[Title Redacted] exerpt


This is about the first 1/8 of my third mystery novel. It will have more police procedural elements than its predecessors.

Thursday, June 21

11:30 AM

“Tell me what you see, Alcala.” Detective John Mason spoke to his new protégé as they drove up to the crime scene.

A dead body had been found here. Two patrol cars and a UPS truck sat at the curb; one uniformed patrolman stood halfway up the walk, keeping unauthorized people outside the perimeter and off the driveway while another staked and ran crime scene tape.

This was Mark Alcala’s first case since finishing his classroom work. Before he had a chance to answer, the medical examiner’s truck and a forensics van pulled up.

“Well,” Alcala drew the word out about 2 seconds, eyes half closed, seemingly concentrating on the end of his long, straight nose. He started ticking off particulars. “Looks like a normal suburban house. The yard is well kept but nothing special – just grass and a couple of bushes and a border. The house won’t need paint or a roof for a few years. There’s no evidence of a pet, but the victim may keep – may have kept, I mean – any pets inside or out back. A few small spots on the driveway indicate at least one car parked there occasionally, but it could have been the owner. As we drove up, I saw a privacy fence. Blinds in the first floor windows are the ordinary 2-inch plantation type, and they’re all closed – except for the big picture window – it has what looks like sheers and drapes. Second floor has the same type of blinds, mostly, except for the window over the garage, which has a shade.”

“Not bad,” Mason said opening the car door. “Now tell me what you don’t see.”

“Huh? How can I tell you what I don’t see unless I’ve seen it before and know it’s missing? I mean, there’s a garage, and we don’t really have public transportation here, so he probably has a car in there.”

Both detectives showed their IDs to the officer watching the perimeter, who logged their entry in a small notebook.

As he returned the badge holder to his belt, Mason asked, “Do you follow cars – sports cars, NASCAR, Indy, any of that?”

“No, sir, though I do like to look at pickup trucks at the dealer when I get a chance. Then the sticker reminds me why I’m just looking.”

Mason nodded.

“Why’d you ask that, sir?”

“Leave ‘sir’ to the uniforms – it’s ‘John’ or ‘Mason’ or ‘Detective.’ I asked about cars because if you’re not a big fan, it’ll help you be objective when we get inside.”

Alcala’s eyebrows went up and his head tilted, but he didn’t say anything. He just followed Mason up the walk to the house.

Alcala asked, “How was the body found?”

“The delivery driver has a package that requires a signature, looks down through the blind to the right of the door, sees legs, calls 9-1-1. Patrolman opens the front door, which was unlocked, finds the body. The body is cold and has no pulse, so the officer calls the the medical examiner, forensics and us.”

Both detectives put on gloves and stood outside the open front door.

Mason called inside, “Can we come in yet, Maddie?”

Madeline Welch, the lead forensics tech, said, “Give me a couple of minutes to clear the area around the body, Detective.”

Mason nodded.

“By the way,” he asked Alcala, “when you were in uniform, did you ever have a dead body to work with?”

“I worked a scene once where an old body was found. I mean, the body had been there for several months. Why?”

Mason handed Mark several peppermints. “You’re gonna need these. While we’re waiting, what do you see here?”

Alcala drew a breath as he examined the house around the entry.

“No obvious sign of forced entry. The windows to either side are closed and probably locked. Give me a second …” Alcala pulled the door with 1 gloved knuckle toward closed so he could look at the front. “There are some scratches around the lock. Could have been picked; could have been the owner or somebody missed with the key.”

Mason nodded again. This kid was impressive with the physical evidence, and not hasty with conclusions.

Welch called from inside. “All set here, John.”

Mason popped a peppermint, and Alcala followed suit.

The detecives stepped inside onto a hardwood floor. Mason asked, “What kind of perimeter do we have?”

“Six feet for now. You want the usual radial clearance?”

Mason nodded. “Yes, and make sure the deadbolt on the front door is early on the list.”

“Always is.” She turned to the other tech. “Guarneri, go do the front door and all that.”

Mason looked at Alcala, whose face was drawn as he sucked violently on the hard candy. The stench was oppressive. Glancing at the body, Mason saw discoloration where the victim’s urine had spilled post mortem, then evaporated; the pants were soiled from his feces on the back.

Guarneri nodded and said, “And pay attention to the deadbolt. Got it.” He stepped around the detectives and outside, then pulled the door almost closed.

Turning back to Mason, Welch smiled and said, “Who’s the new guy?”

Mason introduced them, then said, “Now, Maddie, watch this. Mark, describe this room.”

“All right.” Alcala extended right for a couple of seconds.

“This is a formal living room. It has a hardwood floor, probably bamboo, over a concrete slab. Walls are greyed-out vermilion. The room is about twelve feet by fourteen, and the center of the floor is covered by a Turkish rug, maybe a Bokara, that stops about four feet from each wall, give or take. The furniture is chrome and black leather, which is unusual with the rug, but it works because the rug has a lot of black in it. The coffee table and end tables have glass tops with bevelled edges and just a chrome frame underneath, so you can see through to the floor.

Mason asked, “What’s your impression of the style?”

“It looks Euro-modern, but designer-type rather than what you’ll see at IKEA.”

“The pictures?”

Alcala paused a second and said, “Black and white photography of the Carina nebula, split into a four-by-two grid in twenty-inch square frames.”

“How do you know what the subject is?” Welch asked.

“You can download the pictures from hubblesite.org, and someone followed the framing suggestion there.”

“Pickup trucks and stars, huh?” Mason said. “What else have you got under the hood?” He turned to Welch. “Who’s your new guy?”

“Name’s Roberto Guarneri. He’s been warned.” She turned to start examining the rest of the room.

The detectives put on their crime scene booties and kneeled to start their look over the body.

“Warned?” Alcala said.

“Only the leads for forensics and the medical examiner get to call us by our first names. To everyone else it’s ‘Detective Mason’ and ‘Detective Alcala’.”

Alcala nodded and filed that away for the future. “Should I tell you what I see on the body?”

Mason smiled and said, “Naw, I’ll take a turn. You can write it all down.”

The body lay on its left side, back to the door, leaning slightly over toward the front. The thighs extended at an angle, the right at a greater angle than the left, both calves at right angles to their thighs. The torso trapped the left upper arm, the forearm was at almost a right angle; the right arm was straight and pointed at the left foot.

Mason blinked a couple of times and started talking, fast.

“The victim is a white male, about five feet, seven inches, roughly one hundred fifty pounds. Curly hair that falls to the base of his neck, but if you called it a ‘mullett’, he’d start a fight, especially after a couple of drinks. He’s wearing lightweight long pants, likely pajama pants, and a T-shirt that has a logo from …” Mason craned his upper body around to see. “Shirt’s from Cal Tech.”

Alcala kept scribbling, and when he caught up, his eyebrows went down and he looked up. “You said ‘start a fight’.” He popped another mint. “Did you know this guy?”

