Murder Lake Page 3

  Charles Holloway had definitely been up to something.

  Or someone.

  10

  Dawkins finished up the workout that Ellen Rockne had interrupted.

  Not that he generally minded being told what to do by a beautiful woman.

  He punched the swinging bag a few more times, feeling the old spring in his step. He might be retired but a few rounds never failed to lighten his mood.

  Dawkins stopped the bag and went to get himself cleaned up. As he did, he thought about his conversation with Ellen.

  How had he even heard about Dr. Khatri?

  It wasn’t from his manager.

  Oh, that’s right. It had been from Johnson. Benjamin “Blackjack” Johnson had been an old buddy of his back in the day. Good boxer, and a good gambler, too, hence the name.

  That’d been how he’d ended up needing Dr. Khatri, actually. Blackjack had gotten into a fight with another guy over cheating at cards. The fight had spilled out into an alley. Dawkins hadn’t been there himself but he’d heard all about it.

  A lot of the crowd he’d run with back in the day had been there. Blackjack had won the fight but the other guy had messed up Blackjack’s eye. Blackjack had been taken to Dr. Khatri, emergency situation sort of deal, and gotten patched up good as new. He’d even been able to keep boxing for a few more years.

  Dawkins supposed that when the guy’s the only doctor around and you’re desperate that he’d be the kind of guy you’d go to. But unlike Blackjack, Dawkins had had time to think about what to do. He hadn’t been in an ‘act now or lose the eye’ situation. More like ‘act as soon as possible to make your life easier.’

  So he’d left when Khatri had given him the creeps.

  But Blackjack would know how to get in touch with him. He was the kind of guy who stayed in touch with people that way. He lived down in Detroit still but Dawkins could get there easily.

  He grabbed his phone and punched in the number for the police station. “Hello, can I speak to Chief Rockne?”

  A moment later Ellen was on the phone. “Rockne.”

  “Hey, it’s Dynamite.” He’d seen the twitch in her face when he’d asked her to call him that. He figured this was a fun way to get under her skin a little.

  “Ah, calling to confess?” Ellen’s voice was lighthearted though. It seemed she didn’t think he was a suspect anymore.

  That was good, seeing as he didn’t do it.

  “Actually, I thought of something that might help the case. I remembered the guy who recommended Khatri to me. He’s a good guy, former boxer like me. Lives down in Detroit.”

  “Detroit, huh?” Dawkins sensed frustration that a witness was that far away from Good Isle.

  “If you need to interview him, I know a handsome local guy who is an amateur pilot and also happens to own a plane.”

  There was a pause. Then, “You own a plane?”

  “Yup.”

  Ellen’s sigh was epic. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “I can fly out and talk with him for you. I know you’re probably busy here, ordering people around and all.”

  Ellen chuckled and Dawkins counted it as a victory. “All right, I suppose you can go out and talk to him. Even though you’re not an officer or anything.”

  “It’ll just be a friendly visit where I, by chance, bring up our dear doctor.”

  “How soon do you think you’ll be able to get me information?”

  “I can get back to you by tomorrow morning at the latest but hopefully tonight. I don’t see any reason why I’d need to stay overnight.”

  “You don’t have anything else going on today?”

  “Nope. I’m retired. That’s code for boring.”

  “And here I was thinking you flew planes around and got kidnapped by rednecks every weekend.”

  “That’s just for special occasions. So, I’ll keep you posted.”

  “That would be great,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  And for a brief moment he thought he heard genuine sincerity in her voice. Ellen Rockne had a slightly sarcastic sense of humor, and Dawkins loved the snark. But still, it was good to hear something genuine once in awhile.

  “No problem.”

  He hung up and looked around at the room, as if a duffel bag was going to magically appear out of thin air. Right. Packing.

  There wasn’t a lot that he needed for a day trip down to Detroit. He packed a small bag and headed out to the airstrip. He didn’t fly his bird as much as he’d like to. It was a bit of a hassle sometimes. He often ended up just fishing at the lake or going on a walk. That would change, he promised himself. He’d go out flying more regularly.

