Earl did, though. And started walking across the street. Earl never came across the street to initiate a conversation. I was usually the one who drifted over there.
“Hey, Zack,” he said.
“Earl,” I said, smiling.
“I see things are getting back to normal, little bit more every day.” He put a cigarette between his lips, lit up.
“For sure. Got to go shopping for another car. Insurance company’s going to give us what the Civic was worth, but that doesn’t amount to much. It was pretty old.”
Earl stood three feet away from me, gazed up and down the street.
“So,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
There was a slight breeze, and his smoke blew into my face.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No problem,” I said.
We watched two cars drive by, then a minivan. “Paul,” Earl said. “You decide to let him get that tattoo?”
I shook my head. “No. He’s too young.”
Earl nodded. “I think you’re right. That’s too young. Got to be at least old enough to get drunk. That’s how most people get their tattoos.”
We shared a laugh over that one.
“Well,” Earl said, “I got work to do.”
“Same here,” I said.
I turned back to the house and Earl walked back across the street to his. I glanced back once and saw that he was watching me over his shoulder.
Shit.
NOW I WAS RETHINKING EVERYTHING. Not just whether Earl was, in fact, Devlin Smythe. I’d pretty much made up my mind on that one. Now I was rethinking motives.
Why had Earl agreed to help me that night?
A man with a marijuana-growing operation in his basement had a lot to lose by getting mixed up in somebody else’s business, especially if that business was likely to involve the police.
Why hadn’t he turned down my request for help? Or at the very least, just given me his gun to use? Why come along?
I’d thought it was because, deep down, Earl had some sense of honor. I hadn’t turned him in, and he owed me one. But now I had a feeling there was more to it than that. That maybe Earl had acted out of self-interest. That helping me out of a jam that night had provided him some sort of an opportunity. And it seemed to me that he had made this decision around the time that Trixie and I told him about the murder of Stefanie Knight, and the roll of film that showed her in bed with Roger Carpington.
Why would Earl care about any of that? Who were these people to him?
Later, in the afternoon, I put in a call to Dominic Marchi. I was transferred a couple of times before we connected.
I introduced myself, said I was looking into the Jesse Shuttleworth case with the idea of doing a freelance article on it for The Metropolitan.
“I know that name,” Marchi said, referring to mine. “You’re the guy, was in the house with his wife, the crooked development thing, nearly got killed.”
“Yes.”
“Used to cover city hall a few years ago, too, am I right?” I admitted it. “I remember names,” he said. “Faces too. Anyway, I’m not your guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to put you through to one of the detectives who’s still working that case. Lorenzo Penner. Hang on, I’ll try to transfer you. But if the line goes dead, call back the main switchboard and ask for extension 3120.”
He conducted the transfer successfully. The extension rang twice, then picked up. “Penner.”
I identified myself again, and for a second time admitted that yes, I was the guy in the house with the wife and the killer, et cetera. I told him I had questions about the Shuttleworth murder.
“File’s still open. We’re still workin’ it. What can I tell you. It’s been nearly two years, but we check out every lead we get.”
“There was something on the radio a couple of weeks ago, that Devlin Smythe had been spotted out near Seattle and Vancouver.”
“Yeah, we had some tips, but they didn’t pan out. We don’t have any reason to believe he’s out there any more than any other place.”
“Do you think he could still be in the area?”
“I suppose it’s possible. But he would have had to change his appearance. The sketch we put out was pretty good, we think.”
“Did you ever do up any other sketches, of how he might have looked if he’d done that? Changed his look? Like if he’d grown a beard, say?”
Penner said, “Yeah, we did. But we didn’t release them to the media because really, even your first sketch is still just that, a sketch. Once you start drawing different variations of what’s already an artist’s impression of someone’s recollection, well, you see the problem.”
“Sure, I guess. Did you ever do one as if he’d shaved his head, lost the moustache, anything like that?”
“I think we did.”
“How would you feel about faxing it to me?”
Penner hesitated. “Mr. Walker, do you know something about this?”
“I’m interested,” I said. “I’ve followed it from the beginning, and I’ve been thinking about maybe doing a book on the case.”
“I thought you just wrote science fiction. That’s what it said in the paper.”
“Up to now, yeah.”
“So, you think maybe this Smythe guy, he was an alien?”
You see what I mean about respect and sci-fi writers? I didn’t take the bait, and said instead, “Will you fax it to me, or not?”
“Give me your number. Five minutes.” And he hung up.
I sat in my study, staring at the fax machine for a good half hour before it rang, started doing its little hum.
And then the sketch started sliding, scalp first, out of the machine. Then it beeped, disconnected. I took the single sheet out of the tray, turned it around, and looked at it.
Howdy, neighbor.
I KEPT COMING BACK TO the shovel.
Walking over to Mindy’s Market-it was only about a twenty-minute stroll-to pick up some ground beef and buns and some fixings for salad, I tried to work things out in my head.
Let’s say Roger Carpington had killed Stefanie Knight. Waited for her inside her house. That would explain the broken glass at the back door. Maybe he already knew he was being blackmailed. Or Stefanie had threatened to expose him. To tell his wife. To ruin his political career. She had the ledger by this point. Maybe she was going to rip the lid off the whole Valley Forest Estates thing. He takes her into the garage, grabs the shovel from its hanging place on the wall, strikes her in the head with it. Runs.
Okay, possible.
I show up, find Stefanie. See the bloody shovel. And then I hightail it out of there.
Carpington thinks, Hey. My fingerprints are on that shovel. I have to go back and get it before the police arrive.
It would make sense. Except by this time, Carpington’s at the town council meeting. And according to at least one witness, never left the meeting.
So someone else grabbed that shovel. It was either (a) someone helping cover Carpington’s tracks, or (b) a different killer, coming back to grab the shovel for the same reason Carpington would have: fingerprints.
If it was someone helping Carpington cover his tracks, to keep him from being connected to the crime, then why did the shovel show up in the trunk of his car?
But if the killer was someone else, and had that shovel, placing it in Carpington’s trunk was a stroke of genius. Its presence there was guaranteed to incriminate.
But this killer would have to know that Carpington was a logical suspect already. This killer would have to know that a bloody shovel in the trunk would be just one more part of the puzzle.
“That’s $14.56.”
“Huh?”
It was the cashier at Mindy’s. She’d rung through my groceries and informed me of my total. I handed her a twenty and held my hand out for the change.
I was in another world.
On the way back, I thought about the conversation Earl and I had had on the way to the Valley Forest Estates sales office. How he’d wanted to confirm that Carpington had been caught on film with Stefanie, how he’d even suggested that the councilman had a pretty strong motive to kill her.