Mason said, “Yeah, we worked together a long time ago. Name’s Nathan Bookman.

He pointed to the victim’s forehead. “Look here. Looks like a small caliber round, single shot, no visible residue, just a single trickle of blood that didn’t even reach the floor. The ME and forensics will be able to tell us more.”

Mason picked up the right hand and looked all around the arm. “Nothing on the right arm indicates a struggle. I’m going to let the Medical Examiner’s people move the body before I look at the left arm, though the part I can see is similarly unmarked.”

Guarneri came back inside, and Welch pointed him to the place he should start on the room.

Mason pulled the shirt away from the body at the waist and looked up it at the torso using a small flashlight. “No cuts or bruising are visible on the torso, but the ME will tell us about that later. Call them in.”

The Medical Examiner’s people came in and started their preliminary check.

Mason tapped with a thumb against the base knuckles on his opposite hand.

“John,” Welch said, “What’s your priority when we finish this room?”

Mason suppressed a grin. “Give me a path to the garage and clear the garage. But don’t say anything about what you find there. I want Alcala here to see it cold.”

“Okay, no problem. You got that, Roberto?”

“Sure do, Maddie.”

“Normal drill on the body,” Mason said.

Welch nodded.

“Mark, you watch things in here – leave everyone plenty of room to work – but see what they see.”

Alcala nodded and took up a position 3 or 4 feet behind Guarneri. Mason went outside.

“Got anything so far?” Alcala asked.

“Just some hair, same color as the vic’s,” Guarneri said. “I checked the window sill for fingerprints, but there weren’t any, consistent with someone dusting after the windows were last handled. The furniture is dusted and polished regularly, and there are a few prints there, but I’d be surprised if they don’t belong to the body.”

“Roberto!” Welch said. “You are not! not! not! to give that kind of conclusion to the detectives. We work with evidence only. Inferences are for the detectives to draw.”

Guarneri stood, upright and wide-eyed, and said “Yes, ma’am.” When he saw Welch continue working, he got back to work as well.

“Ms Welch,” Alcala said, “What did John mean about the body a few minutes ago.”

“The ME’s guys are waiting until Roberto and I are finished with this room before moving the body. We won’t touch the body, but we’ll supervise the lifting, get and log any evidence trapped underneath, and so on.”

“Did you photo the room yet?”

Welch rolled her eyes. “Don’t insult me, Mark. Photos first, then physical – you should know that.”

Outside, Mason organized the canvassing of the neighborhood. Two officers in plain clothes and two in uniform got their instructions to go door-to-door, finding out whether anyone on this block or the one behind had heard, seen or suspected anything surrounding the victim or his house. Two more forensics techs were examining the yard, the driveway and the sidewalk.

Mason talked to the UPS driver, whose story matched what he already told the first officer at the scene. After making sure they had possession of the package he was delivering and a copy of his fingerprints (to eliminate them from those found on the package and around the door), Mason let him go.

The first officer on the scene was acting as gatekeeper, logging people coming and going. Mason reminded him to give a full report, including the handling of the package and everything he touched inside the house.

When Mason was satisfied with the arrangements around the outside of the house, he went back inside.

The ME lead, a heavyset woman whose name tag read ‘F. Plasse’, said, “John, if all else is equal – air temp steady in the mid seventies, no drugs or medical weirdness, no trauma prior to the apparent gunshot wound – the victim died at least twenty-four hours ago, and probably not more than thirty-six.”

“So roughly between midnight and noon yesterday.”

“Yes, sir.

Welch and Guarneri completed their sweep of the room, so they and the detectives gathered around the body. When ME people had it off the ground, the Welch photographed the floor and the underside of the body; Guarneri ran the lint collection; Mason checked the victim’s left side and left arm for cuts and bruises, finding only the normal settling of blood to the bottom. “Gravity still works,” Mason said.

While Plasse and her coworker loaded the body onto a gurney, Mason told Alcala, “You go check with the canvassing officers on this block and the block behind, then come back here.”

Alcala nodded and headed out, followed by the body of Nathan Bookman.

The outside forensics techs came to the door, put on booties, and came inside. The doorway to the kitchen had already been cleared by Welch, so she told them to work the path to the door to the garage, followed by the rest of the kitchen.

Welch said, “Why the hush-hush on the garage, John?”

“Just what I told you, Maddie, I want him to see the garage cold.”

“Okay, your call.”

Welch shook her head and stood at the entry to the kitchen for a couple of minutes while the 2 techs finished the path to the garage door. They cleared it just as Guarneri finished his side of the living room and came up.

Welch and Guarneri opened the door of the garage, got prints from the light switch, and turned on the garage light.

They stood still and upright for a full minute, stunned.

Mason watched them from an angle, grinning.

Welch called the other 2 forensics techs to get a look. One drew up, mouth open, the other just shrugged and went back to his work.

Taking the cue, the other 3 resumed their work as well.

A few minutes later, Mark Alcala returned.

“John, I think you should go talk to the gatekeeper.”

“How come?”

“There are two suits demanding access to the scene.”

“Weird,” Mason said as he walked across the living room to the front door. He turned around and called back, “Go have a look in the garage now.”

Alcala went through the kitchen and stood at the door to the garage. He looked through the door as Welch and Guarneri continued to work.

He saw a red DeTomaso Pantera and a dark gray Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder. The Spyder’s top was down, revealing white leather upholstery.

“Whoa.” He stood staring with his mouth open.

He stepped into the garage, but stepped back when Guarneri said, “Not yet detective. You can stand inside the door and look, but stay put until we finish.”

Welch nodded and added, “If we find something we think you’ll want to see right away, we’ll call you over.”

Alcala stood still and started breathing again.

Outside, Mason approached the perimeter and sized up the 2 suits. One wore gray with a blue and red striped tie, the other wore black with a black tie.

Mason asked the uniformed officer controlling the perimeter, “Everything okay, Stanton?”

Stanton nodded and said, “Yes, detective. These men are cooperating, but they would like to talk to you.”

Mason peeled off his glove and offered the men a hand. “John Mason, detective in charge of the crime scene.”

The man closer to Mason, the one with the striped tie, shook Mason’s hand. “This is Robert Grove, and I’m Vic Orozco, FBI.”


11:45 AM

Grove also shook Mason’s hand.

“And just why do you want access to our crime scene?”

Orozco asked, “Was the owner of the house, Nathan Bookman, the perpetrator or the victim here?”

“He was the victim. Again, why does this purely local matter interest the Bureau?”

Grove nodded to Orozco.

“Mr Bookman was the subject of an ongoing investigation. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

Mason closed his eyes for a second and said, “Okay, I can allow you access as guests, but if you don’t observe our crime scene protocol in every detail, I will have you removed.”

Orozco raised an eyebrow and Grove nodded.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Orozco said.

The 2 men started up the walk.

“Hold it!” Mason said. “Rule number one is you present your credentials to the officer acting as gatekeeper. He logs all access to the scene.”

