John Puller 02 - The Forgotten Page 6

  It was such a total disconnect for Puller that he looked around for a camera, seriously wondering for a few moments whether he was being punked.

  He glanced at Landry, who was walking next to him. “I’ve never seen a police station quite like this one.”

  “What’s so different about it?” she asked.

  “You been in any others?”

  “A few.”

  “Trust me, it’s different. I was looking around for a valet outside and a place to order a drink in here before I teed off for a quick round of nine holes. And I don’t even play golf.”

  Hooper nudged his elbow harder. “So we’ve got a strong tax base. That’s a problem somehow?”

  “Didn’t say it was a problem. Just said it was different.”

  “Then maybe everybody else should follow our example,” retorted Hooper. “Because I think we’ve got it right. Money equals a better life all around.”

  “Yeah, next time I’m in Kabul, I’ll let them know your thoughts.”

  “I was talking the United States of America, not dipshit land where they talk funny and think their pissant god is better than our real God.”

  “I think I’ll keep that one to myself,” replied Puller.

  “Like I give a crap what you do.”

  Puller tried to remove his elbow from Hooper’s grip but the man kept it there, as if he were a magnet and Puller were a block of metal. The guy was doing it just to piss him off. That was clear. And Puller could do nothing about it unless he wanted to end up in a jail cell, which would seriously crimp the investigation of his aunt’s death.

  Hooper directed him to a chair outside of a frosted glass-enclosed office with the name Henry Bullock, Chief of Police stenciled on the door. Landry knocked twice and Puller heard a gruff voice say, “Enter.”

  Hooper stood next to him as Landry disappeared inside the office.

  Puller had nothing else to do so he looked around. His attention was captured by a man and a woman in their early forties because they appeared distraught in a sea of otherwise complete calm. They were seated at the desk of a man dressed in black slacks, white-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a muted tie. A plastic lanyard with a badge on it hung from his reedy neck.

  Puller could catch only snatches of the conversation, but he heard the words “late-night walk,” then the names “Nancy and Fred Stor- row.”

  The woman dabbed at her nose with a tissue while the man looked down at his hands. The guy behind the desk hit keys on his computer and uttered sympathetic noises.

  Puller drew his attention away from this exchange when the door to Bullock’s office opened and Landry and another man whom Puller assumed was the chief of police stepped out.

  Henry Bullock was a fraction under six feet with thick shoulders and hammy arms that pulled tight against his regulation uniform. His gut was widening and offered even greater strain against the fabric than did his muscles. His body was better balanced than Hooper’s because the man’s legs were thick but tapered down to unusually small feet. He looked to be in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair, thick eyebrows, a bulbous nose, and skin that had seen too much sun and wind. The furrows on his brow were deep and permanent and left him with a perpetual scowl.

  If he’d been in a different uniform Puller would have sworn the man was his former drill sergeant.

  “Puller?” he said, staring down at him.

  “That’s me.”

  “Come on in. You too, Landry. Hoop, you can wait outside.”

  “But Chief,” said Hooper. “I was in on the bust too.”

  Bullock turned to look at him. “There is no bust, Hoop. Not yet. If there is, I’ll let you know.”

  And in those few words Puller could tell that Bullock was a savvy man and knew exactly the limits of Officer Hooper.

  Hooper stood there sullenly, his gaze on Puller as though this slight was somehow his fault. Puller stood and walked past the man, his elbow finally free.

  “Just hang tight, Hoop” he said. “We’ll get

  back to you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Puller walked into the office, trailed by Landry. She shut the door behind her.

  The office was a twelve-foot-wide, eight-foot- deep rectangle of space. It was furnished in a spartan, no-nonsense way, which, Puller assumed, precisely paralleled the personality of the occupant.

  Bullock sat down behind his wooden desk and motioned for Puller to take the lone chair opposite. Landry stood at semi-attention diagonally off Puller’s left shoulder.

  Puller sat, looking expectantly at Bullock.

  The police chief fiddled with the fingernail of his right index finger for a few moments before breaking the silence.

  “We’re verifying you are who you say you are.”

  “And after you do can I check out the crime scene?”

  Bullock flicked an annoyed gaze at him. “There is no crime scene.”

  “Technically, maybe not, but that could change.”

  “Your aunt was how old?”

  “Eighty-six.”

  “And used a walker, the report said. She fell, hit her head, and drowned. I’m very sorry it happened. Lost my grandmother to a drowning accident. Had a seizure in the bathtub. She was old too. It just happened. Nothing anyone could do. Looks to be the same here. You shouldn’t feel guilty about it,” he added.

  “Has it been confirmed that she drowned?” asked Puller, ignoring this last barb.

  When neither of them said anything, he said, “Unless Florida is really different, there has to be something written on the death certificate in the ‘cause of death’ box or people get a little nervous.”

  “Water in the lungs, so yes, she drowned,” said Bullock. “Medical examiner completed the autopsy last night. Technically I believe the term is—”

  Puller finished for him, “Yeah, asphyxiation. Can I see the report?”

