Die Buying (13 page)

The women drifted into memory-lane mode, apparently forgetting their funeral-attire-buying mission.

“I’m EJ Ferris,” I said, offering my hand to Elena’s friend.

“Catherine Lang.” Her handshake was firm, her hand bony but warm.

“Catherine’s my best friend,” Elena said with a fond look for the other woman. “I don’t know how I would have made it through this dreadful, dreadful time without her support.” Her gaze flicked to me. “She found Jackson . . . his body,” Elena said, giving me a not too friendly look.

Catherine Lang’s dark brows arched slightly. “How awful for you. But I suppose you’re used to it. Being in law enforcement, I mean.”

I appreciated her characterization of mall security work as “law enforcement.” I said, “You never get used to it.” I didn’t point out that the mall wasn’t exactly awash with bodies. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do; I’ll let you get to your shopping. Again, I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Porter.” Nodding at Finola, who had recovered herself and was ready to shepherd her customers toward suitable (expensive) funeral attire, I left the shop.

My mind whirled. Why in the world would a widow shop for funeral duds at the store where her murdered husband’s body had been found? And what was the byplay with Finola about her not being welcome at the funeral? I’d already had suspicions about the nature of Finola’s relationship with Jackson Porter and now they resurfaced. But if she’d had an affair with the man, why was Elena shopping in Diamanté?

My cell phone vibrated and I answered. Grandpa Atherton said, “I need a cookie. You’re buying.”

I spotted Grandpa’s
tall figure and white head as soon as I reached the food court. He wore a white cable-knit sweater over a blue shirt and tan slacks. He was at Legendary Lola Cookies, chatting with Jay Callahan.

“EJ,” he said as I approached, “this is—”

“We’ve met,” I said. “Hi.”

Callahan smiled. A dimple appeared in his chin, making him look younger. “Let me guess: you’re a chocolate chip person.” He reached for a cookie. “With nuts.”

“What do you want, Grandpa?” I asked, pulling out my wallet.

“I think he’s a gingerbread kind of man,” Callahan said.

I stared at him. “What? Are they teaching some kind of mystic cookie divination at baking school now?”

Grandpa laughed. “I already told him what I want,” he said.

Callahan grinned, handing over the cookies with a flourish. A timer dinged and he turned to pull a tray from the oven. As he bent over, the fabric of his slacks tightened against the line of his leg, seeming to bulge just above his ankle. Was he carrying a gun? Surely not.

I added a coffee to my order and forked over the money, assessing Jay Callahan. He smiled in a friendly way and turned to help a customer with three small children. Escorting Grandpa to a table where we couldn’t be overheard easily, I asked him how he was feeling.

“I’m an octogenarian, not an invalid,” he said. “I’m fine, EJ. All in a day’s—or night’s—work. I’ve often thought that if Donovan hadn’t recruited me, I would’ve made a good second-story man.”

“It’s never too late to reinvent yourself,” I said, breaking off a chunk of my cookie. “All the women’s magazines say so.”

“You should consider it,” he said.

I stared at him.

“Come on. Being a mall cop isn’t for you, EJ. Where’s the challenge?”

“It’s temporary,” I said. “Until I get on with a police department.”

“That’s not going to happen.” He tempered the brutal comment by reaching for my hand. I pulled it away. “You’ve got to face up to the fact that your injury has disqualified you for police work. It’s stupid, but there it is.”

“I love being a cop,” I said. “Loved.”

“Even if you’re not willing to give up that dream, you could do something else in the interim. You’ve got too much on the ball, EJ, to molder away in this mall.”

“Maybe not,” I said with a feeble attempt at humor. “I’m having to call you in as a contractor to catch a bunch of teenage graffiti artists.” I explained about the cars getting tagged—one per day—at different times and different places around the mall. “They got Quigley’s beloved Karmann Ghia this morning,” I said, “so I’ve been told to shut them down, cost no object. I was thinking that a few of your mini-cameras, something they wouldn’t spot . . .”

