***
The Mercedes crept ahead along the busy downtown street of afternoon traffic, with Dobson carefully following in the distance. He switched back and forth between the two lanes, remaining several car lengths behind and prepared to make a turn in either direction. They passed the town plaza and continued at a steady pace as traffic thinned out. Dobson wondered if Evelyn was driving to the Bailey estate or to her hotel.
The mansion was still an active crime scene with police tape stretched across the front and back entrances. His curiosity piqued once he saw the Mercedes pass the Radisson and continue down the road, taking a quick right turn down Saxon Boulevard. The only thing down Saxon, to Dobson’s knowledge, was a run-down laundromat and a hokey strip of discount shops—hardly anything of interest to a well-to-do woman like Evelyn Bailey. But he could have been wrong. Maybe they were taking a back road somewhere.
He turned and followed as the Mercedes increased its speed and shot ahead. Dobson applied even pressure to the gas, hesitant about blowing his cover. If there was ever a time to follow her, he was there. His cell phone rang from the middle console. He didn’t recognize the number but pressed the speaker button anyway.
“This is Dobson.”
“Mr. Dobson, hello. This is Lenny Neumeier. Mrs. Bailey’s attorney.”
“Hi, Mr. Neumeier. Thanks for getting back with me,” Dobson said.
“My pleasure,” he said.
His sunglasses blocked the abrupt glare of the sun as the Mercedes passed the laundromat and slowed down at a fenced-in shipping yard with dozens of unmanned semi-trucks parked in a row. Dobson tapped his brakes and watched as the Mercedes turned down a dirt road alongside a barbed-wire fence, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.
“I hope you can clear up some of the questions I have,” Dobson continued. “Last we spoke, you said that most of Mrs. Bailey’s wealth was to be transferred to a variety of charities.”
“That’s correct,” Neumeier said.
“And what exactly was she leaving behind for her niece, Evelyn?”
Neumeier paused for several beats before answering. “She isn’t mentioned in the will.”
Dobson was stunned. “How is that possible? Evelyn took care of her. She had described a great relationship between the two, so much that Mrs. Bailey placed her as an executor of the estate.”
“Yes and no,” Neumeier said after a sigh. “You see, Detective. Our relationship, that is Evelyn Bailey’s and mine, was rather tense. She didn’t approve of the way I was handling her aunt’s estate, and I didn’t necessarily believe that she was looking out for Mrs. Bailey’s interests, especially in regard to these charitable donations.”
“Why would Evelyn insist that the money go to these agencies as opposed to her?” Dobson asked. “Doesn’t add up.”
“I long suspected something askew, and after delving into several of the charities recommended by Evelyn, I discovered that they were actually fronts, established to siphon Mrs. Bailey’s money into her niece’s accounts.”
Dobson was at a loss of words. “What… Why didn’t you take it to the police?”
“At the behest of Mrs. Bailey. She insisted no harm come to her niece. She still believed that Evelyn had nothing but the best intentions. So, I acted and produced the evidence necessary.”
Dobson stopped at the shipping yard, prepared to turn in. The Mercedes was far down the dirt road, nearly out of sight. Instead of following, he drove on a short distance and turned onto the next narrow street, where the fence ended and a No Trespassing sign was posted.
He risked being seen but hoped that the Mercedes would come back into his view. As the car rocked against the potholes in the inclined road, he scanned the area but saw no other cars. A shipping yard full of stacked pallets consumed the view to his right, while the semi-trucks blocked his view to the left. Ahead, in the distance, a road guard blocked the way, leading to a drop-off and a green, rocky forest below. Where on earth was Evelyn Bailey going? That, however, wasn’t the only question on Dobson’s mind.
“What evidence did you produce?” he asked Neumeier. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“A simple recording,” he said. “I captured a very important cell phone call of hers. Did a little bit of detective work myself. Completely illegal, what I did, and enough to get me disbarred. In this call, Detective, Evelyn clearly states her intentions to steal her aunt’s wealth through deceit and fraud. I believe the calls were made to her associate in New York. This boyfriend of hers, Paul. They had a plan, and it was all laid out on that call.”
“Where is this recording?” Dobson demanded. “You should have brought it to me immediately.”
Another sigh followed. “I presented it to Mrs. Bailey, God bless her, to force her to see the light. Again, she made me promise not to tell anyone. She took my only copy and held onto it, intending, I believed, to confront her niece. Some weeks later, Detective, she ended up dead.”
Dobson’s stomach turned in knots. He couldn’t believe what the attorney was saying. Part of him remained skeptical, no matter how much he wanted to incriminate Evelyn Bailey.
“So, she must have been looking for that recording,” he said. “Or hired someone to find it, tearing apart every inch of her aunt’s mansion in the process.”
“That’s the most likely scenario,” Neumeier said. “At this point, Mrs. Bailey’s fortune is to be distributed as stated in her will. If my suspicions are right, eventually it will all go to Evelyn. Every penny.”
“But we can stop that,” Dobson said. “All we have to prove is that the charities are fraudulent.”
“I’m afraid I can say no more. I’ve told you what I know and ask that you not reach out to me again. This is all I can do.”
“What are you afraid of?” Dobson said.
“Many things. Evelyn Bailey was a handful before. Now she’s a multimillionaire, and I don’t want to get in her way. Do what you wish with the information I’ve given you. Good day, Detective.”
The call was disconnected before Dobson could say another word. He felt angered and vindicated at the same time. He slowed as the line of semi-trucks ended and a maintenance garage came into view. There was a large maintenance garage, with a van parked in the middle one. Dobson stopped next to a light post as soon as the Mercedes came back into view, pulling inside the garage.
It was an odd place for anyone to travel to, let alone someone of Evelyn Bailey’s stature. The only thing left for Dobson to do was to wait. He shut off the engine and opened his glove compartment, pulling out a pair of binoculars. An air of mystery surrounded the shipping yard, making it exactly the kind of enigma he was looking for.
The Mercedes parked just as a large, bearded man with a shaved head stepped out of the van. He wore a leather jacket and blue jeans, sunglasses concealing his eyes. After swinging the driver’s side door shut, he approached the Mercedes just as Evelyn’s driver rushed to her door and opened it. Dobson raised the binoculars to his eyes and watched with great interest at the meeting taking place. Evelyn stepped outside, long legs extending from her black skirt and stood at chest-height to the bearded man who towered over her.
Dobson lowered the binoculars and grabbed his cell phone, quick to snap some pictures of the scene while zooming the camera to capture the license plate of the van. He then brought the binoculars back up and watched as the discussion intensified between Evelyn and the man. She held her arms out with her mouth moving fast as the man took a step back and pointed at her, only to receive further admonishing, Evelyn shaking her fist at him. As he switched between taking pictures and his binoculars, Dobson thought this wasn’t going to end well.
