Murder in Miniature (22 page)

More than once on the familiar Highway 101, I moved to
an exit lane, ready to turn around and go home. I tried Skip several times, with no luck.

I figured Chuck had about a twenty-minute head start. Maybe that was enough time for him to empty out the storage locker and he’d be gone by the time I got there. I could only hope.

When I turned off the Guadalupe Parkway exit—the same one I’d taken on my Rescue Linda mission—all I could see was the big X in the
Lincolnite
, marking the spot where Tippi’s body had been found. I shook away the image. It was broad daylight, I reminded myself. Nothing bad could happen.

I slowed down and drove to the front of the out-of-service gas station. In daylight I could see the
CLOSED FOR REPAIRS
sign clearly. Traffic whizzed by on the freeway behind me, but this neighborhood was deserted. I guessed there might be more action during the workweek in some of the surrounding buildings, many of which looked like small factories or distribution centers.

I drove around to the back and entered the parking lot between the gas station and the lockers. I rounded the corner, then braked and surveyed the large area. I knew from the videotape exactly where the surveillance camera was located, high on the building, up and to my right. I got my bearings and determined I was parked on the X. I gulped and moved forward, still out of camera range.

Just Eddie’s truck was parked in front of an open metal door. If Chuck Reed exited the garagelike space at that moment and looked straight ahead, he’d see me, clear as day. I backed up, conscious of the noise my tires were making on the gravel. I was afraid I’d get a flat, driving over what looked like a thick layer of nails and broken glass.

I was afraid of more than that. My jaw seemed to have a charley horse, and my knees were locked so that I could barely operate the pedals on my car.

I couldn’t believe that cops—my own sweet nephew among them—did this all the time. Sure, they were armed and had training, but human beings were not predictable, especially ones crazy enough to rob and kill, and no amount of training could be foolproof. I made a note to give Skip and all his friends at the LPPD hugs and thank-you’s the next time I saw them. I hoped there would be a next time.

I headed around the building and drove into the lot from the opposite corner from the X. Now Just Eddie’s truck was between me and the open door, at a distance of about twenty-five yards. I convinced myself that this made a big difference.

I’d tried Skip again when I was behind the wall, probably right under the back of the camera.

I had been in the vicinity of the storage locker for about five minutes. Chuck must have realized that Just Eddie was in custody and that he didn’t have much time, I reasoned. But maybe he thinks the police will be looking for his own red sports car. No matter, I had to do something to stall him. Otherwise it was useless for me to have conquered (almost) my fears and driven out to this place of bad vibes.

My best shot was to do something to the truck so he couldn’t drive it away. At least not until the police could get there.
What police?
I asked myself. The cop at the desk where I left a crazy woman’s message? Or my nephew, who had little reason to trust his interfering aunt?

I thought about my options for disabling the truck. It was so old and decrepit, it shouldn’t be hard. I was sure there was no alarm system in it, and no remote door opener.

Slashing the tires came to mind, but I didn’t think my Exacto knife would do the job.

What other tools did I have in the crafters tool kit I kept in the car? Wire cutters, I answered. I peered at the truck. The windows were open, which meant no locked doors (apparently, Chuck thought this was a safe neighborhood, in spite of its being a crime scene recently), but even if I did get inside to cut the wires, Chuck would no doubt be able to hotwire it in a flash.

I reached down to the floor on the passenger side, where my tool kit was. I opened it and rummaged around. Nail file, useless. Scissors, useless.

I’d seen a child sabotage a bad guy’s RV once by pouring sugar in the gas tank. I didn’t have any sugar. I wished I’d paid more attention in science class; I might have been able to come up with a mixture that was deadly for pickups.

I searched my purse. Nail-polish remover? Dry-skin cream? I was ill-equipped.

Back to the tool kit. I had pliers. Maybe I could disable the battery? Not likely. My pliers and wire cutters were meant to make neat turns in thin beading wire, or clip off stray ends—not cut through heavy-duty battery cables.

I shrank beneath my steering wheel when I heard a loud noise. Chuck, wearing a large cowboy hat and tight jeans that would have looked better on a younger, more fit man, had exited the storage with a dark green military-style duffel bag. I hoped it wasn’t his last trip. I lifted my head slowly and looked over the door of my too-red Ion. All clear.

