Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (22 page)

He dropped into a chair, folding like a stork, inert except for one foot swinging like a metronome. "Maybe it's me. Today, my own thoughts kept getting in the way. I wanted to shake people, grab 'em up and say, 'Hey, somebody killed Reggie and I need information, not the same goddamned story all over again.' What's happening to me, Joe? I'm losing my compassion."

"Ah," Burgess said, "maybe it's not a good idea to pick your head up from the daily grind, get a taste of what life could be. Maybe we
can
only do this when this is all we do."

"I'm not ready to believe that," Kyle said, his sharp face suddenly lit by a smile. "I'm working on the opposite. I had such a good time this weekend."

Something about the smile, for Kyle smiling, except cynically, was rare, made Burgess feel more hopeful. "We'll break this thing," he said. He thought about the people they were trying to get information from. "We just have to listen well. Keep going back. Think scavenger hunt. Jigsaw puzzle. Stuff'll come in bits and pieces; our job is to put it together. But we'll get it."

"I hope you're right."

Stan came in, carrying a tray of coffees and two bags of food. "Special delivery," he said. "Saint Stanley, patron saint of drunken youth, is here."

He set down the food and held up a hand in benediction. "Bless you, my children. Bless all of you who bring order out of chaos and hope to the downtrodden." He had streaks of dirt down one side and his pants were torn. The shaved head, battered face, and demented grin made him look both jaunty and mean, someone you wouldn't mess with unless you were a little crazy yourself. Which, of course, was half the people they dealt with.

"Let's take this into the conference room," Burgess said, reaching for the phone. "I'll see if Wink's around."

He got a weary, "Devlin, Crime Lab."

"We're meeting," he said. "You want to join us?"

"Definitely a club of which I want to be a member," Devlin said. "My eyes are crossing here anyway. You got anything to eat?"

"I think Stan's brought you something."

"Joy and rapture," Devlin muttered. "I'll be right up."

They were a mangy-looking group. Devlin's eyes were red and weary. Stan wore the mottled purples and greens of healing bruises. A quick, unhappy mirror check had told Burgess his bout with Star Goodall's coffee had left him pale green. Only Kyle looked even vaguely healthy. Last summer, when they worked a case that had really beaten them into the ground, Burgess had nicknamed them "The Crips." Looked like the name still applied. The only person in the room who looked half-normal was Melia, and even he was bruised.

They hunched over their papers, waiting for Burgess to start, as Saint Stanley distributed food to the huddled masses—coffee, cups of soup, and lovely flatbread sandwiches for everyone, even Burgess, although he'd also brought the requested bagel.

They ate as Burgess began laying things out for them. He described his visit to Star Goodall, her relationship to Reggie, her interest in the property and the checks she'd signed for Joey. Of later finding her car parked at Claire Libby's and Claire's assertion that she knew no Star Goodall.

He detailed his call to the surveyor and what he'd learned: that there was a developer with an interest in the land; that Joey had stated the land would soon be his, even though under the trust he wouldn't get it outright until he was thirty-five. He showed them the contract from the surveyor, purportedly signed by Reggie.

"It's not Reggie's signature. But Clay's the trustee anyway, so he's the one with legal authority to sign, not Reggie, and, as I read the trust, Clay still has discretion about how and when the property is distributed. The land is leased to a farmer for the next several years, so there are a few obstacles in the path of Joey's 'get rich quick' scheme." He sighed. "I told Clay to watch his back on this one."

"I know he's your godson," Kyle said, "but he's a vicious little creep. Still, it's hard to believe he'd be involved in killing his own father."

"It is pretty cold-blooded," Stan agreed. "Forcing his head into a bathtub and holding him there until he drowned."

It was cold-blooded, and Burgess was still hoping they'd find another explanation for Joey's behavior, one that wouldn't force him to arrest the boy he'd known since Joey was born. He changed the subject. "We may have a break on the timeline, though. And an explanation of those new shoes." He told them about Star Goodall's statement that she had had coffee with Reggie on Friday and given him a new pair of shoes. "So, tomorrow morning we've got to canvass breakfast places down by the water and show them Reggie's picture. Be nice if we could track down one of her, as well. Maybe there was one when her husband died. Or of them at some function. He was a pretty well-known sculptor."

He shared the surveyor's information that Joey had said he was living on a boat. "There are no boats registered to Joey or to Claire, so this one is wide open, too. I think we start with a warrant to get Joey's phone records. He gave this as his cell phone number. And I want to see Star Goodall's phone records, too." He read the two numbers and Kyle wrote them down.

"Any boats registered to Cindy Goodall or Nicholas Goodall?" Kyle asked.

Burgess shrugged. "I didn't go that far. Let's check it out."

He told them about the handgun in Claire's foyer, because whoever finally found Joey would be a lot safer knowing he had access to a gun. "So, that's how I spent my day, making phone calls, visiting a witch, and getting poisoned."

He turned to Wink. "You got any ideas about that coffee?"

"Getting poisoned?" Kyle interrupted.

Burgess nodded. "Something in my coffee made me sick as a dog. Stan, I want you to go talk to her tomorrow, follow up on this surveyor stuff. She may not let you through the door, but if she does, do not eat or drink anything she offers." He gave Stan a copy of his report.

"I haven't gotten to the coffee yet," Wink said. "Still working on prints. But if that's your priority, I could shove some things aside. If I had to bet, instead of being a scientist, from your symptoms I'd say she put some purgative in the coffee. And if she's playing at being a witch, it might be mandrake root."

