In one way cops are all the same. They all blame the wrong things. If a guy loses his pay check at a crap table, stop gambling. If he gets drunk, stop liquor. If he kills somebody in a car crash, stop making automobiles.
—Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye, 1953
EDDIE AND I emerged from the woods onto cracked concrete. We’d found the narrow street behind the old Victorian house. There were only two vehicles in sight, Eddie’s police car and a steel blue Ford Fusion with temporary plates.
The Ford was parked at an awkward angle, as if the driver were in a hurry, or too distracted to care about alignment.
Even if Eddie hadn’t confirmed it, I would have known the Ford belonged to Emma Hudson. Back at the bookstore, Wanda Clark had rattled off the vehicle’s make, model, color—pretty much everything except the mileage and Blue Book value. (Clearly, the minutiae of her husband’s used-car business was primary conversation in their house.)
Let’s see if Chief Blowhard is right and your pilfered potboiler is in that car.
Peering through the rain-beaded windshield, I saw an empty coffee cup from Cooper Family Bakery tucked into the holder, but there was nothing on the car’s seats or the dashboard, where Wanda said she’d spied that copy of Shades of Leather.
Just as I figured, Jack said. The book isn’t there.
But I see something else.
On the floor mat, beside several balls of used tissue, was a small spiral-bound notebook. There was handwriting on the lined white paper, but it was too far away to read.
I was dying to get my hands on it, but I couldn’t very well break into the car with a cop watching from two feet away.
Outwit him, baby.
How?
When I was still breathing air, the coppers I knew didn’t play chess. Checkers was their speed. One move at a time. Get ahead of this flunky, and you can trick him into doing the crime for you.
Trick him how?
Jack whispered his idea, and I put it into motion.
“Hey, Eddie, did you know Chief Ciders was looking for a suicide note? See in there? You might have found one.”
Eddie bent low and peered through the glass.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll open it up.”
From his police car, he fetched an odd device that looked like several irregular metal rods attached to a door hinge. “It’s an auto pick and decoder,” he told me as he tested the lock. “This tool works with most Fords, so—”
With a chirp, the car unlocked. Then Eddie donned white cotton gloves and retrieved the notebook. I looked over his shoulder as he studied the pages. I snapped a few phone photos, too.
“This is just a mileage log, Pen. Mrs. Hudson was recording her car’s miles per gallon on gas-hybrid versus pure electric battery usage. She was a stickler for saving the planet, I guess.”
“Since the car’s unlocked, would you mind looking for the book I told you about?”
Eddie checked under the front and back seats. Then he opened the trunk. He searched everywhere.
“Sorry, Pen, no suicide note and no book.”
“Then it had to be taken—the book, I mean. And there was no note because I doubt very much this was suicide.”
“My boss disagrees. But the autopsy should tell us more. Don’t worry, Pen, we’ll do this by the book.”
“If that’s true, then it’s that missing bestseller you should be looking for, Eddie, and the person who took it. At least go back into the pines and collect the torn book jacket I showed you. You might even lift a fingerprint or two, just in case this does turn out to be murder.”
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
I glanced toward the decaying Victorian house, standing beyond the neglected pine grove. “Do you know how long Emma lived at this address?”
“I’ll have to talk to the landlord, or you can ask your nosy pal Seymour Tarnish. The mailman ought to know.”
“And what about Emma’s ex-husband? Are you going to speak with him?”
“She had an ex-husband?” Eddie adjusted his hat. “You’re ahead of me on that one. But I’m sure the chief will ask me to look into it.”
“If you do, I’d like to talk to Mr. Hudson, too—”
He was about to object when I quickly added, “There are some highly valuable books inside that apartment. If Mr. Hudson stands to inherit them from his ex, I would like the chance to make him an offer for the entire collection. Aunt Sadie and I might get lucky and snag them at a steal.”
Eddie smiled and nodded. “If Mr. Hudson agrees to talk to you, I’ll give you his contact information.”
I was grateful but not surprised. Eddie was the son of a restaurateur. He understood the nature of a shop owner trying to survive.
Even in the shadow of death, we had to get on with the business of living.