The third murder, having occurred last evening, just before Max learned that Charlie was missing, hadn’t received much of the chief’s attention. Among the papers Dallas took from his briefcase was a copy of the coroner’s report on Peggy Milner.
“It was the next-door neighbors,” Dallas said, “the Barbers, who made the call.” He rose to refill their coffee mugs. “Bern says the knife we found didn’t kill her, though very likely it was used on her. Apparently, no prints, it was wiped clean. I sent it to the lab to see what they can do. There are flecks of dried blood between the blade and the handle. Bern says a wider, heavier weapon killed her, struck her in the throat.”
Max made a sound of disgust. Beneath the credenza, Joe shivered. The older he got and the more he learned about humans, the better he liked his own feline cousins.
“Milner is an insurance representative,” Dallas said. “Got home late, said he’d had three evening appointments. I took the information off his client files and time sheet, and we’ve talked with two of the three. Third guy, a builder, is up the coast this morning picking up some plumbing, should be on his way home by now. The first two check out okay. The builder was Milner’s first appointment last night, just about the time his wife was killed.
“Bern thinks the killer wore leather gloves; he found flecks of something like leather in the wound, maybe from an edge of rough-cut leather. Waiting for the lab on that.” Dallas sipped his coffee. “Again, like the other two cases, no sign of a break-in. The front door was unlocked. Milner said she often forgot to lock it.” Dallas shook his head. “No sensible woman, in a house alone, leaves the door unlocked.”
“Unless she’s expecting company.”
Dallas nodded. “There’s no indication, so far, that she had an outside interest.”
“Nothing from the Milners’ other neighbors?”
“Only the Barbers. They can see the Milner kitchen window from their kitchen. Mrs. Barber saw Peggy in there preparing her dinner. Ten minutes later Mrs. Barber was watching TV, and when she saw there was a movie on that Peggy liked, she phoned her.
“There was no answer. She tried again in a few minutes, tried three times. The light was still on in the kitchen, but now the blind had been pulled. She said it was unlike Peggy, not to answer. Told her husband she was going over to see what was wrong. He said not to do that, told her to call 911. She told him that was silly, and she went on over. Walked in the unlocked front door, found Peggy on the kitchen floor, bleeding. Ran home, and her husband made the call.”
Dallas looked down beneath the credenza where Joe Grey lay curled up pretending to sleep. “You might as well come out of there, tomcat, make yourself at home.” He looked up at Max. “Cat’s staying out of the way this morning. Funny, he almost seems to know when things are real busy.”
Joe smiled to himself, rolled over beneath the credenza, and appeared to go back to sleep.
“Thanks for last night,” Max said, “for putting the horses up and fixing supper with Ryan. You two could have stayed and eaten with us.”
Dallas laughed. “We ate half the chili while we were putting it together. You two needed time alone.”
“Charlie wasn’t too worn out to spoil her appetite. She ate almost that whole pot, and half a dozen tortillas.”
Dallas smiled. “I have to admit, my half-Irish niece makes pretty good Mexican soul food.”
“Charlie drank one beer with supper, fell into bed. I’d hardly put out the light and she was gone, snoring in my arms.” He looked a minute at Dallas. “That dog, last night. I never saw an untrained dog track like that. He went wild when he saw Charlie down there; Ryan had put my lariat on him, and he was jerking and fighting to get to Charlie.”
“Ryan and I talked about that. I think Rock’s worth training.”
“Could be. He had a bad start in life, but he has plenty of potential. What about the neighbors on the other side of the Milners’? Anything there?”
“No one home. That’s a second residence. Karen and James Blean. Gone most of the time. Peggy Milner takes-took-care of their yard and watered it for them, and she had a key to their garage.”
Max looked at Dallas with interest.
“I got the key from Milner last night, took a look. Not much in there, a few garden tools, a small workbench, a new roll of hose. No cupboards, nowhere to hide a weapon.”
Max nodded.
“No attic access. Some paint cans stacked under the workbench, and one of the cans had been opened recently. I asked Milner about it. He said his wife had borrowed a bit of white paint to touch up a scratch on their kitchen wall; he showed me where.
“There was no paintbrush. Milner said she’d probably taken a little on a tissue, then flushed it, that she didn’t like to clean paintbrushes. Looks like it could have been dabbed on with a tissue.”
A bit of paint surely amounted to nothing, had nothing to do with the murder, but the officers’ interest brought Joe alert. Maybe he’d have a look, himself, at that garage.
“I left the door unlocked, put one of our locks on it, in case we want in again.”
The tomcat, rising, yawning as if he’d had enough of their boring voices, sauntered away into the hall; he slipped out of the PD on the heels of a sleazy attorney with a beard and a battered briefcase, some crook’s mouthpiece; he headed for the Milner house, making no attempt to gather his two accomplices. Dulcie would be snug at home with Wilma; and Kit needed Lucinda and Pedric just now. As bold and brash as the tortoiseshell was, she was tender inside and easily upset by the rough treatment of those she loved.
It was three in the morning when Greeley, crouched down behind Lilly’s sofa, listened to the front door open, and close, and a woman’s soft step head for the kitchen. Too light a step for Lilly, and anyway, she ought to be asleep upstairs. He stayed where he was when the light went on in the kitchen.
He had tossed most of the main floor, had been deciding whether to slip on upstairs when he’d heard the key in the door. He hated to give up the search now. The thought of walking away from that kind of money galled him, even if he did have that much already salted away. It had been tiresome, the effort it took to open three puny checking accounts, getting fake social security numbers and drivers’ licenses, just so he qualified for three safe-deposit boxes. But he didn’t trust nowhere else short of a bank box, nowhere the IRS wouldn’t come nosing, before he got the cash out of the country.
Two million in Mexico’d buy all he ever wanted, a little place down the coast where it was warm and the living was easy-and buy a knife in your back in a damn minute, too, if anyone knew what you had. And, the way customs was now, it would be hard to get that kind of money down across the border. Feds in your way, no matter what you did.
He could smell coffee from the kitchen, and toast. Who the hell could this be? She had a key, he’d heard it in the lock. Rising from behind the couch, he slipped down the hall, stopping in the shadows. She hadn’t heard him. She was sitting at the table, a cup in her hand. Young and skinny and pale as a ghost.
“Violet?”
She stared up at him, frightened.
“You’re Violet?” He went on in, sat down across from her. He’d known her when she was a teenager, just as fleshless and bony then. Hadn’t seen her since she’d married Eddie Sears, still in her teens-likely to escape living with Lilly and Cage. Probably it wasn’t no better with Eddie.