SITTING triumphant on the couch, Godwin said, “I want to get a copy of the thank-you speech Bob was supposed to give at the banquet. People won’t remember the whole thing, of course, but they’ll remember parts of it, and we can compare what they remember to the speech Bob wrote. If the two are really different, then we’ll have proof it wasn’t Bob.”
“So you seriously think it might not have been Bob Germaine up there accepting the check,” said Betsy.
“Well, I must agree with Ramona, the man I saw looks different from Bob Germaine. And now there are more little things, like I asked Allie if Bob wore an ID bracelet with big flat links, and she said he never wore any jewelry but his wedding band.”
Godwin abruptly cut himself off, struck by something, and Betsy guessed, “He wasn’t wearing a wedding band.”
Godwin made a face at her. “You’re always a jump ahead of me, aren’t you?”
“Not always. What I really am is jealous. You’re doing such a good job, and you seem to be having a good time!”
“I am when I find a clue and draw a deduction from it, and you tell me I’m probably right.” Godwin drew a breath that swelled his chest like a rooster about to crow and let it out through a broad grin. “You and Jill had me all nervous about it, but I tried hard to do what you said I should do, and it worked. It’s like trying something you’re not sure you can do, and making all kinds of mistakes, and then finally reading the instructions and finding you’re not so bad at it.”
Betsy nodded. She felt that way sometimes, though mostly about needlework. She remembered how frustrated she was when her head knew how to do a stitch but her fingers only halfheartedly acted on the knowledge. How she finally stitched a stack of frogs up a narrow piece of fabric and made a bell pull out of it. It still hung down in the shop, where stitchers would look at it and nod, ruefully, and sometimes buy Maru Zamora’s pattern to make their own version, around a belt or dappled onto a sweatshirt or vest. Stitchers whose motto was the same as hers: Rip it, rip it, rip it.
But she was wandering from the point. She pulled herself back and said, “So what you’ll need to do is contact the Heart Coalition for a copy of Bob’s speech. Hey, wait a minute! I can do that! I can phone them and ask them to e-mail me a copy of the speech.” Betsy was very pleased to at last have even this small part to play in the investigation.
“Yes! It’ll be hard to wait till Monday to do that,” said Godwin. It was only Friday evening.
“I’ll call them first thing.” Betsy, still smiling, leaned back in her chair. “So who do you think this imposter might be?”
Godwin shrugged. “We have a name: Stoney Durand. I was thinking it was a fake name Bob Germaine was using, but if the man isn’t Bob…”
“Yes, if.”
But I’m sure it has to be someone who is either in Embroiderers Guild of America or is married to a member. Because how else would he know about the money being raised? And that it would be presented to a Heart Coalition official at the banquet?”
Betsy nodded. “Good thinking.”
Godwin swelled again, then let his breath out suddenly. “So what’s the next step: Ask every person who came to the convention if he or she knows a Stoney Durand? There were over five hundred people there!” He was looking dismayed at the size of that task.
Betsy said, “You’ll also want to talk to all the local membership, whether they came or not. But here’s what may be a shortcut: Get a list of attendees, see if there’s a Durand on it. And also take a look at regional membership lists.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Godwin. He was a bit deflated because he hadn’t thought of that himself.
“And I am going to call Mike Malloy.” Sergeant Mike Malloy was one of Excelsior’s two investigators, and while he disapproved of amateur sleuths, he had experience with Betsy’s previous efforts and was at least willing to listen to her. “He should know about this.”
OFFICER Alan Johnson was tired, bone tired. He’d taken a second, part-time job after the birth this summer of his fifth child and was finding it tough to stay awake during the latter half of his graveyard shift, when things got really quiet. He’d heard that a good place to coop—sleep on duty—was the long-term parking lot at the airport, which was included in his patrol area anyway. Right now he was so afraid of falling asleep behind the wheel that he decided to coop for just half an hour.
He drove up and down the rows of quiet cars until he found a space, deep in shadow and not near the end of a row. He pulled in and was about to shut his engine off when his computer beeped at him. He looked over at it and saw it indicating his in-squad camera had read a license plate on the hot list. Checking, he saw the plate was right in front of him, on the back end of a newish light blue Lexus. Which was the right car, too—there were thieves who stole just the plates.
He thought about ignoring it but then he saw that the car wasn’t stolen, it belonged to the man who stole that check from some embroiderers’ club. There had been a stink raised in the papers about that, because the check was for twenty-odd grand and made out to a charity. A lot of heat was being applied to find the man. And while Alan hadn’t found the man, he’d found his car at the airport, which was a big clue to why they hadn’t found the man. That alone would lower the heat on the cops.
Alan might even get a commendation out of this, which would be better.
Of course, it was not unknown for people to abandon or be dragged out of their cars, and the cars subsequently be taken by thieves. Alan hoped this was not the case here.
Feeling much more wakeful now, he climbed out of his squad car. The November night air was cold and damp, smelling of snow. He walked all the way around the Lexus and found it undamaged—stolen cars were often damaged by the thieves, who were inclined to let their inner NASCAR driver take the wheel. The lights in the lot made bright spots on the car’s pale finish and permitted a dim view through the darkened windows of its interior. Alan peered in but didn’t see anything. Or anyone. He tried the driver’s side door, and to his surprise found it unlocked. The interior was clean and empty, but a faint and unpleasant odor had wafted out when he opened the door.
Alan sighed. He had a very bad feeling about this. He reached for the trunk release, and walked back to take a gingerly peek, rearing back when the faint odor proved much stronger back here.
There was a white man folded up inside the trunk, naked except for underwear, nice dress shoes, and dark socks. His head was pressed up against a black Nike sports bag. Alan pulled out his flashlight and, without touching anything, discovered an ugly dent in the man’s temple that continued into the hairline. It was not bleeding, which was not surprising, as the man was dead.