In turn, the men showed IDs to Stanton, then both headed up the walk, Mason following.

Mason asked, “So, what can you tell me about your interest in Bookman’s death?”

Grove said, “We can’t talk about it right now. Sorry. We still have a live investigation.”

These were the first words Mason had heard from Grove, and Mason hid his surprise at hearing him speak.

“Okay,” Mason said as they reached the door. “Wait here.”

Mason disappeared inside the house for a minute, and reappeared with gloves and booties. As the agents were putting them on, Mason said, “The body has already been removed, and our forensics techs are going over the house. Is either of you a car aficionado?”

Both agents shook their heads.

Mason thought, You may turn into one after today.

Orozco said, “What can you tell us about the body?”

“It was found lying on the floor a few feet inside the front door, which was unlocked. Preliminary examination of the body showed the victim was probably dead more than 24 hours.”

They stepped inside, and Mason said, “You can look in this room, the kitchen and the garage. More will be available as the forensics folks clear it.”

Orozco said, “How did he die?”

Grove tapped his foot a couple of times on the hardwood floor, and moved around to face Mason.

Mason said, “A single gunshot wound to the head. Again, everything’s preliminary until the experts weigh in, but that’s how it looks right now.”

“Any signs of a struggle?”

“Haven’t found any so far. Also, there are no obvious signs of forced entry.”

“Consistent with the unlocked door.”

“Not inconsistent with it, anyhow.”

Welch looked through from the kitchen. “John, we’ve finished with the dining room, the kitchen, the half-bath and the hallway. Roberto and I are still working in the garage, but you know what a mess they can be.”

Mason said, “Sure” and introduced Welch to the agents.

Grove tapped his foot a couple of times and moved toward the kitchen door.

Orozco said to Welch, “Is there a way we can get a copy of your report when it’s available?”

“That’s up to Detective Mason, but my department has no problem with it.”

Mason said, “It shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll get my Lieutenant started on the paperwork. Can I have an address or something to send it to?”

Orozco handed Mason a business card from his wallet, and Mason walked into the kitchen, fishing a his cell phone from his pocket.

As he dialed, Alcala motioned from the garage for Mason to step in. Mason smiled as he spoke to his lieutenant to make arangements for investigation results available to FBI agent Orozco periodically.

After Mason hung up, Alcala asked, “FBI? Why are they here?”

Mason told him what Grove said, then said, “Go introduce yourself to them and keep them in the living room for at least sixty seconds.”

Mark assented and went back through the kitchen.

Mason said, “Maddie, got a second?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“We’ve got two FBI guys here. After they leave, I want you to take soundings of every square foot of every floor, every wall, every ceiling in the house. Put it in an addendum report, and don’t reference the addendum in the main report. And post-date the addendum by twenty-four hours.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Hiding places. If you find one, don’t open it, just let me know any time, twenty-four, seven.”

“This will take overtime.”

“Authorized. I’ll tell you why later. Now I better let the fibbies out of the living room.”


12:07 PM

The initial examination of Nathan Bookman’s house turned up exactly nothing. In fact, it turned up far too much nothing.

All the fingerprints found were from the same pair of hands; later comparison would show them to be the victim’s. All the hair was the color and consistency of the victim’s. Dirty clothes were found in a hamper next to a stack of drop-off bags from a local laundry; Mason knew the laundry was frequented by well-off people who didn’t have half-time housekeepers.

In his preliminary report, Mark Alcala would write that Bookman appeared to live alone, to be habitually neat, and to seldom entertain. Of course, all this was based on examination and informal descriptions of the earliest trace evidence, all subject to change.

The FBI agents, Grove and Orozco, cooperated fully as they followed the detectives and forensics specialists through the house: They only went into areas cleared by forensics, and they were never ahead of the detectives in their examination of the house. More than one person noted Grove’s odd foot-tapping.

There was no obvious trace of a gun of any caliber being fired, and no firearm was found in the house; detailed analysis of the vacuumed material would come later.

Only a few neighbors had anything to say about Nathan Bookman or his house. No one was home at six of the twenty houses, and there was a pretty good chance some of those families were on vacation. Kids but no adults were home at three; these would be visited later, and the houses where no one answered the door would be checked periodically as well.

At one house, two doors down and across the street from Bookman’s, a young woman holding an infant came to the door; two other children, both under age 5 nipped at her heels.

“I’m sorry about the little ones officer. They want to see the flashing lights from the police cars. What were you asking?”

“It’s okay, Mrs Macchia,” Patrolman Evans said. “My sister has two little guys. Anyway, the house all the lights are in front of — do you know anyone who lives there?”

“That’s that bachelor’s house, isn’t it? Bookard? Bookman? Was that the name? — Maria! Go back to the kitchen!”

“Yes ma’am, his name was Nathan Bookman. He was found dead at home. We were wondering whether you saw anyone coming or going in the last couple of days.”

Gina Macchia sucked on her lower lip for a moment. “Well, no, not in the last couple of days. But …”

“Yes ma’am? What is it?”

“In the last few weeks — Philip, get back in here! — since the baby came, I’ve been up at night with her, and looking out the window from my kitchen, I saw — Maria! — saw a car, four doors, dark color, parked in his driveway. I saw it twice, once at three in the morning, the other time must have been about two-thirty. The first time, I saw someone come out of the house and drive away.”

“Can you describe who it was?”

“Mar! — It was dark and I can’t be certain, but it seemed like it was a woman, at least — Philip! Don’t throw that! — at least it was someone with a small build and big, long, curly hair, dressed pretty skimpily.”

“Assuming it was a woman, could you tell how tall she was?”

Gina worked her lip again for a couple of seconds. “At first I thought she was tall, like five-ten. But when she came around the car I could see she wore platforms, like four inches.”

“So she was about average height.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah she was.”

“And her hair color?”

“I couldn’t tell for sure because it was the middle of the night, but it wasn’t platinum and it wasn’t black.”

Evans caught his notes up. “You said she dressed — what was it?”

“Skimpy. Tight fitting shirt, bare midriff, just a cover over her bra if she had one on — she needed one — and a short, short, tight skirt. I could tell she wore hose because her legs — Ma-ria! — were almost black but her arms looked pale even in just the streetlight in the middle of the night.”

“But you didn’t see her or a car the last couple of nights?”

Gina shook her head.

“Were you up?”

She nodded. “Angie has decided her feeding time is two thirty, so I was up both nights. There was no car in the driveway and no one in the street. At that time of night I’d notice anyone at all.”

Evans caught his notes up again. “Is there a chance I could get a look through the window you saw all this through? It will help me describe it to the detective.”

“Well, okay.” Gina didn’t seem happy about his coming inside, but she nodded and led the way to the kitchen. “I hope you can stand the mess, but the older kids have kept me too busy to straighten up this morning.”

“It’s not a problem, ma’am.” Evans would have said that no matter the condition of the house. The only thing he saw out of place was a dish towel on the kitchen counter.

