Chapter 40

The cop from Tabernacle was disgusted. Justifiably so. “You don’t go barging into a crime scene and straighten things up. You oughta know better’n that.”

“I thought it was my brother-in-law … ex-brother-in-law …” Bruno tried to explain.

“I doan’ care if it was your mother!” shouted the cop.

“… I just wanted to straighten up. It’s my house, after all …” Bruno continued. “What would you have done if it happened at your place? Just left a pile of steaming crap on your favorite chair?”

—“That was evidence,” the cop retorted. The Tabernacle police force so rarely had an authentic crime scene worth protecting, it was frustrating to lose one; at the same time, the officer was thoroughly pleased to have this opportunity to get in somebody’s face about lousing things up. “You say you work with the police. You should have known better.” And he turned his back on Bruno so he could mutter insults under his breath.

Bruno sat there and stewed until he heard the sound of Randy’s buffed-up monster of a muscle car pulling into his driveway. This was Randy’s pride and joy, and he used it from time to time when official business required an unmarked car. He figured people would never expect a classic car, decked out in flat primer gray, belonged to the police. Randy’s car was a 1969 Charger Daytona, built specifically for NASCAR competition. Though more than 35 years old, even the street model was more aerodynamic than many racing cars built decades later. Randy had it souped up with the fabled 426 Hemi, which produced at least 425 horsepower. It was an awesome machine for racing in the streets; using it for police business allowed Randy to open it up, from time to time, without having to worry about getting arrested for reckless driving.

Biff and Randy entered the trailer, hats in hand. The absence of banter showed they had heard the news and thought Bruno might be in a state of shock. Bruno immediately apologized for disturbing the crime scene. “I thought for sure it was McRae taking out his frustrations. Seeking revenge.”

“He has a pretty good alibi for last night,” said Randy. “He was with Mayor Dove, trying to get both you and the Chief locked up because of what he did at his own house …”

Randy caught the eye of the Tabernacle cop, who slunk off sullenly, handing him a business card on the way out.

Bruno didn’t even notice. He sighed deeply. “I knew it wasn’t him when I saw the note. Even McRae wouldn’t threaten his own daughter.”

“You never know,” Biff said. “He bashed in his own front door. Maybe the note was a ruse to throw us off the track.”

“He has an alibi,” Randy said. “There’s still plenty of evidence to collect here. We should still be able to get prints off of the note card and maybe the box. Plenty of DNA left on the recliner. And we can look outside for footprints, tire tracks and the weapon …”

He nodded to Biff, who had carefully picked up the flower box and was spiriting it out to the car without saying anything to Bruno.

“You try to get some sleep,” Randy counseled.

Bruno nodded passively. The bed was trashed. Luckily he had a spare inflatable mattress. And drugs for pain and sleep. He and Maggie both took a dose. They curled up together on the mattress on the floor and slept through the night in a deep, dreamless state that was more like suspended animation than sleep.

Somehow, they woke up refreshed. Maybe it was the sunshine. The crisp morning chill, with a slight hint of mid-morning warmth. The signs of springtime all around.

Maggie was wagging her stump. Cautiously at first. Then with more of her normal gusto. Bruno checked the dressing. The vet had done a good job, but it was lucky Gil had known how to staunch the bleeding in the first place. Bruno resolved to find a way to repay him, or at least thank him properly, someday.

Now, with his mind starting to clear, Bruno had to wonder: Why were they threatening Mimi? Who knew about his relationship to her and her importance to the case? Was there a mole—or a rat?—on the Gardenfield police force?

With these questions percolating, Bruno sorted through all of the mail and other junk that had accumulated during the days he had been a guest of the Borough of Gardenfield. Bills. Junk. Newspaper supplements. And the newspaper itself. Nothing less appealing than a two-day-old Pest, Bruno reflected. Nevertheless, he flipped through quickly, scanning the local news. And there it was: the answer staring him right in the face.

Peaches had gotten word of the fight at McRae’s. She’d called it “The Showdown at Casa McRae,” adding a subtitle: “Psychic rumbles with City Attorney.” So there it was in black and white, the information that McRae had been fighting to conceal about his family’s involvement in the Quaker Killer/Ginnie Doe investigation. For such a smart guy, McRae seemed to have a knack for undermining his own interests.

But the real villain here was Peaches. She had tipped off the identity of a young girl and put her in a clear state of peril. Somebody needed to do something about her. She’d been giving him tsuris—pain and trouble—every step of the way. She’d accused him of colluding with Gussie’s killer. She’d spoiled the secret of his dual identities and gotten him kicked off his best consulting gig. Now she’d almost gotten Maggie killed, as well as exposing innocent little Mimi to unwarranted risks.

It was time to act. Peaches had to be neutralized before she could do further damage. But how? Nothing sprang to mind right away, but he was sure he’d think of something in the next day or two. So he called Peaches and set up a lunch date for early the following week.