Authors: Nichole Christoff
But we both knew he couldn’t prove I’d dropped the dime.
And I wasn’t about to admit I had.
“All that matters,” I persisted, “is that this is
not
a suicide.”
“That’s for the coroner to determine.”
“Your coroner is a dentist, for heaven’s sake. Tell me he isn’t going to listen to your opinion.”
“Keep your voice down. He’s examining Eric right now.”
“Then go join him and look at what’s left of Eric’s face, Rittenhaus. Look at the splatter on the wall behind him. He got it with both barrels. Are you telling me after the first blast blew his brains out he decided to pull the trigger a
second
time?”
Because here’s the thing about modern double-barrel shotguns: they’re made to fire one barrel at a time. And while there are some double-trigger models on the market, Eric’s shotgun was a Smith & Wesson Elite Gold single-trigger side-by-side. That means the barrels are arranged next to each other. And that there is only
one
trigger. When a gunman squeezes that trigger,
one
shot is fired. From
one
of the barrels. After the shot is fired, the recoil—that’s the force of the explosion—cocks the action—that’s the gun’s internal mechanics—for the other barrel. Then, when the trigger is pulled a second time, the
second
shot is fired from the
second
barrel.
So there was no way in hell Eric Wentz intentionally pulled that trigger a second time. Not with his brain already splattered on the shower wall. To squeeze off that second shot, someone else had pulled the trigger for him.
Which made me wonder.
Had Eric even pulled the trigger at all?
Rittenhaus refused to think about it, however. I got that much from the way his expression shut down. But then Dawkins emerged from the bathroom. His face was slack as he tried not to internalize what he’d just seen. And he gripped Eric’s shotgun through a long, crackling plastic evidence bag.
He would’ve carried it past me and out to one of the cruisers.
But I stepped into his path and spoke to the sheriff.
“Look at this gun, Luke.”
Rittenhaus turned his face away as if he couldn’t bear to see the weapon that had taken the life of his old buddy.
“Look at it,” I insisted. “It’s a single-trigger side-by-side.”
“Those can misfire. Or they can be rigged to blow both barrels. Maybe Eric rigged it himself.”
“Maybe he did. And maybe he didn’t. But are you going to let him go to his grave on a maybe?”
Rittenhaus didn’t reply.
But he didn’t need to.
Every last one of his deputies, working to document the contents of the room, had gone still. I could hear the gears grind in their minds as they considered what I’d said. And Dawkins eyed me like I’d just called the king a fool. But it meant he was thinking, even if Rittenhaus wouldn’t. And for now, that would have to do.
Chapter 14
After challenging Sheriff Luke Rittenhaus to get his head in the game, I left No. 24.
But I didn’t leave the Starlite Motel.
I retreated beyond the crime scene cordon, took a seat on the hood of my Jaguar. There, I settled in to wait. And to watch.
Stakeouts may bore new investigators eager for action, but observation can give the seasoned professional a lock on what really happened at a crime scene. Of course, observation can lead to a lot of info. And not all of it is significant. That’s where a concept called pattern recognition comes in. Simply put, pattern recognition is making sense out of overwhelming data sets—and grabbing hold of the truth that the pattern reveals. Analysts of all ilks, from the FBI to the CIA, use the technique. And so did lowly little security specialists like me.
So I kept my eyes pinned to the activity outside Eric’s room while I pulled my cellphone from my pocket. I got busy rearranging my schedule with the help of my office manager. Hudson Paul had already sent a fat check and his hearty thanks for my taking down his would-be blackmailer, Stan Liedecker.
But I had other clients who’d expect to hear from me soon.
Common sense suggested I should say goodbye to Rittenhaus, Barrett, and his grandmother, go my merry way, and get back to my regular routine. I couldn’t bring myself to do that, however. Because Eric’s sudden death smelled fishy—and it bothered me that he’d turned up dead when Barrett had been so keen to keep him alive.
So I spoke to Matty Donnelly, too. A former soldier who’d served under my father for most of his career, Matty had been the first employee I’d added to my payroll when I started Sinclair and Associates. Unfortunately, in addition to his many fine qualities, Matty was also a romantic at heart. He’d hung onto sappy, sentimental notions about Barrett and me from the moment the two men had met on that case in New Jersey the previous spring. As a result, Matty was delighted to pinch-hit for me in D.C.—because it meant I could stay in New York.