"Mandrake root?" Kyle said. "Wink, you can be downright spooky sometimes."

"I don't get it," Perry complained. "What's mandrake root and why is it spooky?"

Kyle's eyes glittered. "According to legend, mandrake root would grow up where a hanged man ejaculated. And anyone trying to pull it up would die."

"That's bull," Perry said. "And anyway, there haven't been any hanged men in a long, long time. Unless Joe's friend Star Goodall has been stringing them up in her back forty."

"I wouldn't put it past her," Burgess said. "There were vultures circling."

Perry rolled his eyes. "How do you know this stuff, anyway?"

"We had it in a case once," Kyle said. "Some whack job who thought he was a wizard was giving it to his elderly mother to help her pass on. Neighbor called us, concerned about the mom's safety, and when we went in to check out mom, it was right out there on the counter. Weird lookin' stuff. Supposed to look like a little man."

Melia cleared his throat and checked his watch, and Burgess got back to business. "So what do you have, Wink?" he said. "Got anything for us yet?"

"No good news. I pulled some prints off those cups, ran 'em through the state and AFIS. State database picked up Joey right away. Other one's still spinning its wheels." He shrugged wearily. "This isn't CSI, you know. When the results come back, I'll let you know."

"Okay," Burgess said, "so we know... or can surmise... that Joey Libby was in Kevin Dugan's room, having a drink with him. Tomorrow..." He looked at his detectives, who waited patiently for some direction, and down at his notes, frustrated that they were so many hours into the case and had so little beyond this maze of suspicious connections. Kyle and Perry looked equally frustrated. They'd spent a lot of hours and gotten nothing.

"Terry, you check the boat registry and do those warrants for phone records. Talk to the landlord and see if he has anything on Kevin Dugan. Do a records check on Dugan, too. And see if you can get a photo of Star Goodall. Stan, you do the breakfast places down on Commercial Street and then pay a call on Ms. Goodall. I'm going to see Reggie's doctor, then see Charlie Hazen."

He got out his notebook and found the appointment card. "Doc's name is Lyndeman. Dana Lyndeman. Dr. Lee wants to see Reggie's medical records, so I guess we'll need some warrants for those, too, Terry."

"Right. And I'll get on to Joey's parole officer, see if he knows where Joey's working."

Burgess showed them the scrap of paper with part of a logo that he'd found in Kevin Dugan's wastebasket, explaining what it was. "It's the only thing in the room that wasn't completely impersonal, and he cared enough to shred it, so maybe it's significant. I'll make you copies."

He shoved back his chair. "Hold on," Melia said, circling the group with his eyes. "You guys got this covered or do you need some help on this?"

"We're good, Vince," Burgess said. "More bodies at this point will only confuse things." Another detective's rule—keep it small, tight, and lean. Get too many people in the mix and communication broke down, information got lost, things didn't get followed up.

Melia nodded and rose. "Keep me informed."

Burgess's phone rang. The cop sitting on Claire Libby's house, reporting that a man in a truck had just parked out front and gone in.

"I ran the plates, sir. They came back to a business. Charles Hazen Realty. Oh, and the black van hasn't moved."

Chapter 16

Instead of going straight home, he swung by Claire's house again. Not because he could do anything there. She'd made it clear he wasn't welcome and he would have gotten a call if Joey had returned. He drove by because it might help him think.

This strange interweaving of characters didn't make much sense. Why would they get themselves involved in the killing of another human being to acquire some land that would come to Joey eventually anyway? What was the source of their urgency? Claire didn't need money; she looked after Joey, so he wasn't hurting; and Star Goodall seemed to be doing okay.

They couldn't be doing it
just
out of dislike for Reggie. None of them ever had to see Reggie unless they chose to. And a desire to finally be done with Reggie didn't explain surveyors and realtors, never mind the mysterious Kevin Dugan. Where did Charlie Hazen come in? Was he interested in the land because he was interested in Claire, or was he only there for the money? Was he aware of the steps someone had taken to accelerate Joey's inheritance? Was he visiting with Claire and Star Goodall solely for a jolly glass of wine or was he there to discuss what to do now that their staged "accident" wasn't being treated as accidental?

He gave himself a mental kick in the pants. All he had were suspicions, not witnesses or evidence. He didn't know that any of these people, however peculiar their current behavior, had anything to do with what had happened to Reggie. All he had, so far, was his cop's gut, and that told him there was too much damned coincidence. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's usually a duck. Or a turkey. But while cops were often guided by hunches, and instinct, and their guts, what brought cases home was facts. Evidence. Credible witnesses. None of which he had.

The patrol car was still parked down the street, dark and quiet. Goodall's black van still sat at the curb. A big, black double-cab truck was in the driveway, Hazen Realty painted in gold on the doors. The house was brightly lit. He sat staring at it a while, wanting to walk over and peek in the windows. Wanting, with a childish meanness, to ring the bell just to annoy Claire and let her know he was watching. He didn't, though. Just stopped a minute to chat with the patrol officer, then rolled away.

Up on Cumberland, he spotted Benjy limping along, head down and coat wrapped tight against the night wind, the old man's characteristic step and drag unmistakable, even on a poorly lit street. He pulled up alongside and rolled down the window. "Hey, Benjy..."

The old man jumped, then shuffled back until he ran out of sidewalk and hit the wall. Crouched defensively, he stared with watery eyes until recognition bloomed in his weathered face. Then he smiled and ducked his head. "Sorry, Joe. I didn't recognize ya at first. Man's gotta be careful walking around at night, especially after what happened to Reggie."