Maximum Security (A Dog Park Mystery) (7 page)

“It’s easier if I show you. Can I
go get my Kindle?”

“Sure.”

Stacy returned with her e-reader
and turned it on. First she opened up the dictionary and showed the
book to the detectives. Next, she tapped a little conversation
bubble at the bottom of the screen and the page turned black.
Comments appeared in white, with user names in red and icons in the
margin. She handed it to Peter, who began scrolling through the
entries.

“It’s all random stuff,” Stacy
said.

Peter had to agree. The comments
included such gems as “U R so tuf” to “EVERYBODY DANCE
NOW!”

“Do we need George’s Kindle to see
his comments?”

“Nope. I bought the book so I
could follow along on mine.” She took the e-reader back and
returned to the main page. She scrolled down through her favorites,
then stopped at a book featuring a picture of a naked woman,
waist-deep in a dark pool of water, facing away. This was
juxtaposed against an enormous, evil looking animal eye and
parallel red gashes that looked like claws had ripped into
something. The word “Blood” slashed across the top of the cover in
vivid red.

“I mean, this doesn’t look like
his kind of thing, you know? It was smart, the book is by this
indie author and I don’t think many people know about it. If I
hadn’t picked up his Kindle by mistake, no one would have ever
noticed. I mean, anyone can pick up your phone and read your text
messages.” She gave her mother a scathing look. “But they’d never
think to look here.” She opened the book and clicked on the “shared
notes” icon, then handed it back to Peter, who held it so Brent
could see.

The most recent note was from
“Buttercup,” whose icon was a yellow flower. Buttercup said, “Baby,
talk to me. I’m dying. Don’t leave it like this.” This was dated
two days after George’s disappearance. Under that, “Joe” said,
“Sorry, we have to stop. Don’t contact me anymore.” This was dated
the day George vanished.

“So you think George was this
‘Joe’?” Peter asked.

“I know so. At first, I didn’t
think it was him, or anybody I knew. I just thought it was high
entertainment, all this sex talk. But he mentions Oklahoma, and
Mount Airy Forest, and,” she turned to her mother, “Daisy, who
happens to be
missing
.”

Stacy turned back to Peter and
Brent. “And I noticed he was always in a good mood after
‘Buttercup’ posted a comment. There’s all this sex talk about what
they want to do to each other, and then they’re planning to meet
up. She flew all the way from Oklahoma to see him. They’re like
Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning or something.”

“How far back can you scroll on
this thing? Do the notes stay in there forever?”

Monica finally broke her silence.
“Stacy, darling, why didn’t you tell me about this?” Her voice was
dangerously sweet.

“Why would I do that?
Somebody
should be happy around here.”

“Ladies,” Brent interrupted, “this
is not a productive direction for this conversation. Mrs. Munce, I
understand your consternation at these revelations. It’s only
natural. But please allow us to complete this interview. I’m sure
whatever you and Stacy have to say to each other is much better
said in private.”

“Not hardly,” Stacy
muttered.

Monica sat back, lips clamped, the
expression on her face an odd blend of mortification and
rage.

“Stacy,” Peter continued, “how do
you know what this woman looks like?”

“I saw her once, from a distance.
I was driving past the store and George was out in the parking lot
with her.”

“What did you see?”

“Not much. I saw her from the
back. George was tucking her hair behind her ear. I just saw her
for a second. Keeping my eyes on the road, you know.” She gave what
Peter thought of as a “Valley Girl” shrug, with her eyes rolled up
and her head canted at a Hollywood angle.

“Can you describe her?” Brent
asked.

“I dunno. A little taller than
George. Wider.” She smirked, looking at her mother from the corner
of her eye. Monica’s mouth gave minute, jerky twitches. “Her hair
was light brown, more ash than blond. You know, that old lady
color.”

“What was she wearing?”

