Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) Page 12

  “When?”

  I shook my head. I hated being fat.

  “Listen, don’t worry about me. I’ll find my way back to my car just fine.”

  “Quit being such a pansy and let me give you a lift.”

  He wasn’t going to let up.

  “Fine. But I’m not sitting in the back seat again.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re not taking a squad car. We’ll take my truck.”

  His truck was an F150. It was on big wheels, and Miller needed the assistance of a step bar to get in. It was obvious the truck was compensating for Miller’s small size, and I wanted to comment on this. But I was also still a little dizzy from the fallout from my last ill-advised remark.

  I settled in the passenger seat, and we drove in silence for a half mile.

  Then I asked, “Why was Mike Zernan let go from the police department?”

  Miller glanced at me in his periphery. He seemed to be considering if he should be communicating with a known suspect about the very person he was suspected in killing. After two blocks he said, “He wasn’t let go. He was offered early retirement. He was struggling with PTSD.”

  “From the Save-More murders?”

  Miller shook his head. “No, from Iraq.”

  “He was in the military?” I don’t know why this came as such a shock. Many men and women in law enforcement were veterans. Still, from my experience, they usually retained a couple of ingrained idiosyncrasies from their time in the service: cadence, posture, grooming, etc. Mike didn’t have any that I’d noticed.

  “He did two tours in the Gulf War.”

  I digested this, then said, “He seemed pretty normal to me.”

  “On the surface, yeah. But I’d seen him go blank a few times for no reason. Sitting at his desk, eyes glazed over, breathing heavy.”

  I had those same symptoms. But not from PTSD. From eating an entire pizza and twenty buffalo wings.

  Miller continued, “And according to the Chief, he had bouts of paranoid schizophrenia. Thought people were following him. Thought someone bugged his house. It was recommended by the shrink that he should be on meds.”

  “Well, someone did strangle him. Maybe he had a right to be paranoid.”

  He didn’t respond to this.

  I prodded, “You have any idea who it could have been?”

  He turned and glared at me.

  Maybe he did think I was involved.

  He turned back to the road, and I changed the subject to something more friendly. I asked, “So when you ask a girl to marry you a second time, after she’s already called off the first engagement, what goes through your head?”

  I watched as his hands flexed around the steering wheel. I brought my arms up slightly to protect myself. I didn’t think he could kick me in the face while driving a car, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  We drove another half mile in silence. He seemed to move past my Wheeler inquiry so I refreshed his memory.

  “I mean, she’s already broken your heart once. Then you get down on one knee again. Man, that takes guts.”

  He cut his eyes at me.

  I wasn’t done. “You must have been so excited. After rejecting you, she wanted you back, then she agreed to marry you. You guys can live happily ever after. Only…”

  He slammed on the brakes.

  I crashed forward against the seat belt, then smashed my head backward on the seat. My brain, still recovering from his kick, flickered like a bad strobe light.

  When I regained my wits, we were parked next to my car.

  I opened the door.

  I didn’t thank him for the ride.

  On my exit, he cut his eyes at me and snarled, “Don’t leave town.”

  “I won’t,” I said.

  I had a case to solve.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My brain has always worked best when my feet were pounding the pavement. I’m not sure if it was the kick of endorphins or that my body went into autopilot, but while running, cold cases had been cracked, text messages from women had been decoded, and the name of the actor in Apollo 13 who wasn’t Kevin Bacon or Tom Hanks had finally come to me.

  I did a couple light stretches. Harold and May glanced up at me. They knew I was headed out.

  “Sorry, guys. You can’t come.”

  They both whined.

  “I have to go running,” I told them. “I have to get back into shape. I got my ass kicked yesterday.” My jaw was still sore from Miller’s kick. But not as sore as my pride.

  Harold squealed.

  “I know, it was embarrassing.”

  I picked him up and turned him over. I gave his little pot belly a rub and said, “We really have to start working on your core.”

  I set him down, then headed out. I started down the long dirt road, down the hill, through the puddle, and to the dusty country road. It was 8:30 a.m. and overcast.

  The snapshots from the crime scene came swirling in. Nearly six months of Netflix and Naked and Afraid reruns had left my recall as withered as my forearms, and the images were low resolution. Far from the 4K I was used to seeing in my prime. I cascaded through the grainy images: the ransacked living room, Mike’s open eyes—the small broken blood vessels spider webbing across his irises, the broken lamp on the floor, the angle of his feet on the carpet.

  What was the perp looking for?

  My gut told me that whoever killed Mike Zernan was searching for whatever it took Mike three days to get his hands on, whatever he intended on showing me. Proof of something to do with the Save-More murders.

  It could have been a simple lump under the skin, suspicious but ultimately benign. Something along the lines of a misstep in the procedure, a lack of due diligence, or a mishandling of evidence. Something that wouldn’t have had an effect on the outcome of the investigation.

  Or it could have been something malignant. Something metastasizing, spreading from cell to cell, replicating, and with intent. Was it more than simply a revenge killing? Were there more people involved than just Lowry Barnes? What if Lowry had an accessory, someone driving, or someone who helped with the planning? They were as guilty as Lowry. And they were out running free.