The kitchen garden window projected out from the house about ten inches. Three small pots sat on either of two shelves; herbs grew in them, but they were not tall.

“Can you describe what you do when you get up to feed the baby?”

Gina nodded. “There’s a night light over there” — she indicated the far wall — “so I don’t need to turn a light on. Before feeding, I fix a cup of herbal tea, and after Angie is back in bed I put the cup by the sink. That’s what I was doing when I saw the woman. The other time, the time I just saw the car, was when I was fixing the tea.”

Evans noted that the angle from the left side of the sink allowed him (or would have, had all the official vehicles not been in the way) a good view of Nathan Bookman’s driveway, which ran up to the garage on the near side of the house. If a guest came out the front door, she would be on the far side of her car and have to come around to drive away. Unless …

“When the car was parked there, it was pulled into the driveway?”

Gina nodded.

“Facing forward, not backed in?”

“Mmm, hmm.”

So Evans’s original idea was right: Gina Macchia would have a good view of the driver leaving.

After thanking Gina and allowing her son to hold his flashlight for a moment, Evans made a note, “RELIABLE WITNESS”, then crossed the street and told Alcala about Bookman’s late-night visitor. Then he went on to the next house.


2:00 PM

Ron Penfield rounded the corner in the hardware store, headed up the plumbing aisle. He stopped in his tracks. The man examining C-PVC pipe front of him looked familiar.

“Eight-ball! Is that you?”

The man, whose uniform name tag read H. Guyée looked at Ron and blinked a couple of times. He stood five feet, eight inches; swarthy skin covered powerful arms and shoulders and a smooth, shaved head. He wore cargo pants and a work shirt; both were spattered with paint.

“Mister Penfield? It is me!” His accent reflected an upbringing in New Orleans, his skin color multiracial heritage. His lips parted in a smile, revealing blinding white teeth.

Ron smiled stuck out a hand. “How long has it been? Seven years? Eight?”

“That’s about right. I was so sorry to hear about your wife last year.”

Ron nodded. “Thanks. We’re still living with it. At least the trial is over.”

“I read about it. Wanted that girl to get more’n she got. But like you said, at least it’s over. Where are you workin’ now?”

“I’m the counselor at Armstrong High School.”

“And your kids?”

“Ron Jr just finished his first year at Newman; Elena is a sophomore — rather, about to be a junior at Armstrong; Ed will be in eighth grade at Anthony Middle. What about you? What about that little gal you were seeing?”

“Let’s see … that long ago you must be talking about Rosa. Her mother didn’t like me.” His demeanor darkened, and his voice dropped in pitch as he went. “She said Rosa has to marry Cath’lic. She say somebody who gave up on church is no good. She say come back when a priest will give me the sac’ament.”

“And Rosa?”

“Rosa cried and cried,” Eight-ball said. “But she did what her mamá told her to do.” He closed his eyes for a moment.

Ron nodded. “Anyone steady since then?”

“Nobody who wanted to call home,” Eight-ball said with a wink. “That’s enough of that. What are you here for?”

“I have to replace some of the pipes for the sprinkler system. You?”

“Just need a piece of pipe and some hardware.”

They chatted more as they picked up the pipe they needed, then H. Guyeé went to the hardware aisle.

Ron checked out and said goodbye to Eight-ball, who was coming into the checkout line behind him as he left.


2:45 PM

At home, Ron dug in his side yard, just by the house. His younger son, Ed (called Bumper, mostly by his family) was helping him, but not by choice.

“Here’s the deal,” Ron said. “The pipe runs underground, and there’s a T-joint and a vertical pipe coming up out of it for each sprinkler. If the vertical pipe has enough left below the break, we’ll just clean it off, trim it, and attach a straight-line coupler to bring up the vertical pipe to the head. But if it’s broken off too short, we’ll have to cut the underground pipe and splice in a new piece with a new T-joint at one end.”

Bumper nodded. “That solvent smells ugly.”

“Yeah, that’s the cleaner, and it evaporates quickly, so we keep the top off the shortest time we can.”

“Do we use this rag to put it on and get it off?”

“Just to wipe it off. To apply, there’s an applicator attached to the underside of the lid.”

“Why do I need to do this?”

“Two reasons,” Ron said. “First, you broke it mowing, so you have to learn to fix it.”

“And second?”

“Second, if you break any more, you’ll have to fix them by yourself. This way you learn a useful skill and learn to be more careful.”

“And this plastic pipe is good enough for this?”

“Yep. It’s called polyvinyl chloride, usually abbreviated PVC.”

“Wait …” Bumper said. “Haven’t I heard about it that being used in clothes?”

Ron nodded. “There’s a treatment you can do on the material to make it more flexible. One of the teachers at Armstrong has a fake letter jacket from Michigan State that has PVC sleeves with a surface texture that looks almost like leather. The kind used in plumbing is stiffer, durable, stands up to pressure and can take a fair amount of shock.”

“Just not a lawn mower pushing it over.”

“Right.”

The shovel tip hit the underground pipe, so Ron put the shovel aside. The two of them pulled dirt out of the hole with their hands and looked at the pipe. About two inches of vertical was still attached to the T-joint. The break was jagged and varied along an inch or so of the pipe.

“You’re in luck,” Ron said. “It’s a lot easier this way.”

“Okay, what do I do?”

Ron handed Bumper a tool. “This is a cutter made for PVC pipe.”

Bumper looked at it. A ratcheting grip held a curved rest for the pipe. When the halves of the grip were squeezed repeatedly, a sharp, steel blade moved inexorably toward the rest.

“Not a good place for a finger,” Bumper said drily.

“Like a lot of tools, it’s useful when handled correctly and used for what it’s made for, and bloody-awful dangerous otherwise. Put that down and look at this.”

Bumper took the coupling, just a two- or three-inch long sleeve of PVC that would fit on the outside of the pipes.

“Feel the inside,” Ron said.

Bumper complied. “There’s a ridge that circles it in the middle.”

“Tell me what that’s for.”

Bumper thought and said, “When you slide the pipe in from one side, it keeps it from going all the way through so you can insert the pipe you’re joining to it from the other side.”

“Very good. Okay, here’s the procedure: First, cut the pipe in the ground so the cut is straight.”

“And so it will go all the way to the stop in the coupler.”

“Right. Next, run this cleaner around the outside, then wipe it off with the rag right away.”

“Because the cleaner evaporates quickly.”

“Right. It’s largely alcohol or something.”

Bumper cut the pipe almost level. “Is that good enough? It’s a few degrees off.”

“For this application it will do,” Ron said. “If it were inside the house, we’d make it better. Think for a minute and tell me what the next problem is.”

“That’s easy. When I cut off the other pipe, the total height will be shorter by an inch or two. This sprinker head is a constant height above ground, so will it be tall enough?”

“Once again, very good. And the answer in this case is yes, a couple of inches won’t make a big difference. So get the other piece, cut it level and clean it the way you did the first one.”