And stay I did.
Even after the coroner escorted Eric, laid to rest in a heavy black body bag and riding on a gurney, to the waiting ambulance.
The ambulance drove away as slowly as a hearse and the deputies, who’d gathered on the sidewalk to watch their neighbor leave his motel room one final time, got back to work. An official U.S. Postal Service mail truck lumbered into the lot, made its delivery, and left again. And a dented white Corolla, driven by a balding man with glasses as thick as biscuits, stopped by. The blissfully unobservant cleaning lady trundled from the motel’s office and got into it, apparently done with her shift. As soon as they drove off, the motel’s manager stepped into the sunlight, crossed to a dung-brown Datsun, and dug around in its glove box until he came up with a fresh pack of cigarettes.
With that, I’d seen a warm body in connection with every vehicle in the Starlite’s lot. But there was still one vehicle I should’ve seen. I should’ve seen Eric’s silver Mercury.
But his Mercury wasn’t here.
I slipped into my XJ8, started it up, and joined the steady procession of gawkers still cruising up and down the road. Past the motel, on the edge of town, the road was a wide strip of old asphalt bordered by deep ditches and little else. Eric’s car would’ve stood out like a sore thumb, had he dumped it for some reason on his way to his room.
On the main drag through Fallowfield, however, the Mercury would be harder to spot among citizens’ parked cars and Monday-morning busyness. Still, I kept my eyes peeled as I drove toward Eric’s office in the converted Queen Anne. His car wasn’t in front of the grand old house and it wasn’t in the designated lot in back, either. I circled the block, and finding nothing, I widened my search, checking every side street in a half-mile radius. When that fell through, I left my car and went at it on foot. I peeped into every shed, shack, garage, and carport I could find. And when that proved fruitless, I decided to question Mindy, the receptionist at Wentz Realty with the professional manicure and good-looking legs.
But Mindy had company.
A patrol car now sat in front of the house. When I went inside, I could hear muffled sounds of sorrow coming from Eric’s dad’s office. And behind the Louis XV desk, his secretary wept quietly into a tissue.
She glanced up when I walked into the room—and jumped to her feet when she recognized me.
“You! You were here when that man attacked Eric!”
She meant Barrett. And he’d done nothing of the sort. But Eric had brandished that shotgun of his and he’d had to explain why he’d fired it.
I didn’t point that out to her, though.
Instead, I said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She wailed with fresh pain.
And Dawkins appeared in the hallway leading to Eric’s workspace.
“What’s going on out here?” he demanded.
Apparently, Rittenhaus had sent Dawkins to break the news of Eric’s death to his father. And since Eric had died in unusual circumstances, Dawkins was probably here to search the office, too. That was standard procedure in a lot of jurisdictions. But if the sheriff and his deputies were convinced Eric had died by suicide, Dawkins could miss physical proof to the contrary. Like the fact that Eric’s car wasn’t where it should be.
“Eric drove a Mercury,” I announced. “As a real estate agent, I bet he shuttled clients around town all the time.”
Mindy sniffed and sniffled. “That’s right.”
“What about it?” Dawkins said.
“Well,” I replied, “have you seen it?”
Dawkins looked at Mindy.
She shrugged, shook her head.
Dawkins grabbed my arm significantly less than gently. “Come with me, please.”
He propelled me into the foyer and out onto the porch. He released me in favor of snatching up the two-way radio clipped to his gun belt. And he left me to lean against the railing while he stepped down to the sidewalk to make his call.
When he rejoined me on the porch, he said, “The car’s not at the motel.”
“I know.”
“It’s not in Mr. Wentz’s parking space here behind the real estate office, either.”
“I know that, too. And you know Eric didn’t commit suicide and then step out to go for a drive.”
Dawkins sagged against a column holding up the roof. “The sheriff is certain the deceased took his own life.”
“Of course he is. But are you?”
Dawkins regarded his shiny boots, scratched absently at his mustache.
And I began to think we were done with this conversation.
But then he said, “Sheriff Rittenhaus is a good guy.”
“I’m sure.”
