The digital readout on the cruiser’s dash showed it was 9:35.
“Damn it, maybe we should have gone to that woman’s house first,” I said after realizing we wouldn’t get to her until ten thirty or later.
Frank waved me off. “If she didn’t want to talk, she wouldn’t have made the call. She’s doing her civic duty, so time shouldn’t matter.”
I laughed. “Says the guy who hates door knocks or phone calls after nine.” I checked the address I’d written down then told Frank to pull over. We had arrived. “That’s the house.” I pointed at the white two-story with the well-groomed lawn and porch light on.
Frank dipped his head and peered out the passenger window as he slowed against the curb. “Looks like a decent place.”
I raised a brow. “Meaning he’s more legit?”
“Probably. Let’s find out.”
We exited the cruiser and took to the brick sidewalk that led to the porch. Frank pressed the doorbell. I glanced down at the slip of paper again to see the man’s name—Tom Greenwood.
Seconds later, the door swung open, and a middle-aged man about my size reached out and introduced himself with a handshake. “Tom Greenwood here. Detectives McCord and Mills, I presume?”
Frank nodded. “You’d be correct. I’m Detective Mills”—he shot a thumb in my direction—“and he’s McCord.”
“Good, good. Come on in.” Tom led the way through the foyer and into a cozy-looking den. “Have a seat. Care for anything to drink?”
“Nah, thanks. We’re good.” I wanted to get down to business.
“Sure thing.” Tom took the chair with the ottoman, and Frank and I shared the couch.
I waited until he looked comfortable before beginning. Frank pulled out his notepad and pen.
“So Mr. Greenwood, you said you saw something unusual this morning. Go ahead and walk us through it, starting at the point when you got back to this neighborhood.”
“Sure. Like I told Detective Mills on the phone, I had a red-eye from Miami, and by the time I got back here, it was around four thirty a.m. Because of the late hour”—he smiled—“or early hour, I finally went to bed. I had a vacation day today. From what the news described and what I saw with the police presence at the playground, I put two and two together.”
“You drove past the playground today?”
He nodded. “I needed groceries. I’ve been away for a week on a work conference, and the refrigerator and cupboards were bare. I didn’t mention it during the phone call, but I’m a bachelor and don’t have a wife or maid who does the grocery shopping.”
“Got it. Thanks for the clarification. So describe to us everything you can remember about the people pulling a wagon.”
“Yeah, that’s what it looked like. I mean, it was still really dark outside, and if it wasn’t for my headlights illuminating that corner of the sidewalk, I would have missed them altogether. It wasn’t much more than a quick glimpse, but it was definitely two people, and they weren’t pushing a grocery cart. They were pulling something. What else would you pull other than a wagon?”
I rubbed my chin. “That’s true. Did it look like something was inside?”
“Sure, but I figured it was their belongings. You know how homeless people collect things.” He furrowed his brows.
“Think of something?” Frank asked.
“Just that I’ve seen hundreds of homeless people during my travels, and either they carried nothing more than a duffel bag, or they pushed grocery carts because they’re easy to steal. I’ve never seen anyone pull a wagon.”
I gave Frank a sideways glance. Tom had a point.
“Could you tell if the people were men, women, or one of each?”
“Nope, too dark outside, and they were wearing black or navy-blue clothing, probably to blend in with the night.”
“Did you notice their hair? Long or short?”
“I didn’t.” Tom put his legs up on the ottoman then pinched the bridge of his nose. “If I recall correctly, the few seconds I did see, I think they were wearing hoodies.”
Frank jotted that down then tapped his pen against the pad. “What street were they on, and which direction were they going?”
“They had just turned north on South Dorchester Avenue. That’s how my headlights caught them for a split second.”
I thought out loud. “Okay, so they entered the park from the east.”
Tom pulled back his head. “So you think that dead guy was in the wagon?”
I stood, and Frank did the same. “It’s early in the investigation, Tom, and we can’t speculate. It could be just like you thought, two homeless people walking by.” I knew he wasn’t buying what I was selling, but we couldn’t confirm anything at that point, anyway. We gave him our cards, and I reached out for a handshake.
“You’ve been very helpful, and we may need to contact you again.”
“Not a problem. Happy to do my part.”
Back in the car, I checked the time—10:19. We were off to the house of the woman who thought John Doe looked like her old neighbor. I gave her a courtesy call to say we were en route.
Frank pulled into her driveway at 10:40. She lived in a modest-sized single-story house that didn’t appear to be more than a thousand square feet, and I assumed she lived alone. With a couple of short raps on the screen door, we waited. A woman who looked to be in her early sixties peeked out the sidelights, which was smart on her part given the hour. We already had our badges exposed to give her peace of mind. She nodded and opened the door.
“Detectives, please come in.”
We thanked her, introduced ourselves, and apologized for the late hour.
