Читать книгу Night Shift - Annelise Ryan - Страница 13

Chapter 6

My heart skips a beat before the looming shadow takes on the features of Detective Bob Richmond. I let my breath out in an explosive sigh of relief.

“Hildy, what’s going on?” Bob says. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

I’d say the man has a knack for irony except I don’t think he knows about what’s gone on so far this evening. “You did frighten me there for a second,” I tell him. “And while I haven’t seen a ghost, others have.”

As Bob steps past me into the kitchen and surveys the scene, I fill him in on my experience with Danny earlier in the evening, our assumption that he was having a schizophrenic episode, and then the realization that the death he said he witnessed might have been all too real.

“He told us he saw it happen,” I explain. “And that a spotted purple and pink dinosaur watched the whole thing.” Richmond shoots me an amused, skeptical look. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking, big guy,” I say with a wink, and I’m tickled to see Richmond’s ears turn bright red. “But don’t rush to any conclusions. Look over there.” I point toward the cabinet behind our victim where the dinosaur cookie jar still sits in all its purple and pink polka-dotted glory.

Richmond’s smile fades and his brow furrows. “So, you think this guy Danny saw our victim commit suicide?”

Doc Morton rises from his bent-over position, grunting a little. “Pretty sure it’s not a suicide,” he says. “There isn’t enough GSR on his hands for him to have been the one who pulled the trigger. And while I can’t say for sure yet—I need to do the autopsy first—it appears that our victim might have been dead before he was shot.”

“Plus, there’s no suicide note,” I toss out. “And there’s a toddy in the microwave. Who fixes a nighttime toddy right before they kill themselves?”

Bob shrugs. “Stranger things have happened. Do we have any ideas about motive?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say before anyone else can speak. Bob looks at me with amusement. “You need to go out to the barn,” I tell him. “There’s a crop out there you’ll find very interesting. And a bit terrifying.”

Bob arches his brows in curiosity. “Do say. Want to lead the way?”

I don’t. Part of me doesn’t want to go anywhere near those plants again. Not the marijuana; it’s harmless enough. But the others unnerve me. Knowing how poisonous they can be makes me not want to be near them in any way. But I suck it up, nod, and turn to head back to the barn.

Outside the house, Bob says, “You’ve certainly started off with a bang. How’s the job going so far?”

“Was that a pun?” I say, giving Bob a sly smile. “A bit of dark cop humor?”

Bob frowns, looking deep in thought for a second before I see enlightenment—and a hint of a smile—on his face. “Unintentional,” he says.

“Too bad. It was a good one. As for how the job is going, it’s only my second shift. Too soon to pass judgment. Though I will say it’s nice having Roscoe with me and I think the two of us have made a difference in several people’s lives already.”

“That’s great.”

“Thanks again for putting in a word for me with the chief.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Have you heard any, um, feedback about what people think about the program?”

“Can’t say that I have.” I frown at this and Bob sees it. “Don’t be disappointed by that. As you pointed out, it’s only your second night. I suspect most folks are going to wait a while to see how things play out before deciding if they’re in favor of it or not.”

He has a point. I’m desperate for this program to be a success because the position is my dream job. Chief Hanson applied for and received a grant to launch the program as a trial, so I need to make it successful if I want it to continue. Having a social worker ride around with the officers on duty has its risks, but hopefully the benefits will outweigh them. The availability of on-site counseling services alone should prove helpful, to the department staff as well as the community at large.

As soon as I heard about the program, which has been dubbed Helping Hands, I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I used all my powers of persuasion on Detective Richmond to get him to recommend me, and I figured I had a leg up in the qualifications department because I’m not only an experienced social worker with a nicely varied work history, I’m a victim myself. I hoped that level of empathy and understanding would help move me to the top of the list of candidates. Plus, I pitched the idea of having Roscoe, a certified therapy dog, be part of the package. That idea isn’t a new one. There are a few other police departments in the country that have started using therapy dogs with the beat cops, though I think our program, with the combined canine and human components, is unique so far.

