Walking Shadows Page 6

“The kid is right here,” said McAdams. “When do I lose the moniker? I mean, is it really proper to call someone a kid if he’s been shot two times in the line of duty?”

  Over the line, Kevin Butterfield said, “You’re right. You are now officially Harvard. The girl can be The Kid. Because I’m sure you can’t call any female a girl anymore without getting into trouble by the PC police.”

  Decker smiled. “Okay, Lennie Baccus is officially the kid.”

  “Good to have the rules down,” Butterfield said. “See you both later.”

  After he disconnected, McAdams said, “You didn’t tell him about Lennie’s supposed sexual harassment.”

  “It’s not supposed, it’s real. My daughter confirmed it. I didn’t tell Butterfield because I don’t want to bias his opinion of her. She needs to be judged on her own merit.”

  “Even though she’s a spy for her father.”

  “I never said that. You did.”

  “But you did tell me that you don’t trust her.”

  “That has nothing to do with who she is. It has everything to do with who I am. I’m very cautious.”

  “Indeed,” McAdams said. “I started out cynical. You’ve turned me suspicious. If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be downright curmudgeonly before I hit thirty.”

  Chapter 8

  “There was a woman.” Butterfield was flipping through his notes. He was wearing a white shirt under a light blue sports coat and tan pants. “She had insomnia. She heard something around three-fifteen in the morning. It might have been a car motor. She peeked through the curtains but couldn’t see because it was too dark and she didn’t have her glasses.”

  “Okay. That could mesh with what the punks told me. That they were there around three and the body was already there. Dash Harden also said they heard something a little later and they all took off. Maybe that’s what she heard.”

  “Maybe,” Kevin said. “That’s convenient. I’ve been looking at tapes from CCTV close to Canterbury Lane. It took me a while to locate CCTV because not too many businesses have them, and it took me an even longer time to see anything on them, because Greenbury is a ghost town at that time in the morning.”

  “Got it. What’d you find?”

  “See for yourself. This baby had a time of 3:17:34 and was taken from CCTV perched at the intersection of Tollway and Heart. It’s heading away from Canterbury Lane.”

  “Where did you find this camera?”

  “It’s mounted on the front of Sid’s Bar and Grille on Tollway. The place is four blocks from the body dump. Sid’s closes at two, and I checked the make and model with the owner. It doesn’t belong to him or any of his employees.”

  “What is the make of the car? I can’t tell.”

  “From this picture, it’s hard to see. But at 3:23:17, it shows up again blocks away from Sid’s on Tollway in front of the Bank of Northeast. I’d say it’s a 2009 or 2010 Toyota Camry—dark gray or black.”

  “I agree. It might be heading toward the highway. You have any more sightings?”

  “No, I’d just started looking in all directions when I found these two tapes. Tomorrow, I’ll go pull any CCTV tapes along Tollway and see if I can spot the Camry again. I’ll also try to pull current registries for 2009 and 2010 Camrys from the DMV.”

  “Good work.” Decker stared at the screen. “I can’t see the face of the driver.” Another pause. “This blob over here. That might be someone in the passenger seat. Can you enlarge it?”

  “I tried already. All it did was make the blurry images even blurrier. We don’t have the proper resolution equipment. I could try Hamilton. They’re a real city.”

  “Leave Hamilton out of the mix for the time being.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to impose any more than necessary on Chief Baccus.” The excuse sounded lame to Decker’s ears.

  “I’d think he’d want to know about this,” Butterfield said. “The mailbox felons live in his city.”

  Decker had to backtrack. “Yeah, you’re right. Give Hamilton a call.”

  “Unless you think there’ll be turf issues,” Butterfield said.

  McAdams came to the rescue. “Baccus wasn’t too hot on giving us access to their files. Now that things are heating up, I think he’ll want the case back.”

  “Really?” Butterfield said. “Even with Lennie on our team?”

  Decker said, “Give Hamilton a call. Find out what kind of equipment they have to enhance this tape.”