  The flight itself was pleasant. He had good weather and a clear sky that let him see for miles. He’d originally gotten his pilot’s license on a dare. He’d done a lot of things on a dare, actually. But he’d come to really love it. There was something about being up in the air away from everyone else. It was just you and the sky.

  And the machine, of course, which required a lot of concentration.

  No more than boxing, actually, but it was a different kind of concentration. Flying put him in a concentrated Zen zone the way fishing put him into a relaxed daydreaming zone.

  He’d called ahead so that when he touched down, Johnson was already there waiting for him. “Dynamite!” he yelled, grinning wide as Dawkins approached. “How’ve you been?”

  “Hey, Blackjack. Can’t complain,” Dawkins replied, giving Johnson a quick bear hug and clapping him on the back. Blackjack Johnson was a huge guy. He had an inch or two on Dawkins and in his heyday his arms had been the size of most guys’ thighs. Now he’d gotten a bit smaller, no longer working out as hard. His dark skin gleamed in the sunlight and the lines around his eyes weren’t as tight. He looked more relaxed than Dawkins had seen him in years.

  “How about you?” Dawkins asked. They walked towards the exit together.

  “Honestly?” Johnson gave a loose, easy smile. “Retirement’s suiting me just fine. I bought this one bar that I used to visit all the time. Guy was going into retirement himself. So now I own it and I bartend a few nights a week.”

  “You realize that when most people retire they don’t take over a business, right?”

  Johnson waved him off. “Ah, you know I gotta keep busy.”

  “And you’re still going to the meetings?” Dawkins had been a part of an intervention for Johnson six years ago. His gambling had always been a part of him. For years, Dawkins hadn’t realized that it was an addiction. But when Johnson’s gambling had resulted in bankruptcy and a few brawls, his friends had started to take notice. Worst of all, his gambling was affecting his boxing career. He’d stay up late at the table and be too tired to workout or fight. He’d blow off sparring for a game. It wasn’t good.

  “Yup, every Tuesday night.” Johnson dug into his pocket and pulled out a chip. “I got my five-year chip last week.”

  “I’m real proud of you,” Dawkins said. He meant it.

  “What about you? Bored with fishing yet?”

  “Hey, don’t knock fishing.” Dawkins gave him a playful punch. “So, where’re we eating?”

  “Ah, man, you’re going to love it. Best burgers ever, I found it a few months ago. The good greasy stuff.”

  Dawkins smiled. “Perfect.”

  He waited until about halfway through their meal before popping the question. “Hey, you remember that guy who took care of your eye for you?”

  “Yeah. He was a real lifesaver.”

  Dawkins couldn’t disagree with that. The pictures had shown Johnson’s eye was real busted up. Now only a slightly drooping eyelid indicated anything had ever been wrong. “What was his name again?”

  “Khatri.”

  “Yeah, he’s out in the Caribbean, isn’t he?”

  Dawkins meant to get the guy’s phone number from Johnson, maybe find out if he’d visited Detroit recently, but Johnson surprised him. “No, man. He actually has a place
upstate.”

  “Upstate?” Dawkins felt like he must have heard wrong.

  Johnson took another bite and swallowed. “Yeah. He lives in some small town or other up in northern Michigan.”

  Dawkins chewed his burger carefully so he wouldn’t choke. Johnson thought for a moment before clarifying.

  “Somewhere near Good Isle.”

  11

  The door of the Heartley household remained closed, despite my third round of knocking.

  I’d swung by the dry cleaning shop first but it was being run by an employee with no owners on the premises.

  Now it appeared there wasn’t anyone home either.

  I got ready to knock one more time when the door swung open and a woman answered. She was all curves, with ginger hair and a full mouth. In Hollywood, she might have played a femme fatale. Here in Michigan, she looked like a solid Midwesterner with a little too much makeup.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Maura Heartley?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes.”