And in one moment, he seemed to have gotten the break he had been looking for. The bearded man leaned against the wall of the garage and dangled a toothpick in his mouth as Evelyn continued talking and jabbing her finger in the air. Her driver stood on the other side of the car with his back to them, paying no attention. On
second glance, it appeared that he was acting as a look-out. No attention came Dobson’s way. From a distance, he remained invisible.
The bearded man listened and shook his head nonchalantly as Evelyn talked wildly. She then spun around and went back to her car, opening the door herself to the surprise of her driver. He awkwardly returned to the driver’s seat and started the engine as the bearded man flicked his toothpick over the Mercedes and returned to his van. Their secret meeting appeared to have ended. Dobson lowered his binoculars and watched as both the Mercedes and the van backed out and left the garage. Tempted to follow, Dobson instead waited. There was something far more interesting in the garage.
A long narrow road on the other side of the shipping yard guided him to an open entrance which led him straight to the vacant garage amidst a bedrock path. Evelyn Bailey and her counterpart in the van were long gone. He wondered what other travels she had planned that day. Lenny Neumeier’s accusations presented an entirely different picture of Mrs. Bailey’s dedicated niece; a picture he had long suspected.
As he parked outside the garage, Dobson called the station to request a search for license plate: RU2VX. Soon enough, he’d have all the details needed to identify the driver of the van. He thought it strange when he realized that clearing Randall Morris was his least important motivating factor. All he really wanted to do was prove Lieutenant Fitzpatrick wrong. Not something to be proud of.
Dobson rushed to the garage, keeping watch of the area as he moved stealthily around in the eerie silence. He searched the oil-stained floor of the garage, hunched down and searched intently. The toothpick was no coincidence. He only hoped that he could find it. There were screws and nuts and other debris on the ground as well as cigarette butts.
He scanned the ground frantically, then approached an air compressor sitting against the wall; he dropped to his knees and looked under it. His hand moved lightly across the dusty surface, intent on retrieving a tiny stick that seemed to find him as opposed to the other way around. If it wasn’t the same toothpick the man had flicked from his mouth moments earlier, it bore a striking resemblance. But then, didn’t they all?
“That’s it. Come to poppa,” he said rising.
He cupped the toothpick carefully and walked back to his car, where the door was still open. It seemed moist, but maybe that was wishful thinking. His presence seemed to go unnoticed, as he stepped inside and shut the door, placing the toothpick in a small Ziploc bag, with only one destination in mind.
Preventative Measures
Clearwater, Maine
Victoria left work early, in the throes of an emotional breakdown. It was a calm, peaceful afternoon, and as she drove through her coastal town of nearby ports, rocky hills, and sprawling forest, she felt an increasing urge to get away from it all. Clearwater, Maine, was her home; a beautiful town she had cherished since moving her with Todd before they were married. Brooke had been born there around the same time Victoria had just begun her career as a project analyst. There were so many memories associated with Clearwater, that Victoria couldn’t possibly categorize them all. Their lives were there. But now, everything felt different.
She slowed at an intersection, surrounded by quaint shops, diners, and old buildings that made up the mile-long downtown business district. LTD Technologies, her employer, was in the industrial sector a few miles away among warehouses, manufacturers, and government contractors. It was a Friday and she wouldn’t have to drive back that way until Monday. Her weekend, however, was in shambles. She and Todd were supposed to go shopping for Brooke’s birthday. They had planned to relax together in preparation for a busy work week ahead. Now, everything had changed in the worst way imaginable. She hadn’t cried in hours. Not since the phone call.
She was four blocks from the police station, trying to get her story together. She had a stalker who was determined to harass her daily. Her high school friend had been murdered. There was even the recent murder of a local woman, Susan Shields. She couldn’t say whether anything was connected, but simply planned to tell the police what she knew and let them piece it together.
Waiting at the light, she scrolled her cell phone for her mother’s number and called it, listening as the line rang, hoping her mother would pick up.
“Vicky?” Nancy’s surprised voice said as she answered.
“Hi, Mom,” Victoria said. “How are you? How’s Dad?” the words tumbling out.
The light turned green and she waited as a Ford Bronco ahead of her took its time to realize it.
“We’re fine. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Is everything okay? You sound…”
“Did you get my voicemail from two days ago?” Vicky said.
A brief pause followed as her mother answered. “I’m sorry. Yes, I did. I forgot to call you. Your father and I just got back from Palm Springs.”
“How was that?” Victoria asked.
“Oh, we had a lovely time as always. We sure miss you and Todd and Brooke. Maybe you guys can come next time.”
“We’ll certainly try,” she said, feeling a tinge of sadness as she tried to hold back her welling tears. She drove past a newspaper and magazine stand, with the police station parking lot in the distance. “Listen, Mom. I need to talk to you about something important.”
“Oh?” Nancy said, sounding distracted. “Hold on a second. Your father says hi.”
She heard her father’s voice mumbling in the background, bringing a temporary smile to her face. “Tell him I said hi too. I miss you guys.”
“You have to visit,” Nancy protested. “How long has it been? Last Christmas?”
Her parents lived in Leesburg, South Carolina, the town she had been born and raised in. After high school, she couldn’t wait to get out and find another place to live. Anywhere. Not much longer after that, she had met Todd. They met at a rock concert while they were both attending the University of South Carolina. She had never felt so comfortable with someone before. They hit it off the moment he offered to hold her beer while she used the restroom in between bands. A relationship began almost immediately, more seamless than anything Victoria had ever before experienced.
“We will,” she said holding back tears. “Right now, I need your help.”
“What is it, dear?” her mother asked.
Victoria searched for the words and then realized that she wasn’t sure exactly where to start. Her voice cracked as she wiped a stubborn tear that fell down her cheek. “Todd and I are going through a difficult time right now. Maybe it’s best that Brooke and I visit you and Dad for a little bit. I mean, Brooke has school, so maybe next weekend.”
“What about this weekend?” Nancy asked with concern in her tone.
Victoria slowed and shifted into a right-turn lane, which led her into the moderately-sized parking lot for the Clearwater Police Department. “It’s too soon,” she said. “I have too much going on.”
“I’m sorry. What happened with Todd? You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know, Mom,” she said, wiping at another tear. “There’s been a lot of craziness. I think someone is stalking me. They’ve sent gifts to our house. Flowers at my work. They called my work today, and I don’t know what to do.”
“You need to go to the police,” her mother said emphatically.
Victoria parked and looked up at the sign above the double doors leading into the station. “I know. I’m here right now.”
“So, what happened with Todd?” Nancy asked.
Victoria’s hands dropped from the steering wheel and into her lap as her voice wavered. “We’re not doing too well.”
Nancy persisted. “What is it?”
Victoria struggled with the words. She felt shame and embarrassment to even acknowledge the truth. “Mom, am I not good enough?”
“Vicky, what are you talking about? Of course you’re good enough,” Nancy said, worried.