Bumper again went through the cutting and cleaning routine.

“Is it time for the adhesive now?”

“Mm, hm. We’ll do the piece in the ground first. Put some adhesive on the pipe, then ring a little bit around the inside of one end of the coupling, then put that end of the coupling down on the pipe.”

“How does the adhesive work?”

“Essentially, it dissolves the pipe onto the coupling.”

“The two become one. Like marriage. But it doesn’t weaken it?”

“It may, but the extra thickness of the coupling eliminates the problem.”

Bumper spread the adhesive (which he thought smelled worse than the cleaner) as Ron had told him, then pushed the coupling onto the pipe.

“Is this stuff used in plumbing a lot? A minute ago you said something about inside plumbing. Is it safe?”

“Yeah. It’s corrosion resistant, easily withstands any temperature that comes out of a water heater. It can withstand a fair amount of pressure, but it might burst if water freezes in it, and that’s easy to prevent.”

“Now I do the same with the other pipe and the top half of the coupling?”

“You got it. Just be sure when you put the pipe on that the sprinkler is pointed the right way.”

Bumper finished the job, then they filled in the hole, pushed the mulch back around it, put everything away, and went inside to wash up.


Friday, June 22

7:30 A.M.

When Ron Penfield’s doorbell rang, he was surpised. He had been out of bed for about half an hour, and he was due at the office at 9:00 for his abbreviated summer office hours.

Elena, Ron’s fifteen-year-old daughter (called Lenna by just about everyone), was eating breakfast; Bumper and Ronny were still asleep; Gloria Heinmeier, Ron’s mother-in-law, had left half an hour earlier to go to Callaway Gardens with a friend.

Ron opened the front door and smiled.

“John!” he said, “I haven’t seen you since the trial. Come on in.”

“Thanks,” Detective Mason said. They headed toward the kitchen.

“It’s early for you to be out and about,” Ron said.

John nodded. “Have you seen the news?”

“Not yet. I was just about to turn it on when you got here. What should I look for?”

When they reached the kitchen, Lenna, who was rinsing her cereal bowl, waved hello to the detective and went upstairs.

Ron got a mug for John. While pouring coffee, Ron asked again, “So what’s in the news?”

“Nathan Bookman is dead.”

“A shame,” Ron said. “Was he ever implicated in that business with Senator Jamison last fall?”

“Nope. Except for a single, unverified sighting, he was never tied in. McAlister absolutely refused to name him as co-conspirator, accomplice, anything.”

“I’m sorry he’s dead, but I haven’t seen him in years. You?”

“Nope.”

“How did you find out?”

“I was at his house well into the evening yesterday. He was murdered.”

Ron took a sip of his coffee. “You’re a cop so I guess that makes sense. What is a surprise is your coming here. Why did you come to tell me in particular?”

“Because while I was at the crime scene, two guys from the FBI showed up.”

“Why? Seems like a local homicide-type thing to me.”

“They wouldn’t say. It could have been connected to Jamison, but I think they would have told me if it were. That doesn’t leave much except …”

“Except for Kaiser,” Ron finished. “Hm.”

Both men stared into their coffee cups for a moment.

“You could’ve called,” Ron said.

Mason shook his head. “I’ve got a feeling about this. I can’t really tell you anything about the crime scene, but the Bureau guys were acting funny. Something’s up, Ron.”

Ron said, “I wonder if it’s connected …”

“… to his cars,” they finished together, smiling.

“Which one was your favorite?” Ron asked.

“The MG — the antique.”

“Really? I had you figured as a Corvette guy.”

“The Corvette he had was the wrong year. And the dark green MG — that was a car.”

“What did he have in his garage yesterday?”

“He had the DeTomaso —”

“— the same as last fall,” Ron cut in.

John nodded. “He also had a Lam. Dark gray with white leather interior. Classiest thing I ever saw. My new second, Mark Alcala, nearly fell apart when he saw it.”

“Not Renfroe any more?”

“Naw, the captain is letting Michael take lead on small-to-medium breaking and entering and some assault when there’s not much doubt. He’s running slightly ahead of average in bringing cases in.” Pride glinted in Mason’s eyes.

They chatted for a couple of minutes about baseball, then John asked, “Can I borrow the phone? I left my cell phone in the car.”

Ron blinked as he recognized something, then said, “Sure.”

John placed a brief call to his wife using Ron’s house phone. From the conversation, Ron surmised she was on her way to work.

When John rang off, he said, “Thanks for the coffee,” emphasizing coffee slightly. “But I’ve gotta go through all the reports from yesterday: Forensics, see what the Medical Examiner has if they’ve gotten to it, compare everything to canvassing reports. I don’t really know where this one is headed.”

Ron said, “Yeah, seems strange. Kaiser … What does that remind me of? I remember: Guess who I saw yesterday.”

Mason shook his head.

“Eight-ball.”

“The janitor? Where’d you see him?”

“At the hardware store. We were both getting PVC pipe.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Seemed to be fine.”

“He still seeing the little Latina? The one with the curly hair and pencil skirts?”

Ron shook his head. “Nope, Henery Guyée wasn’t Catholic enough for her mother.”

John drank off the last of his coffee and headed out. Ron noticed John had parked 3 houses down.


8:37 a.m.

Mason asked, “What stands out so far?”

“Two things,” Alcala said. “First, the general lack of forensic evidence. The preliminary report came through around a quarter to eight. There were no fingerprints except the victim’s in the living room, and barely any more in the kitchen.”

Mark handed the preliminary forensics report to John.

“No coffee yet?” Mark asked.

“Met a friend for coffee before I came in. Have Bookman’s financials come in yet?”

“They should be here this morning.”

Mason thought for a minute. “He probably had a maid service. Check his address book.”

Mark nodded. “I’ll check.” He jotted Maid service? on a notepad. “You called next of kin yesterday, right?”

It was Mason’s turn to nod. “Yeah. They were really pleasant. ‘So our son’s life finally caught up with him.’ Anything from the M.E.?”

“The preliminary just said what you saw yesterday: Small caliber gunshot to the head.” Mark handed John the summary sheet. “No powder trace around the wound, so somebody shot him from several yards away. There’s no obvious evidence the body was moved, but on a hard floor you might not see traces anyway.”

“Didn’t see an exit wound,” Mason said, “so the bullet is probably still in his head. It won’t tell us anything.”

“How come?”

“The lack of powder and fingerprints tells me it was a pro. A .22 is inexpensive: One kill and it’s at the bottom of the Hootch.” Mason used a common nickname for the Chattahoochee River.

He went on. “You said two things stood out. What besides the lack of material evidence?”

“The bit Evans turned up in canvassing about the woman seen leaving Bookman’s house in the wee hours.” Mark handed John the relevant page from the folder of canvass interviews.

“Was it recent?”

“No,” Mark said. “But if we can track her down, she might be able to give us background information. It’s worth a shot anyhow.”

