might have seen anything, but it’s a pretty isolated area. There’s a business park and a railway nearby, but not many houses.”
“Do they have any idea when this happened? How long Frank has been with these people?”
She shrugged. “Hard to say. They know roughly what time Frank probably arrived at the house — figuring the time he left here, allowing for traffic, and so on. And they can estimate the time of Dana Ross’s death. No one saw the car arrive at the
Express,
so that leaves a big gap between Ross’s death and the time it would take for Hocus to bring the car to Las Piernas. And no one knows if Frank was still in Riverside when Ross was shot.”
“No one saw anything?”
“If they did, they aren’t saying a word. Like I said, it’s an isolated area. Riverside PD is doing all they can. You know Pete — he wouldn’t have come home if he thought he could pester them into doing more. Several freight trains passed by during the day, and Riverside is even trying to contact the crews, just in case anyone happened to see or hear anything.” She paused, then added, “They found a .38 slug in the porch railing; the bullet that killed Ross was the same caliber.”
“Frank’s gun.”
“Maybe — but even if it is, that doesn’t mean Frank was the shooter,” she said quickly. “And he wouldn’t just hand over his weapon. Like I told you last night, there were signs of a struggle — he probably fought them.”
I covered my face with my hands, as if that act could block images of what “signs of a struggle” might really mean; the words had not registered in the same way the first time.
“There was blood,” she said. “I mean, other than the victim’s.”
I pulled my hands away and looked at her.
“On the porch and in the house,” she said. “Could be Frank’s.”
I groaned. “Oh, Jesus.” I thought of the trunk of the car. If that was Frank’s blood… and there was more in the house….
“How much blood?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How much blood?”
Still she hesitated.
“Rachel, if our situations were reversed—”
“Pete thought it could have come from a good-sized cut or gash.”
As we grew closer to the time for Hocus’s call, conversation died off. I started pacing. Rachel seemed to be staring out into the backyard, but I think she was keeping an eye on Pete. Although she wasn’t touching him, she would look at him every time he moved. Pete sat staring at his wristwatch, his expression tight and strained. Henry Freeman kept checking the connections on his computer. Cassidy had positioned himself between Pete and the phone and was reading from a file folder — this one filled with old clippings about Hocus. He was wearing an earphone for a remote extension that Freeman had hooked up. Cody was on the mantel — he barely managed to keep most of his twenty pounds on it. His attempt to appear to be sound asleep was spoiled by the twitching of his tail. The dogs lay near me, heads on paws, brows raised in worried watch.
Ten o’clock. Silence, except for Pete murmuring, “C’mon, c’mon….”
The first ring brought everyone — man, woman, and beast — to their feet. Pete started to move closer to the phone, but Rachel blocked his way. Cassidy said, “You gave me your word, Baird.” Pete sat down.
I clasped the receiver, nearly unable to restrain myself from answering until Henry nodded. I picked it up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Irene Kelly,” a voice said. A young man’s voice, not the same as the one on the tape recording. “Give our regards to Detective Cassidy, too, please. There, that saves you having to resort to any silly business — what would it have been, a brother from Texas?” Before I could answer, he went on. “I suppose Detective Baird is there, also?”
“I want to talk to Frank.”
“Of course you do. But we haven’t got much time. In fact, let me call you right back.”
There was a click and
“Do they have any idea when this happened? How long Frank has been with these people?”
She shrugged. “Hard to say. They know roughly what time Frank probably arrived at the house — figuring the time he left here, allowing for traffic, and so on. And they can estimate the time of Dana Ross’s death. No one saw the car arrive at the
Express,
so that leaves a big gap between Ross’s death and the time it would take for Hocus to bring the car to Las Piernas. And no one knows if Frank was still in Riverside when Ross was shot.”
“No one saw anything?”
“If they did, they aren’t saying a word. Like I said, it’s an isolated area. Riverside PD is doing all they can. You know Pete — he wouldn’t have come home if he thought he could pester them into doing more. Several freight trains passed by during the day, and Riverside is even trying to contact the crews, just in case anyone happened to see or hear anything.” She paused, then added, “They found a .38 slug in the porch railing; the bullet that killed Ross was the same caliber.”
“Frank’s gun.”
“Maybe — but even if it is, that doesn’t mean Frank was the shooter,” she said quickly. “And he wouldn’t just hand over his weapon. Like I told you last night, there were signs of a struggle — he probably fought them.”
I covered my face with my hands, as if that act could block images of what “signs of a struggle” might really mean; the words had not registered in the same way the first time.
“There was blood,” she said. “I mean, other than the victim’s.”
I pulled my hands away and looked at her.
“On the porch and in the house,” she said. “Could be Frank’s.”
I groaned. “Oh, Jesus.” I thought of the trunk of the car. If that was Frank’s blood… and there was more in the house….
“How much blood?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How much blood?”
Still she hesitated.
“Rachel, if our situations were reversed—”
“Pete thought it could have come from a good-sized cut or gash.”
As we grew closer to the time for Hocus’s call, conversation died off. I started pacing. Rachel seemed to be staring out into the backyard, but I think she was keeping an eye on Pete. Although she wasn’t touching him, she would look at him every time he moved. Pete sat staring at his wristwatch, his expression tight and strained. Henry Freeman kept checking the connections on his computer. Cassidy had positioned himself between Pete and the phone and was reading from a file folder — this one filled with old clippings about Hocus. He was wearing an earphone for a remote extension that Freeman had hooked up. Cody was on the mantel — he barely managed to keep most of his twenty pounds on it. His attempt to appear to be sound asleep was spoiled by the twitching of his tail. The dogs lay near me, heads on paws, brows raised in worried watch.
Ten o’clock. Silence, except for Pete murmuring, “C’mon, c’mon….”
The first ring brought everyone — man, woman, and beast — to their feet. Pete started to move closer to the phone, but Rachel blocked his way. Cassidy said, “You gave me your word, Baird.” Pete sat down.
I clasped the receiver, nearly unable to restrain myself from answering until Henry nodded. I picked it up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Irene Kelly,” a voice said. A young man’s voice, not the same as the one on the tape recording. “Give our regards to Detective Cassidy, too, please. There, that saves you having to resort to any silly business — what would it have been, a brother from Texas?” Before I could answer, he went on. “I suppose Detective Baird is there, also?”
“I want to talk to Frank.”
“Of course you do. But we haven’t got much time. In fact, let me call you right back.”
There was a click and
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