to the kitchen table. “Grandpa! What on earth—?”
“The operation didn’t go exactly as planned,” he said.
I shushed him while I cleaned the cut—not very deep—on his forehead, swiped it with antibiotic ointment, and stuck a Band-Aid on it. “There. I think you’ll live.”
“Thank you,” he said. He leaned back in the chair, looking tired and old. His all black clothes—windbreaker, turtleneck, and slacks—drained the color from his skin. “Could I bother you for a spot of whiskey?”
Pulling a bottle of Jim Beam, which Clint had left when he visited six months ago, from the cabinet over the stove, I poured a healthy slug into a juice glass. “Chin-chin,” he said, knocking back half of the amber liquid. His hand was shaking slightly, and I looked away, pretending I hadn’t noticed.
Fubar leaped onto the table and sniffed at the glass, wrinkling his muzzle with distaste. I shoved the cat off the table and sat beside Grandpa, my arms crossed on the table. “Now, would you like to tell me what’s happened?”
“You know the target was Earl Gatchel,” he said, recovering a bit as he told his story. “Address: 1338 Churchill Place. Divorced. Two grown kids. No pets. A million-four plus change in his checking account.”
“Suspicious,” I said, not wanting to know how he’d come by that piece of data.
“Especially considering his salary as a councilman wouldn’t pay for the gas in his Mercedes, and his flooring business has been losing money for three years.” Grandpa took another sip of his whiskey. His hand was steady now. He might be aging, but he was still sharp as a tack; he didn’t once refer to notes while reciting Gatchel’s activities. “I picked him up at his council office, where he argued with a woman, another council member, and then left with a box he placed in his trunk. I followed him to his home, where he spent most of the afternoon making phone calls to his ex-wife, his sons, the bank, a couple of friends, and a restaurant.”
“You tapped his phone?” I asked incredulously. I held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me.”
Grandpa just smiled. “At nineteen thirty he left the house to have dinner with his lawyer at the Shrimp Factory. I followed him there and then returned to his house.”
“You broke in. Oh my God.” I reached for the whiskey bottle and poured myself a shot. I knocked it back and coughed. Nasty stuff. Give me a good beer any day.
“Child’s play,” he bragged, clearly pleased with himself. “The alarm system—well, never mind that. I had just about finished downloading files from his computer”—he held up a thumb drive—“when I heard the garage door opening. Apparently, he didn’t sample the Shrimp Factory’s crème brûlée or stay for an after-dinner drink. In short, he returned much sooner than I had anticipated. Perhaps he received bad news from his lawyer and it ruined his appetite. At any rate, I was trapped upstairs.
“I’m getting on in years, you know,” Grandpa said with the air of someone sharing a confidence, “and my bones are a bit brittle for a jump from the second story. So I hid in a closet. It reminded me of that time in Bratislava—but that was a woman, not business. Anyway, I’d been up there an hour and seven minutes, getting stiff, when I heard a gun go off. I knew immediately what had happened.”
“A gunshot?” My eyes widened. “Please tell me the police didn’t find you.”
He frowned at me. “Really, Emma-Joy, give me a little credit. I ran downstairs and discovered that Gatchel had, as I suspected, killed himself. He’d blown his brains out in front of the television. There was nothing I could do for him. So I left the same way I came in, unfortunately bumping my head on the window frame.” He touched the bandage gingerly.
“Did you disturb the scene at all?” I leaned forward and searched his lined face. “Fingerprints? Shoe prints? Did anyone see you?”
“No one saw me,” he said
“The operation didn’t go exactly as planned,” he said.
I shushed him while I cleaned the cut—not very deep—on his forehead, swiped it with antibiotic ointment, and stuck a Band-Aid on it. “There. I think you’ll live.”
“Thank you,” he said. He leaned back in the chair, looking tired and old. His all black clothes—windbreaker, turtleneck, and slacks—drained the color from his skin. “Could I bother you for a spot of whiskey?”
Pulling a bottle of Jim Beam, which Clint had left when he visited six months ago, from the cabinet over the stove, I poured a healthy slug into a juice glass. “Chin-chin,” he said, knocking back half of the amber liquid. His hand was shaking slightly, and I looked away, pretending I hadn’t noticed.
Fubar leaped onto the table and sniffed at the glass, wrinkling his muzzle with distaste. I shoved the cat off the table and sat beside Grandpa, my arms crossed on the table. “Now, would you like to tell me what’s happened?”
“You know the target was Earl Gatchel,” he said, recovering a bit as he told his story. “Address: 1338 Churchill Place. Divorced. Two grown kids. No pets. A million-four plus change in his checking account.”
“Suspicious,” I said, not wanting to know how he’d come by that piece of data.
“Especially considering his salary as a councilman wouldn’t pay for the gas in his Mercedes, and his flooring business has been losing money for three years.” Grandpa took another sip of his whiskey. His hand was steady now. He might be aging, but he was still sharp as a tack; he didn’t once refer to notes while reciting Gatchel’s activities. “I picked him up at his council office, where he argued with a woman, another council member, and then left with a box he placed in his trunk. I followed him to his home, where he spent most of the afternoon making phone calls to his ex-wife, his sons, the bank, a couple of friends, and a restaurant.”
“You tapped his phone?” I asked incredulously. I held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me.”
Grandpa just smiled. “At nineteen thirty he left the house to have dinner with his lawyer at the Shrimp Factory. I followed him there and then returned to his house.”
“You broke in. Oh my God.” I reached for the whiskey bottle and poured myself a shot. I knocked it back and coughed. Nasty stuff. Give me a good beer any day.
“Child’s play,” he bragged, clearly pleased with himself. “The alarm system—well, never mind that. I had just about finished downloading files from his computer”—he held up a thumb drive—“when I heard the garage door opening. Apparently, he didn’t sample the Shrimp Factory’s crème brûlée or stay for an after-dinner drink. In short, he returned much sooner than I had anticipated. Perhaps he received bad news from his lawyer and it ruined his appetite. At any rate, I was trapped upstairs.
“I’m getting on in years, you know,” Grandpa said with the air of someone sharing a confidence, “and my bones are a bit brittle for a jump from the second story. So I hid in a closet. It reminded me of that time in Bratislava—but that was a woman, not business. Anyway, I’d been up there an hour and seven minutes, getting stiff, when I heard a gun go off. I knew immediately what had happened.”
“A gunshot?” My eyes widened. “Please tell me the police didn’t find you.”
He frowned at me. “Really, Emma-Joy, give me a little credit. I ran downstairs and discovered that Gatchel had, as I suspected, killed himself. He’d blown his brains out in front of the television. There was nothing I could do for him. So I left the same way I came in, unfortunately bumping my head on the window frame.” He touched the bandage gingerly.
“Did you disturb the scene at all?” I leaned forward and searched his lined face. “Fingerprints? Shoe prints? Did anyone see you?”
“No one saw me,” he said
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