Piper sat on the designated bench in the park. Someone tap danced inside her head—a whole chorus line of tap dancers that aspirin wouldn’t silence. Her morning had gotten off to an ugly start.
When she went to get in the loaner Hyundai this morning she stared at the spot where the driver side mirror should be. It could have happened at Gretchen’s, or when someone brought the car back yesterday, but the BITCH in dayglow yellow spray paint spaced out across the doors had come courtesy of whoever was intimidating her. Probably had torn off the mirror, too. The random blobs of color on Nang’s classic pickup had made matters worse. Fortunately, her and her father’s personal cars were in the garage.
But the double garage door had been tagged, too, and Paul Blackwell was furious—and concerned when she mentioned the previous damage to her Ford and finally talked about the email threats.
Paul said he was going to report the vandalism to the Rockport police on his way back from a big box store in Owensboro, where he would buy paint, motion sensor lights, and a home video surveillance system. He squealed away before she could present an effective argument.
The spray paint was nasty, but harmless, just another notice, done late last night. The neighbors said they didn’t see anyone or hear anything.
Harmless, yes, but it was an escalation. What was next? Serious damage? Maybe burning the place? A half-full gas can—that didn’t belong to her father—had sat in front of the garage. It had only made her more angry and determined.
Her dad had taken the gas can with him, said he’d give it to the police, said he’d mention the threats, too. They wouldn’t find fingerprints on the can. Piper knew her foe was too careful to leave prints.
She looked at her watch. At 8:55, she was five minutes early to the park, but actually late to work. She’d intended to be in the office by six-thirty so she could see if Diego had come up with anything on the Celica. If he’d found an owner and address, she had planned to pay the soul a visit and hopefully make an arrest. Have something good to report to Mark the Shark. But none of that happened. She’d have to attend to that after this meeting.
Her head pounded.
Piper passed the time waiting for Mark by using her phone to scroll local classified ads, see the apartment listings. It wasn’t the spray paint that fueled the fingers of her good hand; it was the desire for a little distance from her father. His raised eyebrows at Nang’s early-morning presence hadn’t been lost on her. Piper’s life. Piper’s business. Nothing happened, but her dad didn’t need to know that. And her dad’s garage hadn’t needed to be targeted by the vile soul pestering her and Mark the Shark.
I really need to get my own place.
Not that her apartment wasn’t her own place. But above her father’s garage, it was less than twenty feet from his house. The proximity had been great when he was ill. It felt smothering now. Maybe she could find something furnished because she didn’t want to acquire…things. “Stuff” was an anchor. The more you had, the more it weighed you down—cementing you to a town, a county. Her future was too murky for…things.
Not a single listing looked appealing. Was that why Millie was going to rent a one hundred and thirty-year-old house that currently had no working plumbing or electricity?
She tipped her head back and let the slight breeze drift across her face, ruffle her too-long bangs. Damn, she still needed a haircut. Just ought to whack it off herself. She could do that one-handed, right? Maybe she’d pass Sylvia D a pair of scissors when she got back into the office and say, “Have at it, please, before I go get the damn Celica and end this.”
The sky was Chicago Blues by Benjamin Moore. Piper had color samples in her desk drawer at home, had been entertaining the thought of painting her living room. Chicago Blues, or the lighter and gray-tinged Bracing Blue by Sherwin-Williams. She’d not yet decided. Then the carpet would get replaced because otherwise it would clash horribly. But if she moved, she didn’t have to worry about painting—and wouldn’t have to walk across old orange shag.
Not a cloud in the sky, one solid swipe of color. Definitely Chicago Blues.
The day warm, it felt like full-blown summer. Smelled like summer, too, a touch of the river, flowers, and still she could pick up the heady scent of the earth from where the park employees had filled in the hole. They’d seeded, straw thrown down. They’d tossed seeds in most of the bare spots across the entire bluff. The straw wasn’t doing a good job of keeping the birds from feasting.
9:05.
Mark was late. Maybe he was parking a block or so over because of the spies. He’d been right on that, hadn’t he? Someone in a metallic gray Celica had been keeping tabs on them—and probably was responsible for the spray paint. Had Mark’s place been vandalized, too?
She looked at the few cars nosed in at the edge of the park, stared at her loaned Hyundai, which had been a little tough maneuvering with one hand.