Because of the tenuous nature of the program, I haven’t resigned from my hospital position. As luck would have it, my hours there were cut just before I got the offer from the PD, so it’s possible, though not easy, to balance the two jobs. Complicating things is the fact that my boss at the hospital, Crystal Hoffheimer, also applied for the police job. She was interviewed right away—before I was, in fact—and I thought for sure she would get it.

My winning out over my boss had the potential to make things uncomfortable or awkward at the hospital, but so far Crystal has handled it all with good-natured aplomb. I intend to be very careful to make sure the new job doesn’t interfere with or affect my old one.

“It’s not going to be too much, working both places?” Richmond asks as we walk.

“I’ll manage,” I tell him. “It will keep me busy and out of trouble.”

Bob arches a brow at that comment but says nothing. We walk in silence until we’re only feet from the barn. Then Bob stops and puts a hand on my arm, stopping me as well. “There’s something I want to ask you,” he says. “I know this isn’t the best time, but I’ve been hesitant to call you. I knew your schedule was crazy with the training you had to do and your regular job, and I didn’t want to risk interrupting your sleep. Figured I’d see you eventually, anyway, and here you are.”

“Here I am,” I say with a smile, wondering what this is all about.

He shuffles his feet, looking at everything but me. This is easy for him given that he’s a little over six feet tall. He mutters a couple of “ums” and then finally manages to get his words out. “When you and I went out to dinner that one time a few weeks ago, did you invite me simply because you wanted my help with that boy’s case?”

“No. I told you I was interested in you on a . . . nonwork level.”

He nods, shuffling some more and licking his lips. “I know that’s what you said, but I also know that women sometimes say things they think we men want to hear. In order to get what they want.”

“Then let me clarify things for you,” I say. “Bob Richmond, I would love to go out on a date with you. More than one, in fact. It’s going to be hard for me to fit it into my schedule now that I’m balancing two jobs, but let’s figure out a way to make it happen. Okay?”

He looks at me finally, smiling in a way that is oddly boyish. It makes my heart do an extra pitty-pat. “Okay,” he says. With that, he turns and continues toward the barn, leaving me to catch up with his long-legged stride.

“Head to the left, toward the back side,” I tell him. “There’s a cellar door there that will take you where the others are. And that’s where your possible motive is, as well.”

Though I’m none too eager to go back into that cellar with its dangerous and potentially poisonous payload, my curiosity gives me courage. I follow Bob down the cellar stairs and into the Garden of Evil. There are some brief greetings exchanged, and then I listen as Devo brings Bob up to speed with the entire case, starting with Mr. Fletcher and how we found him, and finishing with how Roscoe and I discovered the basement area. At that point, he turns things over to Laura, who is busy snapping pictures and cutting samples from the many plants.

“There are some interesting specimens down here,” she tells Bob. “Of course, the marijuana isn’t particularly harmful, though it is illegal to be growing it like this without a special dispensation. It’s good stuff, too. The guy who grew it has a green thumb, I’d wager, because the plants are healthy and robust. I’m guessing there’s enough down here to produce a thousand pounds of pot. He stood to make a good amount of money selling the stuff. Not now, of course. He’s dead, and I suppose all the plants will have to be confiscated.” She says this with a tinge of remorse in her voice.

“The more interesting thing is the other plants he was growing,” she continues without pause. “This is a castor plant,” she says, pointing to the red-stalked bush with the maroon leaves. “Its beans contain ricin. Behind that plastic curtain down there you’ll find jequirity bean plants, which contain something called abrin that is even more toxic than ricin, and a little tree called a nux vomica, which contains strychnine and brucine, both of which are deadly. I also found some aconite, sometimes referred to as wolfsbane or monkshood . . . also deadly. And several cassava plants, which can be used to make cyanide. So aside from the recreational pot plants, this area is a biological warfare factory. There’s enough potential poison in this room to kill a small country’s population.”

The list of poisons has grown since I was last down here and it’s all I can do not to turn and run out of the cellar as fast as my stubby, unfit legs will carry me.

“Now one might argue that our farmer was growing these plants to sell to a gardening center as ornamentals, but the fact that some of them aren’t native to and won’t grow in this area suggests otherwise. As does that.” She raises an arm and points accusingly at the enclosed laboratory area.