  “No, you can’t. They don’t go out to anyone except next of kin and those with a court order.” “I’m her nephew.”

  “So you say, but even so, I’ve always interpreted the definition of next of kin to be immediate family.”

  “She doesn’t have any. Her husband’s dead, and her only sibling is back in Virginia at a VA hospital and lacks the mental capacity to handle this. And she had no kids.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s really nothing I can do about that,” said Bullock. “The privacy of the deceased is not something I take lightly.”

  “But you do take lightly that someone might have murdered her?”

  Bullock snapped, “I don’t care for what you’re insinuating.”

  “Weren’t you going to contact her next of kin?” Puller asked.

  “We were in the process of doing that. We did a preliminary search of her home, but didn’t find any helpful info. And you have to understand, this is Florida. Lots of elderly, lots of deaths. We have four others we’re running down next of kin on and I have limited manpower.”

  “The ME listing drowning as the cause of death tells us what killed her. It doesn’t tell us how she got in the water in the first place.”

  “She fell.”

  “That’s a guess, not a fact.”

  Landry stirred, seemingly about to say something, but then apparently thought better of it and remained silent.

  Puller noticed this but didn’t react. He figured he could have a chat with her later, outside the presence of her boss.

  “It’s an educated, professional assumption based on the facts on the ground,” corrected Bullock.

  “An educated assumption is really just a guess in sheep’s clothing. The real reason I’m down here is because of a letter she sent.” He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Bullock. Landry moved around and read it over her supervisor’s shoulder.

  Bullock finished reading, folded the letter, and handed it back. “Proves nothing. If I had a dollar for every time some old woman thought something weird was going on, I’d retire a rich man.”
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  “Really? That would take like over a million old crazy ladies, wouldn’t it? The population of Paradise is 11,457.1 checked before coming down. You’re going to have to recruit a lot more old crazy ladies if you want to retire.”

  Before Bullock could respond to this a fax machine on a credenza behind him zinged to life. A paper came down the chute. Bullock picked it up, alternated reading it and gazing at Puller. “Okay, you are who you say you are.”

  “Nice to have it confirmed.”

  “Landry here tells me you’re Army CID.” “That’s right. About six years. Before that I was in the ranks carrying a rifle.”

  “Well, I’ve been chief of police of this little hamlet for fifteen, and fifteen years before that I was a cop pounding the streets. Saw my share of murders and accidents. This is the latter, not the former.”

  “Am I missing something here?” asked Puller. “Is there some reason you don’t want to check this out more thoroughly? If it’s a question of manpower I’m here to volunteer my services. And I’ve been around a lot of accidents and murders too. The Army unfortunately has an abundance of both. And I’ve handled cases that started out looking like an accident that turned into something else and vice versa.”

  “Well, maybe you’re just not as good as we are,” shot back Bullock.

  “Maybe I’m not. But why don’t we find out for sure? We have a little question of justice to be answered.”

  Bullock rubbed his face with his hand like he was working off some fine grit, and shook his head.

  “Okay, I think we’re done here. I’m sorry for your loss, if she is your aunt. But I would not advise going near her property again unless you have appropriate authorization. Next time we will arrest you.”

  “And how exactly do I get authorization?” “Talk to her lawyer. Maybe he can help. Probably just charge you a few thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t know who her lawyer is. Maybe if I could go back to her house and check?”

  “What part of appropriate authorization don’t you get?” said Bullock.

  “So it’s a chicken and egg problem?”

  “Hell, she’s your family, or so you say.”

  Puller slipped out the picture. “I’ve got this.” Bullock waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, Landry told me about that. It’s not conclusive proof of anything.”

  “So that’s it? That’s all you’ll do?”

  “What I’m doing is my job. To serve and protect.”

  “Well, if Betsy Simon was killed, you didn’t do a really good job on either one, did you?”

  Bullock rose and stared down at Puller. For an instant Puller thought the man was going to pull his gun, but he simply said, “You have a good day, Mr. Puller.” He nodded at Landry, who said, “You can follow me out, Agent Puller.”

  After the door closed behind them Hooper was next to Puller in an instant, his hand on his elbow again, like a sheepdog to a sheep. Only Puller would never be classified as a sheep. He firmly removed Hooper’s hand from his elbow and said, “Thanks. But unlike my aunt, I can walk unaided.”

  Before Hooper could say anything Puller walked off, retracing his steps from the way in. Landry fell in behind him.

  “I need my gun back,” said Puller.

  “It’s in the police cruiser. We can drop you off at your car.”

  “Thanks, I’d rather walk,” said Puller.

  “It’s a long walk.”

  Puller turned to look at her. “I have a lot to think about. And I’ve never been in Paradise before. I’d like to see every inch of it. Might never get another chance. Most folks who know me have me down for heading to the other place.”

  At this Landry cracked a smile.

  They reached the cruiser and Landry handed him back his Mu as Hooper hovered in the background, still looking upset that Puller wasn’t behind bars.

  Landry handed Puller a card. “If you need any help,” she said, her gaze searching his for an instant before looking away. “Personal cell phone number’s on the back.”

