Die Like an Eagle (11 page)

“He also runs a scrap metal and used equipment parts business,” the chief said. “A glorified junkyard, really. And no more thriving than his construction business.”

“But I bet it's mostly a cash business.”

“And one that gives people a reason to go out to his premises,” the chief said.

“Still,” I mused. “Does it really sound all that plausible, or does it just sound as if the anonymous letter writer is saying anything he can think of to cause problems for Biff?”

“Most likely the latter,” the chief said. “And I think if Mr. Brown really were running a drug business here in Caerphilly, I'd have noticed by now. But at least this accusation was both more concrete and more capable of being proven—or disproven. So I have had my officers keeping a close eye on Mr. Brown's establishment for the last several weeks.”

“I'm dying to ask what they've learned,” I said. “But I know better than to ask nosy questions about police business. Although if you're about to arrest the head of the boys' baseball league as a drug kingpin, it might be nice to give the parents a heads-up so we can figure out how to explain it all to the kids.”

“And make plans for the celebration, no doubt,” the chief said, with a chuckle. “No, either Mr. Brown is considerably more clever than I give him credit—”

“Fat chance,” I muttered.

“—or he's not Caerphilly's leading drug lord, and our anonymous informer was either misinformed or, more likely, just trying to cause trouble for Mr. Brown. And ironically ended up doing him a favor.”

“By giving him an alibi for the murder?”

“Exactly.” The chief took his glasses off, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Not that he would have been our only suspect, or even our primary one—Mr. Henson had a complicated domestic situation and a volatile personality—but we'd have looked closely at Biff in any case.”

“I expect you still will,” I said.

The chief cocked his head slightly and raised one eyebrow.

“Doesn't he look to you like the kind of guy who'd hire someone to do his dirty work?” I said. “He does to me.”

“I've always found contract killing a particularly troubling crime,” the chief said. “There are few things as evil as callously killing another human being for profit.”

“Or hiring someone to do so,” I said.

“Agreed,” the chief said, nodding. “Just as evil, and also remarkably stupid. People who are willing to commit cold-blooded murder rarely have qualms about turning their hand to blackmail. Yes, we will definitely be considering whether Mr. Brown might have reason to want his brother dead.”

“Isn't hired killing a hard crime to solve?” I asked.

“Only in the movies,” the chief said. “And maybe in the kind of lofty socioeconomic circles where rich people hire contract killers for fees larger than most third world countries' gross national product and transfer the funds via bank accounts in the Caymans. I doubt if Mr. Brown would have any idea how to find such a killer, even if he could afford to hire him. No, if Mr. Brown hired the killer, someone will have seen him handing some shifty character a thick wad of money. Or some good old boy will turn up with a huge, brand-new truck when everybody knows he's got no money and even less credit. Or someone will get drunk down at the Clay Pigeon and brag about doing it.”

“The Clay Pigeon?”

“That's the latest incarnation of that unsavory drinking establishment next door to the Clayville Rifle Range,” the chief said. “They still haven't figured out that no matter how often they change the name, the state and federal authorities will still find them.”

“I don't get over to Clay County much,” I said. “And I can't say I've ever been to a bar there.”

“I strongly recommend that you remain unacquainted with its loathsome premises.” He shuddered slightly. “No, if Mr. Brown hired someone to kill his brother, we'll find him out sooner or later. Look, I realize that in the course of your work with the boys' team and for Randall you're probably going to encounter Mr. Brown. I'd appreciate any information you happen to run across, but be circumspect. He may not have committed the murder himself, but there's still a very real possibility that Mr. Brown engineered it and, if that's so, he will tend to be very intolerant of people asking questions about his affairs.”

“Understood.” I stood up and shouldered my tote again. Then a thought hit me. “So, you were able to get a list of his customers.”

“Only in Caerphilly County,” the chief said. “Building permits are a matter of public record, so Mr. Throckmorton in the town clerk's office was easily able to supply me with a list of those issued to Brown Construction.”