  Butterfield thought a moment. “I have a few buddies in NYPD in Queens and in Brooklyn. They’re way more likely to have the kind of equipment we need. I can give them a call. If it’s there, we can email in the tape.”

  Decker said. “I’ll leave it up to you.”

  “I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow.”

  McAdams said, “It would be interesting if there were five figures in the car—our mailbox felons?”

  “I thought about that,” Butterfield said. “I checked out the felons’ cars and the cars of their parents. Only one of them—Noah Grand’s dad—owns a Camry. It’s a 2006 and it’s light silver. That car on CCTV is too dark to be light silver.”

  Decker looked at his watch. It was almost nine-thirty. He’d been working for over twenty hours and decided to call it quits for the day. “Kev, continue this in the morning. Let’s go home and get some sleep.”

  “I’ve got the Riley Summers interview at ten. Lennie Baccus is doing the questions, remember.”

  “Right,” Decker said. “I forgot about that. How about if I prep Baccus. You make the phone calls to the DMV. Then, you and McAdams check out the businesses on Tollway and see which ones have CCTV. See if you can spot the car and where it’s heading.”

  “Sure, boss.” Tyler paused. “You know what goes in, must come out. We have a car driving away from Canterbury Lane. How about a car driving toward Canterbury Lane?”

  “Too true,” Butterfield said. “I haven’t checked all the tapes. And I’ve just looked for the cars between the time frame of one a.m. and four a.m. If a car came in earlier, I wouldn’t know. Plus, the mailbox felons could be off on their time frame.”

  “Or lying,” McAdams said.

  “Always a strong possibility,” Decker said. “Get the tapes and we can all watch some TV tomorrow. Right now, let’s go home.”

  They all walked out to the parking lot together. McAdams said, “You’re taking me home?”

  “Unless you want to walk.”

  McAdams said, “What are you going to do after Riley Summers?”

  “Well, assuming I let him go, I suppose I’ll go track down Brady’s friend Boxer.”

  Butterfield smiled. “Boxer?”

  “Apparently he works in Bigstore’s warehouse department.”

  “Maybe Brady Neil’s friend is a dog. Or maybe Boxer is the name of his profession? Or his favorite hobby?” McAdams started jumping around feigning punches. One came near Decker’s face, close enough that Decker jerked his head back.

  “What is wrong with you?” He was annoyed. “Did you take your Ritalin this morning?”

  McAdams looked chastened. “Sorry.”

  Butterfield said, “Where’d you learn the moves?”

  “I’ve been taking mixed martial arts classes in Boston.”

  “Really?”

  “No joke. I started with Brazilian jiujitsu. On the first day of class, I grappled with a five-foot, ninety-nine-pound girl and she took me down. After that, I switched to boxing.”

  Decker smiled. “There’s got to be a lesson here somewhere.”

  “Of course, there is. Don’t get hurt. However, if you do get hurt, you can always sue.”

  At eleven the next morning—after an hour of interviewing Riley Summers—Decker was having a hard time deciding if the kid was a deft psycho or if he was just another confused and/or stoned teen. The few coherent statements he did make seemed to jibe with the statements given by Dash Harden and Chris Gingold. Perhaps they all collude
d, but it was hard to believe that these guys could keep a false story straight without tripping up. In the end, Decker released the kid, giving him the same stern warning that he gave Harden and Gingold yesterday: keep your nose clean and don’t go anywhere too far away.

  “Does that mean I don’t have to go to work?” Riley was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and was scratching a pimple on his face.

  Lennie looked at Decker for guidance. He said, “You can go to work, Riley. Just don’t go anywhere far. Where do you work?”

  “Eddie’s Gas.”

  Decker said, “On Milliken, off the highway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Pump gas. Eddie don’t use automated machines.”

  “Why not?” Lennie asked.

  “’Cause that way he can charge for full service. That’s why I pump gas. I also wash windows and check oil.”

  Maybe Harden was the smart one. “It’s okay for you to work, Riley.”

  “Fine. Can I go now?”