“I have just the thing,” Grandpa said enthusiastically. “Tiny devices no bigger than a ladybug. I can mount them on car antennas, on light posts, and other places where no one will spot them. A friend of mine who’s still in the business on the contract side says that a couple of these babies were planted on . . . well, let’s just say they gave us a lot of intelligence about Saddam’s inner circle. I’ll scout for likely locations this afternoon. Can you get me a diagram showing where and when cars got spray painted?”

I’d already done one up, hoping to spot a pattern (I hadn’t), and I pulled the page out of my pocket, handing it to Grandpa. “Thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate this. While you’re doing that, I’m going to see if I can’t get a lead on Robbie Porter, the murder vic’s son. He apparently peddles drugs here at Fernglen on occasion; the police haven’t caught up with him since Porter died, and they’ve asked me to help track him down.” I showed Grandpa the mug shot.

“Loser,” he said trenchantly, studying the photo. “Suspicious, too, that he hasn’t come forward since his father’s death. Unless he’s living under a rock, he must’ve heard about it.”

“You’re right.” I hadn’t considered that. “Of course, if he partakes of his product, he may
be
living under a rock, or his brain may be fried so badly he doesn’t remember his own name.” I tucked the photo away.

“Make me a copy of that, too,” Grandpa said, using the table to push himself upright, “and I’ll come in early and survey the mall walkers. There’s an attractive young woman of about seventy I’ve been wanting to get to know. This will give me the perfect excuse for chatting her up.” With a wink, he headed for the escalator.

I shook my head, brushed the cookie crumbs off the table into a napkin, and dropped it into the trash can. As I started for my Segway, Jay Callahan waved me over to his counter.

“I couldn’t help overhearing part of what you were saying,” he said, leaning forward, his forearms on the counter. A sprinkling of light red hairs dusted his sinewy forearms. “Is there much of a drug problem at Fernglen?” His hazel eyes met mine. Despite his serious expression, I didn’t get the feeling that he was tremendously worried. When I didn’t immediately respond, he added, “I’ve put most of my savings into this business, but I can still back out of the deal. If this mall has a reputation as a spot for drug deals, it’ll chase away my customers.”

“You seem like a savvy guy . . . didn’t you check out the mall before you bought Lola’s?” I asked.

He seemed taken aback by my question. “Of course.”

“You didn’t hear anything about Fernglen being a haven for the drug crowd, did you?” He shook his head. “Well, there’s your answer. By the way, is that why you’ve got a gun? Because you’re nervous about the drug element?”

He stilled and his eyes became watchful. “Who says I’ve got a gun?”

I nodded toward his feet. “Ankle holster. Left leg.”

Without conceding that he had a gun, he asked, “How long have you worked in mall security?”

“About a year,” I said. “Why?”

“And what did you do before that?”

“What is this—a job interview? I’m not looking to trade up to cookie selling.”

“Humor me.”

I couldn’t see a reason not to tell him. Lots of people knew. “I was in the military. Air force.”

He nodded, as if I’d confirmed his suspicions. “Staff sergeant? Tech?”

This guy knew a lot more about the military than your average mall merchant. “I made E-7,” I said, “and then I went to OTS—Officer Training School—and got commissioned. I retired as a first lieutenant.”

“Retired? You’re too damn young.”

I didn’t feel the need to fill him in on my medical situation. “So, I guess you have a relative in the military?”

Jay grinned, showing lots of white teeth and the chin dimple. “My brother and my sister. He’s army, she’s navy. You don’t want to be around our house during the annual Army-Navy football game.”

“And what branch were you in?”

I slung the question at him, hoping to take him by surprise, but he only laughed and rubbed at a spot on the glass with a rag. “Me? I’m just a cookie entrepreneur.”

I gave him a “sure you are” look and turned away, aware that I was behind schedule with my patrols.

