The local cops had questioned the neighbor, who was the only witness. His name was Kyle Benn, and he was a retired postal worker, and a widower. Benn was part of the neighborhood watch group, and had told the police that he liked to sleep with his windows open, just in case there was a burglar canvassing his property.
Daniels immediately saw a discrepancy. Benn was a busybody, who knew his neighbors’ business. So why hadn’t he heard Sykes’s gun discharge? Had his TV drowned out the sound? Or were their houses far apart, and the sound hadn’t carried?
Those were two logical explanations. But was either correct?
She continued reading. Benn had given the police a chronology of his evening. Dinner at seven, walk the dog at eight, then read a book. That ruled out the blaring TV.
Benn’s address was in the report. She googled it, and a photo taken from the street outside the house appeared. Benn lived in a modest ranch with a carport. His neighbors to either side were very close by.
She reread the pathologist’s report. There was no doubt that the body was Sykes, and that he’d shot himself in the head. So why hadn’t Benn heard the gunshot?
She got a call from Jon and answered it.
“I was just starting to worry about you,” she said.
“The guy with the moped showed up,” he explained. “Marty and I went outside to talk with him, and he bolted. We ran him down, and now we’re waiting for the cops.”
“Is he a threat?”
“I found a stun gun in his backpack. He might be a neighborhood vigilante, or he could be a stalker. I’m going to let the police deal with him.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, I think he’s a threat. He jumped at Marty like he wanted to kill him. As we used to say in the navy, he needs to be neutralized.”
Jon never ran away from a fight. It was one of his more endearing qualities.
“I’ve been on my laptop, reading the police report of Sykes’s suicide,” she said. “Something isn’t adding up. I want you to take a look at it later.”
“Will do. A cruiser just pulled in. I’ll be upstairs as soon as I can.”
She disconnected. Sykes’s address was also in the police report. On a hunch, she googled it, and a photo appeared on her screen. A typical ranch house on a small plot of land. The landscaping was immaculate, the shrubs neatly trimmed, and several mature oak trees in the yard afforded the dwelling plenty of shade. She went on Zillow and got an estimate of the house’s worth in today’s market, which was $200,000.
She poured another glass of wine and parked herself on the living room couch. Sykes appeared to live within his means, so how had he made bail? There was a chance he’d inherited money, but in her experience, financial windfalls usually led to upgrades, like new houses or major renovations. That wasn’t the case here.
She sipped her wine. It wasn’t adding up. She needed a fresh set of eyes to look at these reports.
Come on, Jon. Get your ass upstairs.
Chapter 49
Moped Man did not go quietly.
He had an outstanding warrant in Miami for indecent exposure and attempted rape, and the cops had to subdue him while reading him his rights. As their cruiser disappeared into the night, Marty examined the bike, which was in bad shape.
“Think I should throw it away?” his neighbor asked.
“I think you should pull the VIN number, and see if it’s stolen,” Lancaster said.
“But it’s a piece of junk. The owner can’t be missing it.”
“The owner might be poor, and depend on this bike to get to work. If I’m right, you’ll make the guy’s day by returning it.”
Marty patted him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “That’s what I like about you, Jon. You’re always looking out for the little guy.”
His neighbor said goodnight and walked the bike into the building. Lancaster was about to follow when he got a text from Nicki, asking if he could talk. He suspected she meant without Beth being present, and he answered her with a simple yes. A moment later his phone rang, and he went into the lobby to answer it.
“Hey, there,” he said. “Isn’t this a school night?”
“I know, I should be doing my homework, but I needed to tell you something,” the teenager said. “Please don’t tell my aunt that I called you.”
“You’re putting me in a bad spot, Nicki. I don’t keep secrets from Beth. I’m going to give you a pass this time, but in the future, this has to stop. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes, it’s a promise.”
“Okay, now tell me what’s on your mind.”
“No one knows where my grandfather’s money disappeared to. Well, I think that there are people who know, and that you and Aunt Beth never talked to them.”
Her words stung. He tried to leave no stone unturned when working a case. Beth was equally thorough, and ignored little. Now Nicki was suggesting that they’d missed something important. It happened to the best investigators, and he swallowed his pride and said, “Who’s that?”
“The other men that got dead hands put on their doorsteps,” Nicki declared. “They were also being extorted, and were friends of my grandfather. They know.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because my grandfather would have told one of them.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. For my twelfth birthday, my grandfather gave me a copy of The Three Musketeers. On the title page he wrote an inscription that said, ‘One for all, and all for one. Never forget that, Nicki!’ He told me that a person could live by those words, and lead a meaningful life. My grandfather was loyal to his friends. They know.”
Nicki was right; Martin’s buddies probably knew where the missing money had disappeared to. But that didn’t necessarily mean they wanted to talk about it. Martin was dead, and so were the Sokolov brothers, and so was Sykes. The whole stinking mess was over, and he felt certain that Martin’s friends wanted to put it behind them.
“It’s worth a shot,” he said, not wanting to tell Nicki his true feelings.
“I emailed you their names a few days ago,” she said.
“I’m sure I still have it,” he said.
“I’ll resend the email. You need to talk to them.”
His cell phone vibrated as he entered his apartment. Nicki’s email had arrived. He opened it, and had a quick look at the names, then put his cell phone away.
He smothered a yawn. He hadn’t slept in days, and his body felt ready to quit. He’d promised Beth that he’d take a look at Sykes’s police report, and hoped he could keep his eyes open long enough to give it a careful read.
“Beth? Where are you hiding?”
“In the living room, having a glass of wine,” she replied.
He poured himself a cold beer. He once read an interview with a famous mystery writer who said that if he ever ended a novel with his protagonist entering his house and saying, ‘Honey, I’m home,’ the character would be retired. That was a shame, because coming home to Beth was a more pleasant experience than entering an empty apartment. He found her resting on the couch, her laptop lying on her stomach.
As he sat, her eyelids fluttered.
“Everything okay?” she asked.