“Go ahead, Sara,” Abe said. “You ain’t never kept nothing quiet for long anyway. Might as well spill the beans on this one.”
Sara whispered, “They get amorous.”
Annie tilted her head slightly to one side. “An affair?”
“Sure as tarnation.”
Jake and Annie exchanged a look. She knew he was thinking the same as her. Could Rocky or Maria have killed Werner? Or perhaps they were in it together?
Annie eyed Sara closely. “You’re sure about this?”
Sara sat back and looked at Abe. “Tell them, Abe. You’ve seen them carrying on.”
Abe nodded. “I have to confirm what the old woman says. There’s something up between them two and it ain’t innocent.”
Annie pulled a business card from her handbag and slid it in front of Sara. “You’ve been a big help. Call me if you can think of anything else.”
“I sure will,” Sara said. “You can bet I’m gonna be keepin’ a sharp eye out from now on.”
Abe chuckled. “I can vouch for that. It’s what she does best.”
Annie and Jake stood, thanked them again, and Sara saw them to the door. “Drop in again some time,” the old woman said, as they left.
Annie laughed and glanced at Jake when the door closed behind them. “Maybe we should offer Sara a part-time job. She’s got the knack.”
Jake chuckled. “She’d probably be good at stakeouts.”
They got in the car and Annie started the engine then turned to Jake. “The affair between Rocky and Maria could explain a lot. The problem is, it doesn’t tell us anything about why Michael Norton was killed.”
“Did Rocky kill his brother and frame Norton for it?”
“It’s possible,” Annie said. “But then we’re back to the same question. Who killed Norton, and why?”
Chapter 34
Thursday, 9:22 a.m.
AS TIRED AS HANK had been the night before, he was robbed of sleep by the perplexing facts of the case running through his mind. He’d risen early to get a fresh start, and though he’d been up for a couple of hours, he felt he was making little headway.
A call to King to see if the detective found any information on the drug heist went unanswered. A quick study of his notes revealed nothing new, and to make matters worse, a plugged sink in the bathroom wasted a half hour of valuable time.
He downed a quick breakfast, made a short phone call to Amelia over coffee, and was raring to go.
He gathered up the stacks of notes, reports, and folders, and stuffed them into his briefcase. After fastening his service weapon in place, he headed out the door, determined to make the day count.
His old Chevy clanked and banged when he turned the key. It had served him faithfully for several years, but by the sounds of the engine, he would need a new vehicle before long. Not an easy thing to do with only a cop’s salary and the small car allowance RHPD allowed him.
When he arrived at the precinct, he parked behind, made a mental note King’s car wasn’t there, and hoped the detective was doing something productive for a change.
The precinct was in high gear when Hank stepped inside. Cops leaned over their desks, or consulted with one another. Captain Diego’s face was buried in paperwork, and across the room, Callaway squinted at his monitor.
The heat of the day was already infiltrating the room, the useless air conditioner doing little except rumble, and Hank made a mental note to talk to Diego about replacing the worn out piece of junk.
He headed for the break room. This was starting to be a bad day. Someone drained the coffee pot and left it turned on. Hank started a fresh pot. At least he knew it would be palatable, not like most of the rotgut sludge he had to endure when someone else made it.
Things took a turn for the better when he got to his desk, sat his coffee down, and spied the medical examiner’s report regarding the murder of Michael Norton, sitting dead center on his desk. Beside it lay the preliminary ballistics report. He sat and pulled up his chair, booted up his computer, and flipped open the folder containing the ME’s findings.
The listed cause of death was not surprising—a gunshot wound causing exsanguination. Norton bled to death after catastrophic injury to the heart.
The manner of death was homicide—that was obvious, and Nancy concluded Norton was killed elsewhere, perhaps a half hour prior to being dumped near the railroad tracks.
The interesting part was the trajectory of the bullet. Gunshot residue indicated it had been fired from a distance of eighteen to twenty-four inches and entered the body at a thirty degree downward angle.
Hank did some quick calculations, and as far as he could tell, the victim had been either standing or kneeling when shot. Norton might’ve been tied to a chair, or on his knees, begging for his life when the fatal bullet entered his body.
An examination of the back of the victim’s shirt revealed small nicks and tears with ground-in dirt, consistent with the body being dragged a distance. To Hank, that meant Norton had been transported there in a vehicle, then dragged across the ground and deposited by the bushes. There was no other explanation he could see.
There were also lesions on the arms, face, and hands—nicks, bruises, and abrasions, probably defensive wounds, or at the least, an indication of a struggle.
Norton had fought and begged for his life and lost.
Blood alcohol levels, as well as blood and urine drug screens, were negative.
He closed the folder. Nothing else in the report revealed anything unusual, but he would go over it again later.
The ballistics report revealed exactly what Hank expected. The weapon Norton carried was the same one that fired the fatal bullet into Werner Shaft.
The bullet lodged in Norton’s heart was also .38-caliber, fired from a different weapon than the one found on the body. The ballistics ID system returned a negative. It was another unregistered weapon, never before used in a shooting as far as the system could tell.
That was all Jameson had for him at the moment. Hank hoped to see the rest of the findings later in the day. He was especially interested in the possibility of tire tracks and any trace evidence recovered from the scene. With the lack of surveillance cameras anywhere in the area, and no witnesses to be found, he hoped for something solid from forensics.
Hank looked up as Callaway approached his desk and handed him a sheet of paper. “I got the bank records on Rocky Shaft you requested. There’s an interesting withdrawal.”
“Thanks, Callaway.”
Hank took the paper and glanced at it. Callaway had highlighted a withdrawal for six thousand dollars cash from Shaft’s bank account on Tuesday morning. Could that be to pay off the hitman? Punky Brown had never been paid, but Brown indicated the fee for his services was five thousand. More circumstantial evidence? Perhaps. But what was the extra thousand for?
“Anything else you need, Hank?”
Hank looked up at the young cop. “Not right now. I’m sure there’ll be something later.”
Callaway returned to his desk as the precinct doors swung open and Detective King swaggered in. The grin on his face revealed he had something to share. He waved a finger at Hank, strode to the break room, took his sweet time about making a coffee, and then approached Hank’s desk.
Hank sat back and watched patiently as King settled into a chair and stretched out, one sneakered foot resting on the corner of the desk. King hadn’t shaved again this morning. He always managed to have three day’s growth on his face, even after he shaved. It was a mystery even Hank couldn’t solve.
King sipped at his coffee. Hank waited some more.
“Harland Eastwood,” King said at last.
King had a way of dropping names as if making a big reveal, and then waiting for a response before explaining.
Hank took the bait. “Who’s Harland Eastwood?”