Victoria shook her head and grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the dashboard to co
nceal her red, tear-soaked eyes before entering the police station. “I don’t think so. Todd cheated on me with another woman. He had an affair, and I just found out the other day. I kicked him out of the house and haven’t seen him since.”
A brief silence followed Nancy’s quiet gasp. “I… I can’t believe it,” she said at last. “I’m so sorry, dear. What can we do to help?”
“Should I leave him?” she asked. “If I don’t, he’ll just think that he can do this again, and I don’t even know if I could ever trust him anymore.”
“Forgiveness is a long road,” Nancy said. “I think you need to take some time and think about it. You still love each other, right?”
Victoria thought to herself, glancing at two police cars as they pulled into parking spaces next to her. “I don’t know.”
“Come home,” Nancy said. “We can get you booked on a flight tonight. Brooke too.”
Victoria turned and looked at her purse on the passenger seat, the edges of the chain letter sticking out. Next to her purse was the small box she had received with the chocolates and high school pictures. She didn’t bring the ones of Todd and the woman. “I’ll think about it. I’m at the police station now. I have to go.”
“Call me back as soon as you can. Okay?”
“I will. Bye, Mom.”
“I love you,” Nancy said.
“Love you too,” Victoria said, hanging up. She dabbed at her eyes with some Kleenex, took a deep breath, and stepped out of her car with her sunglasses on, reaching for the evidence she hoped the police would know what to do with.
Once inside the lobby, Victoria went to the information desk, attended by a uniformed corporal behind a sheet of Plexiglass. The name tag pinned to the left chest of his uniform said, Harrison.
“I would like speak to someone about harassment I’ve been receiving from an unknown person,” she said urgently.
Harrison looked up at her from jotting in his notebook. He took pause at the small gift box on the counter and the sunglasses covering her eyes. “Yes, ma’am. We can get you in touch with one of our officers very shortly.” He looked to some empty desks behind him and then to a closed door which led into the station. He grabbed a clipboard and slid it under the Plexiglass. “Just fill out this form and someone will be with you shortly.”
“Can I talk to a detective?” she asked, leaning closer. “It’s about the Susan Shields murder. I think this could be connected.”
The corporal’s eyes widened. “Susan Shields?”
“Yes, I believe you’re still investigating that, correct? Her body was pulled from the river, strangled.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Please have a seat and someone will be with you shortly.”
Victoria took the clipboard and walked slowly to a row of vinyl chairs against the wall, sitting in the middle. She placed her purse and the box on the seat next to her and glanced at the form attached to the clipboard. It asked her name, address, and phone number followed by the reason for her visit. She circled “to report a crime” without attention to the other options. From there, she waited.
She glanced at clock on the wall. It was almost 2:00 p.m. She had planned to pick up Brooke from school in an hour and hoped that it wouldn’t take too long at the police station. She just wanted the harassment to stop. With each minute that ticked by, she grew more impatient. She took her sunglasses off as two officers entered the lobby from the back and exited the station with blaring hand-held radios clipped to their shoulders. For a moment, Victoria thought they were there to see her. She regretted not calling ahead.
After a good ten minutes, a bald man stepped through the lobby wearing a button-down, collared shirt and red tie. His sleeves were rolled up, and he had on a pair of gray slacks and black dress shoes. He was tall with a slight paunch and he had a bushy, gray mustache. This must be him, she thought.
“Mrs. Owens?” he said, approaching her.
Victoria stood with half a smile. “Yes.”
He extended his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Detective Weaver, nice to meet you.”
She shook his hand, feeling safer already. He had a radio attached to his belt on one side of his waist and a holstered pistol at the other. A quick glance at the ID card hanging from his neck on a lanyard showed that he was, in fact, a county detective.
“Corporal Harrison told me that you have some information about the Susan Shields case.”
Victoria nodded. “Not so much information,” she said. “More of a hunch.”
The detective smiled, exposing light coffee and nicotine stains on his teeth. “We deal with plenty of that here. Let’s have a word around back.”
“Okay,” she said, following him to the door past the front desk. They walked through and he led her to a windowless room with a table and few chairs surrounding it. There was a refrigerator in the corner next to a counter, where a coffee maker rested amidst scattered condiments.
Detective Weaver motioned to one of the chairs, signaling her to sit down, as he went to the refrigerator and opened the door. “Would you like anything to drink?”
“Just water, if you have any,” she said, sitting in a plastic chair on one side of the table, where she rested her purse and the gift box.
Weaver emerged with a bottled water and Coke. “Think I should follow your lead, but it’s soda time for me.” He handed her the water and opened his can with a pop. Formalities out of the way, Weaver closed the door to the room and sat across from her. He then set an audio recorder on the table.
“I have to inform you that the conversation between us will be recorded.”
“That’s fine,” she said.
He stated the time, date, place, the names of those present. “So, Mrs. Owens. What can you tell me about the Susan Shields murder?”
Victoria felt immediately on the spot and unsure of what to say. She began by taking the letter from her purse and sliding it over to the detective. “I received this in the mail two days ago. It reads like an invitation to my high school reunion, but it’s actually nothing more than a chain letter.” She paused and opened the gift box as Weaver held the letter, studying it.
“The woman who sent it to me is Elizabeth Butler, a friend from high school. She was murdered two weeks ago in her home in Connecticut.”
Weaver’s attention remained on the letter, eyes scrolling every line.
“The next day, someone sent flowers to my work. It wasn’t my husband, but it happened the day after I got this letter. I thought it was weird but didn’t get nervous until I found this box on my doorstep with these pictures a few days later.” She then passed him the cutout images of her high school class. Weaver set the letter to the side and examined the pictures.
“Today someone called me at work and spoke in this weird, hissing voice. A man, I think, his voice disguised. He said that I would see them soon or something like that. I wrote down the phone number and everything, but when I called it right back, it was already disconnected.”
Victoria paused again, waiting for Weaver’s response. He flipped through the pictures and then went back to the letter, seemingly hesitant.
“This is harassment, Detective,” she continued. “Someone is watching me and sending me these things. They know where I work, where I live. They know about my husband and daughter. I don’t think Liz sent me the chain letter. I think her murderer did. Whoever it is, they’re here now, and I think they’re the same people, or person, who killed Susan Shields.”
Weaver looked up and sighed. He then leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, presumably in thought. “Did you know Mrs. Shields?”
“No,” Victoria said.
“So, she didn’t go to high school with you?”
“I don’t think so. I went to Summerville High in South Carolina. The likelihood that we went to the same school, well… that’s doubtful.”
“We’ll look into it,” he said with a courteous smile. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Any thought
s on who this person might be?”
“I have no idea,” she said, feeling her forehead. “I need this harassment to stop. What can the police do to help? I don’t feel safe in my own home anymore. And it started with that letter.”
