Orchid Beach hb-1 Page 4

  “Okay, Jimmy, I think that about does it,” she said, getting into the car. “Jane said you could show me where Hank Doherty lives.”

  “Sure. Straight ahead about a mile.”

  Holly got the car going. “Do you know Hank Doherty?”

  “Sure, everybody knows him.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He and the chief did a lot of drinking together.”

  “Where? Did they have a regular place?”

  “There’s a bar up the road. They were in there a lot.”

  “Doherty raises dogs?”

  “That’s right, only I don’t think he does it much any more. It’s a shame, too. He was a kind of wizard with dogs.”

  “Retired?”

  “Well, chief, Hank does a lot of drinking, even when he’s not with the chief. I’ve heard rumors he was real sick. I think he’s in a lot of pain, you know? He’s in a wheelchair. He doesn’t have any legs. Vietnam.”

  “Oh.” She wondered why her father had never mentioned Doherty’s lack of legs.

  “It’s right up ahead, here,” Jimmy said, pointing at a small house set only a little back from the road.

  Holly pulled into the short driveway and stopped the car. A sign on the front-yard fence read DOHERTY’S DOGS. SECURITY AND OBEDIENCE TRAINING. She got out of the car and walked through the gate into an ill-tended front yard. She walked up the steps to the front porch and rang the bell. Jimmy stood next to her. Nobody came to the door. She rang the bell again, with the same result.

  “He seems to be out,” Holly said.

  “He doesn’t go out, except with the chief. The chief would come by here after work, get Hank into his car and drive down the road to the Tavern, where they did their drinking. A black lady did his grocery shopping and cleaned house for him.”

  Holly went back to the driveway and walked toward the rear of the house. A dirty white van was parked in an alcove. A ramp led from the back door of the house to where the van was parked. She looked into the vehicle: it was fitted with hand controls for the brake and accelerator. She walked up the ramp and tried the door. It was unlocked.

  “Let’s take a look inside,” she said. “Maybe he’s passed out or something.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jimmy said.

  Holly walked through the door and found herself in a kitchen. The remains of breakfast were on a table in the center of the room. “Mr. Doherty?” she called out. “Hank?”

  She started for the door on the other side of the kitchen, then stopped. As if by magic, a dog had materialized in the doorway—a Doberman pinscher, strongly muscled.

  The dog emitted a low growl and its lips curled back, revealing large white fangs.

  Holly stopped. “Hello, puppy,” she said. She had had a dog as a little girl, but when it was hit by a car, her father had talked her out of getting another one. An army life was nomadic, and a dog was a lot of baggage.

  The dog growled more loudly.

  “Jimmy, back out of here,” she said. “And don’t run.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jimmy replied.

  Holly stood her ground. “Hello, puppy,” she repeated.

  The dog repeated its previous statement.

  They seemed to be at an impasse.

  CHAPTER

  6

  H olly waited a moment, then got down on her knees and held out a hand, palm down. “C’mere, puppy,” she cooed, as sweetly as she could. “Come see me.”

  The dog stopped growling but didn’t move, still eyeing her suspiciously.

  “Come on over here and see me, sweetheart. You’re a good dog. Come on, now.”

  The dog made a small sound in its throat and slowly walked toward Holly. It sniffed the outstretched hand.

  Holly stayed still for a moment, then stroked the dog’s muzzle with the backs of her fingers. “Yes, you’re a good dog; you’re not going to eat me, are you? I certainly hope not.”

  Then the dog did an odd thing: it took Holly’s fingers gently in its mouth and tugged.

  Holly had to put out her other hand to keep from falling on her face, but the dog didn’t let go. It continued pulling. Holly got to her feet and followed the dog, which backed through the kitchen door, towing her into a hallway, then dropped Holly’s hand and turned toward the closed door at the end of the hall. The door was in terrible shape; it was covered in deep scratches.

