The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [69]
“Plus,” Joe added, “I just heard back that she had no sense of smell.”
Hawke’s eyes widened. “Anosmia? Really? Interesting twist. Well, that would definitely explain it. I was wondering about that.”
He straightened and returned to the back porch, pointing out the small stepladder that Gunther hadn’t noticed earlier. “In any case, our bad guy replaces that, enters the building, which, I gather, was usually unlocked, opens the windows, runs the fans, shuts the valves, relights the pilots—”
“Hey, Dave,” a voice shouted at them from near the woods at the property’s edge. “I got it.”
They both turned to see one of the technicians pointing down at a small pile of dirt at his feet.
“Thanks, John,” Hawke answered. “Be right there.” He then turned to Joe and finished his sentence: “. . . and buries the dead cat that crapped all over the place before it died.”
Joe’s eyes widened slightly, as if suddenly recalling a long-forgotten tune. “Man, that cat’s been driving me nuts. Georgia.”
“First thing I asked myself when we got here,” Hawke agreed. “That’s why I had John go looking. Georgia, huh?”
“After Georgia O’Keeffe.”
They began walking toward the tiny burial site, which the technician was documenting with a camera of his own.
“Oddly sentimental thing to do,” Joe wondered aloud, “especially fresh from killing a human being.”
“Yeah. People are funny that way.”
Joe suddenly stopped and looked back at the house. From where they were, they could see down the length of the exterior wall to the gas tank and the small window.
“What kind of shape would you have to be in to do that little stunt?”
“Reach in through the window?” Hawke asked. “You don’t have to be a gymnast. But somewhat agile. It is awkward, and the trick was to be quiet, even with the bathroom walls and the running water acting as a muffler. I think that’s why he didn’t just walk in—that and Georgia, who might’ve made a fuss.”
“So a fat man on disability is unlikely.”
“I’d say so,” Hawke said.
“On the other hand,” Joe went on, “a familiarity with the layout and Michelle’s routine was key, all the way down to the kitchen window’s location and when she was most likely to use the bathroom.”
David Hawke nodded thoughtfully. “From what I’ve put together so far, this is way too calculated to have been done on the fly. Somebody planned this and took their time doing it.”
Chapter 14
Willy dropped heavily into the car’s passenger seat as Sam fitted the key into the ignition.
“Damn,” he said peevishly. “If you can tell what a guy’s like from his friends, like they say, then old Newell must be a grade A, prime-beef, award-winning asshole.”
Not actually starting the car, Sam rolled her window down to let in some fresh air. She consulted her notes.
“Four down, two to go.”
“Screw it,” he said. “I’m sick of these jerks. All red-white-and-blue on one side, and all fuck-you-cop on the other. We know Newell is clean, Sam. He made sure of it. Let’s give it a rest.”
“Be nice to know they’re all on the same page. Maybe one of them’s willing to rat the others out.”
Willy slapped the dashboard in frustration. “What’s to rat? The son of a bitch was in Frankfort, like he says. We called the places they ate at and stayed in, we compared four of their stories with each other, and we even looked at those stupid pictures the last one showed us, so conveniently stamped with the time and date. I mean, okay, fine, so maybe they’re all in it together, but if they are, they were also in goddamn Frankfort when they said they were. There’s not a frigging thing we can do about that. We’re working the wrong angle. We’re doin’ what they want us to do.”
It was the opening gambit for a ready-made argument between an impulse-driven reactionary and a by-the-numbers solid soldier, except that in this case, although usually playing the latter role, Sammie Martens didn’t have