Laura pauses in her diatribe then—a rare event for her—but no one tries to jump in. They are all rendered speechless. Laura stares at Bob for a few seconds, then she goes back to snipping cuttings and placing them in evidence bags, resuming her work as if she hadn’t just scared the hell out of all of us with her visions of a bioterrorist Armageddon.

“Mother of God,” Richmond says. “What the hell was this guy up to?”

“I’m guessing he did it for money,” I say. “That is one of the oldest motives in the books, right? Though I suppose we can’t rule out the possibility that he’s an anarchist.”

Bob turns around and looks at me with astonishment, as if he either forgot I’m here and is shocked that I’m still present or is simply surprised that I would say anything.

“You should take a close look at his finances,” I go on. “Based on the lack of livestock and how clean the combine, tractor, and all their various attachments are upstairs, I’d wager this place hasn’t seen any legitimate farming action for some time.”

“Except there are crops planted in some of the surrounding fields,” Laura tosses out.

Bob looks thoughtful. The others all return to whatever they were doing before Laura listed off the ingredients for world annihilation, though everyone seems to be eyeing the plants with a new wariness.

“Laura, can you see what you can dig up on the guy’s finances when you get done with what you’re doing here?” Bob asks.

Laura also has an MBA and is an expert in forensic finance. She had a hard time deciding what she wanted to be when she grew up and entertained career changes several times while working as a teaching assistant for a university professor. As a result, she has acquired an amazing level of knowledge and expertise in a number of areas despite being shy of thirty. Her energy, determination, and intelligence amaze me.

Bob says to me, “You think this Danny fellow witnessed our victim’s murder?”

“It sure sounded like it,” I say with a nod.

“What connection does he have to this place?”

“I have no idea. I suppose we’ll have to ask him. Or I can call his sister and ask her, if you want.” I take out my cell phone.

“Kind of late to be calling anyone now, isn’t it?” Bob says, glancing at his watch.

“Normally, I’d say yes, but Allie is most likely awake and up. She just took her brother home from the ER a bit ago and she’s on call tonight for the funeral home where she works.”

“Okay, do it,” Bob says. “But put it on speaker. I want to hear.”

I look at my phone and see it has no service here. “I’m going to have to go back toward the house to get reception,” I tell him. He nods and waves a hand toward the stairs. I climb up, grateful to be back in the fresh air. As I walk back toward the house with Bob following me, I once again wave my phone around in the air, searching for a signal. We are nearly to the back porch before I manage to get a couple of bars. I dial Allie’s number and put the call on speaker as Bob requested. After it rings five times, I’m preparing to leave a voice mail when Allie answers with a breathless, “Hello?”

“Allie, it’s Hildy. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, I just wasn’t by my phone. What’s up?”

“How’s Danny?”

“He’s sleeping right now. He seemed better when I brought him home. Fingers crossed. Sorry I didn’t call you.”

“That’s okay. Do you know if Danny has any connections to a man by the name of Arthur Fletcher who lives out on a farm located between County Roads B and D?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

Bob shakes his head and puts a finger to his lips, letting me know I’m not to tell Allie anything about what’s going on yet.

“I’ll tell you more later,” I say. “I have an idea about something that might help explain Danny’s state of mind, but I can’t talk about it yet. I’ll call you later this morning to see how he’s doing. If anything happens in the meantime, you call me, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Hildy.”

As I disconnect the call Bob says, “Mum’s the word on what we found out here, at least with the poisonous plants. I don’t want it getting out and starting a panic.”

“Got it. And it seems I might have been wrong when I assumed Danny’s rants about seeing someone get killed were schizophrenic hallucinations. I’m glad he managed to get away without getting killed himself.”

Bob makes a face and cocks his head to one side, looking at me.

“What?” I say.

“You think Danny saw someone kill Mr. Fletcher?”

“It certainly sounds possible. Maybe he was looking in through one of the kitchen windows. Or he could have been in the house somewhere.” My mind is racing with possible scenarios until Bob hits on the one I haven’t embraced yet, because I don’t want to believe it.

“Or maybe,” he says, pausing for effect, “Danny is the one who killed him.”