  Regardless, whatever it was, it was worth killing Mike over.

  Then again, maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe Mike’s death had nothing to do with the Save-More murders. Maybe whoever killed him was simply looking for Mike’s rare coin collection or a signed first edition. Maybe it was a Craigslist murder. A guy came to look at Mike’s hot rod and got the sudden impulse to act out one of his dark fantasies. To strangle a man.

  Only, Mike wasn’t easy prey.

  He was in his late fifties, but he was still in relatively good shape. Even shaking his hand, you could feel the underlying brute strength from his time in the military. Which is why I suspected Mike knew his attacker. It would be the only way someone could have snuck up behind him.

  But in a small town, where everyone knew literally all two thousand people, this didn’t narrow down the suspect pool much.

  As far as suspects went, the only suspect on my list thus far was Chief Eccleston. Maybe Mike had something in his case files that proved some level of wrongdoing by the Tarrin Police Department.

  I turned around on the country road and headed back. My legs were beginning to itch, a sensation I can only liken to the feeling you get when your feet begin to thaw after skiing. Only this time, it wasn’t the cold, it was the cells of my legs reactivating after six months of hibernation.

  I pushed the sensation away and found my way back to the case.

  Suppose this accessory to the massacre, suppose he was still out there. Did Mike know who this person was? Were they the one who killed him? And what about Mike’s mention of bugs?

  In the twenty-four minutes I spent poking around his place, I searched high and low for any sign his house was bugged, but was unable to find anything. This wasn’t to say the perp hadn’t removed the bugs after killing Mike, which would have be
en the logical thing to do.

  And what about what Miller said? That Mike wasn’t stable. That he had PTSD and bouts of paranoid schizophrenia.

  Was he just a crazy old coot?

  My gut said no.

  I trusted him.

  Speaking of my gut, my stomach began to cramp, and I stopped.

  I puked.

  I’m not sure if it was a physiological reaction to the exercise or a psychological response to my working theory.

  I wiped my mouth, then continued on for another quarter mile. That’s when my arm started to tingle. But don’t worry, it was my left arm, so yeah, I was having a heart attack.

  I considered stopping, but decided I’d rather suffer a heart attack than ever get my ass kicked again. Thankfully, the tingling went away a few minutes later, and I started thinking about my next move in the case.

  There wasn’t a whole lot I could do. I’d already talked to the only witness. I had no way to see the case files. My only lead related to the Save-More murders had just been murdered himself. Even worse, I was considered a suspect in his death.

  If I did anything, I would have to tread lightly.

  I had three text messages. All are from the same number.

  This is Jerry Humphries.

  Heard you stopped by to see me at the bank the other day.

  What can I do for you?

  I texted back.

  Hey. Just stopped in to say hello. Just moved here. There’s a chance we might be cousins.

  I didn’t even have time to set the phone down before it chimed. He must have been bored.

  Jerry: What? Seriously?

  Me: Yeah. Long story. Maybe we can grab lunch?

  Jerry: What are you doing in an hour?

  Me: Having lunch with you.

  Jerry: Damn right.

  Me: How about Dina’s?

  Jerry: How about we try to squeeze in a quick nine?

  Me: Nine?

  Jerry: Holes. Golf.

  Me: Oh, right. I don’t have clubs.

  Jerry: I have an extra set.

  The last time I swung a golf club was with my dad a decade earlier.

  Me: Okay.

  Jerry: There’s a little course off County Road 34. Three miles north. We can grab some brats there. Let’s shoot for noon.

  I told him I would see him there.

  He texted back: Booya.

  I already liked him.

  Maybe I should get some shirts made.

  Humphries Family Reunion.

  Maybe not.

  I played with the piglets for half an hour, then headed toward the course.

  My stomach was uneasy. I would love to say that I was still recovering from my run, but I couldn’t. I was nervous. I felt like I was about to go on a first date with Kate Beckinsale.

  Loved you in Underworld.

  I still have the outfit.

  Check, please.

  There were three or four cars in the parking lot. One was a Lexus hatchback. A man in a blue suit was sitting on the back bumper of the car switching out his shoes.

  I walked toward the man, trying to mask how sore my legs were from my three-mile run. Paradoxically, they were simultaneously made of Jell-O and stiffer than a puberty boner.

  The man pulled on a second shoe and glanced up.

  “Thomas?”

  I nodded and we shook hands.

  Jerry Humphries was slim with thinning brown hair parted to the left. He looked like a politician masquerading as a banker, which I suppose many of them were.

  Zing.

  “You gonna golf in that suit?” I asked.

  “Have to,” he said with a chuckle. “I forgot to pack my golf clothes.”

  He shucked off his jacket and pulled his tie up and over his head. Then he pulled a bag of clubs out of his trunk and heaved them at me. I caught them, my thighs and calves spasming with the impact. “We’re gonna get a cart, right?”

  He laughed.

  I guess not.