  “I guess you wanted to go in there,” Holly said. “Just a minute, and I’ll open it for you.” She turned the doorknob and pulled the door open. The dog ran into the room, which was a reception area, and disappeared around the front desk into the rear part of the room. Holly followed. As she turned the corner of the desk, she stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, Jesus,” she said.

  A legless man lay on his back beside an overturned wheelchair; most of his head was missing. The dog lay down beside the body and laid its head on a dead hand, making small noises in its throat.

  “Shotgun,” Holly said aloud to herself. She started to approach the body, but the dog lifted its head and growled. Holly stopped. “Come here, puppy. Come!” she said firmly; then she repeated herself.

  The dog got to its feet and came to her. Holly stroked its face and head and scratched it behind the ears. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you? You tried to come and help Hank, but the door was closed. How did you get in the kitchen? Who put you there?” For a moment, she thought the dog would tell her. Holly stood up. On the counter beside her lay a leash and a chain collar. She picked up the collar and read the tag. “So your name is Daisy, is that right? You’re a girl, just like me.” She put the collar over the dog’s head, and attached the leash to it. “I want you to come outside with me, Daisy,” she said softly, tugging at the leash. It took more encouragement, but Daisy finally followed her through the kitchen and out the back door.

  Jimmy was waiting beside the steps. “Everything under control?”

  “Not exactly,” Holly said. “Daisy, this is Jimmy. I want you to stay here with him. Jimmy, pet Daisy, and get to be friends.”

  Daisy allowed herself to be petted by the policeman.

  “Daisy, you sit down right here.”

  Daisy sat down.

  “Keep her here with you. I’m going back inside.”

  “What’s going on in there? Is Hank passed out?”

  “Hank is dead,” Holly replied. “I’m going to phone it in, and when people start arriving, you keep Daisy here, and keep talking to her. She’s very upset, and I don’t think she’s the kind of dog you’d want to upset any more than she already is.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jimmy said.

  Holly went back into the house, gingerly picked up the phone on the front desk and punched in 911. She didn’t even know if the town had 911 service, but now was the time to find out.

  “Orchid Beach Police,” a woman’s voice said. “What is your emergency?”

  “This is Deputy Chief of Police Holly Barker,” Holly said. She picked up a business card from a little stand on the desk and read out the address. “I’ve got a death by gunshot at this address,” she said. “I want you to find Bob Hurst and get him out here right now, ready to work the scene. Is there a medical examiner in this town?”

  “Yes, Chief, but not full time.”

  “Find him and get him out here, too. I’ll need an ambulance later, but there’s no hurry about that.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Have you got an ID on the body?”

  “His name is Henry Doherty.”

  “Hank? Ohhh, I liked Hank. Is Daisy all right?”

  “Daisy is all right. Now you get moving.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Holly hung up and looked around the room. She hadn’t noticed it before, but a pump shotgun with a short barrel lay beside the body. She didn’t touch it. Apart from the dead man on the floor, the room was in good order. A desk stood in a corner, and its top was neatly arranged. She walked over and, using a pen from her pocket, poked among the papers on the desk. There
was some mail—bills, mostly, but one from a Mrs. Eleanor Warner, at an Atlanta address. Holly walked around the room and looked at the rest of it. A small safe stood behind the desk, its door ajar; she’d go through that later. When she had seen the room, she walked through an open door and down another hall to a bedroom. It contained the usual furniture, except for a hospital bed with some sort of trapeze bar hanging above it. In a corner stood a pair of prosthetic legs and two canes. Apparently, Hank Doherty had not always used the wheelchair.

  Out the back door was a series of kennel houses, surrounded by a chain-link fence. She was impressed with how neat everything was. Only the front yard seemed neglected. She went back into the house and then out again, via the kitchen door. Jimmy stood patiently holding Daisy’s leash. She petted the dog. “Jimmy, do you think the chief’s car would have some rubber gloves in it?”

  “It might.”