Wonder what the garage will think of that lovely spray paint?
No Celica. She wanted to get back to the office to see about that registration search, cursed herself for not getting up earlier.
Piper ticked off the items on her to-do list.
• Meet with Mark the Shark
• Check on the Celica registration
• Get an update on the Gretchen charges
• Call Nang and thank him for shopping and breakfast…because she hadn’t earlier, apologize for the paint on his truck
• Talk to Oren, learn what he had going with the bones
• Interview Zeke the Geek
• Wish that she could get a do-over on the past couple of days
Piper had been interested in seeing if Ezekiel Whitman would be a good fit for the dispatcher position—even though she was required to interview three candidates. But if he was as computer savvy as others claimed, she’d interview him about more than just the job opening and the threatening email she’d received. Ezekiel Whitman was connected to Mark the Shark through the old fart’s club and accompanying computer tutoring. Did he drive a Celica?
Was it possible Zeke the Geek had siphoned Mark’s accounts?
Could he be the one who sent her the threatening email? Spray painted last night?
Piper pulled out her phone and checked her texts and email. She’d had three texts from her dad, which she flipped through. He was still fuming about the vandalism and worried about her. She would call him when she got to the office.
She called Mark. He didn’t have a cell phone, but she thought maybe he was still at home. If he’d heard about the Gretchen incident, and that she’d been shot, he might have figured this meeting was off. No answer. If he’d been vandalized, Piper was certain he would have called her. She’d wait just a little longer to see if he showed up.
She tipped her head back again and closed her eyes.
Must’ve dozed off there.
Had to be the pain pills that warned “may cause drowsiness.” She’d stop taking them and suck it up.
9:40.
Definitely had dozed.
She called Mark again. Still no answer.
Called Sylvia D.
Oren was in Evansville, the bone case, and would be back after lunch. She wondered if he was meeting with Doc Natty. Maybe some test results had come back much earlier than expected.
JJ was in the office going through old case files.
Diego had not left any notes about his Celica search. And at the moment he was fielding a situation in Fulda involving Chris Hagee. Hagee’s neighbor had been a victim of January’s serial killer, and Chris had been jumpy ever since, calling the department frequently.
Mark Thresher hadn’t called in.
“I’m going to Hatfield, out to Thresher’s,” Piper said.
With no traffic, and no sign of a Celica, it took her only fourteen minutes to reach Mark’s long gravel driveway. She parked the Hyundai even with his house, got out, and approached the front door, passing the motion-sensor lights, the ADT post by the walk, and the BEWARE OF DOG sign at the stoop.
When she pushed the doorbell, there was no thunderous “woof” this time. Piper waited, tapped her foot, and knocked.
Concerned and curious, she went to the garage, rose up on her toes, and peered in through a side window. The motorcycles and the vintage Franklin convertible in one double-bay, his Chevy in the other. He hadn’t driven anywhere.
Piper stopped at the side of the house, stood on the cement block planter, and looked in between the bars of a window and into the den. The old recliner she’d noticed from her previous trip—Mark sat slumped in it, an orange tabby curled in his lap, the old golden retriever lying across his feet. The dog picked up its head when Piper tapped on the window, but it didn’t budge. She tapped louder and looked closer.
It didn’t appear that the old man was breathing.
Piper called Sylvia D and hurried to the front door, gritted her teeth, and rammed her good shoulder at it. The door was oak and strong and held. She raised her leg and kicked just below the doorknob. One more kick and she forced it open. The ADT alarm went off. Ignoring it, she turned right down a short hallway, passed by a spare bedroom, and found the den.
“Do I need to send an ambulance?” Sylvia D asked.
“No.” Piper stepped into the den and stared at the old man, who had on his jacket despite the warmth of the day. His right hand looked like a claw that had grabbed at his shirt and froze that way. His car keys dangled from the fingers of his left hand. “No, I don’t need an ambulance. And ADT will be notifying you.”
“Just did. Told ‘em you had to break in.” She rattled off a code so Piper could turn off the shrill sound.
“Thanks. Call the coroner, please. Ask Dr. Neufeld to come here as soon as she’s able.”
The cat turned its head and looked up at her.
The old dog kept its position.
Piper sat at the desk, stared at the threesome, and sobbed as the alarm continued to keen.