“Check with vice, local and around the area, for call girls. If she’s a pro, she might cooperate.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She might get someone to look away later if she cooperates in a murder investigation.”

Mark said, “Is the description good enough?”

“It’s a good start. Average height, wears four-inch platforms and has long hair. Might be a wig. But here’s the thing that sets her apart: She drives herself. In a sedan. In the middle of the night. If she’s a pro, she’s either independent or works for someone who trusts her.”

“And if she’s just a friend?”

“Then she’s probably in the address book.”

Alcala half shut his eyes.

After a moment, Mason said, “Gimme the inventory sheet.”

“Stuff we took or furnishings?”

“Both.”

The junior detective opened his eyes and the correct folder, and handed John several stapled pages.

John looked through it all, then handed it back and asked, “What’s missing?”

“Huh?”

“What should be here that isn’t? You’ve got a guy in early middle age, tech savvy, lives very comfortably. What isn’t here?”

Mark scanned the pages. “Two nice TVs. The usual appliances. Wait … where … where’s his phone? Everybody has a phone. Even if he doesn’t have a land line he should have a cell. And you said ‘tech savvy,’ so where’s his computer. He should have at least one, maybe more. Was the phone in the garage or in one of his cars, maybe?”

“No, Welch’s people would have found it.”

Mark tapped on his desk. “Welch. That reminds me,” he said. “She brought this envelope by and told me to put it in your hands myself. I forgot it because she dropped it off just as I got here and I put the other reports on top of it.”

“Ah.”

Alcala handed Mason a 9-by-12 manila envelope marked Detective Mason, Eyes Only; papers inside were about a quarter inch thick.

“Did she say anything else?”

“No — look, there’s a sticky on the back.”

John flipped the envelope over and saw the yellow note. On it was the number 20. John nodded.

John said, “You go ahead and start the calls to vice departments.”

Mark nodded. “How far away do you want me to go?”

“Start with a ten-mile radius. Have you got a copy of the address book yet?”

“Yeah, I got Forensics to make two copies.”

“Cool.” Mason picked up his copy. “You get going on the calls.”

Mark nodded, pulled out his sheet of area police departments dialed the first one.

John opened the envelope from Welch and pulled out a handwritten note. He read it and closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them a few minutes later, Mark was finishing up his first call.

“What’d you find out?”

“Alpharetta has two or three working girls who might fit the description. Do you want me to interview them?”

“Make all the calls first, then we’ll talk to the most likely.”

“By the way,” John said, “I’m going to Bookman’s house. I probably won’t be back until after lunch.”

“Okay, see you.”

“Not so fast,” Mason said. “If the FBI guys come by, make sure they get a copy of everything. See if you can corral one of those high school interns.”

Alcala nodded.

Mason took Bookman’s address book and the envelope Mark had handed him and left the squad room. But before going to the crime scene, he went by forensics.

“John,” Welch said. “You’re earlier than I expected.”

“Met a friend for coffee early. Can you come with me to the Bookman house this morning?”

“How long do you think we’ll be?”

“Could be there half an hour, could be the rest of the morning.”

“Can you wait ten minutes, or do you want me to meet you there?”

“Meet me there. I’m gonna drive through for another cup of coffee on the way. Can I get you one?”

“How ’bout a chai latte with one Nutrisweet?”

“Foo-foo tea huh?” Mason grinned.

Maddie grinned. “If we’re a long time, I may make you buy lunch, too. Do I need any special equipment?”

“Dunno. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

“I’ll drive a van.”


9:42 a.m.

At Bookman’s house, Mason spoke to the uniformed officers watching the house from a black-and-white out front. They drove off as Maddie Welch drove up in the forensics van.

“Letting them go, John?”

“They’ve been here since 5:00. Had ’em doing walk-arounds every fifteen or twenty minutes. Since we’re here, I told ’em to go get breakfast and come back.”

Welch nodded as she ducked under the crime scene tape Mason held up for her. Mason, more than a foot taller, stepped over the tape.

While Mason fished for the door key in his pocket, Maddie asked, “I guess you went over the addendum.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“And why are we keeping this from the Bureau types?”

“Because it’s our crime scene; because if there’s something that I have to turn over to them, I will, but before I do I want to know whether it’s relevant to the case; because they have not been forthcoming about why they’re here.”

As John opened the door, his cell phone beeped once, signalling an incoming text message. He looked at the message, then said, “Alcala says the FBI agents are on their way here. We have about twenty minutes to find out what we can.”

Maddie walked inside the house while John replied to the message. He followed her the hallway.

“I should have suspected something was up in here,” he said.

The hallway was unusually wide, about six feet by twelve. Two large, artsy photographs hung on the walls at opposite ends, both lit by track lighting.

“Which end?”

“This one,” Welch said, standing by a Scottish landscape, framed to about 24 inches high by 34 wide. She pushed the picture from the right. It slid left on rails, revealing a safe embedded in the wall. The safe was about 14 inches wide by 12 tall; the nameplate that said Swanson flanked by 2 key locks.

“The inventory showed a keyring,” John said. “Do any of the keys we found match this?”

“Oddly, two of them do. And they are very different keys.”

“Did you open it?”

“No, we wouldn’t do that without you here. But did you hear what I said …”

“… about the keys? Yes, I got it. If it’s sophisticated enough, the wrong key could destroy the contents. Or one could be the key to a matching safe somewhere else, maybe even here in the house.”

“Not in the house,” Maddie said. “You wanted every square foot sounded, and you got it. This is the only one.”

John nodded.

Maddie asked, “How about a double-door safe? You know, a safe within a safe.”

“Not likely with both keys on the same ring. And the wall’s not that thick behind it.”

“Do we have time to work out which key to try?”

Mason looked at his watch, shook his head and sighed with frustration. “No. No, we don’t. When did the clock start on my twenty-four?”

“How important is this to you?”

“Very.”

“I finished the addendum at 1:00 a.m. Let’s say 7:00 a.m. tomorrow. If you need more, I start counting favors.”

“Deal.”

Mason slid the painting back into position and went to the front door to meet the federal agents.


11:00 a.m.

“What did you show the feds?” Alcala asked. He was on the phone with Mason, who was on his way back to the station.

“We showed them where Bookman’s wall safe was hidden. Welch’s people didn’t find it until after we left yesterday.”

“We?”

“I took Maddie with me. If I found something, I wanted someone from forensics to make sure any evidence was handled correctly. When the Orozco and Grove got there, we talked about the layout of the scene and all the preliminary findings. You hadn’t had time yet to get them a copy of the case file, so I outlined it for them.”

“Do we know yet why they’re interested?”

“They haven’t said, but I see one possibility.”

“Like what?”

“Nathan Bookman was on the periphery of a federal case from last Fall. Likely it’s connected there.”

“What case? Would I have heard of it?”

“You remember when the senator’s airplane crashed in Afghanistan?”

“Yeah, I remember. Was he over there?”