  Holly took the leash from him. “See if you can find me some.”

  Jimmy went to the car, looked into the glove compartment and came back with the gloves.

  Holly had a thought. “Did the chief carry a shotgun in his car?”

  “Yes, ma’am; all the patrol cars have shotguns.”

  “Go see if there’s one in the chief’s car.”

  Jimmy checked the car, looked in the trunk and returned. “No, ma’am, there’s no shotgun in the car.”

  Holly handed him Daisy’s leash and went back into the house, slipping on the rubber gloves. Back in the office, she turned over the shotgun and jotted down the serial number on the back of a glove, then she called the station and asked for Jane.

  “Jane here,” she said.

  “It’s Holly. Do you have a list handy of the departmental weapons’ serial numbers?”

  “Right here in my computer.”

  “Look up the serial number of the chief’s shotgun, the one he carried in his car.” Holly heard the tapping of computer keys.

  Jane read out the number.

  “Thanks. If you need me I’m at Hank Doherty’s house.” She gave Jane the number, then hung up. When she turned around a man was standing in the doorway. He was in his late thirties, at least six-four and two hundred and fifty pounds, of athletic build, wearing a wash-and-wear suit.

  “I’m Bob Hurst,” he said.

  “Holly Barker,” she replied, extending a hand. “Pardon my gloves.”

  “Heard about you, glad to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  “What we got?”

  “Hank Doherty, apparently. Dead, shotgun to the face.”

  Hurst nodded, walked around the desk and took a good look. “Looks like a police weapon,” he said.

  “It’s Chief Marley’s,” she replied. “I checked the serial number.”

  He looked at her oddly. “That’s kind of weird.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve had a walk-through. It’s all in good order; nothing seems to have been stolen. The safe’s open, and it doesn’t seem like a robbery.”

  “From what I know of Hank, it could be suicide,” Hurst said.

  “With the chief’s shotgun?”

  “Well, there is that.”

  “Let’s treat it as a homicide until we know more. You work the scene, I’ll go through the desk and the safe.”

  “Right.”

  Holly went and sat behind the desk. She gave her first attention to the letter from Mrs. Eleanor Warner. It was two pages of affectionate chat, with talk of her children. Mrs. Warner was Hank’s daughter.

  Holly went through the bills and other mail and found nothing remarkable. Finally, she came to a bound document under a blank legal pad. The cover, apparently printed from a computer, was set in large type. It read:

  DAISY

  EXCELLENT WORKING BITCH

  “Oh, Daisy,” Holly said aloud. “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  H olly went through Hank Doherty’s safe and found three hundred dollars and change in cash, a life insurance policy and some other personal and business documents. “I think we can discount robbery as a motive,” she said to Bob Hurst, who was dusting the counter and the phone for fingerprints. “There’s cash here, and nobody bothered to look.”

  “Right,” Hurst said. “I don’t hold out much hope for any relevant prints. The shotgun’s been wiped clean, which means it wasn’t suicide.”

  A man carrying a medical bag entered through the front door.

  “Hey, Doc,” Hurst said. “Got a job for you over there.”

  “Is it Hank?” the doctor asked.

  “Sure is. That there is Deputy Chief Barker,” he said, pointing a gloved hand. “Chief, this here is Dr. Fred Harper, who passes for our M.E. around here.”

  Holly waved from Hank’s desk. “Hey, Dr. Harper.”

  “How you do?” The doctor walked around the counter and into the office. “Jesus God,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah,” Hurst replied.

  The doctor knelt by the body and looked it over carefully. Finally he stood up. “I don’t think I can tell you anything you don’t already know,” he said. “Not until I get a postmortem done, anyway.”

  “The ambulance is here,” Hurst said. “You ready to move him?”

  The doctor looked inquiringly at Holly.

  “Go ahead, if you’re ready,” she said.

  Two paramedics came into the building, loaded the corpse onto a stretcher and removed it to the ambulance.

