your deputy shot?”

“You know this area?”

“I was referring to the entry wound—where was it?”

“Why?”

“An accidental wound would most likely be off center—maybe a leg wound that severed the femoral artery or a gut wound that bled out. Now, a dead-center wound—straight through the heart or the skull, for example—that might suggest that somebody was taking aim.”

“Look, Polchak, if I won’t show you evidence from a cold case, then I sure won’t discuss a case that’s just a few months old. Take a hint, will ya?”

“I’ve never been very good at taking hints,” Nick said. “I guess I’m just not the subtle type. Your deputy’s name was Marty Keller, right?”

“So?”

“Any next of kin in town? Family? A wife maybe?”

“Now why do you want to know that?”

“So I can contact them. So I can try to convince them that their dear departed’s death might not have been an accident. So they can use Pennsylvania’s Sunshine Law to get a court order to claim that cold-case evidence and show it to me—which is their legal right as next of kin.”