Weaver glanced through the photos again, offering no immediate opinion, and then pushed the letter and photos back to Victoria. “Our current profile of Susan Shield’s attacker fits that of a drifter. White male, late thirties to early forties. We’re almost positive that he’s left the area. Might have made it as far as New Brunswick. We’re working with the Canadian authorities to find him.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Victoria asked, pulling her chair forward, anger rising.
“It means that it’s unlikely the two are related, but we’ll certainly look into it,” he said.
Victoria shook her head. “I have to say, Detective. That doesn’t necessarily make me feel any safer.” She paused and pointed at the pictures in front of her. “This is real, and it’s not going to stop. Don’t you understand? Don’t you believe me?” Her distraught tone echoed through the room as Weaver stood up with a sympathetic look. She felt guilty, not telling him about the photos of Todd and the woman, but they were irrelevant, and she couldn’t do it.
Weaver pushed a sheet a paper toward her. “I understand, but we need your help. A list of names would be a good start. Anyone you know who may be capable of this kind of harassment.”
Victoria suddenly held the box up high above her head with both hands. “What about fingerprints? You can test this box, right?” She then lowered it and pulled out the smaller box of chocolates, tossing them on the table. “How about these? A box of chocolates! What more does it take!” She abruptly stopped herself, feeling warm tears on her cheeks.
“I apologize, Detective,” she said as she lowered her head, blonde strands covering her face. “This whole ordeal has been a nightmare.”
He approached her and pulled out a small card, handing it to her. “This is my card. It’s got my personal and work cell on it. Feel free to call me anytime.”
She took his card in her shaky hand and looked at it.
“I want to help, Mrs. Owens. My priority, however, is this murder case. That’s why I’m here. If you’re right, and this person harassing you is connected to this case, I’m certain that we’ll find him. In the meantime, I suggest that you file a statement with the department, along with some names we can investigate.”
“That’s it?” she said, feeling the throes of hopelessness consume her.
“Not at all,” he promised. “If it happens again, call us. Then we’ll go from there.”
Victoria placed both hands on the table and pushed herself up, numb from head to toe. She wiped at her eyes and placed her sunglasses on. “Thanks for your time, Detective.”
She shoved the pictures back into the box, slung her purse straps on her shoulder, and quickly walked past him as he tried to offer reassurances.
“We’ll keep an eye out,” he said, as she approached the door. “I’ll even have a patrol car drive by your house, by the hour if that helps.”
“Thanks,” she said, opening the door and walking out.
As she continued down the hall, she had never felt so alone. The police, it seemed, could do little to protect her, but she also understood that the bits and pieces she had offered didn’t make for a compelling case. The detective could easily have dismissed her as a crazy woman, but didn’t. She moved quickly through the lobby and glanced at the wall clock. Fifteen minutes had passed, and she was no closer to figuring anything out.
She skipped filing a report and stormed through the front doors, out into the parking lot. She needed to make it to Brooke’s school right after class ended, so her daughter would not be alone for a single moment. There was just one last place she needed to go first.
Al’s Gun and Ammo was a small arms dealer in town; the only arms dealer she could find within a fifty-mile radius. She parallel parked along the sidewalk outside the small one-story building, with its garish sign and caged windows. She had never purchased a gun before. The thought had never crossed her mind.
Her father, George, was an avid hunter. Todd, however, never showed interest in firearms. At work, she had learned the necessary requirements to purchase a weapon from Al’s shop, including a valid driver’s license and background check. From there, she hoped to have her gun.
She sat parked in her idling car with her hands gripping the wheel, deeply conflicted. Nervous hesitation held her back. Was a gun necessary? She didn’t even know what kind she’d get, though a brief search through Al’s website gave her a few options. The .38 special snub nose revolver seemed compact and easy enough to use for close range protection. From the description, she thought it was something she could fit in her purse. She shut off her ignition, having made up her mind. She was going in.
The bell atop the door rang as she pushed the door open and made her way inside. There were dozens of racks and shelves with hunting gear, weapon accessories, and more camouflaged backpacks and tents than she could count. The store was empty aside from an older, white-haired man standing behind a glass counter ahead. Behind him hung rifles of all kinds and models, proudly displayed on racks. She passed a glass case of hunting knives, heart pounding, as he looked up at her, adjusting his large glasses.
“Afternoon, Ma’am. Can I help you with anything?”
He wore a plaid long-sleeved shirt, tucked into blue jeans, and his kindly grandfather persona put her at ease.
“Yes,” she said rather timidly. “I’d like to purchase a gun.”
The man closed his magazine and slipped it under the counter as she approached. “We can definitely help you out there. What kind of firearm are you looking for?”
Victoria glanced upward at the deer heads on display, and couldn’t believe that she was actually walking into a place like this.
“I want a small gun. Like, a revolver,” she said, having now reached the counter, where she rested her purse.
“Got plenty of those too,” he said with a folksy tone and a smile. “Do you currently own any firearms?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “This is my first one.”
The man put his hands in his pockets and stretched his back. “Okie-dokie. Let’s see what we can find you.”
“Something small,” she reiterated. “I saw some .38 special revolvers on your website. Something like that. And the ammunition.”
The man nodded and then extended his hand. “Sure. My name’s Walt. Nice to meet you.”
She shook his hand and tried to smile. “Victoria. It’s a pleasure.”
“Okay, Victoria. Thirty-eight it is.” He walked along the counter and stopped at the corner, where a dozen different handguns were displayed under the glass. Somewhere in the middle, Victoria saw the .38 and pointed to it. Its shiny exterior and black handle-grip instantly tantalized her. She felt safer already. “That one,” she said, pressing her index finger against the glass.
He crouched down behind the counter and removed the .38 revolver from the display case. A tag was tied around the grip: the price, $400. Walt stood up, pointing the revolver in the air. “Smith and Wesson five-round, Model four-four-two. A fine pick all around. Light, compact, and easy to use. Excellent for home defense.”
Victoria nodded and then glanced behind her, completely on edge. He must have sensed her nervous apprehension, prompting his next question. “Have you, uh… fired one of these before?”
“No,” she said. “I haven’t shot a gun since I was a teenager. My Dad took me hunting a few times. Never actually hit anything. Never wanted to.”
Walt offered a friendly smile and set the revolver and a plastic carry-case on the glass counter. “I see. Not a problem.” He took the revolver and turned from the counter, extending his arms. “You just aim forward with both hands, arch you back a little, and keep your arms straight. Helps sometimes if you hold it against your chest and then br
ight your arms out to aim. Lock on your sight and fire.” He paused and turned to her with a nod. “Sound easy enough?”
“Sure. Thank you,” she said.
He turned back to the counter and set the revolver down, scratching at his chest. “I’ll throw in the carry case for free. How many boxes of ammo do you want?”
Victoria thought to herself. “I don’t know. Two?”
