Chapter 6
Max caught the urgency in Sinclair’s tone, transferring it right into muscles already jacked to hightail it out of this place. He grabbed a pen and held it over a yellow notepad next to the phone. “Go.” The number wasn’t local. “Got it. What do you have for me?”
“Like to visit the shooter’s home with you, if possible. Your answer as to why this happened might be there. I can confirm it for you if I see it.”
Chills lifted on Max’s arms, even though he knew full well the guy couldn’t know his immediate plans.
“Not going to happen, bud. Believe me.”
A soft chuckle sounded through the receiver.
“Thought so, but worth a shot. Here’s the point. I need to know if you found a distinctive burn mark anywhere near the shooter’s bed.”
Max knew he wore what Fergus coined as his “Did you actually ask me that shit” face. He let his head loll back on his shoulders and spit out a familiar line.
“Look. I don’t discuss specifics of ongoing cases, and you’re wasting my time here.”
“Wait. I know you want to hang up, but you need to understand this won’t be your last one, Detective Browning. Expect more.”
“Yeah, crime happening every day. What’s new, fella?”
“No, this is different. We need to search the killer’s home for the mark to prove what I’m trying to tell you. If we don’t find it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Head shaking in disgust, Max set the phone back in the cradle, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the office. Insistent ringing followed him down the hallway.
“Nut bags.”
Mary’s name floated on the airwaves for less than two hours and the loose screws backed out of the woodwork at a steady pace. The first drizzle of morning coffee hadn’t met his gut before a call came in from a frantic man claiming Mary Galesh killed his dog. Better yet, would forensics come out to test the bullet he pulled from its neck to determine a match with the Glock? Oddballs always trickled in right after the killer’s name released to the public. Poor JoAnn. He’d owe her big time for fielding all his calls, and the list already draped to his knee.
* * * * *
“Shit. They’re going to make me run the gauntlet,” Max muttered. He cut the engine to the Vic and stared at the tired, old adversary he’d grown to despise over the years.
Damn vultures.
News vans lined the cul-de-sac while perfectly coifed and well-dressed aggressive reporters vied for the prime spot in front of the Galesh home. Their usual, rabid pack mindset caused him to park six houses down and at a weird angle.
If younger and Gus in the passenger seat egging him on, he would’ve pulled up on the sidewalk and caught some primetime news coverage as he scattered the assholes. Good times.
Notepad and trusty pen shoved into his front pocket, Max slipped from the car and relaxed his features into what he liked to term his “dead face.” If he didn’t, the reporters would remark with all seriousness the detective on the case appeared angry, concerned, shocked, or any other such nonsense to titillate the viewers. The best they could get out of his mask and stay as close to the truth as possible was “placid.” No one turned up the volume on a dull adjective. Hope grew toward their continued ignorance of his presence.
“Detective Browning!”
Shit.
“Do you have any information on why Mary Galesh shot and killed nine people?” a woman with heavily painted eyes and brilliant white teeth screamed above the other voices.
“No comment.”
Within seconds, his movement forward reduced to that of a ninety-year-old. Of course, it wasn’t anyone he recognized pressing in on him. All the seasoned ones knew better than to get up in his grill. They all rested against their vans, sporting shit-eating grins, and waiting for the explosion. After the third microphone popped him on the chin, Max halted. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the determined crowd and deepened his voice into dark menace.
“Back up or face charges of assaulting a police officer. Your choice but make it quick.”
Threat working, progress toward the house improved. Sometimes it paid off to be much taller and meaner than the surrounding enemy could claim.
A male voice somewhere over his right shoulder shouted, “Detective Browning, what have you discovered about Mary Galesh’s motive? Why did she do it? Were there any other people involved? Did her husband know she was going to do it?”
“What Captain Walters gave you this morning is all we’re allowed to release,” he threw out. “The investigation’s still pending.” Max turned around on the sidewalk leading to Jason’s door and held up a warning palm.
“Stay out of his yard. You guys know better. Don’t make me call in a unit. I doubt Mr. Galesh will traipse outside in his bathrobe and start telling you how he’s feeling, so you’re wasting your time here. If he wants to share, I’m sure he’ll book a time with you. Look. Give him some peace, will you? Neither he nor his kids had anything to do with this. Plant that into your skulls and make it stick. They’re as much victims as the other families.”
“Will you ask if he’ll come outside?”
“Not his PR rep, so consider yourself stupid for asking.”
Max stared at the crowd and backed up a few steps, eyes daring them to go rogue so he could pull his cuffs. Upon the noise level subsiding and microphones lowered, he swiveled and strolled up on the porch. Good grief. At least they served a higher purpose by keeping vandals at bay until the family figured out their next step. It was the only kudos he was willing to give them.
He barely laid knuckles to the dark wood before it opened enough for him to slip inside the dim room. A quick scan of the environment gave an impression of a well-kept home with its wraparound couch, big-boy recliner, decent-size flat screen, children’s toys resting inside a blue milk crate in the corner, and preference for southwest artwork.
The crumpled pillow paired with a wrinkled blanket on the sofa clued him someone parked there last night and hadn’t found a restful moment. The eerie quietness sat at odds with the madness outside. He turned and found Jason leaning on the wall behind the door.
“Hey there.”
“Hi.”
The poor guy was a wreck, as expected. Pale face, dark circles under puffy eyes, shadow of a beard, and sleep-tossed hair reflected what ate his insides at a steady rate. He wore the same clothes as yesterday.
Pushed from the shadows, Jason held out his hand, still enough of a gentleman in him to make the effort.
Max returned the firm grip and shake.
“Thank you, Detective Browning. I heard what you said to them. Was thinking of spraying them down with the water hose. Glad you came by.” He swallowed hard and made his way through an arched doorway leading into a kitchen.
Slow, measured steps clued Max the guy moved on autopilot. Routine. Unthinking. He followed him in.
“Uh. Want coffee? I should make some.”
“Sure. I like it black.”
“Me too.”
Settled at the oak dining table, he observed the robotic man fill the carafe with water, retrieve a red can from the cabinet, and face the coffee pot. He hesitated and backed up a few steps, appearing stuck inside a memory.
“The last time I saw her, she stood right here.” Jason’s hand waved in a slow back-and-forth motion over the area he envisioned