Three people stopped me in the next hour to tell me they’d seen Agatha. They didn’t say “Agatha,” of course. They called her “a honkin’ big snake,” “a giant python,” and “a snake big enough to swallow my little brother.” She was in a dressing room at Macy’s, under a Dodge Caravan in the parking garage, and in the back row of one of the movie theaters . . . pretty much simultaneously, if I believed all my informants. I had to follow up on each of their leads—none of which panned out—and I was more than ready to hide out in the office with a sandwich come lunchtime.

Scanning the twelve camera screens when I came in, I saw nothing of interest. Apparently Joel didn’t either, because he was playing computer solitaire. He started guiltily when I came in.

“Woskowicz not around?” I asked.

“Said he had a meeting to go to,” Joel said.

Hm. Woskowicz usually hung around the office more, making life miserable for all of us. What could he be up to with his frequent absences in the past couple of days? Maybe nothing more than sleeping off hangovers or romancing his new reporter friend. Whatever it was, I was in favor of it.

I had managed two bites of my turkey sandwich and a swallow of peach-flavored water when the phone rang. Joel answered with, “Fernglen Galleria Security, Officer Rooney speaking.” He took a couple of notes and slid the page across to me when he hung up. “Shoplifter,” he said. “Rock Star Accessories. She left the store with a pair of earrings she didn’t pay for, heading toward the exit near Macy’s.”

“What about Tracy or Harold?” I asked, waving my sandwich at him. “Can’t they take this one?”

“Harold’s helping a guy in a wheelchair change a tire on his van, and Tracy called in sick today.”

“Great,” I grumbled, chewing quickly.

Joel scanned the camera screens. “There,” he said, pointing at a young teenager in patterned tights, with a long blond ponytail. “That’s her.”

I studied the slim figure weaving her way toward the exit near the movie theaters. “I’m on it. Have the Rock Star associate meet us back here.”

I hopped onto the Segway and sent it gliding toward the movie theaters in the next corridor, wishing I had lights and a siren, not because I needed them, but because they were fun. Nothing like responding Code Blue to a situation. The girl was walking quickly when I spotted her, her short, blue skirt flipping with every step. Passing her, I curved the Segway around to block her path. “Miss?” I said, stepping down. “Let’s chat.”

Only fourteen or fifteen—why wasn’t she in school?—she had a smattering of freckles across a pert nose and light brown eyes fringed with mascaraed lashes. Blond bangs hung to her brows. About my height, she looked like a cheerleader or a soccer midfielder: athletic, clean-cut, from a middle-class background. But if I had learned only one thing during my time at Fernglen, it was that shoplifters came in all shapes and sizes and from all economic backgrounds. Her gaze flicked past me to the doors that opened temptingly to the parking lot. She edged forward, as if gathering herself to run, and I took a step toward her.

“I’m not in school because it’s a teacher workday,” she said with a “gosh, aren’t I precious” smile. Maybe it worked better on her parents than it did on me. “In fact, my mom’s waiting for me in the parking lot.”

She made as if to move again, but I put out an arm. “That’s great. Then you can have her join us in the security office.”

“What!” Her mouth dropped open, showing expensive orthodontia. “Why?”

“Or, you could just show me what’s in that Rock Star bag”—I pointed at the pink plastic bag she clutched in one hand—“and the receipt.”

“Are you accusing me—?”

“The salesclerk at Rock Star saw you put some earrings in your bag,” I said. “You have two choices: come with me now and see if you can persuade them it was an accident, or wait with me while I call the police.”

She weighed her options for thirty seconds, and then her shoulder slumped. “Can I ride that?” She gestured at the Segway.

“No.”

We arrived at the security office as the clerk from Rock Star hurried up. I thought her name was Carrie or Casey. Long, brown hair framed a narrow face. A black tunic with a scalloped neckline fell to midthigh over a pair of red leggings. Unfortunately, she wore far too much of the Rock Star stock to look pulled together; several pairs of earrings dangled from her lobes, two metallic belts wrapped her waist, a variety of barrettes and hair combs restrained her long hair. Bracelets and necklaces jingled with every step. “That’s her,” she said, nodding.