“Not a problem,” he said, ducking back behind the counter. He returned with two boxes of fifty rounds each. “So, let’s get your account set up, get you a background check, and once that’s cleared, you’ll be good to go.”
She felt relieved at the prospect of leaving with the gun and not having to wait or come back. He then produced a clipboard thick with paperwork and handed it to her with a pen. “Just fill this out and give me twenty minutes to process it, plus the fee, and we’ll get you out of here.”
Victoria glanced at the wall clock behind him. It was already 2:30. She’d never make it to Brooke’s school by three. “Thank you,” she said, examining the documents and making a decision. She had come too far, and wasn’t leaving without a gun in her hand.
Victoria called Brooke the moment she left Al’s Gun and Ammo, five minutes to three. A black plastic bag rested in the back seat with a plastic case inside, two boxes of ammo, and her receipt.
“Brooke, it’s Mom. Pick up,” she said after the call went to voicemail. She drove erratically, frequently switched lanes through the busy downtown district in search for backroads that would get her to Clearwater Middle School faster. “I want you to wait for me like we discussed. Do not take the bus, understand? It’s very important.” She paused, slamming on her brakes as a minivan cut in front of her and slowed, as an upcoming traffic light turned red. “Just call or text back and let me know that you’ve gotten my message. Love you, bye.”
She slammed her steering wheel with both hands as traffic came to a halt and shouted, “Damn it!” She slipped her way into the left lane, amidst the honking of a truck she’d cut off, and proceeded to turn at the light, passing the public library, the school not more than five minutes away. She only hoped that Brooke would listen to her.
Her phone rang, much to her relief once she saw that it was her. “Brooke, did you get my message?” she said, immediately after picking up.
Brooke, however, sounded decidedly less panicked. “Yeah, I got it. Mom, what’s wrong? Why do you sound so weird?”
“Nothing, honey. I just want to pick you up from school, okay? Do not ride the bus.”
“I’m didn’t. It already left. I’m standing at the pick-up lot waiting for you.”
“Good,” Victoria said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Okay, Mom,” Brooke said.
She hung up as Victoria took a sharp right turn and passed a small plaza on the corner. Her relief at catching Brooke in time subsided the moment she thought of Todd. They couldn’t keep it from her much longer. One day without seeing her father was questionable, but two days would demand an answer. And what of the stalker? Victoria couldn’t race home before three to pick up Brooke every day. Something would have to give.
Ahead, the school came into view with its high chain-link fence, brick buildings, and teal-colored rooftops. Victoria pulled into the parent pick-up loop to where the children waited under a pavilion, backpacks on their shoulders, sitting on benches and scrolling their cell phones. As she pulled up, she saw Brooke standing against a pole on the edge of the sidewalk, head down and typing on her phone.
Need to confiscate that thing, she thought, lest Todd gets hold of her. She feared he had already done so. Brooke nodded as she pulled up, opened the passenger-side door, tossed her backpack inside and then sat down heavily. She stared ahead through her sunglasses and didn’t say a word as Victoria drove on and thanked her for waiting.
The drive home was mostly silent until Brooke flung her head in Victoria’s direction with her ponytail whipping to the side. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong now?”
“There’s nothing wrong,” Victoria said in her most assuring tone. “I got out of work a bit early and wanted to pick you up.”
“Mm hmm,” Brooke said. She then moved her backpack from the floor and placed it in the back seat, glancing at the black plastic bag. “What’s that?”
“Just some stuff I picked up at the store.”
“Al’s Gun and Ammo?” she asked, reading the bag. “Did you buy a gun?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Victoria said.
“You did, didn’t you?” Brooke said. “Does Dad know?”
“Brooke Julianne,” she said in a stern tone. “Enough.”
“Gosh!” Brooke said, bring her hands down. “What is going on with you?”
“Did your father call you today?” Victoria asked.
Brooke glanced at her with large, inquisitive eyes. “No. Why?”
“Just curious. He had to go on a last-minute business trip and won’t be home for the weekend.” She then placed a hand on Brooke’s knee. “It’ll just be the two of us.” Guilty about lying to her about Todd, she said, “We can start looking for that birthday present if you want.”
“Really?” she said, her face lighting up.
“Certainly,” Victoria said, smiling. She turned onto their street, passing neatly kept homes on both sides, elm trees aligning the road, and neighbors outside in their yards, some waving. She was glad to see their driveway empty and the house seemingly undisturbed, the blinds closed on all the windows, and two empty trashcans flipped at the end of the driveway. “Are you excited for the weekend?” she asked Brooke.
“Yeah. I’ve got that slumber party on Saturday. Remember?”
“I do. Just let me know what time you need to be dropped off,” she said, pulling into the driveway. She parked inches from the garage door as Brooke quickly reached for her backpack and got out of the car, engine still running. Veronica switched off the ignition with her eyes on the front porch, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. She saw no package or anything else left for her, and for a moment, everything seemed normal.
Once inside, Veronica turned down the air conditioning and made her way to the kitchen just as Brooke ran off to her room. She flipped the light and set her purse on the counter, then the black plastic bag. She looked around and next pulled out the plastic carry case, opening it to see the revolver. She set the gun down and opened the first box of shiny brass ammo. The rounds looked tiny but lethal, her earlier fear and vulnerability all but vanquished by her new purchase.
She took the revolver and opened the cylinder, just as Walt had instructed her, and meticulously loaded a round in each chamber. She closed the cylinder and held the revolver tight, scanning the kitchen in thought. Her eyes suddenly stopped at the table in the corner, where a letter had been placed atop the red tablecloth.
She lowered the revolver and slowly approached the table, a cold chill running down her back. Not another letter, she thought. Anything but another letter. She dashed toward the table, and instantly recognized the handwriting, her hand shaking as she picked it up. She felt overcome by a feeling of relief, which was quickly replaced by resentment. The letter was from Todd. It began with her name at the top. Todd’s handwriting, but more careful than usual, written in an elegant cursive fashion she didn’t know he was capable of.
Victoria,
I understand that I’ve done an awful thing and very well may have destroyed our marriage and our family for good. I take full responsibility for my actions. I was weak, and I was wrong. It was not my intent to hurt you, but that is no excuse. I’m sending you this letter to let you know that I’ll be out of town for a few days and will not bother you.
I came into the house today while you were at work and got some of my things. I need to get my thoughts together and try to cope with this whole mess. I’m very sorry, and I still love you. I hope you could one day love and forgive me too.
W
ith love, great remorse, and hope,
Todd
Victoria set the letter down with shaking hands and quietly sobbed. It was just like Todd to walk away and find himself at a time like this. She wasn’t going to just forgive and forget, even if she wanted to. She grabbed the letter, keeping an eye out for Brooke, and then rushed to her bedroom, revolver still in hand, where she confirmed that some of Todd’s clothing was missing from their walk-in closet, hangers empty. She shook her head with an exhausted laugh.