  “Let me know when you’re done,” Holly said to the doctor. “I’d like you to be thorough.”

  “I always am,” the doctor said. “I’ll try to get it done by the close of business, but I can’t promise.” He picked up his bag and left.

  “I’m about done,” Hurst said.

  “When do you think it happened?” Holly asked.

  “Last night, I reckon.”

  “That’s what I figured, but there’s the remains of breakfast on the kitchen table. Some scrambled eggs.”

  “Hank didn’t eat a lot,” Hurst replied. “That could have been last night’s supper.”

  “We’ll know for sure when the doctor is done.” She indicated a chair across the desk from her. “Take a seat for a minute.”

  Hurst sat down, shucking off his rubber gloves.

  “Give me your take on what happened here,” she said.

  Hurst sighed. “Somebody came in through the front door with a shotgun, used it on Hank and walked out. Simple as that.”

  Holly nodded. “Why was the dog in the kitchen with the door closed?”

  Hurst furrowed his brow. “Good point. I can’t think of any reason why Hank would shut the dog up in there.”

  “Maybe Hank didn’t do it. Maybe his visitor did.”

  “Why would the dog mind a visitor, a stranger?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a stranger.”

  “Granted. I’ve been around Hank and the dog, though; the dog didn’t listen to anybody, unless Hank…”

  “Gave his permission?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe the visitor asked Hank to shut the dog in the kitchen. Maybe the dog made the visitor nervous.”

  “Maybe,” Hurst said, “but why would Hank do that? If he told Daisy to lie down and be quiet, then that’s what she did. No reason for anybody to be nervous. On the other hand, anybody who was planning to shoot Hank wouldn’t want Daisy in the room; she’d tear his throat out.”

  “She’s trained that way?”

  “She’s trained every which way,” Hurst said. “That’s some dog.”

  “I think our perp came in through the kitchen door,” Holly said. “I think Daisy went to investigate, recognized him as somebody she knew and trusted, and as he walked in here, he shut the kitchen door behind him, trapping her in there.”

  “Makes sense,” Hurst agreed.

  “The front door was unlocked when I got here, and so was the back door.”

  “Makes a lot of sense. Especially if it was the chief.”

&n
bsp; “You think the chief would kill Hank Doherty?”

  Hurst shook his head. “No, but it wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong about something like that. It’s his shotgun. Daisy knew and trusted him, knew he was a friend.”

  “I don’t think it was the chief either,” Holly said, “but we’ve got to touch that base.”

  “Right.”

  “Tell me about last night.”

  “I got a call at home at eleven-fourteen; I was out there at eleven-twenty. The chief was lying on his back, lit by his car’s headlights, and a man from Vero Beach was with him, trying to help. The ambulance got there at eleven twenty-three and rushed him off to the hospital. I worked the scene in a standard manner, took a tire impression from another vehicle parked in front of the chief’s car. There were some footprints, but nothing good enough for an impression. The tire was a Goodyear Eagle, common rubber, no indication of the kind of car. Hurd Wallace got there right after the ambulance left, and we walked around the scene together; didn’t find any other evidence.”

  “Did you find the chief’s weapon?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a good report,” Holly said. “Now tell me what you think went down, based on the evidence you found.”

  “Looks to me like the chief stopped a car, maybe for a traffic violation, maybe because something about it made him suspicious, and it went sour. They shot him, took his gun and went on their way.”

  “Simple as that?”

  “Simple as that.”

  “You said ‘they’: more than one perp?”

  “One, maybe two. Couldn’t tell.”

  “You think he knew them?”

  “It’s possible, but there’s no evidence of that.”

  “When you stop somebody, what usually happens?” she asked. “Does he get out of the car?”

  “Not usually. They sit there and roll down the window.”

  “If you stopped a car with two men in it and both of them got out, what would you do?”

  “I’d back off and tell them to put their hands on the car.”

  “Wouldn’t the chief do the same?”