  “Hi, I’m Ellen Rockne, Chief of Police. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “Oh, sure. C’mon in.”

  The body and the personality did not match. As she led me inside Maura moved like a tiny bird, complete with fluttering hands and tiny, fidgety feet. Her voice was very soft and melodious. If I’d been talking to her on the phone I’d have pictured someone tiny and petite.

  “I’m sorry things are such a mess,” Maura apologized. I looked around. The house was kind of dark, but clean. Then she led me into the kitchen and I saw what she was talking about.

  There were little hats. Everywhere.

  It was too bad that Maura was looking right at me or I’d snap a picture to send to John. He’d get a real kick out of this.

  “Like I said, it’s a bit of a mess. I just started the business and I have plenty of supply but not a whole lot of demand.”

  The hats were all tiny. Some looked like they’d fit a child. Others were too small even for that. And there were all kinds—baseball caps, top hats. There was even a sombrero.

  She caught me eyeing it and smiled. “Oh, yes, this one actually was for a commission.” Maura picked it up and held it out to me. “It’s for a Mexican Chihuahua. His name is Noriega.”

  I had a feeling there were some Hispanic people that’d take offense to that but I said nothing. Instead I asked, “They’re for pets?”

  “Yes!” Maura beamed like a child. “Aren’t they adorable?”

  “They’re something,” I said. No reason not to bolster her spirits a little. “Pet fashion is all the rage these days. You’ve probably timed the market perfectly. But actually, I wanted to ask you a few questions. About Charles Holloway?”

  Maura’s face fell. “Oh dear. I heard what happened. Real shame, wouldn’t you say?”

  She didn’t seem very upset about it. “I heard that you two had…”

  “Oh yes.” Maura nodded. “But it’s not like how you think! Everyone thought we were serious lovers. It was just a little fling. It didn’t last very long, honestly. But everyone made a big deal out of it and then George found out.”

  She sat down, sniffling. I wasn’t quite sure how to tell her that ‘fling’ or not, cheating on your spouse tends to be a big no-no in relationships.

  A tiny little fedora was in Maura’s hand. An Italian Greyhound?

  “I’m sorry,” I said, patting her on the shoulder. Maura pulled herself together and sat up straighter.

  “Is your husband home?” I asked. “Could I talk to him?”

  Maura shook her head. “He doesn’t live here anymore. After he found out about the thing with Charles, he left me. That’s why I’m making these pet hats. I have to support myself somehow.”

  She looked at the animal hats as if they might provide an answer.

  They didn’t.

  I snapped my fingers. “Hey, I just remembered. I have a friend who owns a Doberman Pinscher. That German World War II helmet would be perfect,” I said.

  Maura perked up. “Really?”

  She sprang to her feet and started putting the monstrosity into a box.

  “What’s the address of your husband’s new place?” I asked. “Just for formality sake I’ll need to ask him a couple of questions.

  Ten minutes later I had a gift-wrapped custom-made World War II hat for a Doberman Pinscher.

  And the address of one George Heartley.

  12

  Not only had his marriage gone to hell, but so had George Heartley’s real estate situation.

  While the Heartley home I’d just left hadn’t been spectacular, it had been fairly nice. After making my way to the address his wife had given me, I was faced with a structure that looked like it might get dragged onto a frozen lake and used for ice fishing.

  George would have been better off with a trailer.

  Or the bus station.

  George Heartley was sitting on a chair on the sagging porch, nursing a beer. It wasn’t the first, judging by the empty cans around him.

  “George?” I asked, even though I was fairly confident in his identity.

  “Yes ma’am,” he slurred. His eyes raked over me, not even trying to be subtle.

  “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

  George stood up. He was overweight but looked like a guy who might be good looking if he put some effort in. Right now, in a stained shirt with a beer belly? Not so much.

  “Hey sexy police lady, you can ask me whatever you want.”