Victoria stood over the stove making chicken and rice while Brooke watched TV in the living room. Things had been quiet between them that evening, but manageable. As she stirred, her mind drifted as steam rose from the rice. She began to feel that maybe she could tell Brooke the truth after all. Her daughter was old enough to understand. It was better than lying. Suddenly, she saw headlights out of her peripheral, moving past the kitchen window. She turned and approached the window, looking through the open blinds, and watched as a car slowly cruised past her house.
No, she thought. It can’t be.
The car was long and low-riding, and she had seen it before: Oldsmobile Classic, its burgundy color revealed under the street lights. She immediately closed the blinds and backed away from the window, just as the car sped off. Victoria rushed out of the kitchen and through the foyer, receiving a curious glance from Brooke as she swung the front door open and ran outside. She raced down the driveway and saw the taillights of the Oldsmobile in the distance. It was too far away to catch a license plate. She stopped in the middle of the street, arms out and shouting to the vehicle, “I’m right here! Show yourself, you coward!”
But the car kept moving. She looked around and saw some neighbors watching her from their windows, and Brooke standing outside the door, concerned. Her head lowered with embarrassment as she returned to the house in haste.
“What was that all about, Mom?” Brooke asked her.
“Nothing, just get inside,” she said, nudging Brooke in and closing the door. She turned and locked the chain and deadbolt, storming past Brooke and checking each window in the living room.
“Mom,” Brooke repeated, watching her. “What is it?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Victoria said, distracted, and scatterbrained. She then stormed off down the hall to Brooke’s room, going right.
“Hey,” Brooke said, following.
Victoria walked past the clutter, past the posters of teenage heartthrobs and pop singers, and checked the lock on her window, shutting the blinds in the process. Brooke stood at the doorway and watched in silence.
“Keep your window locked at all times,” Victoria said with her back to her daughter. “Do you hear me?”
Brooke nodded and said “yes” not above a whisper. Victoria turned and rushed past her, straight into the bathroom across the hall, and checked the tiny window—too small for anyone to fit through. She locked it anyway and then went off to the study, checking the locks at both windows and pulling the curtains shut over the already closed blinds.
She checked their sliding glass door leading into the back yard, the garage door at the end of the hall opposite Brooke’s room, and finally the windows in her own bedroom. Everything was locked. Everything was closed. There was no chance, she believed, that anyone could get in.
She reemerged into the living room and saw Brooke sitting on the couch with a shaken and sad look on her face that gave Victoria pause.
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry,” she said, approaching the couch.
Brooke’s eyes began to well with tears as she lowered her head. Victoria then sat close to her and placed a hand on her back. “I don’t mean to worry you. I really don’t.”
“Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Brooke said, hiding her tears with her hands.
Victoria sat silent for a moment as guilt rushed over her. “I will, okay?” she said, rubbing Brooke’s back. “Just give me a minute.” She paused and took a deep breath as Brooke quietly wept. She decided to tell Brooke what was happening within the family, but hold back about her stalker. “Your father and I both love you very much. We’re just going through some issues right now. Nothing too serious, but there’s a lot we have to work out. You’ll see him soon, but to be honest, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Why?” Brooke said, rubbing her eyes. “What happened?”
Victoria sighed. “We’ve been married for ten years. It’s not a super long time, but it’s long enough for things to happen. There’s a lot of things, but whatever happens, we will still both be here for you no matter what.”
Brooke raised her face, exposing tears that Victoria quickly wiped with her thumbs. “It sounds like you’re getting a divorce. Is that it? Are you getting a divorce?”
“I don’t know,” Victoria said. “But whatever happens, we won’t keep you in the dark anymore.”
“So, is he really on a business trip?” Brooke asked.
“I’m not too sure. He went away for a couple of days. You’ll see him soon.”
“And what’s with this running around and buying guns and all that?” Brooke asked.
“It’s for our safety,” Victoria said, rationalizing that it was only a half-lie. “Without your father around, I feel a little vulnerable, especially with that woman found in the lake.” She then pulled Brooke closer and squeezed her shoulder. “But I’m not going to let anything happen to you, understand?”
Brooke nodded as Victoria kissed her on the cheek. “Understand?”
“Yes,” she said.
Victoria suddenly turned toward the kitchen as a high-pitched timer beeped and a mass of steam flowed out from the stove.
“Oh no!” she said, jolting upward. “I forgot about the rice!” She ran off in a hurry to see a boiling pot of rice bubbling over and spilling all over the stove. She turned the stove off and waved a kitchen towel, fanning the thick cloud of steam. Whew, she thought. That was close. And it wasn’t over yet. She was still shaking and her nerves had never felt so on edge.
Victoria lay in bed after watching a movie with Brooke, feeling the emptiness of Todd’s absence. Her revolver sat under the glow of her lamp on the nightstand. The house was silent enough to make her alert to every movement inside or out, real or imagined. It was past ten, and she was wide awake. She had felt better after her talk with Brooke, despite the future uncertainty. Her mind drifted with thoughts overlapping as she squeezed her hands together and tried to remain calm. Her bedroom door was closed, along with the door to the bathroom and the closet across from her. Any opening made her feel as afraid as a child. She couldn’t even bring herself to turn the lamp off.
Then a distant rustling in the bushes made her bolt upright. Her eyes shot toward the window. The curtains were closed but she couldn’t help but see the shape of an approaching figure, silhouetted against the street light. Her hand quickly reached for the revolver as the figure disappeared. She rubbed her eyes frantically and stared at the curtains, waiting, but there was nothing there.
Against the Grain
Leesburg, South Carolina
Dobson moved swiftly through the station lobby determined to lay low. He avoided homicide and took the stairs to the second floor, where the forensics lab was located.
“Another toothpick?” asked Detective Sally LaRue. She was standing at the lab’s front desk as Dobson presented the evidence bag with his latest find. “Is this some kind of calling card?” She held the bag up in her gloved hands, examining it as Dobson looked around for anyone else who might be listening.
“I just need it tested against the last one. See if the DNA matches,” he said.
“No problem,” she said, reaching for a clipboard sitting on a shelf behind her. She slid it across the counter as he studied the many papers attached. “Just fill out the attached forms and I’ll get started.”
“I need to know as soon as possible,” he said, looking for a pen.
“You tell me that every time, Mike. You and ever
y detective in this building,” she said. “We’ll do our best.”
Dobson leaned in closer, arms folded. “Nothing at the Bailey estate so far? Not a single hair?”
Sally shook her head. “No. But we did recover some footprints in the dirt outside. Size twelve boots. Timberlands. Jack didn’t call you?”
Dobson’s eyes widened. “I need pictures and whatever else you have.”
Sally turned around and procured another clipboard of forms for him to fill out, sliding it next to the other one. “You know the drill. Complete the required request forms, and I’ll see what we have on file.”