“That shotgun, though…” Dawkins shook his head.
“Look,” I said, “Luke Rittenhaus knew Eric all his life. They were friends in high school, and as adults, they played poker together on Thursdays. It’s got to be hard for the sheriff to wrap his head around his buddy’s death. I get that. But if someone stood over Eric and blasted him with his own side-by-side, Rittenhaus is the last person who’d want the guy to get away with it.”
“What about Miz Barrett’s grandson? From the way Adam Barrett was in Eric Wentz’s face here on Friday, I doubt he’d be too sad to see him dead.”
“Barrett didn’t do this,” I insisted. “Think about it. He tried to get Rittenhaus to lock up Eric for his own safety. He got drunk and took a swing at the sheriff when he wouldn’t comply, and that’s how Barrett ended up in the jug.”
Dawkins shrugged. He knew this was true. He just wasn’t about to say so.
“Here’s my cell number,” I said, offering him my business card. “If you find Eric’s car, please let me know. That’s all I’m asking.”
The deputy didn’t make me any promises. But he accepted the card from my hand. And slipped it into his shirt pocket.
Then, with Barrett on the brain, I left Dawkins on the porch of that old Queen Anne—and made tracks to the Apple Blossom Café.
Chapter 15
I wedged my car into a parking spot across the street from Charlotte’s establishment. But at the curb, right in front of the eatery, sat that black Dodge Charger with wide red racing stripes running up and over its body. I wasn’t happy to see it.
I was less enthusiastic about the prospect of seeing the two clowns who’d eyeballed the place the night before, but when I walked into the diner, there they were. The guy with the penchant for toothpicks had planted his elbows on the lunch counter so he could lean across it and into Charlotte’s face. His driver stood in the middle of the dining room. He had a straight line of sight into the kitchen as well as the front door, and his hand, fisted in his windbreaker pocket, flexed the second I showed my face. I was sure he was carrying a gun—and this certainty made the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.
My Beretta was tucked away beneath my suede coat. But depending on what these men chose to do, that could be too far away. So I halted on the mat just inside the door and let my eyes roam the room.
I said, “What’s cookin’, Charlotte?”
Barrett was nowhere to be seen. And that troubled me. If the cook was in the kitchen, he was keeping mum. As for patrons, there were none. The lunch hour had come and gone hours ago. Supper was still some time away. Maybe Charlotte would have a full house by then, but now, as the shadows began to grow long outside, all that remained were the two thugs and her.
But if Charlotte was frightened, she didn’t let on. Glaring at Toothpick Boy, she said to me, “Chicken pot pie’s the special tonight.”
“Chicken?” Toothpick Boy laughed hard. “That’s a good one, princess.”
He left the counter, sauntered toward me.
I stood my ground.
As it had the night before, his gaze slithered over my body. More to my chest than to me, he said, “Enjoy your chicken.”
He shoved the diner’s door open, strolled onto the sidewalk. His compatriot let go of the weapon in his pocket and followed. Before he left, though, he reached for a pedestal cake plate on the end of the counter.
With the flick of his hand, he flipped it onto the floor.
It hit the linoleum and shattered in a shower of broken glass and chocolate chip cookies.
The instant he joined his pal in the great outdoors, I threw the bolt and locked the door behind them. With my nine-millimeter in my grip, I buzzed past Charlotte at the counter, ducked into the kitchen. Except for a vat of soup bubbling on the six-burner range and a neat pile of diced tomatoes on the chopping block, it was vacant. The exit at the back of the building was barred by a two-by-four set into the jamb. And unless anyone was hiding in the massive walk-in freezer, the area was clear.
“Where’s Barrett?” I demanded as I crossed through the dining room again.
I kicked open the doors lining the side hall. The first was the ladies’ room, the second housed the men’s room, and the third was a supply closet. No one was in them.
“Adam left ten minutes after you did,” Charlotte said. She’d come out from behind the counter. Hands on hips, she stood frowning at the destroyed cake plate and its wealth of ruined cookies. “Damn it, those are a really good seller!”
“Where did he go?” I holstered my weapon. “And who were those creeps?”
“I don’t know. Adam walked back to his grandma’s, I guess. And those creeps are just passing through. They said my coffee tasted too bitter.”