Nick of Time (A Bug Man Novel) (29 page)
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“Tools? Or were you just planning to take more measurements?”
“Oh, right. Well, I thought I’d—”
“You want to tell me what you’re really doing here?”
Alena blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You’re no carpenter, lady—you don’t even dress like one. You don’t have any tools in that truck of yours, do you? And what’s with the canine corps?”
“Okay,” she mumbled. “I’m not really a carpenter.”
“Yeah, I figured—you’re a lousy liar.”
“I’m really a pretty good liar,” she said. “I’m just in a hurry right now.”
“What’s this all about?”
“You know that ‘idiot’ who was here before—the one who tore up your carpet and wall? Well . . . that idiot is my fiancé.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Believe me, right now I wish I was. We’re getting married tomorrow in Virginia and I can’t find him.”
“He was just here a couple days ago.”
“I know—but I don’t know where he went next. I knew he came to this house; I thought if I could figure out what he was doing here I might know where he went. See, your house is part of a mystery. An old man died here—you told me about him yourself, remember? The previous owner, you said. Well, the old man was sick before he died and there was a nurse who was supposed to take care of him—only he didn’t.”
“He didn’t?”
“No—and my fiancé can prove it.”
“He can? How?”
“Look—if you’ll just let me back in that bedroom for five minutes, I promise I’ll explain everything. No kidding, five minutes—that’s all I need.”
Malone paused. “Okay,” he said, “but no dogs.”
“They’re already locked up.”
When they reached the bedroom Alena immediately pulled back the carpet and exposed the base of the wall. She walked around to the nightstand and opened the top drawer.
“Hey,” Malone said.
“Sorry—I need some Q-tips and some kind of container.”
She went back to the wall and began to search along the crack while Malone watched her.
“What are you doing down there?” he asked.
“The old man died right here,” she said. “And he lay on the carpet for a long time before anybody found him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because certain kinds of flies are attracted to dead bodies. The females lay their eggs on the body, then the eggs hatch and turn into maggots, then the maggots grow up and turn into more flies—and that all takes time.” She pried out one of the little puparia, placed it in her cupped hand, and held it out to him. “See this? That’s called a
puparium
. It’s sort of like a cocoon—it’s what the maggots leave behind when they turn into grown-up flies. See, when the maggots are ready to turn into adults, they crawl away from the body and look for someplace private where they can hide. Nick knew that—he knew this crack along the wall is where they’d have to go. That’s why he ripped up your carpet—to look for these.”
“So what do they prove?”
“Like I said, it all takes
time
. Nick knows exactly how long it takes for a fly to grow from an egg to a maggot and then crawl away from the body. He found these puparia in the wall, so he knows the body had to be here at least that long.”
“I get that,” Malone said. “But you said there was a nurse who was supposed to take care of the old man, only he didn’t— and you could prove it.”
“That’s right, and this is the really cool part. See, different kinds of flies are attracted to different sorts of things—you just have to know what kind of fly it is, and an expert can tell just by looking at these cocoons they leave behind. The last time I was here I collected a few and I took pictures of them with my cell phone—I sent them to a guy down at NC State who knows all about this stuff, just like Nick does. And you know what? It turns out these are special flies—I can’t pronounce the name— but they’re not attracted to dead bodies at all.”
“Then what are they doing here?”
“They’re attracted to feces and urine—and that’s all. Get it?
That means the nurse wasn’t taking care of the old man—not for a long time. That’s why the flies were attracted to him.”
“But—if that’s true, wouldn’t the police have found the body that way?”
“Not if somebody cleaned him up after he was dead—and somebody did.”
“How do you know?”
“My dog told me.”
Malone just looked at her.
“My three-legged dog—the one you saw up on that bed last time—she’s a cadaver dog. She’s trained to detect the scent of human remains, and whenever she does, she lies down. That’s called her ‘alert’—that’s how she tells me she’s found something.
Well, she found something all right—and it was up on that bed.”
“I’m not following you,” Malone said.
Alena pointed to the bed. “The old man was lying there; he was in really bad shape because nobody was taking care of him—nobody was even bathing him. Maybe he was suffering; maybe he figured nobody was ever going to come—so he dragged himself out of bed and collapsed right there, and that’s where he died. His body lay here for days—long enough for those maggots to drop away from his body and crawl to the wall. Then somebody came along and found him—somebody who didn’t want the cops to find him in that condition—so he hoisted him up onto the bed and cleaned him up before he called the police. Guess who that ‘somebody’ was.”
“The nurse,” Malone said.
“That’s right—he was the only one with motive. Get it now? My dog found the scent of death in
two
places, but a man can die only in one—so somebody must have moved him after he died.”
“That was three years ago,” Malone said. “Your dog can still tell?”