“You’re as hard as they come, Sally,” he said as she walked off and left him at the counter with a handful of forms. He glanced at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling and then began writing quickly.
After his visit to the forensics lab, Dobson hurried down the steps to the first floor where the records department was located, busy as always with several civilians in line and in chairs, waiting. He nonchalantly walked to the front of the line and tapped on the glass of the middle of three booths where Janet, a frumpy redhead, looked up in surprise.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Mike.”
Dobson pushed his way closer, much to the annoyance of an irritated bald man who stood aside. “Sorry to barge in like this. I need the information for a license plate I requested thirty minutes ago.”
Janet nodded and then turned around to face the desks behind her with typists busy at their work. “Just one moment, please,” she said, holding up a finger.
She walked off as Dobson reached into his pocket and pulled out a chocolate candy bar, pushing it below the glass partition, a small token of thanks. Then he turned to the bald man, shrugging. “Emergency,” he explained. He then turned around and leaned against the counter, observing the people waiting in their chairs against the wall.
Someone familiar looking caught his eye: a man sitting in the middle chair reading a newspaper, his face concealed by the paper. Dobson recognized the same dark trench coat, fedora, and black boots from earlier. He had run into the same man on his way out to tail Evelyn Bailey. He remembered the voice, the burn scars, and what looked like a press pass. There was something strange about him, beyond all that, unsettling even. Perhaps he could have a friendly word and find out what he was doing at the police station again. Anyone dressed like that would have to expect to bring attention to themselves.
Dobson moved from the counter and approached the man, prepared to say a few words. He walked past a line of people and stopped inches from the man’s boots.
“Excuse me, sir. Might I have a word with you?”
The man remained still, the newspaper blocking Dobson’s view.
“Sir?” Dobson said, inching forward.
The man suddenly lowered his newspaper, revealing a clean-shaven face free of scars and no hat on his head. Instead, his trim blond hair was brushed neatly to the side. He glanced up at Dobson, surprised, and then smiled with bright white teeth.
“Can I help you?” the man asked with inquisitive blue eyes.
Dobson stepped back, surprised. “No… I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He examined the man’s attire and saw a white dress-shirt and tie underneath the trench coat. He then noticed that the man was reading the Maine Morning Sentinel.
“Are you from around here?” Dobson asked.
“Not originally,” the man said in a raspy voice. His smile twitched, and it appeared that he was having trouble maintaining an air of friendliness. “Looking to move here soon, though. Hoping to get some information about the area from here. Requirements, property taxes… things like that.”
Dobson studied the man and couldn’t find anything glaringly unusual beyond his trench coat. The face he remembered was not the face of the man before him, but someone else.
“Mike!” Janet called from her booth.
Dobson turned around and saw that she had returned with a manila envelope in hand. If he was lucky, the license plate information he hoped for would be inside. He approached as Janet looked down and noticed the chocolate bar with a smile.
“Oh, Mike. You’re too much.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said, taking the envelope.
“You’ll find the individual’s address and information in here,” she said.
“Thanks so much, Janet. You’re the best.”
He tapped the envelope against his forehead and offered a salute. Dobson apologized to the unamused bald man behind and left in a hurry, glancing at the trench-coat man one more time, the newspaper again concealing his face.
Dobson left records and headed to the lobby with his head down in thought. Moving against Fitzpatrick was dangerous, foolish even, for a detective in his position, so close to retirement. The truth, despite that, he decided, was more important than his career. Besides, hadn’t he always been able to get out of a jam?
Dobson hurried to his Chevy Impala, glancing at his watch, and ducked inside, taking a chance of being spotted. It was already 4:00 p.m. Once inside, he opened a small bag of chips and ate a handful as he backed out and raced out of the parking lot. At the first traffic light, he opened the manila envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper with information typed in the top, left-hand corner.
The man in question was a local resident named Ruben Salazar, a forty-five-year-old plumber, who lived at 2681 Worthington Street, Apartment 201.
He had no criminal record, which would have explained his DNA absence in the database. His connections to Evelyn Bailey were spotty. Dobson didn’t know if he was a friend, a lover, or someone she had hired to do her dirty work. He had pictures of her talking with Salazar, but no evidence that they were involved in any kind of conspiracy together. He hardly seemed the type to be within Evelyn Bailey’s inner circle. That much was obvious.
Putting Salazar at the scene required two important factors: the DNA results from the toothpicks and the footprint outside Mrs. Bailey’s mansion, both currently unverified. Dobson felt hopeful, nonetheless.
Dobson drove through town carefully, two hands on the wheel, but his thoughts racing with excitement. The address wasn’t far from the station. A ten-minute drive, and he’d be on Salazar’s doorstep. He ignored an incoming call and pushed on, with Worthington Street in his sights. He turned and drove across the cracked, faded pavement of a two-lane road, seeing jut ahead the address numbers he was looking for displayed on a small, two-story building with several apartment units.
The parking lot was moderately full and he saw a few men quickly walk away from a bench as he pulled in. Although he was driving his own vehicle and not the department’s, they still seemed to know the drill. Dobson circled the building, reading the unit numbers and then came across 207 upstairs, toward the back of the building.
There was a small propane grill chained to the railing in front of the door, blinds drawn, and no appearance of anyone home. He pulled to the side of the complex near a stairwell and immediately saw a van parked in the corner that resembled the same one he’d seen before. It had heavy tint on the windows and rust around the edges of its painted white exterior. From behind the wheel, Dobson glanced up at 207.
A courtesy visit, Dobson thought. Just ask him a few questions and see how nervous he gets.
He got out and closed his door, keeping one hand on the pistol at his waist, observing the quiet complex. No one was outside and everything seemed quiet. Muffled music played from one of the apartments with bass notes carrying across the parking lot. He moved quickly toward the building and to the side where he climbed a flight of stairs and stood five doors down from 207. Sunlight shined on the row of apartments ahead, glancing off the windows. He walked along the railing, as he steadily closed in on apartment 207.
A car honked in the distance at some children riding across the road on their bicycles. Dobson stopped at Salazar’s window and attempted to see beyond the closed curtains, but there was no looki
ng inside. He then walked to the door and pressed his ear against it, listening. There was not a sound to be heard. He backed away from the door and took a deep breath. His arms went limp on his sides as he rotated his neck and prepared himself.
Dobson stepped to the door and pounded against it, making it rattle on the hinges. He lowered his fist and waited, listening for footsteps or a rude warning, but heard nothing. Salazar was in there. He had to be. “Mr. Salazar?” he said, knocking again. “I need to speak with you.”
He watched the windows on both sides of the door for movement. Salazar wasn’t making any moves. Dobson backed up from the door, ready to kick it in, but then hesitated. No one knew if Salazar was there, he had no warrant, and Evelyn Bailey apparently had enough money to buy his entire police department if necessary.
He knocked again. “Mr. Salazar, I know that you’re in there. I saw your van in the parking lot. You can either talk to me, or I’ll get the entire Summerville Police Department out here in five minutes.”