“I asked him for the same list last night,” I said. “I was planning to talk to some of Biff's clients, to see if I could get any tips on how to work with him. I assume getting a similar list of his building projects in Clay County would have been almost as easy.”

“But considerably less discreet,” the chief said. “For all I know, Mr. Brown could have friends or even family in the Clay County clerk's office. I wouldn't risk it.”

Was he warning me off, or just explaining why he wasn't asking for such a list?

“When I get my version of the list, I'll probably still contact a few people on it,” I said. “Purely for the purpose of seeing if any of them have a magic formula for making Brown Construction do its blasted job.” Unless he wanted to warn me off. The possibility seemed to hang in the air between us for a few moments.

“Good luck,” was all he said.

I nodded, and left the trailer.

 

Chapter 9

When I stepped outside I looked around to see what was happening. The chief's deputies were still combing the baseball field and the parking lot. I had the feeling the department was going to go way over its budget for brown paper evidence bags this month. Nearby, Dad and Aida were still conferring about something.

“Definitely a lot of blood,” Dad was saying. “And of course, since he was shot in the head—”

I decided this was not a conversation I needed to overhear. I tuned them out, pulled out my cell phone, and called Michael.

“Coach Waterston of the fabulous Caerphilly Eagles!” he answered. I could hear juvenile cheering and giggling in the background.

“The boys handling this okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” he said. “Let me take a few steps to get away from the small pitchers with big ears. Okay. I think they're doing fine, mainly because most of the adults around them are taking this whole thing pretty much in their stride. No idea how Biff's teams are taking it—we're making sure we keep our distance just in case. I mean, for all I know, Shep could have had a kid on one of those teams. If he has kids—does he?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “If he did, I assume they'd be playing in Clay County. Apparently he lived there. So what's the plan?”

“Everyone was planning to spend all day at the ball park,” he said. “And we have no idea whether baseball is canceled for the whole day or not. So I invited the team to hang out at our place. Your mother's organizing the food—we've got tons of leftovers anyway. The kids can practice a little, and swim in the pool, and go for rides in the llama cart, and they'll all be together, bonding as a team.”

“And if you get a call that the team has to be at the field in ten minutes or forfeit the game, you'll be ready,” I said. “Because I bet that would be Biff's style of doing things.”

“Bingo,” he said.

“I'm catching a ride in with Dad and will join you for the ceremony. Got to run!”

Actually, the reason I was in such a hurry to hang up was not that Dad was leaving—he and Aida were still talking animatedly about something—probably something gory. As I watched, Dad pointed to a spot right between his eyes, and then to a spot on the back of his head. Yes, they were discussing bullet trajectory. More conversation I didn't want to overhear.

But the conversation Biff was having—
that
I wouldn't mind overhearing. He was standing toe to toe with a tall, skeletally thin man with gray hair and a gray Amish–style beard, full all around the face but with the upper lip and chin shaved bare. Though I doubted if the man was Amish—he was dressed in faded jeans, a green John Deere t-shirt, and a bright red baseball cap.

And they were clearly not having a friendly discussion. Biff was shaking his fist, and I could see spittle flying from his mouth and landing on the man's shirt. The taller man's hands were by his side but his fists were clenched, and if I were Biff I'd have taken a step or two backward before those fists came into play.

Not for the first time, I wished I could read lips. But since I couldn't, I decided to move a little closer. I set off toward Dad's car in a diagonal that would take me closer to the two of them, but so gradually that I hoped they wouldn't notice.

It worked at first. I began picking up the odd phrase.

“—wouldn't put it past you,” Biff sneered.

“You'd better watch what you're saying,” the tall man said.

“Or I'm next—is that what you're saying?”

Just then they both appeared to notice me, broke off their conversation, and headed in different directions. Biff stormed over toward his car, which was in the far end of the parking lot. The tall man hopped into a battered truck that stood near the entrance to the parking lot—a truck that hadn't been there when the chief and I had surveyed vehicles a little while ago.

