Read Online Halfway to Half Way by Suzann Ledbetter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzann Ledbetter
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burglary in progress?"
"Phelps found the desk drawers ransacked in the spare bedroom Larry used for an office. The dressers in the master and Bev's jewelry box were dumped, too."
"Dumped as in interrupted, or staged?"
"You tell me." Marlin field-stripped his cigarette and dropped the mangled remains in his jacket pocket. "Bev's purse is on the kitchen counter on top of the mail. If there was any cash in her billfold, it's gone."
David asked, "How about her credit cards?"
"Still there, all nice and neat in their little slots."
Staged. A burglar cold-blooded enough to steal money from the woman he'd just murdered wouldn't balk at taking her credit cards. He might think twice about using them, but leave them behind? Not a chance.
A thief nicknamed the Basement Burglar was operating all over the county, but this didn't fit his MO. He'd left homes as neat as he'd found themjust a little emptier.
"What's Junior's best guess on the time of death?" David asked.
The coroner wasn't a certified medical examiner, but grew up in a funeral home, like his father before him. Duckworth's had phased out their ambulance service in the mid-seventies, but as a teenager, Junior had a second job transporting the sick, the injured and the dying to the hospital. He was also an assistant embalmer. Back then, it wasn't unusual for Junior to provide both services to the same person an hour or so apart.
Marlin's lips moved into what David alleged was a smile. "Notice how cold it was inside the house?"
David nodded.
"Notice the outfit Bev had on?"
"Uh-huh. A short-sleeved blouse and slacks." David thought back and frowned. "Not regular slacks. Those below-the-knee things."
"Capri pants." Marlin rolled his eyes. "My wife and daughter own about fifty pairs apiece. I keep telling 'em they look like they ripped 'em off a midget, but I'm a guy. What the fuck do I know about fashion?"
"More than I do," David said, grinning. The crude language he could live without, but not Marlin's droll sense of humor. To an extent, both were coping mechanisms and neither was intended for civilian ears.
Or eyes, David thought, noting Chase Wingate near the curb, speaking with a middle-aged woman dressed in cutoffs, flip-flops and a Silver Dollar City T-shirt.
David asked, "Where is Cletus?"
"Canvassing the neighborhood, starting with Sheri Watson, the neighbor who called 911."
"Is that her, talking to Wingate?"
"Uh-uh." Marlin chuffed. "Probably a lookie-loo from two streets over wanting her name in the paper." If cynicism was a country, he'd be the emperor. "Mrs. Watson's house has the only direct line of sight to Bev's. The family next door is bonding on a beach somewhere. That one with the For Sale sign is empty."
"What about the neighbors behind Bev?"
"We're working on it. Four uniformstwo of them, off-duty Sanity PD officersare helping." Greenaway Circle was in county jurisdiction, but a Little Leaguer could punch a low-and-outside into the city limits.
Marlin said "Witness statements" as if it were an epithet. "I expect a minimum of nineteen different suspicious vehicle descriptions, three suspicious persons, seven gunshots and two tips about dudes who look exactly like fugitives on America's Most Wanted. "
"About average," David agreed. "And it'll turn out nobody saw or heard anything until the neighbor found Bev."
As Jimmy Wayne McBride added another county car to the logjam at the end of the cul-de-sac, Marlin said, "Her prints were the only ones on the interior door between the garage and the utility room, too."
"By her, you mean Bev?"
"Sheri Watson's." Marlin poked another Marlboro between his lips but didn't light it. "The AC was cranked down as far as it would go, but the thermostat's clean. So are the desk, dresser drawers and the jewelry
"Phelps found the desk drawers ransacked in the spare bedroom Larry used for an office. The dressers in the master and Bev's jewelry box were dumped, too."
"Dumped as in interrupted, or staged?"
"You tell me." Marlin field-stripped his cigarette and dropped the mangled remains in his jacket pocket. "Bev's purse is on the kitchen counter on top of the mail. If there was any cash in her billfold, it's gone."
David asked, "How about her credit cards?"
"Still there, all nice and neat in their little slots."
Staged. A burglar cold-blooded enough to steal money from the woman he'd just murdered wouldn't balk at taking her credit cards. He might think twice about using them, but leave them behind? Not a chance.
A thief nicknamed the Basement Burglar was operating all over the county, but this didn't fit his MO. He'd left homes as neat as he'd found themjust a little emptier.
"What's Junior's best guess on the time of death?" David asked.
The coroner wasn't a certified medical examiner, but grew up in a funeral home, like his father before him. Duckworth's had phased out their ambulance service in the mid-seventies, but as a teenager, Junior had a second job transporting the sick, the injured and the dying to the hospital. He was also an assistant embalmer. Back then, it wasn't unusual for Junior to provide both services to the same person an hour or so apart.
Marlin's lips moved into what David alleged was a smile. "Notice how cold it was inside the house?"
David nodded.
"Notice the outfit Bev had on?"
"Uh-huh. A short-sleeved blouse and slacks." David thought back and frowned. "Not regular slacks. Those below-the-knee things."
"Capri pants." Marlin rolled his eyes. "My wife and daughter own about fifty pairs apiece. I keep telling 'em they look like they ripped 'em off a midget, but I'm a guy. What the fuck do I know about fashion?"
"More than I do," David said, grinning. The crude language he could live without, but not Marlin's droll sense of humor. To an extent, both were coping mechanisms and neither was intended for civilian ears.
Or eyes, David thought, noting Chase Wingate near the curb, speaking with a middle-aged woman dressed in cutoffs, flip-flops and a Silver Dollar City T-shirt.
David asked, "Where is Cletus?"
"Canvassing the neighborhood, starting with Sheri Watson, the neighbor who called 911."
"Is that her, talking to Wingate?"
"Uh-uh." Marlin chuffed. "Probably a lookie-loo from two streets over wanting her name in the paper." If cynicism was a country, he'd be the emperor. "Mrs. Watson's house has the only direct line of sight to Bev's. The family next door is bonding on a beach somewhere. That one with the For Sale sign is empty."
"What about the neighbors behind Bev?"
"We're working on it. Four uniformstwo of them, off-duty Sanity PD officersare helping." Greenaway Circle was in county jurisdiction, but a Little Leaguer could punch a low-and-outside into the city limits.
Marlin said "Witness statements" as if it were an epithet. "I expect a minimum of nineteen different suspicious vehicle descriptions, three suspicious persons, seven gunshots and two tips about dudes who look exactly like fugitives on America's Most Wanted. "
"About average," David agreed. "And it'll turn out nobody saw or heard anything until the neighbor found Bev."
As Jimmy Wayne McBride added another county car to the logjam at the end of the cul-de-sac, Marlin said, "Her prints were the only ones on the interior door between the garage and the utility room, too."
"By her, you mean Bev?"
"Sheri Watson's." Marlin poked another Marlboro between his lips but didn't light it. "The AC was cranked down as far as it would go, but the thermostat's clean. So are the desk, dresser drawers and the jewelry