She looked at Max. “My blood should be on the earring, but I guess no prints, he was wearing gloves. I suppose it’s not much use as evidence, now that you know who he is.”
“With your blood and flesh on it, it could corroborate your testimony.”
She said, “It’s silly, but I want the earring back. If anyone ever finds it, and when the police are done with it, I want it.”
It was late afternoon, nearly dusk when Max, Kathleen, and Dallas left the condo, crossing the back street hastily to the department—three uniforms: the chief and two of his detectives. Juana stayed with Maurita until Officers McFarland and Crowley arrived through the back door, the two officers dressed in jeans, sport shirts, and loose vests. Young McFarland was neatly shaven, hair trimmed short; tall, big-boned Crowley with such large hands that Joe always thought he should be farming or felling timber. Both were armed, both carried black camera bags, which Joe and Rock immediately inspected. It took only one sniff to know that these were packed with a few clothes and with a supply of groceries. Juana busied herself making sandwiches until Clyde arrived to show them Rock’s commands, and to give the big dog a last run for the night. When they returned, McFarland, Crowley, and Juana, and Maurita wearing Juana’s blue robe, had settled in for their supper. As Clyde headed home, Joe Grey followed him, leaped in through the Jaguar’s open driver’s door, and lay down on Clyde’s smoothly folded sport coat.
Clyde scowled down at him. “I just had that coat cleaned. I suppose you think you’re going home to pig out as usual on our dinner. Why didn’t you eat with Maurita and the cops? You too good to beg?”
“I’m going with you because you smell like lasagna, that’s why.”
19
Clyde turned the corner on the green light. “So you’ve been spying on the law, watching Maurita dress up like Detective Ray.”
“Not a bad likeness. If Max would let her carry, just in case . . .”
“That’s not up to Max. That’s the governor’s call. Max has given her two guards.”
“And for how long will that condo be safe?”
“A long time with two or three cops and Rock. I wouldn’t want to tangle with them. But I don’t think Max will keep her in one place very long. Every time I think of that grave I wonder all over again, what kind of society has this turned into?”
Joe sighed. “A culture of kidnappers, rapists, killers, and druggies.”
“And porn addicts,” Clyde added, “their minds gone. And the meth kids, if the users have kids, born already twisted or half crazy.” He slowed at a light. Joe looked over at him. “You missed the part about the grave digger. It was DeWayne Luther.”
The light changed. Clyde didn’t move, he sat staring at Joe. “DeWayne Luther?DeWayne beat up Maurita, tried to bury her alive? My God, Joe.”
“Well, the guy is mean as hell, he half killed his own father. I hope Max doesn’t let the hospital discharge the grandfather to Thelma. No telling what more those boys would do to him.”
Car horns started to honk, and Clyde moved on.
“At least Nevin’s locked up in a prison hospital,” Joe said. “Thelma didn’t seem so broken up over her husband being injured so bad and arraigned for murder and attempted murders. Mindy didn’t seem very upset, either. Maybe he’ll end his days right there in prison.”
Clyde turned into their driveway beside Ryan’s truck; they could smell the lasagna, a breath from heaven. He said, “Thelma told Zeb’s doctor she’s taking him to her place, that she’s going to take care of him, not take him back to that dirty farm, as she put it. She takes him back to that apartment, Varney will be all over him.”
Joe scratched his ear and turned to hop out of the Jaguar. “She won’t. She’ll find out differently when Max gets hold of her. He’s not letting Zeb stay there. Even with Nevin gone, Varney has a long record, all small arrests but enough that I don’t trust him, enough he should be off the streets. And Thelma herself is ripe for accessory to murder,” the tomcat said, leaping out of the car between Clyde’s feet and racing for his cat door.
“Accessory,” Clyde said, opening the front door and wiping his feet on the mat. “If it was her car that Nevin used.” He looked down at Joe, shrugged, and headed for the kitchen; he kissed Ryan, her dark, bouncy hair freshly brushed, her flowered apron tied prettily over her black work jeans, which were streaked with caulking, and a clean blue denim shirt. Her bare feet were snug in bunny slippers, her boots stood on the front porch. Joe leaped to the table, onto his place mat, and sat eyeing her impatiently.
“DeWayne Luther,” Clyde told her. “It was DeWayne Luther who tried to do in Maurita, and who dug the grave.”
“Oh my God,” Ryan said, sitting down. “Is there a warrant?”
Clyde nodded. “So far, five stops, heading east. All the wrong guy. Two of the officers swore he looked exactly like DeWayne’s picture, but his driver’s license, name, everything was different, so they let them go—and those could all be fake.”
“What about prints? On the . . . on Maurita, on her throat . . . ?”
“He was wearing gloves.”
Joe said, “Poor Mindy. Her dad in county prison hospital, her grandfather beaten up and mad as hell. And a warrant out on her uncle DeWayne. Varney’s at home, maybe he’ll take pity and decide to be a good uncle.”
Ryan and Clyde looked at him as if he’d lost his reason.
Joe said, “So far, is Mindy all right?”
“From what I’ve seen of her today,” Ryan said, pouring olive oil on the salad. “I don’t think she wastes much love on that family, except for her grandpa. She wants . . .” She looked up at Clyde. “She wants Zeb to come stay with us, she says she can take care of him here. I told her it’s too close. But she knows that—right across the street. Thelma would be all over her, telling her what to do—unless Thelma goes to jail as an accessory to Jon Jaarel’s murder. It was her car that Nevin used to kill him. I talked with Charlie about Mindy and Zeb staying there. She said she’d talk with Max.”
Clyde raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that make Max look bad, his protecting a witness at his home . . . ?”
“He’d be under guard, for his safety. Mindy under police protection, to get her out of that family. That’s just good law enforcement.”
Clyde didn’t look convinced.
She lifted a hand, smeared lasagna sauce smartly on his cheek and turned away before he could smear it back. “The Harpers have the Luthers’ two horses at their place, so why not the child and the old man?”
“Max can’t afford any more men on guard duty twenty-four-seven. And a child living with the chief? No department in the country could operate under such casual rules—except maybe Max Harper’s shop.”
As Ryan put supper on the table, the little white cat came yawning down the stairs, looking for Rock. When Snowball didn’t see the big dog or smell him, didn’t hear him, she rubbed lovingly against Joe Grey . . . but Rock was her real protector, she needed his company. Ryan picked her up, petted and cuddled her, then settled her in the overstuffed chair at the end of the kitchen and set her dish of cat food and pumpkin beside her. They had learned, several years back, that a little pumpkin was good for aging cats, along with a saucer of chicken broth, to keep their tummies clear. Despite her nice supper, Snowball looked up at them forlornly, missing Rock.