I felt around the tool kit one more time, with my right hand, keeping my head just high enough to see the truck. Something in the top tray of the box caught on my hand and wouldn’t let go. A blob of glue, from my roll of sticky dots. The clear adhesive circles were impossible to remove once applied. Good for crafters (as long as you were sure of where to apply them), but bad for keyholes.

A single quarter-inch dot, pushed into the keyhole of the door of the truck would keep Chuck busy for hours.

I got out of my car—reluctantly—and slid along the wall, moving as quickly as I could in a squat, without making noise. Halfway down the wall, between two other metal doors, was a large, battered black Dumpster. I took a two-second rest to stretch out my legs. Then, onward.

First, I’d have to close the windows and lock the doors of the vehicle. Then I’d have to apply the glue and get back to my car, which I’d kept running. I was carrying only a strip of dots and a thin tongue depressor, to push in the key slot and tuck in the dots.

I could hear Chuck moving around in the storage area. I managed to close both windows, the old-fashioned roll-up kind. I hoped Chuck was old enough to have compromised hearing, or perhaps drunk enough not to be aware of his surroundings. The truck was parked front-end out, for easy loading, giving me some protection as I rounded the cab from one side to the other. I locked both doors, leaning against them until I heard the clicks.

It took longer than I expected to get the dots into the keyhole. The glue kept sticking to the tongue depressor and coming back out with the wood. It didn’t help that the early afternoon sun beat down on me, adding to the fear-generated perspiration on my hands. More than once I wiped my forehead on the short sleeve of my T-shirt. Finally, I broke off a piece of wood, making a sharper point, and successfully stuffed a dot of glue into the keyhole.

Now to get back to my car.

I made a dash for the Dumpster. Just in time. Chuck left the storage area carrying a small box in one hand. He lowered the door to the unit with the other. He went around to the front of his truck, first to the passenger side (my side) to deposit the box, I assumed. I couldn’t see his face, but I imagined a quizzical look when he noticed the windows rolled up and the door locked. He carried the box to the driver’s side, walking more quickly, looking over his shoulder. I shrank back behind the Dumpster, my heart pounding so loud I felt I was broadcasting my presence over a PA system.

Now the old truck was between Chuck and me, so I didn’t get a chance to enjoy his attempts to put his key in the lock. What I did see was Chuck throwing the box to the ground. He shouted a word not in my everyday vocabulary. Then he shouted it several more times. He took off his hat and slammed it on the hood. I saw the truck rock back and forth and figured he was trying to pull the locked door open.

I congratulated myself on a wonderfully executed plan. All it needed was an exit strategy, which I did not have. What I did have was Chuck, finally noticing the one other car in the lot (flashing red, it seemed to me, but partially hidden by the Dumpster) and walking toward me.

I wished I’d climbed into the Dumpster, but it was too late for that. My only hope was to outrun him to my car. I got up, ignoring the stiffness in my knees, and ran. I didn’t stop, not even when the pocket of my shorts played, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

My one smart move had been to leave my car running. I dashed in and made it out the driveway as the shot rang out, hitting my trunk. I knew I was safe, because Chuck had no way to drive after me. And also because a fleet of Lincoln Point police vehicles rounded the corner in front of me and headed into the lot.

I pulled over. My phone had stopped ringing. I checked the message.

“We’re on our way,” Skip’s voice said.

I leaned my head on my steering wheel and didn’t lift it until a few minutes later, when Skip opened my door and put his arms around me.

“You blacked out,” Beverly told me, by way of explaining
why I woke up in the hospital on Sunday morning.

I suspected it was because the ambulance had been dispatched to the crime scene and, since Chuck didn’t need it, I was the designated patient. Then, while I was here, they did some tests and gave me something to bring on a twelve-hour sleep.

Now I was being wheeled out the front door to the curb where Skip was waiting for us with my car.

“Detective Gowen at your service,” he said, and Beverly cheered.

“When did that happen?” she asked.

“Technically next Friday, but the chief called me in and told me last night.”

On the drive to my house (with me on pillows in the backseat, unnecessarily), Skip and Beverly briefed me.

Jason was on probation. I was confident that his chances of having a real family life had improved. Linda already turned over a new leaf by putting a thank-you note and a lovely basket of flowers in my hospital room.