  He sauntered on down the rickety steps.

  “I bet you got a pair of handcuffs and know how to use them.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Boy, I had never heard that one before.

  “Is this,” I asked, gesturing toward him and drawing a little circle in the air around him, “the reason your wife was filibustering Congressman Holloway?”

  It stunned him.

  And then he burst into tears.

  He sobbed for a couple of minutes, wiped his nose with his sleeve, then went back and cracked a fresh beer.

  “Maybe,” he said, tears still sliding down his face. “You’d have to ask her. That damn Maura. Took the best years of my life. You’d think she was so sweet but oh, no. She was making a fool out of me.”

  “So you knew about her and Charles Holloway?”

  George’s eyes focused and he narrowed them, staring up at me. “Not just him. She was tag-teaming it, with him and some other guy.”

  It was an intriguing bit of news, but I had my doubts. He might be trying his best to besmirch her reputation even more.

  But a part of me wondered if the kooky woman back at the house making tiny hats for dogs was capable of getting kinky.

  It was always a possibility.

  Maybe she put one of those little hats on her boyfriend’s you-know-what.

  There could be some additional motive, too. If there was another man involved, maybe he wanted Maura all to himself.

  George was clearly no competition but a rich, powerful former congressman? Maybe this other man wanted to get rid of his rival.

  “Who was this guy?”

  George wiped at his eyes. “Some Arab terrorist. ISIS or Al Qaeda from what I heard.”

  Either George was drunker than I’d thought or he just had a really good imagination.

  “How do you know this?”

  “I don’t. It’s just what I heard.”

  “And where were you when Holloway was murdered?”

  George spit out his beer. “What?”

  That was a surprise. Good Isle was a small town. I figured for sure that he’d heard.

  Behind his bloodshot eyes I saw new life. A plan to get back his lady. I didn’t give him much of a chance.

  When I told him the time frame, he said he was working and there were other people with him at the time. They could vouch for him.

  I got him some water from inside, made him drink it, and told him to call me if he thought o
f anything else regarding Holloway. Other than some choice curse words for the guy, George didn’t seem to know much of anything. But he’d given me one important clue.

  An Arab terrorist in northern Michigan sounded a bit farfetched. But what if this was an exaggeration? George didn’t know the guy’s name the way he’d known Holloway’s. What if this other guy was someone dangerous?

  What if he’d eliminated Charles Holloway?

  13

  Dawkins called Ellen on his way back to the plane. “I’ve got some interesting news for you.”

  “I don’t know how any news I got could be more interesting than what George Heartley told me, but you’re welcome to try.” She sounded lighthearted again. Dawkins smiled. He liked this more playful, challenging side of Ellen Rockne.

  “How about we meet for a quick drink? I’m flying back now so I should be in time for us to get something,” he said. “I know a great place.”

  Dawkins told her the address and after he touched down back in Good Isle, he made his way straight to it: The Dock, a popular lakeside brewery.

  Ellen was already inside when he got there, sitting at one of the tables near the bar, half-watching a game on television.

  She’d changed out of her uniform and into jeans and a form-fitting shirt.

  Dawkins liked what he saw. This Ellen Rockne was beginning to intrigue him more and more.

  “They’ve got a great happy hour menu if you’re hungry,” he said.

  “This wine is all I need right now,” she said, lifting the glass of chardonnay in front of her.

  Dawkins ordered some pretzels with cheese dip.

  “So,” Ellen asked. “What’d you find out?”

  Dawkins explained what Blackjack had told him, leading up to the big news. “The guy’s not in the Caribbean. He’s living up here, in northern Michigan.”

  Dawkins watched her absorb the information. She had a great face, open, but with intelligent, quick eyes.

  “I was surprised,” Dawkins said. “I think I’d know him if he was. Everybody knows everybody around here. But he could easily have one of those large lake houses that’s far away from everyone. Or he could be in another town nearby.”