  “I have to warn you,” I said. “The last time I played golf, it was in a bar, and I ended up going in the lava sixteen times.” I expanded on this, detailing how my Golden Tee avatar had also fallen into the lava and I was forced to put in six dollars to get him out.

  He laughed, which was a good sign, since my sense of humor was “idiotic” according to one man at the Whole Foods, right before he asked me to “please stop putting watermelons in his cart.”

  “That’s alright,” Jerry said. “I’ll give you some pops.”

  “Pops?”

  “Strokes. I’ll give you ten strokes.”

  I realized then that he wanted to bet. “How ‘bout we just play a friendly game?” I hadn’t even planned on keeping score.

  He shook his head as if the thought of not betting was more absurd than getting a golf cart. Then he grabbed his clubs and walked briskly toward the small clubhouse. To his credit, he paid for both rounds. I thanked him, then asked how long he had before he needed to get back.

  “An hour.”

  “We’re gonna play nine holes in an hour?” When my father and I used to play, nine holes would take us two hours, sometimes three. And we had the luxury of a cart. Not to mention the well-endowed cart girl who came around every twenty minutes to drop off more Bud Lights.

  “Don’t worry, the course isn’t very long. Mostly par threes with a couple par fours.”

  “I can handle that.” I looked around and asked, “Where are the hot dogs?”

  “Hole five.”

  I’d never heard of the grill not being at or at least near the clubhouse. “Hole five?”

  “Yeah, hole five backs up to the Craisly farm. During the summer, one of their kids is usually out there with a grill.”

  “Usually?” I was starving. I hadn’t eaten anything other than a protein shake.

  “You guys are on the tee box,” the old man behind the counter said.

  Jerry slapped me on the back. “Let’s go.”

  We decided to play skins. Five bucks a hole. He gave me a stroke on each hole but he could have given me three. After four holes, he had three pars and a birdie. I had a seven, two eights, and a thirteen.

  Not only was I already into him for twenty bucks but I spent so much time looking for my ball in the thick, long underbrush that we didn’t even have time to chat. And I had a rash on my legs. And I had a thousand little pricklies in my socks. And I was convinced a snake was stalking me.

  Finally on the fifth tee box—the group golfing in front of us was still on the fairway, waiting on the group on the green—we got a minute to converse.

  “Usually logjams around hole five,” Jerry said. “But that’s a good sign. Means the grill is up and running.”

  Thank God.

  My blood sugar was getting low, and I was getting cranky. And I should mention it was the hottest, stickiest, buggiest day yet.

  We took a seat on the bench near the tee box, and Jerry said, “So you think we might be cousins?”

  My shoes were off, and I was picking the little tan thorns from my socks. “There’s a chance,” I said, pulling one and tossing it into the wind. “Your last name is Humphries, right?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Harold Humphries was my grandpa.”

  “No shit?” He smirked. “I guess we are family.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Once, maybe thirty years ago.”

  “How are you related to him?”

  He was holding his driver between his legs and he tapped it against the grass as he thought. Finally, he said, “I think he was my dad’s uncle.”

  It took me a moment to do the genealogical algebra. “So your grandpa was Harold’s dad’s brother?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “Did you know your grandpa?”

  “He was around when I was really little, but I don’t remember much. He swung his cane at me once when I stole a Werther's Original from the kitchen cupboard.”

  I laughed. />
  “What about your grandma?”

  “I remember more about her, playing cards and doing crosswords, but they were both pretty old. My dad is fifteen years younger than his two sisters.”

  “Did the sisters have any kids?” I suppose these would be my cousins as well.

  “Yeah, but my dad wasn’t very close with either of them. They both moved to the East Coast for college and ended up staying there.”

  “So you’re the only Humphries in Tarrin?”

  “Me and my family.”

  I don’t know why this shocked me. Most men in their mid-forties were married with children. Heck, most men in their mid-thirties were married with children. I was the exception. I was an eleven-year-old trapped in the body of a chubby thirty-five-year-old.

  Jerry said, “I have two boys. Seven and four.”

  “Nice. What’s your wife do?”

  “She stays home with the kiddos.”

  “How long you been together?”

  “About ten years.” He paused, then added, “We separated a few years ago, but we worked through things.”

  I didn’t pry, but I did say, “That’s good to hear.”

  He said, “You said it was a long story about us being cousins?”

  I gave him the diluted version.

  A few minutes later, he said, “That’s crazy, man.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And then he just up and left the farm to you?”

  I grinned.

  “You know what it’s worth?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said, not sure exactly why I lied.

  He snapped his head to the right and said, “Finally! Let’s hit.”

  I ambled up to the tee box.

  “Keep your head down this time,” he shouted.

  I swung.

  I did not keep my head down.

  I topped the ball, and it went into the thick overgrowth.

  “Nice shot,” Jerry said.

  I flipped him off and he laughed.

  Just cousins being cousins.

  Jerry got another par.

  I lost three balls in the thick underbrush—which I was now terrified to wade into because of the snake—then spent four strokes in the sand. I ended up getting a whopping sixteen.

  Yay.

  Fun.

  I was at DEFCON 2 crankiness when I saw the little girl manning the grill just on the other side of a low fence.