“You should know that Linda would not leave your bedside until she was called into work,” Beverly told me. “This is the good side of Linda, back in full force.”

“Nice to know,” I said.

“And she can’t wait to tell you how grateful she is to you.” She turned to her son, in the driver’s seat. “And to you, too, of course, sweetie.”

“Right,” said the detective.

“I wonder if she had a clue what her second ex-husband was capable of,” I mused.

Beverly had an answer. “I believe her when she says she had no idea about Chuck and his involvement in the little ring of thieves. Evidently Just Eddie enlisted Chuck—birds of a feather find each other, I guess—without telling him they shared a son, in a manner of speaking.

It remained to be seen which state had first dibs on Just Eddie—New York, California, or perhaps one in between. According to Skip, he’d copped to a kidnapping charge (in the matter of Linda Reed) but was giving out details on a string of robberies in tiny dribbles, hoping for a good deal.

Of course, Chuck’s gun matched the one used in both murders. “You could have told me the same gun was used,” I chided Skip. “I might have figured the whole thing out sooner.”

“I’m fully aware that you deserve half my shield,” he said.

“I’m just glad you understood my message.”

“Two messages,” he said. “Paul Hammerfield recognized your voice on that first call and did his best to rally everyone to find the truck.”

“He was an A student,” I said.

Beverly had some new bumper stickers to show me:
MUSGRAVE FOR COUNCIL
. “Everyone I know is behind her one hundred percent,” she said.

“Even Cooney?”

“Okay, every thinking person is behind her.”

“Services for Dudley Crane are set, now that they have his killer. I guess he got greedy with that sapphire. For a while all the crooks were threatening each other with exposure.”

“With Jason Reed caught in the middle,” Beverly said. She’d brought a tin of brownies and began distributing them to us.

There was still one loose end. “Tippi Wyatt?” I asked.

“We located an aunt in Brooklyn and sent her remains. Chuck laid it out for us. Tippi had found her way to Lincoln Point, using the same ex-con network that Eddie used. She was snooping around town for a couple of days, trying to find something on Eddie so she could get Jason back. She knew the adoption was borderline and thought she would shake things up. She followed Eddie’s truck to the storage facility that night.”

“But Chuck was driving.”

“Right. And she saw things she shouldn’t have seen, probably put two and two together, and became a liability.”

All Tippi had wanted was her family. Like Linda. And Jason. I sighed deeply at the irony: Jason tried to protect Chuck Reed, the man who wasn’t his father, but gave up to the police Just Eddie, who was his real father.

I thought I’d start the week right. On Monday morning, I
picked up the phone and punched in speed-dial number three, my son’s home in Los Angeles.

I brushed off Richard’s comments about my bravery (Beverly and Skip had phoned during my brief and unnecessary hospital stay). He hadn’t seen my sweaty palms, nor my shaky knees, nor my alleged blackout.

“What would be a good time for me to visit?” I asked.

“You’re not kidding?”

Richard had every right to be surprised. I hadn’t been on a plane since Ken died. In fact, except for one trip to Monterey for a dollhouse show, I hadn’t traveled outside a thirty-mile radius of Lincoln Point in two years.

Ken and I had traveled a lot. Back to the Bronx and Jersey to see his cousins and catch an exhibit or a show. To Florida to see relatives who left New York for warmer climes. To Yosemite, to Hawaii, wherever there were mountains or an ocean. It didn’t seem right to go on journeys for pleasure without him.

Whether it was the events of the week, or some internal timer that went off inside me, I knew I was ready. I realized also why it hadn’t bothered me as much as usual on Friday when Maddie left—at some level I knew I’d be seeing her soon in her own home.

“I’m not kidding,” I told Richard. “It’s time I got out there, don’t you think?”

“You miss your granddaughter, huh?” Mary Lou said.

“I miss you all.”

“Hi, Grandma,” Maddie said, seizing control of one of the lines. “I missed all the excitement.”

How glad I was. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

“Promise? Everything?”

“I promise.”

“Wait till you see my room. I have two new things. Do you want to know what they are?”

“I certainly do.”

“A locker for my sports stuff.”

“How nice.”

“And a dollhouse!” she shrieked.

I shrieked back, as only a grandmother can.

“Are you really coming to see us soon?” she asked.

“I have to come, Maddie, I need you to reprogram my cell phone.”