“Naw. He was implicated peripherally, but he was only sighted once and others refused to name him. You’ll read more about it in the papers later on. How much calling have you got done?”

“I’ve talked to all the vice units in the radius, except Atlanta, which is right on the edge.”

“And?”

“We have six likelies and four more possibles.”

Mason said, “You kept a copy of Bookman’s address book, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Any of these women appear in there?”

“Haven’t checked yet. You want me to call you back?”

“I’ll be there in a little bit. Gonna pick up some lunch to bring back. Can I get you something?”

“Five Guys, maybe?”

“Sounds good. Split an order of fries?” Mark assented, then John got his burger order and changed his course to pick up the food.

11:35 a.m.

At the station, John put Mark’s bag on the corner of his desk and said, “Your receipt is in the bag. What have you got on phone numbers?”

“Thanks. None of the contact numbers I got from the departments was in the address book. I even checked for swapped digits, backward numbers, that kind of thing.”

“Hm,” John said through a mouthful of burger. He chewed and swallowed and said, “Show me your list.”

Mark passed John the list and took a sip from his drink, then swallowed and said, “Looks like three to the west and three to the south.”

“Okay. I’ll take west, you take south. Since you were looking through the address book anyway, did you see anything interesting?”

“A handful of female names. A collection of numbers listed under a car club. Oh, and I got the number for Bookman’s cleaning service. I’m going to call them after I eat.”

“Okay. They won’t know anything, but call them anyway. Tell you what: Hand off the working girls to a couple of plain-clothes officers. You and I will split the women who are in the book.”

Mark nodded as he chewed.

While they were eating, an intern brought in the copy of the case file they had ordered for the FBI agents. That reminded Mark of something.

“What was in that envelope Welch dropped off this morning?”

“That was the stuff about the wall safe. How many addresses are in Bookman’s address book? For women, I mean.”

“Ones that aren’t named Bookman? Four.”

“How many do we have addresses for?”

“Only one.”

“Okay, you take that one. I’ll call the others to set up appointments.”

“Okay,” Mark said, standing. “Can I get your trash?”

“No, thanks; not done yet.”

When Mark got back from throwing away his trash and washing his hands, John asked, “What’re the last names on my three calls?”

“Smith, Langley and Franzetti.”

“What, no Frohike or Byers?”

Mark’s eyes narrowed, then he snickered. “After all,” he said, “there was only one gunman.”

John smiled and picked up the last french fry.

Mark said, “I’m gonna go find a couple of guys to work the prostitute angle.”

While John was chewing the last bite, he gathered his trash and took it to the large, lidded trash bin labeled “Time Sensitive Waste”. After he washed up and returned to his desk, he started on the phone numbers of the women Alcala had named.

He first checked and found that two of the numbers, Patricia Smith and Cynthia Langley, were for cell phones; Lucia Franzetti’s number was a land line.

He only spoke with one, Cynthia Langley (“call me Cindy”), and made an appointment to meet her at her office. He left messages for the other two: Franzetti’s on an answering machine, Smith’s on voice mail provided by the phone company.

While John was leaving a voicemail for Ms Smith, Mark came back and called Ruth Sellers, the remaining female name in Nathan Bookman’s address book. She answered right away, and he made an appointment to meet her.

1:58 p.m.

Mason arrived at Cindy Langley’s office late — late for him anyway: he habitually arrived five minutes early for appointments.

He took the two minutes he had remaining to review the background material he had found about Ms Langley: age 28, never married, ran a home decorating business out of a storefront in a strip shopping center a couple of blocks from the mall (consultations after 11:00 a.m. Wednesday through Sunday and by appointment any other time), drove an Avalon.

Inside, he found the office decorated in Italian wood and leather and a tall, broad-shouldered woman with bobbed blond hair that fell just below the jawline. She wore a white silk blouse with rounded collar points; tapered, black silk pants; and emerald jewlery. Mason thought, If those stones are real, she’s a lot more successful than the decor alone indicates.

He also realized she couldn’t be the woman Nathan Bookman’s neighbor described: she was at least five-feet-ten in flat shoes.

“Detective Mason?” she asked.

“That’s me. Ms Langley?”

She nodded and held out a hand and said, “I’m pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?”

“Do you know Nathan Bookman?”

Cindy smiled and said, “Yes, Book and I go back a few years. About two years ago I did the interior design when he remodelled his house. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead.”

The words damped all motion, damped all sound, damped time itself.

As Cindy gradually returned to normal speed, she exhaled and said, “I’m very sorry to hear that. As I said, he was a friend as well as a client. How did he die?”

“I’m afraid he was murdered.”

Her eyes opened bit and round, and she looked at the carpet for a moment.

“Had you seen him recently?”

“No, we haven’t — hadn’t — seen each other for several months. Why did you contact me, Detective?”

“Your name and number were in Mr Bookman’s personal address book. I hate to push into your personal space, but it’s my job to ask how well you knew him.” Mason made it sound almost like a question.

“Well, we were friends for a year or two before he became my client. We were … involved … for a few months before and during my work for him.”

“And since your relationship … cooled?”

“We meet — met — for a drink every few months, perhaps four times a year. Usually at Santini’s — the one on 128 next to the Great Northwest.”

“Again, I hate to pry, but because I need the most up-to-date information possible, I have to ask: Why did you stop seeing him romantically?”

“Because he started seeing … professional women. If you get my drift. Frankly, I didn’t want to risk the chance of disease.”

“Can you help me place, in calendar time, when that happened?”

“Okaaay … We met in May or June of 2003. We’d see each other once in a while when we were both out for drinks with friends. After a few weeks we exchanged phone numbers, then we went out one-on-one to dinner, movies and the like for a few weeks. We still saw our friends — I mean we didn’t wall ourselves off or anything. We got closer that fall — it was during the World Series, around game four. He was a fiend for baseball statistics, and something about that and his generally … I don’t know … breezy? … that’ll do … his breezy attitude combined with great intelligence intrigued me. But when I found out about the prostitutes, I was disgusted and repulsed.”

“When was that?”

“Around January. Book didn’t complain when I fenced myself off. He even offered to pay my doctor bills if I had caught anything from him.”

“How did you find out about the prostitutes?”

“One night we were having drinks at Santini’s. We were planning on one drink and going to my place, but he met this guy he knew, Mac-something, like it was Scotch or something. Anyhow, they whispered together like thieves for almost, an hour, and I started talking to a girl, a little brunette who was hanging around like she wanted to meet the other guy, and when Book and I finally left we went to his house because it was closer and it was late. There was a car in the driveway with a woman in the driver’s seat, and it was obvious what was going on.”

“Did he say she was a prostitute? Did you see money or anything else change hands?”

“No. But regular women don’t dress like that. Party girls don’t dress like that.”

“Can you describe her?”

“About my height but wearing platforms so maybe five-five or five-six; long hair, like midway down her back; barely wore a tube top and a very short, tight skirt or maybe short shorts; dark skin, I mean like she had a tan, but no tan lines. And it was January.”

