Realty, my watch said two o'clock. Amelia's car sat in front of her office, and the lights glowed inside. After thanking him for his time and the information, I walked to Hutchinson Realty, intent on verifying the information from Art. After all, Amelia asked me to get involved with the case.
The door to the agency stood open, and I walked in. No one was around, but I heard voices from the back room. I thought it might be a client, so I busied myself minding other people's business. I studied the bullet hole on the wall, then strained to see what was on top of the reception desk. The collection of papers was notes left by a couple of different people, making me suspect Amelia terminated the receptionist.
The voices in the back grew louder.
I recognized Amelia and Jamel's voices. He asked for—no, demanded—money, and she refused. Then the tone changed.
"What are you going to do, hang on until the old man dies?" Jamel said, his voice cracking with emotion.
"Jamel, my son, what else can I do? He needs us."
"Mom, he cheated on you for years. He has a girlfriend. He was going to leave you. Let her take care of him."
"I can't do that. I have my responsibility." Though I heard her clearly, her voice had softened.
"I wish he did die. He should be dead. It wouldn't be hard to hurry it along."
"Oh my God." The pitch of her voice elevated.
"Mom, all I'd have to do is disconnect the breathing tube. I did it for a while the other day. He doesn't breathe when it's off."
"Don't talk that way. He's your father."
"Yeah, right. I'm so proud."
I felt uneasy about the conversation and uneasier still when I contemplated getting caught eavesdropping. They were high on my suspect list, and Jamel was fast approaching top billing. Was he capable of murder, or was he just talking like a big shot?
The doorknob twisted on the back room door.
I stepped back a few feet, pushing the front door open with my back, pretending to be entering the office. "Anybody here?" I called, my voice light.
Jamel stepped out of the office and glared at me. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to talk with your mother. Is she here?"
"She's in the office, but she's leaving to go to the hospital. We're closed. Why don't you come back later? Better yet, talk to her at the hospital." He ambled past me, his upper body swaying on the loose joints in his hips and knees.
I had the urge to grab him by the scruff of the neck and shake sense into him. Then hearing Amelia talking and crying, I started toward the back, intent on eavesdropping.
Jamel came back into the store. "I told you to leave." He leaned up against the receptionist desk and watched until I left the office.
As I drove home, I dialed Ray's number at the station. His answering machine cut in, and I left a long message.
15
Ray returned my call late Saturday afternoon. He thanked me for the message regarding my visit to the realty agencies. Then he said, "I'm involved with another case. We'll keep tabs on the Hutchinson shooting, but it's growing cold. Besides, it's not a homicide yet. If he dies, we'll jump on it."
"Sounds to me like you're growing cold."
He hung up.
I'd decided to spend a quiet evening at home, not having any place to go. I chose a Randy Rawls thriller, made a cup of cappuccino, and settled on the sofa with my Kindle and the dog. The weather had warmed, and the air-conditioner hummed. I relaxed in my own cool, safe cocoon.
Sunshine wandered in and out of the house as if intent on distracting me. He's not a good watchdog, more of a tail-wagging burglar-assistant. He seemed nervous, so I paid attention.
I peered through the double French doors onto the patio. It was too dark to see into the shadows. I flipped on the light. Just a table and chairs, my seldom-used treadmill, and a set of weights that once belonged to Ray. I didn't see anything in
The door to the agency stood open, and I walked in. No one was around, but I heard voices from the back room. I thought it might be a client, so I busied myself minding other people's business. I studied the bullet hole on the wall, then strained to see what was on top of the reception desk. The collection of papers was notes left by a couple of different people, making me suspect Amelia terminated the receptionist.
The voices in the back grew louder.
I recognized Amelia and Jamel's voices. He asked for—no, demanded—money, and she refused. Then the tone changed.
"What are you going to do, hang on until the old man dies?" Jamel said, his voice cracking with emotion.
"Jamel, my son, what else can I do? He needs us."
"Mom, he cheated on you for years. He has a girlfriend. He was going to leave you. Let her take care of him."
"I can't do that. I have my responsibility." Though I heard her clearly, her voice had softened.
"I wish he did die. He should be dead. It wouldn't be hard to hurry it along."
"Oh my God." The pitch of her voice elevated.
"Mom, all I'd have to do is disconnect the breathing tube. I did it for a while the other day. He doesn't breathe when it's off."
"Don't talk that way. He's your father."
"Yeah, right. I'm so proud."
I felt uneasy about the conversation and uneasier still when I contemplated getting caught eavesdropping. They were high on my suspect list, and Jamel was fast approaching top billing. Was he capable of murder, or was he just talking like a big shot?
The doorknob twisted on the back room door.
I stepped back a few feet, pushing the front door open with my back, pretending to be entering the office. "Anybody here?" I called, my voice light.
Jamel stepped out of the office and glared at me. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to talk with your mother. Is she here?"
"She's in the office, but she's leaving to go to the hospital. We're closed. Why don't you come back later? Better yet, talk to her at the hospital." He ambled past me, his upper body swaying on the loose joints in his hips and knees.
I had the urge to grab him by the scruff of the neck and shake sense into him. Then hearing Amelia talking and crying, I started toward the back, intent on eavesdropping.
Jamel came back into the store. "I told you to leave." He leaned up against the receptionist desk and watched until I left the office.
As I drove home, I dialed Ray's number at the station. His answering machine cut in, and I left a long message.
15
Ray returned my call late Saturday afternoon. He thanked me for the message regarding my visit to the realty agencies. Then he said, "I'm involved with another case. We'll keep tabs on the Hutchinson shooting, but it's growing cold. Besides, it's not a homicide yet. If he dies, we'll jump on it."
"Sounds to me like you're growing cold."
He hung up.
I'd decided to spend a quiet evening at home, not having any place to go. I chose a Randy Rawls thriller, made a cup of cappuccino, and settled on the sofa with my Kindle and the dog. The weather had warmed, and the air-conditioner hummed. I relaxed in my own cool, safe cocoon.
Sunshine wandered in and out of the house as if intent on distracting me. He's not a good watchdog, more of a tail-wagging burglar-assistant. He seemed nervous, so I paid attention.
I peered through the double French doors onto the patio. It was too dark to see into the shadows. I flipped on the light. Just a table and chairs, my seldom-used treadmill, and a set of weights that once belonged to Ray. I didn't see anything in
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