  “Yes.” To Lennie, Decker said, “Could you see him to the door, Officer Baccus?”

  “Of course.”

  After they left, Decker picked up his car keys. He met Lennie as she was coming back into the station. “I’m going to Brady Neil’s place of work, specifically to interview a guy nicknamed Boxer who works in the warehouse of Bigstore in Hamilton.”

  “There are two Bigstores in Hamilton. Which one?” Decker showed her the address. “That’s near me in Claremont.”

  “Where’s the other Bigstore?”

  “Right outside Bitsby.”

  “The Bitsby one is nearer to Brady Neil. I wonder why he didn’t work there?”

  “The Bigstore in Claremont is bigger and has higher-end things.”

  “Ah. Do you shop there?”

  “I’ll buy food and household stuff. Sometimes I’ll get coffee and a muffin in the café. It’s cheap.”

  “Are you there often?”

  Lennie thought. “Once a week.”

  “And you know some of the employees?”

  “A few by name. Most by sight. Do you want me to come with you, boss?”

  “Yes. While I interview this guy, Boxer, you ask around. I’m sure by now everyone has heard of Brady Neil’s murder. It made front-page news. There are bound to be some rumors floating around the place, some sotto voce. It’s your area store. It’s in your city. People will feel more natural around you. See what you can pick up.”

  “Of course. What do I tell them if they ask me questions?”

  “You tell them nothing, but you make it sound like you’re telling them something. You’re going back to Hamilton after this investigation is over. You’ve got to get along with the people you serve. So just dodge their questions. But be really nice about it.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Okay.” Decker looked around the warehouse. It was enormous, with enough supplies to outfit a third-world nation, and he hadn’t even made it to the food storage section. He was talking to a guy in his late twenties—beefy build with muscled arms. He had pierces in his thick lips and a shaved head that was tattooed except for a natural colored red/orange mohawk running down the middle. He was Phil G. Decker knew this because his green Bigstore name tag told him so. The kid was halfway up a ladder stocking some game systems, when Decker asked, “Do you know when he’s coming back?”

  “No idea.” Phil pushed the three boxes he was carrying on an open shelf and climbed down. His forehead was beaded with sweat. No A/C in the place, just a bay with barn doors that were open. He faced Decker. “Boxer didn’t show up yesterday and he didn’t show up today. Tomorrow’s his day off . . . if he still has a job.”

  “Has anyone tried to call him?”

  “Wouldn’t know. I didn’t call him. He wasn’t a pal. Ask the manager.”

  “And where would I find the manager?”

  “In her office.”

  “And where is her office?”

  “All the way in back. When you get to the barn doors, hook a left, then go past the food warehouse, then hook a right and the offices are there. Her name is Barbara Heiger.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Phil. Do you know Boxer’s real name? It’s obviously not Boxer.”

  “Nah, it’s not Boxer, but that’s what everyone called him.”

  “Did he box?”

  “You’ve never seen him, huh?”

  “No, I’ve never seen him.”

  “Scrawny guy. Around five eight with stringy arms.”

  “You didn’t like him.”

  “Didn’t like him, didn’t hate him. We didn’t hang. He was Brady’s friend. They hit it off right away.” Phil looked down. “Poor Brady. I talked to him now and then when he came into the warehouse. Once in a while, he’d bring in pretzels and chips for us ghouls to snack on. He said they were leftovers from a party, but the bags were always unopened. What the hell happened to him?”

  “That’s what we’re looking into. You thought Brady was a good guy?”

  “Yeah, from the little contact I had with him. He worked resale. He’d come in to talk to Boxer but would always acknowledge me . . . the other guys. It goes a long way, you know.”

  “What do you mean goes a long way?”

  “To most people, we’re furniture. Brady made you feel human. But like I said, he mostly talked to Boxer.”

  “And because Boxer was Brady’s friend, we just wanted to ask him a few questions. Any idea where he lives?”