Mason nodded. “That’s consistent with a description we got from another source.”

“So you know who she is.” Ms Langley’s eyes narrowed a little as she watched for Mason’s reaction.

Mason showed a little smile. “I’m afraid that’s more than I can tell you.”

Cindy gave a little of course nod.

“Did your business relationship end when you broke up?”

“No. Even when we were involved, he never took advantage of our relationship. My standard contract with all my clients specifies that payments are to be made periodically according to work done and individual items delivered and installed. He was never late, and work proceeded on schedule.”

“Installed. As in appliances, that sort of thing?”

“Appliances, flooring, many types of things.”

“How about his wall safe?”

“When he made that a line item in the contract, I told him I don’t usually do security stuff, but I could recommend someone. He said thanks, but he wanted me to contract it even if it cost more, which of course it did. Most clients who want a safe will contract for the work directly with the installers.”

Mason pressed his lips together as he chose his next question.

“Were any special measures taken when the safe was installed? I mean, was the safe an off-the-shelf model he simply had installed in the wall or were any special measures taken to ensure the security of the safe itself?”

“Just a moment.” Cindy clicked and typed for a moment. “It was an off-the-shelf Swanson double-key-lock safe, model twenty-five dash six two four. It was installed by Ribo Security.”

Mason knew who he would be calling on next. And he wouldn’t be waiting for the break of day.


2:15 p.m.

Ruth Sellers opened her front door for Mark Alcala. She wore a low-cut, black camisole, dark jeans and white athletic socks over her thin, top-heavy figure. Thick, mahagony hair fell to the lower half of her back; the occasional curl added interest. Except for her eyes, which she had enlarged almost to the size of a Japanese cartoon, the makeup over her deep tan was very light.

She showed Mark to the sofa in the middle of her studio apartment, and when she asked, “Can you wait here just a minute?” she sounded like all the drawls in western Texas had been bottled and shipped to her mouth.

He nodded and she walked behind him; he heard her open the wardrobe door and and close it; when she came back a moment later, her arms were in an unbuttoned, short-sleeved, plaid shirt, and she carried cowboy boots.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I only have about fifteen minutes before I have to leave for work.” She set the boots down and began to button the shirt. “And please call me Ruthie.”

“Where do you work?” Mark asked.

“At a Western bar in Alpharetta.” She stopped buttoning halfway up; the edges of her cami just showed. “Today I’m covering happy hour and the first part of the evening. I’ll get off around 10:00 and be home by 10:45. Now, what did you want to see me about, detective?” When she bent over and pulled up her jeans to put on a boot, Mark could see her socks were calf-length.

“‘Alcala’ sounds Spanish,” she said before he could reply, “but you don’t look it. Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Milwaukee. You’re right, Alcala is Spanish: My great grandfather left Spain around the start of World War Two. He moved to the Upper Midwest. I’m descended from one Spaniard and a flock of Norwegians.”

“So why are you here to see me?”

He said, “This is a little awkward, but I’m here to tell you that someone you know has died.”

Ruthie pushed down the jeans leg over her first boot. Her eyebrows dropped, pushing the corners of her mouth into a frown.

“Who was it?” She looked into his eyes.

“Nathan Bookman.”

Her eyes widened, then rounded, then welled up and shone. A tear or two wandered down her face. “Nathan. Bookman.”

Mark nodded.

Her eyes closed, expelling more tears.

“Was he in a wreck in one of his stupid-fast cars?”

“No. I’m … afraid he was shot.”

“In a bar someplace?”

“His body was found in his living room.”

“And why did you come to tell me?”

Mark said, “Because your name was in his address book. We’re contacting people he knew in the hope that we can learn something that might help us find out who did this.”

“What can I help you with?” She opened her eyes, now red.

Mark’s eyes were stuck to hers. “What can you tell us about his friends, his house? Did he have any jewelry or other valuables? Did you ever go out together? And I have to ask how close you were.”

“If he had any valuables, he kept them in the safe behind that picture in the hall. I mean, his house was nice and all, but he didn’t have any really valuable art, didn’t have any jewelry to speak of, didn’t have anything really expensive except the cars. Were they all right?”

Mark nodded. “Yes. Both cars were intact in his garage. Did he like to talk about them?”

A little smile traced her lips. “He loved the little red one. I think he got the big gray one to impress other guys. It was more comfortable to ride in.”

“So you rode in his cars?”

“Yeah. I’d go to his house after work, and we’d go for a drive, especially at night in the summer, while it was still warm but before the humidity went back up. Moonlit drives around Lake Lanier can be pretty nice. Then we’d go back to his place.”

“Did you stay the rest of the night?”

“Not usually. We’d have a drink and a tumble in the sheets, then make omlettes or pancakes or something and I’d go back home.”

“How often?”

“Once or twice a month.”

“You went to his house after work. Out for a drive in good weather, back to his place. Did anyone ever see you together?”

She shook her head. “Strictly under cover. So to speak.” She snickered at the double meaning. “He said something about a client who wanted him on the straight and narrow, but I never found out who it was.”

“On all these drives you never stopped anywhere? Other than traffic signals, I mean? Not a diner or a Waffle House or anything?”

“No,” she said.

“When you were at his house, did you ever meet anyone coming or going?”

“One night early last year, January or February, he wasn’t home when I got there, so I waited in my car. He drove up and parked in the garage, but some woman parked beside my car and when she saw me she went ballistic and got louder and louder until she told him they were through. What, did she think she was his only woman or something? I didn’t have that illusion.”

She paused a moment, then her eyes cleared and her face straightened out.

“Thanks for coming by. I’m really sorry about Book, but I really don’t think I know anything that could help your investigation.”

She glanced at the door.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I really need to leave for work now.”

“No problem,” Mark said. “I’ll let myself out.”

As he was closing the front door, he glanced back through and saw Ruthie’s face twist in anguish; just as he closed the door he heard her sob.


2:40 p.m.

Mark Alcala asked, “You know that Mason knew Bookman, right?

“Yes, I know.”

“So what’s next? I went through police training and walking around in a uniform to get here.”

“Be patient, Marco. You made detective even faster than I thought you would. It moved up the timeline, but if we don’t get this right, we’ll be mince-meat.”

Mark snickered at the joke. “So what do I do now?”

“You work the murder case and report everything to me. Be the best cop you can be. This is the case — the case we wanted you on. Have any outsiders been around?”

“You mean like the FBI agents?”

“Yes, like them. What are their names?”

“Grove and … Orozco.”

“Orozco? Victor Orozco?”

“Yeah. He introduced himself as Vic.”

“Interesting. You remember what I told you about the safe?”

Mark said, “Yeah, I remember. Do you want me to give you copies of reports, stuff like that?”

“When we talk, tell me the list of whatever you have. I’ll let you know if I want copies of anything. I want to know everything the federal agents say and do. Got that?”

“Got it.”

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