The tall man drove off. I went and leaned against Dad's car. After about ten minutes, Biff left.

About that time, to my relief, Dad came trotting over. We hopped in his car, and I deliberately started a conversation about baseball's designated hitter rule, a subject on which I knew Dad had firm opinions. I did not, but by playing devil's advocate, I succeeded in distracting him so that he wouldn't tell me any of the gorier details of his preliminary medical examination.

As we were reaching the outskirts of town, and Dad was waxing eloquent on the batting skills of a retired Major League pitcher named Carlos Zambrano, my cell phone rang. Randall.

“I should take this,” I said.

“Hey, Meg,” Randall said. “How much longer are you going to be out at the ball field?”

“I'm already on my way into town,” I said.

“Great! Mr. Witherington and I are making some plans for how to get this weekend's games back on track. We could use your help. Can you meet us on the steps of the town hall?”

“Can do,” I said.

“Oh, good,” Dad said as I was putting my phone away. “Because I'm sure poor Shep wouldn't want his death to interfere with the game.”

“You knew him, then?” Sometimes it surprised even me how much Dad got around.

“Well, no,” Dad said. “I've seen him officiate at a few games, though.”

“Was he a good umpire?”

“I think it takes a special kind of person to be an umpire,” Dad said. “Someone who has both a passionate love of the game and a willingness to do a difficult and unpopular job.”

Evidently Dad wasn't going to give me an honest verdict on Biff's umpiring skills.

“I think that's one of the most important things we can teach the kids,” Dad went on. “That it's important to respect the ump's position, even when we don't agree with his decision.”

Then again, maybe Dad had just made his verdict pretty clear.

We pulled up in front of the town hall. I hopped out and waved as Dad drove off toward Caerphilly Hospital. In the town square, the crowds were already assembling on the benches that formed a half circle at the foot of the bandstand, though some people were still coming and going from the various shops and restaurants that surrounded the square on three sides. And a few people had discovered that the white marble town hall steps provided a good vantage point. Randall and Mr. Witherington were seated near the top.

I stopped halfway up to scan the town square, and felt my frustration rising. The bandstand, draped in red, white, and blue bunting in honor of the Founder's Day Weekend, looked festive from a distance, but if you looked close you could see all the peeling paint and broken bits of woodwork. And what should have been a lush, green lawn, broken only by the neatly raked paths, was a piebald muddle of green, brown, and red clay. Biff Brown ought to have been ashamed of himself for not having made at least some progress in the renovations. But I suspected he didn't even care.

I took a few of Rose Noire's calming breaths and continued my climb, nodding greetings to friends, relatives, and neighbors along the way.

“We're in a pickle,” Randall said, as I reached the top step. “If you count all the levels, from t-ball through intermediate, we had sixteen games scheduled, four a day from this morning until Monday afternoon, and we're not going to have nearly enough daylight to get it all in.”

He showed me the schedule, which had games posted for nine, eleven thirty, two, and four thirty on each of the four days of Founder's Day Weekend.

“And that's assuming we don't have any rain delays,” Mr. Witherington said. “Unfortunately we're under a threat of scattered thunderstorms from tomorrow on.”

“There's a whole bunch of daylight you're not using,” I said. “The early kind. Start the games at eight instead of nine. And if you have Randall bring a whole bunch of his portable construction lights to the field, you can keep the games going till eight or nine at night.”

On one margin of the schedule I scribbled a possible alternation, with games starting at eight, ten thirty, one, three thirty, and six. Randall and Mr. Witherington studied it briefly and then they both nodded.

“We might even be able to get in a sixth game, at eight thirty,” Randall said. “If it's one of the majors teams—those games tend to move faster anyway, and the parents won't be quite as vexed if the kids are up late, especially on a holiday weekend.”