“Yep. When a body starts to break down it releases fluids— ‘exudate,’ Nick calls it, but in my business we just call it ‘stinker juice.’ The stuff gets into carpets, mattresses, soil, whatever the body happens to be lying on—and once it’s there a dog can find it. Trygg’s amazing—she can find anything.”
“And you can prove all this—in court, I mean?”
“If I can collect enough specimens. See, the guy down at NC State—the fly expert—I sent him only a couple of photos. He says they’ll want more than photos in court—they’ll want the real thing. He says the more specimens I collect, the more positive the ID and the stronger the case. Don’t worry—it’ll only take a few minutes.” She bent down again and resumed the task of prying the fragile little capsules from their hiding place and dropping them one by one into the pill container.
“And your fiancé figured all this out?”
“We both did. Nick figured out the bug part, but Trygg found the scent on the mattress—that’s the part that really points the finger at that nurse. The bugs only prove that the nurse was negligent; the mattress proves he was trying to cover it up, and that’s what’ll send him to jail.”
“Then your fiancé doesn’t know yet?”
“Not ’til I can find him. I can’t wait to see the look on Nick’s face when I tell him—he’ll think twice before he leaves me behind again.”
“What about that fly expert down at NC State—did you tell him?”
Alena turned and looked at him.
“I knew I should have gotten rid of that mattress,” Malone said.
He was pointing a gun at her head.
N
ick sat up straight and watched the vehicle’s headlights as they approached; the car was definitely slowing down. Nick had pulled his own car off the road about fifty yards ahead and tucked it in behind a stand of pitch pines where he would have a clear view of the road. Through the blinding glare of the approaching headlights he could make out only a single passenger, in the driver’s seat. It had to be Donovan—it was only the third vehicle that had passed in the last half hour and the only one to show any interest in the obscure side road that led down to Yanuzzi’s cabin. The car slowed to a stop, flashed its brights once, and began to turn.
Nick gave it a few seconds, then started his own engine and followed.
The other car had already rolled to a stop and killed its lights by the time Nick pulled up beside it. He looked over at the hunting cabin to make sure there were no signs of activity before he switched on his dome lights and nodded a greeting to the other car. Donovan did the same, and both men got out of their cars and quietly shut their doors.
Donovan took in the surroundings. “When you told me this place was out of the way, you weren’t kidding—I think my GPS gave up the ghost. Why did you pick this place?”
“The cabin belongs to Ed Yanuzzi.”
Donovan gave Nick a look. “Are we talking about Tony Womack—the guy you think tried to shoot you this morning?”
“That’s him—it happened right here.”
“Nick, why in the world would you risk coming back?”
“Does it seem ridiculous to you?”
“It sure does.”
“Then it’ll seem ridiculous to him. This is the place he tried to kill me, Donovan—he’d never expect me to come back here.”
“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t think you’re an idiot.”
“I’ll try to take that as a compliment.”
“If this is Womack’s place, how did you know he wouldn’t be here?”
“It’s a hunting cabin. Nothing’s in season right now.”
“What if he comes out here just to get away?”
“You know, you’re starting to depress me. If you’re going to worry about all the things that
might
go wrong, we’ll be here all night.”
“I thought that was the plan.”
“Well, I don’t plan to spend the whole night depressed, so lighten up.” Nick walked over to the cabin and pointed to a splintered half-inch hole in one of the wooden posts; then he stepped up onto the porch and leaned against the post just as he had done that morning before the shot was fired.
Donovan nodded. “Yeah, I’d say that was a close call. You’ve had closer, but it definitely qualifies.”
“Yanuzzi said somebody was just trying to run me off—he said I was too big a target to miss.”
“That all depends on range and windage,” Donovan said. “It also depends on how good the guy was who was taking the shot.”
“What if it was Yanuzzi?”
“Then he was telling the truth, he was trying to run you off—or you’d be dead right now.”
“I can’t figure out why the guy would want to run me off.”
“Are you kidding? Even I want to run you off sometimes.”
Nick turned to the cabin door and tried the knob. “That’s odd.”
“What?”
“The door—it’s unlocked.”
“Was it locked when you came out here before?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s kind of important, Nick—if it was locked the last time, that means somebody’s been out here since.”
“Well, we’re here now and the door’s open, so we might as well go in. No sense worrying about Yanuzzi; he isn’t going to show up at this time of night.”
“You sure about that?”
“There you go again—Mister Negativity.”
Nick pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness. He remembered the location of one of the wall sconces; he felt around until he found a box of kitchen matches and lit the wick—the lamp cast a warm orange light over the cabin.
Donovan shut the door. “Just one lamp,” he said, “and keep the shades down—no sense advertising that we’re here.”
Nick stood in the center of the cabin with his hands on his hips, looking around the room. “It just doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“What doesn’t?”
“Yanuzzi had a deputy, a guy named Marty Keller; Keller was killed back in December.”
“Killed how?”
“Hunting accident—at least, that was the official ruling.”
“But you’re not convinced.”