Called Fair Fight when it was established in the eighteen hundreds, Hatfield was basically a “straight shot” over from Rockport and was one of the county’s “suggestions of a town,” as Piper referred to the tiny communities. Population a breath over eight hundred.
Mark the Shark’s immaculate-looking Cape Cod was a single-story frame with a steep-pitched gabled roof, a thick central chimney, and displayed little ornamentation beyond its navy blue shutters. It sat on a corner lot well back from the road. Piper had pulled up county records before she’d headed over. He’d had it built new four and a half years ago, before he’d put his farm up for sale. Most people his age would be moving into a nursing home, not ordering new construction. But he’d been selling off parts of his land—he’d owned a lot of land—and was accumulating plenty of money. Might as well spend it on something, she mused.
Piper pulled into the gravel drive and approached the front door, noting motion-sensor lights, a camera, grates on the windows, an ADT post by the walk, and a BEWARE OF DOG sign at the stoop. A window air-conditioner was in a bracket, had a rust-dotted chain wrapped around it, and an impressive padlock. The satellite dish on the roof also had a chain and a padlock—these looking shiny new.
When she pushed the doorbell, a thunderous “woof” responded. Definitely a big dog. Piper waited, tapped her foot, and knocked. The woofing was louder and sounded vicious. Worried about Mark, she walked around the house, seeing more motion-sensor lights and more cameras, a second window air-conditioner, and a good-sized dog door—probably so the dog could go out as it pleased and terrify people trying to climb the fence. Said chain link fence that ringed the backyard was six feet high. Piper whistled when saw the barbed wire on top. She was pretty sure that was illegal and not intended to keep the dog in as much as intruders out. She made a mental note to check the regulations.
She walked the rest of the perimeter, seeing two more BEWARE OF DOG signs, then came to the extra-deep double-garage. It could easily hold four cars. Piper rose up on her toes and looked into a side window. One long bay was empty. The other had two old motorcycles and a vintage Franklin convertible that she guessed was from the early 1920s. Olive green, it looked mint—except it was on blocks, the wheels probably stored elsewhere to keep someone from driving it away. Mark the Shark’s paranoia was evident everywhere. She noted an alarm rigged to the garage doors and more motion sensors.
“Not home, are you?” Piper growled. She figured the empty garage slot meant the old man had driven somewhere. Should he be driving at his age? She stopped at the side of the house, stood on a cement block planter and looked in between the bars of a window. The room beyond was a den. She saw an old recliner with the stuffing coming out of the arms, an orange tabby curled in the seat staring back at her. Craning her neck she saw a battered desk with a computer on it—big flat-panel monitor, ergonomic keyboard. She idly wondered if it was wireless. Next to it was a police scanner, and on the hutch above it a weather-band. A stand nearby held a ham radio.
“You’re an interesting fellow, Mark. Why the hell aren’t you home? I told you I was coming over.” She amended that. Piper had told him she’d be over in the morning, in the neighborhood of ten-thirty. It was well into the afternoon. Dealing with the drunk, cleaning the vomit out of the back seat, filling out the arrest report—and starting the paperwork about damage to her Ford and getting pictures of it—took a big chunk of unintended time. He might have gotten tired of waiting for her.
The dog must have heard her. It came to the window, foam bubbling on the sides of its mouth. A golden retriever that, judging by its white muzzle, was a senior. It didn’t look dangerous, and was clearly happily wagging its brushy tail as it started barking again.
Piper stepped down, returned to her car, and radioed Teegan, who had recently come on shift.
“Hey, Sheriff. Mr. Conspiracy called several minutes ago. I was trying to get you on the radio.”
“I was walking his property.”
“He’s not home.”
“Obviously,” Piper returned.
“He’s at the old fart’s club.”
Piper buckled in and started the Ford. It made a disturbing chugging sound before settling down. Maybe the tractor had caused more damage than she thought. She’d drop it at the garage—she had to at some point anyway to finish the accident report and get it repaired—and catch a ride home with someone. But she’d set aside time to delve more into the boxes of records in her office. The cold case was festering and she wanted to get back to it.
“Why aren’t you asking me what the old fart’s club is, Sheriff?”
“Because I figure you’ll tell me eventually.” Piper turned back toward Rockport and heard the chugging sound again. Then the engine quieted and ran smooth.
“The old fart’s club. It’s the genealogy club. They’re meeting this afternoon in the community room at the library’s Parker Branch, probably not more than a mile or so from where you are. They move from branch to branch each week, and it’s always on a Wednesday to convenience the high school computer class that helps them. You lucked out with it being at Parker.”
“Thanks, Teegan.”
“Hey, Sheriff? The guys found a few more things on the bluff. JJ’s cleaning them up. I haven’t had a chance to go take a look. Swamped with paperwork. Oh, and Oren’s back. He says the bones belong to a nine-year-old, right handed white boy who as a baby had been delivered with forceps. Some fancy forensic specialist who took a look claims that T-bone vertebrae, something like that, were broken, a broken hyoid. Those are all in the neck somewhere. Says the broken vertebrae means the boy was likely strangled to death, or his neck snapped. Won’t have the official coroner’s report for days, though, maybe weeks. They’re still doing some tests. Not sure yet just how long the bones were in the park. The bone guy is going over late this afternoon to look at the site. I’m emailing you Oren’s initial report.” The radio made a crackling sound. “Who the hell would strangle a nine-year-old?”
Someone evil, Piper thought. “I’m stopping at the Parker Branch.” After she plugged it into her Garmin. She’d never been there. “I won’t be long.” She hoped. “Then I’m coming back in.” To see what else had been found in the park and to walk the park again. The Ford was sounding fine now. She’d take it to the garage for repairs tomorrow.
“I heard that you and your dad are getting a May Day dinner tonight?”
So nosey Teegan probably looked in her office, saw the basket, and read Nang’s card. Great. If the woman wasn’t so efficient, Piper would replace her.
“Home cooked Vietnamese, Sheriff?”
Piper didn’t reply. If she hadn’t told Nang yes, she’d be spending the entire evening in the office. Instead, she’d let the office come home with her—or at least one of those big old records boxes.
She’d found the bones. This was her case.
Piper used her phone to call up her department email, wanting to see Oren’s notes. They were concise and nothing different than what Teegan had relayed. There was also another message, that had been sent around noon, with a sender address that was an odd series of numbers.
Stay away from Thresher
The air will be fresher
And U will B safer
Drop it bitch
She stared at the screen. Mark Thresher wasn’t paranoid, she decided. Not about someone stealing from him. And that “someone” knew Piper was looking into the case.
Piper called the salon and cancelled her hair appointment. Maybe she’d just hack it off herself tonight—after she figured out who sent her the threatening note.