  The lightbulb went off in Phil’s head. “You think something happened to Boxer?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “Oh Jesus! That would be . . .” Phil’s jaw was working hard. “Is there something going on with this store? I mean, two guys working here. That’s a little coincidental, right?”

  “If you’re just doing your job, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “Whadaya mean by that?”

  “I mean if you keep out of trouble, you should be okay.”

  “Was Brady in trouble?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out. And once I do know what’s going on, I’ll tell you. Here’s my card.” Decker handed it to him. “If you think of anything strange or unusual or just something that you think the police should know, call me. I want to find Boxer, if for no other reason just to know that he’s safe.”

  “Yeah, I get it. Boxer did his job but isn’t as big as some of us. He’s vulnerable.”

  “Nobody is immune to vulnerability, Phil.”

  “But some are more vulnerable than others.” Phil scratched his head on his tiger tattoo. “I mean no harm when I say this, but Boxer . . . there’s something about him. Some people are just born with a Kick Me sign plastered on their asses.”

  Barbara Heiger was out to lunch. Decker wandered over to the next open office. It belonged to C. Bonfellow, Bookkeeper. He appeared to be in his midforties, short and overweight with thinning sandy hair and dark suspicious eyes. He sat behind a scarred desk that was piled with paper in slotted trays. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so.” Decker showed C. Bonfellow his badge.

  “Police? What’s this about?”

  “Do you make out the salary checks?”

  “Me, personally? No. It’s all done by computer. And if you’re looking for someone in particular, I’m not the guy. You need to talk to Susan or Harold in HR. I just balance the numbers.”

  “Where is HR?”

  “Three doors down. Who are you looking for, by the way?”

  “A guy named Boxer?”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “You’re not the only one. Thanks.”

  Decker was about to go, when Bonfellow said, “If you leave your card, I’ll call if I hear of anything.”

  “Sure.” Decker handed the bookkeeper his card. “What kind of things do you usually hear about, Mr. Bonfellow?”

  The man turned pink. “Not that I gossip. I don’t. And most of the time, I’m behi
nd a desk. But people don’t notice me a lot. They kind of talk like I’m not there and I pick up things . . . keep things filed in storage.” He pointed to his head. “I’ll keep my ears open for this Boxer person. I’ll call you if I hear anything juicy.”

  “Thanks. Don’t put yourself out. If someone found out you’ve overheard a private conversation, it might make them mad.”

  “Oh, I know that, Detective.” Bonfellow smiled. “I’m a very careful man.”

  In HR, there were two people to approach. Decker homed in on Susan Jenkins, who was kind enough to look up the name in the company computer. She was in her midthirties, short but with a very long neck. She reminded Decker of a swan. She wore a black T-shirt and jeans. “There is no Boxer assigned to the warehouse, but . . . there is a Joseph Boch.”

  “That’s probably the guy I’m looking for. Do you have his address and phone number?”

  “I do, but I can’t give it to you. Company policy.” She smiled. “I’m going to the watercooler. I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time,” Decker said. Once she left, he looked on the screen. Joseph Boch was thirty-five, and by the date of his employment records, he’d been working there nine months. Decker quickly copied the address and phone number in his notebook.

  She returned a moment later with a conical paper cup and sipped water. “Is there anything else?”

  “Thank you very much, Ms. Jenkins. You’ve been a big help.” He paused. “How long does your average employee work here?”

  She looked up at him. “I really couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is that we have a lot of turnover, specifically because we have a lot of temp teens working in the summer.”

  “And you have no idea about the working life span of your permanent employees?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say not more than a few years. It’s barely more than minimum wage unless you’re in management. And most management isn’t from the bottom up.”

  “Where do they go—the ones who quit after a year?”

  Susan was thoughtful. “I couldn’t tell you personally, but it’s the same old story in Hamilton. I think a lot of them have alcohol or serious drug issues. Or both. When they’re sober, they can hold down a job. But it’s a really boring job, so they start getting high again. And when they’re high, they can’t hold down jobs. It’s a vicious cycle. Sad, but not unpredictable. What else does Hamilton have to offer?”