Chapter Eleven

 

9:30 a.m.

 

He rested his chin on tented fingers and stared, unseeingly, at the white board on the far wall of his office for the umpteenth time that morning.

The red X in the upper left corner represented Ocean Point Gifts. The first of the three robberies. The suspect had gotten away with a handful of beachy Christmas ornaments and a stack of postcards.

The X in the bottom left corner was Merv’s. Hit up two weeks ago, the neighborhood pharmacy was light a few pairs of cheap sunglasses and a couple of inexpensive watches.

The third—and most recent—X was dead center. It denoted the two laptops stolen from the mobile computer lab at Ocean Point Community College and the resulting murder of Hannah Daltry.

The first two robberies had followed a distinct pattern. Both took place on a Sunday night when the shops were closed and nighttime traffic was at a minimum. In both instances, the robber gained access through an unlocked door. Both were minor hits, nothing of significant monetary value missing.

The third robbery was following the same pattern. Sunday evening. No sign of forced entry. Campus was quiet. Sure, computers were a bigger take in the grand scheme of things . . . but in a roomful of thirty, two constituted a minor hit.

“You just can’t stay away, can you, Detective?”

Mitch Burns glanced at the door and grinned at the head peeking around the corner. “Hey, Chief. What are you doing here on a Saturday?”

Kevin Maynard pushed the door open a few extra inches and walked across the room to Mitch’s desk. “I called in a little while ago to check on things and Mindy said you were here working.”

“And you couldn’t wait to see me, could you?” Mitch dropped his legs to the ground and stood, shaking his boss’s hand.

“You could say that.” Chief Maynard sat down in the empty chair across from Mitch. “When’d you get in?”

“A little after eight last night. ’Lise picked me up and we went back to her place for a while. Didn’t get home until about two this morning.” Mitch motioned to the unopened Coke can on his desk, then handed it to his boss. “It’s good to be home.”

Chief Maynard popped his can open and took a long, slow, deliberate pull on his drink. “We gotta get this case wrapped up, Mitch. The stakes have gotten too big.”

He should have known the chief wouldn’t show his face on a weekend for a social call. But the man was right. The murder of Hannah Daltry brought the rash of seemingly petty robberies to a whole new level.

Mitch set down his own drink and stood, covered the distance between his desk and the white board in four long strides. “That’s what I’ve been working on all morning.”

“And?”

“I’ve got a few thoughts, just not sure how much weight to put on them at this point.” Mitch pointed to the X denoting Ocean Point Gifts. “Granted, there’s not a whole lot of valuable things in the gift shop, but I know Gerty’s got some china teapots from Ireland in there that are worth a heck of a lot more than some postcards and Christmas ornaments.”

The boss nodded and sat back, his eyes taking on the squinty look he got while absorbing a situation. “Go on.”

Mitch pointed to the X for Merv’s. “If this thief were a pro, we’d be dealing with missing narcotics . . . not purple sunglasses and a cheapo watch or two.”

Without waiting for his boss to comment, Mitch continued, his gut playing out loud for the first time all morning. “And then we’ve got the computer lab here”—he pointed at the big red X in the center of the board—“which only lost two laptops out of thirty. Almost as if they were token takes, you know?”

He glanced over at the chief, noticed the slow nod of the man’s head as he listened.

“The one thing I’ve been coming back to all morning long is this—I think the robberies are done.”

“You think he’s going to move on to another town?” Chief Maynard glanced down at the cell phone attached to his waist, pushed a button on its left side, then looked back at Mitch for an answer to his question.

“No. I don’t think he’s going to move on. I think he’s done. That murder was the last thing he intended. He got caught in a small-play game and simply got scared.”

His boss stood and retraced his steps toward Mitch’s door. “That was Denise. If I don’t get home I’m not gonna be a real popular guy this weekend. I leave you to your work, sounds like you’ve got something.”

Mitch walked over to the door with his boss. “I think so too.”

Chief Maynard stopped in the doorway and turned, his good-buddy persona replaced by his top-cop tone. “Finish this up, Mitch. I’m counting on you.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stood there, staring into the hallway for a few moments, his mind playing through everything he’d just gone over with the chief. But it was the nagging part he’d neglected to tell the man that commanded most of his attention.

Wandering back to his desk, he sat down, pulled the coroner’s report from the manila envelope on his desk and stared at the cause of death for the third time that morning. Strangulation. Bruising on the victim’s body pointed to hands as the murder weapon. Suspected time of death, based on condition of body and temperature, was approximated to have been Sunday evening between seven and ten.

The reports written by the responding officer noted all the pertinent facts. Condition of body: full rigor. Suspected entry point: classroom doorway. Suspected position of assailant: behind. Approximate age of victim: early forties. Hair color: brown, etc.

The write-up was thorough, all information legible and understandable. But written reports, regardless of their quality, were a poor substitute for a visual of the crime scene.

He pressed the intercom button on the bottom of his desk phone and waited.

“Yes, Detective Burns?”

“Mindy, do you know if Sorelli’s around today?”

“I think he is. Should I tell him you want to see him?”

He looked down at the crime scene write-up, his eyes focused on the assailant’s position. “Yeah, I’d like to talk to him asap.”

Mitch leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair, waiting. He hadn’t meant to spend so much time there on a Saturday, but he couldn’t leave. Not yet anyway.

A rapid knock at his door announced Sorelli’s arrival.

“You wanted to see me, Mitch?”

“Yeah, c’mon in.”

The department’s patrolman and star photographer pushed open the door and strolled into Mitch’s office, his large, basketball-sized head seeming to spring from his shoulders rather than a neck. “When’d you get back?”

“Last night.” Mitch shook the officer’s hand and nodded at the vacant chair across from his desk. “Been wading through the reports on the Daltry murder investigation.”

Sorelli’s mouth spread upward on the right side. “Figured you’d be at it the second you got back. Screwy, ain’t it?”

Mitch interlaced his fingers in midair and rested the back of his head in his palms. “Screwy, how so?”

Sorelli pulled a toothpick from his back pocket and started picking at his teeth. “This used to be such a quiet town, you know? Then we had all those murders last summer. Thought it was the last we’d see of that kind of thing for a long time. Apparently I was wrong.”

Nodding, Mitch considered Sorelli’s words. The man was right. Ocean Point was no longer the sleepy little town it once was. The murders last summer had been a first for him as a detective. Yet here he was again, less than a year later, investigating another murder . . . before talk of the first case had even died down.

“You took pictures, right?”

The toothpick paused. “Of the crime scene? Of course.”

“I want to see ’em.” Mitch dropped his hands to the desk and lifted the write-up. “Kurdle did a great job on these reports. But you and I both know that the visual is where it’s at.”

Sorelli tossed his toothpick into the wastebasket beside Mitch’s desk and stood. “Give me five.”

“Thanks, Sorelli.”

While he waited to see the pictures, he made some notes on a pad of paper. Thoughts and impressions of everything he’d seen so far, including the things he’d shared with the chief.

But it was the part he didn’t write down that troubled him most. He didn’t need the written word to bring it home. It was already there, eating at his subconscious. After all, how could anyone ignore their own part in another person’s death?