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Chapter 8

“I have some photos of different models of cars.” Chief Turner motioned to the notebook he held.

I looked over his shoulder. Rick was still outside and on his phone. Suddenly he crammed it into his jacket pocket and looked up at the sky.

“Would you and Shelby take a look at them and tell me if one looks like the car you saw leaving here this morning, and at your house?” Chief Turner asked. “When the part-timers come in again, maybe they can look at it, too?”

Rick came in and stood behind him motionless, like a hunting dog on point. In classical point position, he was looking at the back of Chief Turner’s head like it was the source of the strongest scent. I half expected his forward foot to lift. I couldn’t see Dayle’s face but I could tell she was frozen to the spot where she stood. I knew her to be handicapped by personal honesty and a conscience so I hoped she wouldn’t pass out from the stress of this small, temporary deception I was asking of her.

Shelby reached for the book. “Can we look at this and call you later?”

Chief Turner turned to glance at me, then around the room, just then sensing the sea of tension he had entered. He returned his gaze to me. “Can we talk?”

Without waiting for an answer, he walked behind the reception desk, turning sideways to get behind Shelby, and into my office. “Chief Turner, funny story about Billy B. and my passcode.” I followed him, trying to think of a way to signal to Rick that I was on his side.

From the corner of my eye I saw Shelby look at Rick. Telegraphing to him that I had this.

“Who’s Billy B.?” the chief asked.

“That’s what everybody calls Billy Berger. You know, William Berger.”

We were in my office and I sat behind my desk while he paced. “I’m waiting for that funny story about your passcode,” he said.

I gave him Dana’s theory about Billy B. correctly guessing my passcode.

He stopped and shook his head in slow motion. “Okay, but there’s still some connection to you. He was at your house and he broke into your business. You’re sure you don’t know him outside of seeing him at the deli?”

“I’m sure,” I said.

He was back to pacing. “Even after you change that combination you should block the keypad with your remote or from the inside. And please remember to lock your front door.” He turned and saw the expression on my face. “I don’t care if this is Lewes.”

“I’m not going to let you scare me. This town is my home.”

He took a seat on the white leather sofa, finally, at the end closest to the desk, so he could face me. “I just want you to be safe.” A throw pillow with a hound dog Elvis impersonator caught his eye, and he smiled in spite of himself. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, then he sighed and waited for me to speak.

Finally I did. “You heard that the dog from the lighthouse belonged to Billy B.?”

“No! You hung up on me.” He was standing again.

“He had a microchip.” I caught the bewilderment in his eyes, that look he got whenever anything having to do with a dog was brought up, and said, “It’s a radio-frequency device you can have implanted in your dog. Most vets and animal shelters have scanners they use to get the microchip ID number, which they call in to the pet recovery service.” I handed him the piece of paper from my pocket. “Here’s Billy B.’s phone number and address. I’ll keep the dog until you reach his family.”

“I want to find that car! That’s the key to this case.”

That, I knew, was just a matter of time, and would lead him to Rick and his father.

“Remember our last murder—”

“My last murder,” he corrected.

“Whatever. You latched on to theories right away. You might be doing that again.”

“I’m decisive.”

“I’m not indecisive,” I countered.

“It took you thirty-five years to decide where to live.” The look on his face told me he regretted saying that as soon as it was out of his mouth.

I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I couldn’t argue with what he’d said, because it was true. Instead I wanted to argue with his right to know it.

He put his hands on my desk and leaned toward me. “In law enforcement—real law enforcement—only rookies believe in coincidences. That’s all I’m saying.” He straightened.

“Have you forwarded the photos to me yet? Maybe I can pick up the number off the plate.”

I took out my phone and scrolled to the worst, grainiest image I could find and emailed it to him.

“If you think of anything I need to know, give me a call.” He hesitated then tapped his front pocket, which held his phone. “I’ll blow this up and call DMV. By the time I get back to the station Marie might’ve found Mr. Berger’s next of kin.”

“I need time,” I said.

“Huh?”

Damn. I’d said that out loud. “I said I’ll be glad when Lady Anthea gets here.” I needed her confidence and nerve.

With a parting admonition not to tell anyone the identity of Mr. Berger, a dagger to my conscience, he was gone.