Stacy bit her lower lip and
thought. “Looked like stretch pants . . . some kind of tunic or
cardigan. Grey pants, burgundy top? Can’t say for sure. I was
trying not to wreck the car.”

“When did this happen?” Brent
asked.

Stacy chewed on her thumbnail.
“After school . . . a week? Ten days ago? I don’t remember for
sure.”

“Mrs. Munce, I think we’re
finished with Stacy,” Peter said. “We’re going to need George’s
e-reader. I’d like Officer Davis to go with you while you get
it.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know where it
is. I have no idea where he kept it.” She avoided Peter’s eyes as
she said this. She made no move to get up.

“That e-reader contains important
information about George’s last days. There’s no telling what’s on
it. It’s very important to this investigation. If you really don’t
know where to look, I can have Brent wait with you while I swear
out a warrant and bring in a team to search for it. That will take
several hours, of course.”

Monica closed her eyes in an
apparent effort to control herself. A tear escaped, signaling
defeat.

“Mrs. Munce,” Brent said, “we
understand the contents of this e-reader are quite personal and
potentially embarrassing to you. We will do everything in our power
to keep private anything that is not germane to the
investigation.”

“Mom,” Stacy said in a gentler
tone than she’d used before. “I can show Detective Davis where to
look.”

“It’s quite all right,” Monica
said stiffly, “I’m sure Detective Davis and I can find
it.”

“That is one angry little girl,”
Brent said once they were back in his car. “Remind me never to have
kids. Either that, or drown them before they become teenagers.
Speaking of angry–” He pointed his chin several houses down. “Check
it out.”

Peter saw a tall man– or was it a
boy– at the open hood of an old Toyota. Instead of busying himself
with the motor, he just stood there, scowling at them. Peter held
his eyes as they drove by. The boy turned his head and
spat.

“Spooky,” Peter said.

“You got that right. He won’t need
a costume for Halloween. What about Mom? You think she really
didn’t know about Buttercup?”

“I think she’s a terrible liar.
She couldn’t look me in the eye when she said she didn’t know where
the e-reader was. She took you right to it, didn’t she?” Peter
asked.

“She did pretend to dither a bit,
but yeah, she knew where it was. How about you? If your old man
wrote hot letters to his floozy, would you read them?”

“My dad’s favorite floozy was a
cow.” Peter had a quick vision of his father talking dirty to
Flossie as he was milking her. Flossie was wearing a red satin
garter belt edged with black lace and fishnet stockings. It was a
disturbing image. He shook his head, as if what had been seen in
his mind’s eye could be dislodged that way.

“You boys from Kentucky sure know
how to pick ‘em. Cynth is going to have fun with this. I think
after she pulls all the posts off this book, I’m going to ask her
out for drinks. She might be needing some company.”

“You leave her alone. You toy with
her affections, and we’ll be blackballed down in IT. We need her
skills. She’s not your type, anyway.”

“Don’t know about that. Take off
those glasses, unbraid that hair, you don’t know what you’ll find.
Could be interesting.”

“It could,” Peter said, “make our
lives a living hell. Not
your
life,
our
lives. You go
near her, and I’ll tell her you were a bed-wetter up into middle
school.”

“That’s a dirty, filthy lie, and
it’s beneath you.”

“And it’ll be all she ever thinks
about when she looks at you. Wonder if she’ll be able to keep it to
herself?”

“Blackmail is against the law,
Brother.”

“Go ahead, press charges. I want
to see you explain it to Roller,” Peter said. “We’ve got to find
that woman.”

“Buttercup? You think we can get
Amazon to give her up?”

“Maybe, but that will take more
time than I care to think about.”

Maybe she was caught on the
security tapes at Dollar Hut.”

“Why don’t we head over there and
find out?”