He suddenly heard a chain rattling inside, followed by the unlocking of a deadbolt. The door opened slightly, with one of the bearded man’s eyes glaring through the crack.
“Who the hell are you?”
Dobson kept a careful hand on his holstered pistol, though concealed under his coat. “Come on out into the light so we can talk.”
Salazar narrowed his one visible eye. “You’re police?”
“I’m a detective,” Dobson said, displaying his badge. “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble. No one else is here. It’s just me, with a couple questions.”
Salazar opened the door halfway, exposing a round, tired face and a protruding gut under his extra-large T-shirt. He was wearing gym pants with stripes on the side and tennis shoes. Dobson noticed some earbuds dangling around his neck.
“Bout to go for a run?” he asked.
“What business is it of yours?” Salazar said.
“Just curious.”
Salazar looked outside, scanning the balcony left and right. “What the hell do you want?”
“I want to talk about Evelyn Bailey,” Dobson said, taking the risk of being upfront.
His head jerked back with wild blinking. “Who?”
“Evelyn Bailey,” he repeated “What can you tell me about her?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he said, backing into his apartment. “Now, why don’t you fuck off back home?”
Dobson moved forward, stopping the door halfway with his foot as Salazar attempted to close it.
“I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Salazar,” he said, defiant.
Salazar’s face went pale with shock. He thrust his large arms against the door and pushed it as Dobson lunged forward to push back, both men struggling against each other as the door shook.
“Fuck you!” Salazar shouted with his teeth bared.
He suddenly jumped back and let the door fly open, sending Dobson tumbling forward and onto the floor in one quick thud. He pushed himself up immediately as Salazar backed up and bounced around like a boxer in the ring. He then swung his leg back and kicked Dobson in the side, knocking the wind out of him and sending him back to the floor. Dobson clutched his ribs, gasping as he watched Salazar run into the darkness of his living room and reemerge with a backpack.
“Stop right there!” Dobson shouted.
But before he could say another word, Salazar kicked him in the face on his way out. A white flash followed as Dobson’s head shook and rattled, leaving him dazed and plummeting back to the cold floor. Dobson rolled to his side, holding his face in pain as Salazar stepped over him and ran across the balcony toward the stairs.
Dobson drew his pistol and used the door frame for balance as he rose to his wobbling feet. His left jaw throbbed with pain. One of his bottom teeth felt loose, and his eye was quickly swelling.
He stepped back just in time to see Salazar nearing the stairs and running in panic, arms flying and backpack half over one shoulder. He was a large man and didn’t move very fast but had already gained enough ground to almost reached the steps. To stop him, Dobson sprinted forward and raced toward Salazar like a madman.
“Get back here!” he shouted. A few doors opened and residents poked their heads out as he frantically passed them, closing the gap with every hurried step.
Salazar spun around at the top of the stairs and pulled a pistol out, sweat pouring down his forehead. Dobson saw the gun and immediately ducked down as multiple shots blasted through the air. Windows shattered around Dobson as he rushed closer, head low and crouching. Out of six shots, not one had hit him. Holding his pistol, Salazar seemed most surprised of all.
His body swung around in a panic as he attempted to run down the stairs with Dobson only inches away. His ankle then twisted and sent him tumbling down the staircase, propelled by his weight and hitting each concrete step, one at a time, all the way down. Dobson halted and watched as Salazar rolled to the very last step and onto the pavement, holding his sides in agony and gasping for air.
His pistol rested on the fourth step down—a 9MM Beretta, similar to what Dobson thought had been fired in Mrs. Bailey’s bedroom. He casually walked down the stairs as Salazar rolled around, eyes clenched and mouth agape in pain.
“My back’s broke. I need an ambulance!”
For a moment, Dobson just stood over him, watching.
“You hear me, you asshole?” Salazar shouted, opening his eyes.
“You’re a pretty lousy shot,” Dobson said, pointing his pistol down.
Salazar looked up, out of breath and shielding the glare of the sun in his eyes. “I was just trying to scare you!”
“Like you scared Mrs. Bailey?” he asked.
Salazar went quiet except for his labored breathing. Dobson circled around him and then yanked him up by the collar with all his force. “Get up, you sack of shit. I’m taking you in.”
Salazar howled in pain, limping as Dobson pulled him to the car and slammed him against the driver’s side door, handcuffing him. “I’ll fuckin’ sue you, asshole!”
Dobson opened the back door and pushed him inside. He slammed the door shut and leaned against the car, holding his side in pain. A glance at his reflection in the window showed that his left eye was swollen. Salazar had calmed down somewhat and stared ahead catching his breath. He must have known that it was over for him. And if he didn’t, he was certainly going to find out.
Dobson walked back to the stairs and retrieved Salazar’s Beretta, walking it back to the car carefully, using the sleeve of his jacket to hold it. Sirens rang in the distance. Doors and blinds were open all over the apartment building as people looked cautiously outside. All attention was on them, and Dobson knew he needed to get out of there quick. He turned the ignition and raced out of the parking lot, tires squealing all the way.
Halfway to the station, Dobson made an urgent call to Harris, hoping that he’d pick up.
“What’s going, Mike?” Harris said, sounding distracted.
“I need your help, Jack. This Bailey case has widened. There’s just one main thing I’m missing.” He glanced in the rear-view mirror to see Salazar staring blankly ahead with fear in his eyes. His forehead was cut, and bruises were showing on his arms and legs from the fall. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. Contemplating, perhaps, his life decisions? Or just wishing for a smoke?
“What else about the case?” Harris asked. “They caught that guy. Randall Morris.”
“No,” Dobson said. “I don’t think they have the right guy. Listen, Jack. Do you still have all the pictures you took of the Bailey mansion? Inside, with all the rooms?”
“Yeah. I think so.” Harris paused, noticing the intensity of Dobson’s tone. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Better than okay,” Dobson said, trying to keep his voice down. “Meet me in my office and bring whatever pictures you have on your phone, especially of Mrs. Bailey’s bedroom.”
Harris agreed, and Dobson thanked him, end
ing their call. The station was five minutes away. He imagined the look on Evelyn Bailey’s face if she was at the station and saw Salazar in handcuffs.
“So, what happened?” Dobson asked, eyes glancing in the rear-view mirror. “Did she pay you to whack Mrs. Bailey? Or maybe it wasn’t a hired hit. Maybe she had you looking for something. Looks like you flipped that place upside down. Did you ever find it?”
Salazar said nothing as his frown deepened.
“If you were able to produce that recording, it would largely incriminate Ms. Bailey. Without it, you’ll take most of the blame.” Dobson waited as the traffic light turned green and the five o’clock traffic jerked along down the busy downtown street.
“I want to speak to a lawyer,” Salazar said in low, gravelly voice. “That’s all I got to say.”