“I’m Lois Porter, and it’s okay. I’m retired with nothing better to do in the morning except sleep in. Right this way. We’ll sit in the kitchen.”
Frank and I followed her then pulled out chairs on one side of the table, and she faced us from the other.
“We don’t want to keep you too long, so we’ll get right to it, okay?”
“Sure thing. Go ahead and ask your questions.”
“Appreciate it, ma’am.”
“Just call me Lois.”
I nodded. “What makes you think John Doe was your old neighbor?”
“Simple. Because he looks like him. Granted, the deceased had his eyes closed in the photograph, but the description was on the money. I don’t know what brand of clothing he wore”—she smiled—“it wasn’t like we were ever talking about clothes, but the picture of his shirt and description of his pants seemed like the type of outfits he wore.”
“What was his name, and why did he leave the area?”
“His name was Miles Jamison, and he was from England originally. When his wife Patrice died of cancer four years back, he left the neighborhood and moved to an apartment building. I guess living in the same home that they shared for twenty years was too painful for him. Since then, we lost touch.”
My mind flashed to my own home, the one I’d grown up in. It held wonderful childhood memories, but a few years after my parents died, I had the entire house remodeled. I believed it was because I couldn’t face those memories every day. I needed a fresh start but kept some of the home’s features that were near and dear to my mom’s heart.
“Do you have any photographs of Miles?”
She excused herself momentarily then came back carrying a photo album. “I’ll admit, the pictures are old. I mean, nobody uses cameras or stores pictures in albums anymore.”
I thought of the totes full of albums in my basement. “May we?”
“Sure.” She slid the album across the table then came around and leaned over our backs. “That one there was from a neighborhood block party about fifteen years ago. Miles is the man in the red polo shirt.”
I pulled my reading glasses from my inside jacket pocket and put them on. A side view of the man wouldn’t help, and being fifteen years older made a huge difference in a person’s appearance. “Do you have any of Miles looking directly at the camera and possibly a bit newer?”
“Well, let’s see. Go ahead and flip the pages. I’ll tell you if I see him again.”
Feeling deflated, I didn’t have faith that we would see any up-close headshots of the man in question. She found one more picture in the album, a straight shot, but Miles was still across the yard at a picnic table with a half dozen other neighbors. It looked to be about the same decade too.
“Sorry I don’t have anything better than these, but as soon as I saw that news segment, my mind went immediately to Miles.”
“Do you know what apartment complex he moved to?”
She shook her head. “We were acquaintances, not best friends. Back then, when people moved, they just said their goodbyes and left. He didn’t have family in the area, but he hoped the activities offered at the apartment complex would help him make new friends.”
We thanked Lois, gave her our contact information, and left.
“I’ll pull his name when we get back to the station, and maybe an address will pop up. If it does, we’ll bang on his door tomorrow and see if anyone answers.”
Frank fisted his eyes. “One more interview and then I’m done. It’s lights out for me.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty beat too.” I thought about Bandit, and the guilt began to creep in, but I knew he was likely asleep on the couch and dreaming about chasing squirrels.
We headed to Gilda’s Pub, where we would talk to our last caller. I pressed the map light to get a look at his name—Gary Fowler.
Luckily, when we arrived, Gilda’s had only about twenty people inside. A neighborhood establishment, it wasn’t the type of bar that served martinis and Jell-O shots. It was a beer drinker’s pub and the kind of place I’d probably frequent myself. We approached the bartender to ask who Gary was, but as two men in suits, we couldn’t help standing out. Gary easily found us.
“I’m Gary, and you must be the detectives.”
Frank chuckled. “What gave it away?”
Gary shook our hands and pointed at a vacant bar table. “Is that okay?”
“Sure, it’s fine,” I said, “and it helps that you can actually hear yourself talk in here. So what leads you to think John Doe is the bookstore owner?”
“To be honest, I’m a struggling author and stop in there often. I read books in my genre to see how other authors write. Maybe I’ll learn a few things on how to improve my style. Plus, the shop is within walking distance of my house. Convenience, I’d say, more than anything else.”
“Sure, and he hasn’t been around lately? That’s why you called?”
“Well, that and the fact that John Doe looked a lot like Conrad Beaumont.”
I made sure Frank wrote down the name. A quick internet search would tell us where he lived, and he would get a door knock tomorrow too.
“Any idea if Conrad had plans to go on vacation? Maybe a note on the bookstore’s door?”
“Nope, nothing like that. Just a gut feeling on my part, I guess. Normally, he’s closed on Sundays and Wednesdays, but the shop hasn’t been open since last Tuesday.”
“Okay, so in a regular week, the doors would have reopened on Thursday?”
“That’s right, and now it’s the following Monday night. Can’t figure it out unless it involves foul play.”
Frank smiled. “What genre do you write in, Gary?”
“What else? Crime fiction.”