Life had sucked the marrow out of
Carleen Thomas and was unlikely to give it back. She was hard and
stringy for a woman in her thirties. The chipped state of her pink
pearl nail polish suggested that the inches-long, dark roots
snaking through her hair were neglect masquerading as fashion.
Flecks of black mascara peppered her cheekbones. Her store smock
was stained and her lips were pinched. She reeked of cigarette
smoke.

“I really liked George. I can’t
believe he’s dead. We didn’t know what to think when he didn’t show
up for work Monday.”

“I’d like for you to remember back
to the week before he disappeared,” Peter said. “We’re looking for
a woman who may have visited him here at the store. She would be a
little taller than him, and overweight.”

“You mean regular fat, or
Cincinnati fat?”

“What do you mean by ‘Cincinnati
fat’?” asked Brent.

“Can she find clothes at
Walmart?”

Brent looked perplexed. “I guess
so.”

“Then she ain’t Cincinnati
fat.”

Peter gave Brent a look. Brent
stifled his snort, turning it into a cough.

“We’re guessing maybe thirty,
forty pounds overweight,” Peter said. “Light brown hair.
Conservative dresser. But we’d be interested in hearing about
anyone who came to see him recently.”

Carleen snapped her gum. “Nope,
nobody came to see George, not that I saw. Hey, Shondra,” she
called to a young black woman. “Come talk to these police
officers.”

Shondra had cornrows braided into
extensions that were gathered loosely in a long tail. She wore
green nail polish with red rose decals and cheap tennis shoes. The
light that had gone out of Carleen still burned brightly in her.
Whoever Carleen had met on the road, Shondra had yet to make his
acquaintance. “What?” she inquired, smiling at Brent.

Peter introduced himself and Brent
and explained their mission.

She shook her head. “Can’t think of
anyone.”

“How about your relationship with
George?” Peter asked. “How did you get along?”

She shrugged. “He was nice, for a
boss, but we didn’t have no relationship.”

“We understand he was concerned
about one of his employees. Would either of you have any idea who
that would be?” Brent asked.

The two women looked at each other,
shrugged.

“He was always helping somebody
out,” Shondra volunteered. “When they screwed up Maria’s food
stamps last month, he took her grocery shopping.” She nodded at
Carleen. “He helped Carleen find a divorce lawyer a while back.
Could have been anybody.”

“He have a problem with anyone
here at the store?” Peter asked.

“George was nice to everybody,”
Carleen insisted. “He didn’t play favorites, and nobody gave him
trouble, except for maybe not showing up on time for work.” She
looked pointedly at Shondra.

“Whatever,” Shondra said. “Now we
got you instead of him. He could have used a favorite if you ask
me.”

“How so?” Peter asked.

“Man seemed sad, a lot. He was
always nice, but just kinda down.”

“How about lately?” Peter
asked.

Shondra shrugged. “Now that you
mention it, I did see him smiling some last couple weeks. You
notice that, Carleen?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe he got that favorite after
all.”

Peter and Brent talked to Maria and
an older man named Duane, discovering nothing. Carleen gave them
the number for Dollar Hut’s head of security for the district. They
could have copies of the video files for the past two weeks, but it
would take at least twenty-four hours to pull and copy
them.

“That gives us twenty-four hours
to figure out a way to dump that chore onto someone else,” Brent
said. “You suppose we could lay this on Hinkle? He’s not bright
enough to wiggle his way out of it.”

“He’s covering the bottle bomb
interviews at Hughes High School for us.”

“I guess we should be grateful. If
not for your girlfriend’s dog, we’d be running down teeny-bombers
right now.”

“Besides, it would be pointless to
give the tapes to him. Our girl could do the Harlem Shake naked in
front of the camera and Hinkle would miss it,” Peter
said.

“I’m not sure what good reviewing
the tapes will do. We won’t catch Munce laying a big wet one on
Buttercup in the parking lot. He knows where the cameras are. How
will we know who it is? Do you know how many overweight,
middle-aged women with medium length, greying hair there are in
Cincinnati? It’s at least fifteen percent of the
population.”