interesting,” he said after taking a healthy swallow.
I looked a question at him.
“No computer,” he elaborated, “even though there were cables for one and a monitor and printer. No calendar or date book. No address book.”
“Maybe it was a laptop and he had it with him,” I suggested, “and maybe he keeps his appointments and addresses on the computer.”
“Possible, but I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Woskowicz was what—in his mid to late fifties? Most men in that generation don’t keep their lives on computers the way the younger generation does. And I didn’t find any of the other gadgets that would suggest he was the kind of technophile who’d be comfortable storing his life on the computer: no iPod, no PDA, no video game setup, no fancy docking station for recharging gizmos, not even a decent stereo system on his television.”
“Makes sense,” I admitted. “So you think someone tossed the place and made off with his computer?”
“Someone definitely tossed the place, and they weren’t very careful about it. Sloppy. So either they didn’t care if Woskowicz knew they’d searched his house—”
“Or they knew he wasn’t coming back,” I finished. Scooping up our now empty mugs, I crossed to the sink and rinsed them, thinking. My mind explored scenarios that might explain why someone would steal Captain W’s computer, calendar, and address book. Obviously because theywere afraid he’d made note of something incriminating, but what? “Did I tell you I found a gun in Woskowicz’s office?” I asked.
Grandpa’s eyes narrowed, a deltalike mass of winkles crinkling from the corners. “No.”
I gave him the details. He looked thoughtful as I concluded, “No doubt the police will search his office tomorrow, especially if his death was a homicide. They’ll find the gun. I’ll put the file cabinet key in his desk drawer where they can’t miss it.”
Grandpa rose with a cree-ick from his knees. Leaning over to kiss my cheek, he said, “Be careful, Emma-Joy. Woskowicz always struck me as a wily operator. Not Mensa material, but street-smart. I’ll bet you next month’s Social Security check he was into something dodgy and it bit him. Let the police figure out what happened. I don’t want you getting bit, too.”
Ten
Sunday should have been my day off, but I went to Fernglen anyway, knowing the police investigation into Woskowicz’s death would be going full throttle, even on the weekend. My white shirt was crisply ironed, black slacks free of lint and cat hair, and my chestnut hair brushed to a shine and pulled off my face in a French braid. I expected a visit from the police today, probably Detective Helland, and I wanted to look my professional best. At least, that’s what I told myself. I was proven right as soon as I arrived at the mall parking lot: Helland pulled up in his car just as I shut the Miata’s door.
“I thought you’d be here early,” he greeted me, offering a cup of coffee. His white-blond hair shone as the rising sun struck it, creating an almost halolike effect. Fjord gray eyes appraised me when I hesitated before taking the cup.
“Thanks,” I said. “To what do I owe this?” I hefted the cup. “No, wait, let me guess. You’re here to delve into Captain Woskowicz’s movements, and it’ll go faster if I can setyou up to talk to the people who might have seen him the day he disappeared. Close?” I eyed him sardonically as aromatic steam curled from my cup.
“Bang on,” he admitted with a smile that conceded me a point.
Damn, he was attractive when he smiled. “What did the autopsy on Arriaga show?” I asked.
Helland gave me an assessing look that showed he knew I was asking for a little quid pro quo, some information in return for my help. “Nothing we didn’t expect. Shot with a .32-caliber bullet, probably between nine p.m. and four a.m., body moved after death.”
“That’s it?”
Helland shrugged. “He had traces of
I looked a question at him.
“No computer,” he elaborated, “even though there were cables for one and a monitor and printer. No calendar or date book. No address book.”
“Maybe it was a laptop and he had it with him,” I suggested, “and maybe he keeps his appointments and addresses on the computer.”
“Possible, but I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Woskowicz was what—in his mid to late fifties? Most men in that generation don’t keep their lives on computers the way the younger generation does. And I didn’t find any of the other gadgets that would suggest he was the kind of technophile who’d be comfortable storing his life on the computer: no iPod, no PDA, no video game setup, no fancy docking station for recharging gizmos, not even a decent stereo system on his television.”
“Makes sense,” I admitted. “So you think someone tossed the place and made off with his computer?”
“Someone definitely tossed the place, and they weren’t very careful about it. Sloppy. So either they didn’t care if Woskowicz knew they’d searched his house—”
“Or they knew he wasn’t coming back,” I finished. Scooping up our now empty mugs, I crossed to the sink and rinsed them, thinking. My mind explored scenarios that might explain why someone would steal Captain W’s computer, calendar, and address book. Obviously because theywere afraid he’d made note of something incriminating, but what? “Did I tell you I found a gun in Woskowicz’s office?” I asked.
Grandpa’s eyes narrowed, a deltalike mass of winkles crinkling from the corners. “No.”
I gave him the details. He looked thoughtful as I concluded, “No doubt the police will search his office tomorrow, especially if his death was a homicide. They’ll find the gun. I’ll put the file cabinet key in his desk drawer where they can’t miss it.”
Grandpa rose with a cree-ick from his knees. Leaning over to kiss my cheek, he said, “Be careful, Emma-Joy. Woskowicz always struck me as a wily operator. Not Mensa material, but street-smart. I’ll bet you next month’s Social Security check he was into something dodgy and it bit him. Let the police figure out what happened. I don’t want you getting bit, too.”
Ten
Sunday should have been my day off, but I went to Fernglen anyway, knowing the police investigation into Woskowicz’s death would be going full throttle, even on the weekend. My white shirt was crisply ironed, black slacks free of lint and cat hair, and my chestnut hair brushed to a shine and pulled off my face in a French braid. I expected a visit from the police today, probably Detective Helland, and I wanted to look my professional best. At least, that’s what I told myself. I was proven right as soon as I arrived at the mall parking lot: Helland pulled up in his car just as I shut the Miata’s door.
“I thought you’d be here early,” he greeted me, offering a cup of coffee. His white-blond hair shone as the rising sun struck it, creating an almost halolike effect. Fjord gray eyes appraised me when I hesitated before taking the cup.
“Thanks,” I said. “To what do I owe this?” I hefted the cup. “No, wait, let me guess. You’re here to delve into Captain Woskowicz’s movements, and it’ll go faster if I can setyou up to talk to the people who might have seen him the day he disappeared. Close?” I eyed him sardonically as aromatic steam curled from my cup.
“Bang on,” he admitted with a smile that conceded me a point.
Damn, he was attractive when he smiled. “What did the autopsy on Arriaga show?” I asked.
Helland gave me an assessing look that showed he knew I was asking for a little quid pro quo, some information in return for my help. “Nothing we didn’t expect. Shot with a .32-caliber bullet, probably between nine p.m. and four a.m., body moved after death.”
“That’s it?”
Helland shrugged. “He had traces of
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