  Puller slid his Mu into the belt holster and her card into his shirt pocket.

  “Appreciate that. Might take you up on it, Officer Landry.”

  He glanced over her shoulder at Hooper. “He always so friendly?”

  “He’s a good cop,” she said in a low voice. “Never said he wasn’t. But tell him to lay off the elbow intimidation thing. Gets old after about thirty seconds.”

  She edged closer. “Try Bailey’s Funeral Home. It’s over off Atlantic Avenue. Where the ME does her work. We don’t have a formal medical examiner’s office in Paradise. She’s a doctor in practice who helps us out.”

  “Thanks.”

  He turned and strode off.

  Hooper called after him, “Next time you won’t get off so easy.”

  Puller just kept walking.

  CHAPTER 13

  Puller called Bailey’s Funeral Home on the walk back to his car. The woman on the phone would not confirm that Betsy Simon’s body was on the premises.

  “Well, if you do have her body, I’m her nephew. And if you want to get paid for the funeral service then I really need confirmation that you have her. Otherwise you can just foot the bill yourselves.”

  This approach seemed to stimulate the woman’s memory.

  “Well, without giving out any private information, we did receive an elderly female’s body whose clothes were damp and who lived on Orion Street.”

  Til be over later today to make arrangements. I know the ME performed an autopsy. I’m assuming he’s released the body. But I would appreciate if nothing else is done to the remains before I get there. Are we clear on that?”

  “Until the contract is signed and the deposit made, I can assure you that nothing will be done,” the woman said primly.

  Puller clicked off and thought, Paradise just keeps getting better and better.

  He drove his car to an outdoor cafe near the beach. He had chosen this spot because it afforded a nice vantage point of a major swath of the town. He ordered a turkey sandwich, fries, and iced tea. It was too hot for his normal pop of max-caffeinated coffee. And he was thinking about giving it up anyway. He was afraid it would start to impede his aim.

  As he ate and drank he took mental pictures of all that was going on around him. He saw a pristine convertible Porsche driving next to an old Ford pickup truck with barely any tread on the tires or metal on the frame. A few moments later a large truck chugged by with a landscaping company’s name on its side. It stopped at the traffic light.

  Puller studied the five men in dirty work pants and soaked-in-sweat matching green T- shirts with the company name on them standing up in the back of the truck. They were all short, stocky Latinos, except for the biggest one, who looked like a parent surrounded by kindergart- ners. He was easily two inches taller and more than fifty pounds heavier than Puller with not an ounce of fat on him. Guys that size tended to be bulky and slow-looking. This guy seemed almost gaunt. His hands were long gristly bones that looked strong enough to choke an elephant. The men’s gazes locked for a brief instant and then the truck and the giant were gone.

  Puller saw a police cruiser pass by. He half expected to see Landry and Hooper inside, but it was another pair of cops who barely looked at him.

  Puller paid his bill, finished off his iced tea, and phoned the VA hospital back in Virginia. He asked for his father’s doctor and was put on hold several different times before a woman’s voice said, “Dr. Murphy is tied up, can I help you?” Puller explained who he was and what he wanted.

  “Mr. Puller, I can put you right in to talk to your father. Perhaps you can calm him down.” Doubtful, thought Puller. But he said, “I can try.”

  His old man’s voice boomed through the phone. “XO? That you, XO?”

  “It’s me, sir.”

  “Mission brief,” said his father tersely.

  “I’m on the ground in Florida. I did a recon of the area, interfaced with the locals. Later I plan to asses
s the casualties and will report back in at that time, sir.”

  “Somebody took my top-secret communication, XO. From my personal safe.”

  “You gave it to me, sir, need to know only. You must have other things on your mind, sir. Takes a lot of thinking to run the ioist.”

  “Hell yes it does.”

  “So I’ve got the communication, sir. Not to worry. Report back twenty hundred hours.” “Roger that. Good luck, XO.”

  Puller clicked off and felt ashamed, as he did every time he played this subterfuge with his father. But what was the alternative?

  One he didn’t want to face, he supposed.

  He next phoned USDB in Kansas and made arrangements to talk to his brother that night. After that, he put the phone away. It was time to see his aunt.

  Despite their separation, once he had become an adult a part of Puller had always thought he would see Betsy Simon again.

  Just not like this.

  CHAPTER 14

  Bailey’s Funeral Home was a three-story brick building three blocks off the water and set on a half acre of mostly asphalt with a narrow perimeter of sunbaked grass. Puller parked his car near the front door, got out, and a few moments later entered the building. The air-conditioning hit him in a wave as he closed the door behind him. The place must have been at least twenty-five degrees cooler than outside and Puller was glad he was not paying the electric bill here. But then it occurred to him that every funeral home he’d ever been in had felt abnormally cold, even in New England in the middle of winter. It was like they didn’t have heat, only air-conditioning. Maybe that’s what you were taught in the funeral home business—keep everyone as cold as the clients in the coffins.

  There was a small reception desk set a few yards from the front door. A young woman attired all in black—perhaps another funeral home tactic to show perpetual mourning—rose to greet him.