“This where you found my card?”
Brad pointed to the trunk. “About here, weighed down with the polished shell casing.”
“And the footprints?”
Brad pointed at the ground. “From here…” He turned to point through the woods. “Straight back that way a quarter mile to tire tracks.”
Winter was looking down at the leaves when he saw something red stuck into the ground through a leaf, something small and perfectly pointed. Kneeling, he lifted the leaf and saw what it was.
“Got an evidence bag?” Winter asked.
“What is it?”
“Looks like the shooter left another calling card.”
“That a toothpick?” Brad asked, handing Winter a plastic bag.
“Got a business card with you?”
Winter took a card from Brad, folded it, placed the flats on either side of the point and slid the toothpick out of the ground, dropping it into the bag.
Brad looked at the toothpick, darkened where it had been in the damp dirt.
“He chewed the end,” Winter said, smiling. “It isn’t a driver’s license, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Son of a bitch. That means it’ll have the perp’s DNA on it.”
Winter put the open bag to his nose and sniffed. “Damn,” he said.
Brad leaned over and sniffed it also. “What is that?”
“Oil of clove,” Winter said, feeling the way he had felt as a kid when he happened upon a snake he hadn’t been prepared to see. Son of a bitch!
“You all right?” Brad asked.
“That smell triggered a bad memory.” In the realm of understatements, that one took a blue ribbon.
“Judging from the way it knocked the color out of your face, must be a powerful memory attached to that toothpick,” Brad said.
“I’ve run across toothpicks soaked in clove oil before.”
“Somebody you chased for the marshals service?”
“The man I’m thinking about is someone I knew in New Orleans a couple of years ago. It’s complicated. I’m not going into it right now.”
“You’re shitting me?”
“There are good reasons not to discuss him just yet.”
“What can you tell me? I mean, it’s sort of important I know who did this. And you seem to know.”
“The guy I have in mind is a professional killer. Don’t know about his shooting at this kind of range, though he most likely has the training. But the man I’m thinking about probably didn’t do this. It seems more likely somebody wants to make me think that guy was here.”
“You don’t think he’d kill an innocent girl?”
“There’s no telling how many innocent civilians he’s killed. No question he would do it, but if he did, somebody would be paying him a lot of money. That or he’s working on his own with another purpose.”
“What other purpose?”
“Killing me,” Winter replied.
Brad pulled up to the house’s garage and the two men climbed out of the Tundra. Through the only open garage door, a dirt-streaked white Lincoln sat with its rear end visible.
“She’s home,” Brad said, suddenly stern-faced.
“Who?” Winter asked.
“The owner, Leigh Gardner. She’s been out of town picking up her daughter, Cynthia, from college. The victim stayed overnight with Hampton, Leigh’s son. He’s ten. The maid heard the shot, saw her down, and called nine-one-one.”
Winter said, “What time did it happen?”
“Call came in at six-thirty-nine this morning. Jesus!” Brad said as they walked toward the house. “Some idiot hosed off the crime scene! Where’s the crime-scene tape?”
On the wide wet cobblestone walkway, Winter could see no evidence of bloodstains. Water was pooled in a low spot, and the strong smell of bleach rose from the bricks.
The back door of the house flew open. An attractive rosy-cheeked woman, her blonde hair in a ponytail, slammed the door behind her and strode directly toward them. She was no more than five six and wore jeans, a cotton shirt under a wool cardigan, suede cowboy boots, and a frown.
“Damn,” Brad muttered. “By the way, Leigh can come on a little strong.”
“Brad, what the blue blazes happened out here! Who in the hell killed Sherry?”
“Hello, Leigh. Leigh Gardner, this is Winter Massey. He’s-”
“What are you doing about it?” she snapped at Brad without looking at Winter.
“If you’ll calm down, I’ll discuss it with you.”
Fists on her hips, Leigh Gardner fixed the sheriff with what could only be described as a warrior’s glare. “I’m as calm as I’m going to get.”
“Who cleared off the crime scene?” he asked her.
“I guess Estelle did,” Leigh said.
“It was cordoned off with crime-scene tape. Where is it?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“Tampering with a crime scene is serious.”
“We’re talking about Estelle. She sees a mess and she cleans it up. Did you tell her not to?”
“Well, no. I didn’t think…”
“Did you leave someone here to protect it?”
“I left crime-scene tape around it.”
“Are you planning to arrest Estelle for cleaning up?”
“Arresting her is hardly the point. It’s blatant obstruction of justice and willful destruction of evidence. It was a clearly roped-off crime scene.”
“How many crime scenes do you suppose Estelle’s been around? If you weren’t done out here, you should have stayed until you were. Roy Bishop told me you took off without telling him where you were going.”
“If it’s any of your business, I went to talk to Winter Massey here who agreed to come out and offer his expertise. He’s a highly respected ex-law enforcement officer with a great deal of experience with the type of individuals who would do this sort of thing.”
“Well, maybe Mr. Massey ought to be our sheriff. A potted plant could see you’re no good at it.” She turned her glare on Winter. “So, Mr. Murder Expert, who killed Sherry?”
“That’s totally uncalled for,” Brad said. “I understand you’re upset, but this attitude is counterproductive. He just got here, and we’re just starting to gather information to figure this out. If you’ll calm down, we can get started.”
“Brad Barnett, you’re about as useful as a milk bucket under a bull,” she said. “Well, quit standing around wasting time. Y’all come on in out of the cold.”
8
Winter and Brad followed Leigh Gardner inside through a mudroom, where he could see down a wide hallway all the way to the front doors at the far end of the house. They turned right adjacent to a utility room, entering into an expansive kitchen with high ceilings. The floor was well-worn wide oak boards. An island was topped with a thick, ancient butcher’s block. There were two gas ranges standing side by side and a built-in refrigerator that looked like it had come from a florist shop-its contents on steel wire shelves visible through the glass doors.
At the dining table a young boy with large blue eyes and thick auburn hair sat behind a plate of bacon, grits, and eggs. He wore a black cape with a red lining over his pajamas and he looked up and blinked owlishly when the men walked in. A matronly ebony-skinned woman in a bright white uniform stood at the sink washing dishes. A ceiling fan turned lazily to redistribute the warm air issuing loudly from vents.
A girl with long light-brown hair nodded at the men, tugged back the sleeves of her sweatshirt, and placed the blood-sugar monitor she had just used on the green Formica-topped counter. Her sweatshirt advertised a place called Junior’s House of Blues. Her tattered jeans stopped above her bare feet, the toes of which were painted a shade of tangerine.
“Winter Massey, meet Hampton and Cynthia, Leigh’s children, and Estelle Johnson, their maid.”
“Estelle is our housekeeper,” Leigh corrected.
The children merely stared at Winter, but Estelle turned and smiled at him. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Massey,” she said.
“Without her the house does not function. Estelle, the sheriff is not pleased that you washed off the walk,” Leigh said, crossing her arms.