Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (38 page)

She pushed back her chair and wandered into the family room. “My son’s headed to college,” she said. “Wish I’d had the conveniences that parents have now. A nanny cam, for instance. Don’t even have to wire them; some store internally on their own memory.” She walked past the entertainment center, with glances back at Steve. “If I were you, I’d install one somewhere around . . .”

Steve’s eyes squinted.

“Here,” Callie said, finding a cam peeking over a bookend.

“Good Lord,” Alyce said, covering her face. Steve broke eye contact.

Callie appraised them both. “What’s the problem? And before you try to create another story, I want you to know that whatever it is, I’ve seen and heard worse. The point is to catch who injured you, before he does worse to someone else.”

They held humiliated poses, throwing glances at each other.

Shaking her head, Callie returned to the table and sat. “Sex tape would be my guess.”

Alyce cringed. Steve’s gaze fell away.
Bingo
.

Callie’s heartbeat raced at an opportunity for bona fide proof of the burglar, but she maintained her calm. “Listen, nobody cares. We want the burglar, your attacker. Let’s try to ID somebody on the tape. Is it on a motion sensor?”

Surprisingly, Alyce spoke up first. “Okay, we accidentally recorded me dancing nude for Steve. We forgot it was motion activated and didn’t think to turn it off when we came in.”

Her husband’s head jerked up. “Geez, honey!”

Alyce pointed to Callie. “I don’t mind showing it to
her
. I just didn’t want that bunch of guys at the police station drooling over it, you know?” She walked over to the table and glanced back quickly at the toddler finally playing on the floor. “Is there some way to cut out just the pertinent part? I almost deleted the whole thing, but couldn’t do it. There
is
a guy on there.”

Fantastic. This was the first damn piece of concrete evidence that could break this case open. “Can you make me a copy?”

“All of it?” Steve asked.

“If you don’t mind.”

He walked to his computer housed in a small cabinet in the den’s corner and retrieved a flash drive. “We weren’t sure how to cut off parts. I worried it would destroy its ability to stand up in court in case somebody, like you, needed it.”

She changed her mind about them, impressed at the forethought. She was so excited at evidence that her facial muscles twitched.

She waited for him to pass it to her instead of acting like it was hers to take. This evidence might mean everything. While she, or Seabrook, could get a subpoena, the Maxwells volunteering the evidence would clinch a more cooperative spirit, for now and later, if it indeed went to court.

Steve gave it to her. “Don’t let those regular Edisto cops see any of it, you hear? You don’t know how this island can be.”

Callie gingerly accepted the drive. “I’ll do my best. I know exactly how the gossip works around here. You have the original in a safe place?”

“Oh, yes,” Alyce said, the sterner of the two. “And the minute you no longer need it, it’s going in my fire pit out back.”

Fingering the drive, Callie stared at one, then the other. “Before I study it, tell me if you recognized him.”

“It’s not so obvious. It was a man, though,” Alyce said.

Steve just nodded as a ditto to his wife’s comments.

Callie asked a couple more questions, more to settle them down and maintain their confidence in her than gather facts. She was still in their house, and they could change their minds. But her guts churned with anticipation.

Fifteen minutes later, she hugged Alyce with reassurance they’d done the right thing. Steve walked her to the porch. “Please don’t let me find any of that on YouTube.”

Once he went inside, Callie jogged across the street to Chelsea Morning.

Her laptop wouldn’t come on. She ran for the adaptor and plugged it in, booting up the machine. She poured a tea, kicked off her shoes, and returned with a notepad. She caught herself rocking in her seat. This was too good, too damn good to be true.

She itched to see who would appear in the video. The Maxwells naturally would have told Seabrook there was no nanny cam if he or Raysor were on the recording. Her thoughts zigzagged.
Hurry up, machine
.

Finally, she plugged in the flash drive and located the file.

Scenes started and stopped, triggered by the sensor. Mrs. Maxwell belly danced nude for an inebriated Mr. Maxwell backed up to the kitchen sink in his boxers. As comical as this would be any other time, Callie couldn’t care less now about their kinky home life. Nude, they finally moved off camera.

The picture changed abruptly, the sensor again triggered. A man kept his back and side to the camera, but summer light pouring in the kitchen allowed her to see his beige cargo pants, thick waist, and T-shirt. A ball cap hid his hair color, but the edges showed a man in need of a trim. His movements weren’t young, more middle-aged. No noticeable jewelry.

He rummaged items in the refrigerator, withdrew the champagne, seeming to take time to study the label. In no hurry, he popped the cork, poured some in a glass, then found orange juice to top it off. Not the standard mixology steps for a mimosa, but he got the ingredients right. After sipping, the concoction pleasant per the head nod, he set the glass down and left the camera’s range. He returned from off camera with something that might be the silver mirror.

Turn toward me.

There! A front-on face shot. Peters!

He dragged out a seat and sat, reached down with considerable effort, removed a shoe, and extracted something crammed all the way down to the toe. Callie felt eighty percent sure the man now held the coin. She became a hundred percent confident when he set it on the table and adjusted it to suit him.

Dang it.
At Sophie’s, Callie had told Seabrook to make Peters empty his pockets. She had never considered having him take off his shoes.

An acute rush of relief fell over her, but then so did regret. She hated Peters screwing up this way. The man was not a nasty guy. Yet here he was, proof positive, in at least one case, that he was the silver dollar thief. He wore no mask and made no attempt at disguise.
Damn it, Peters
. He was either overly confident or plain stupid.

But she couldn’t envision him killing Papa Beach.

Peters exited. The picture went dark. Callie sat back and waited through the intermission. The picture popped back up as Mr. Maxwell triggered the cam when he entered the kitchen, pausing, puzzled by the champagne foil on the counter, and opened the refrigerator. A portion of a man entered stage left, a bigger man, in a polo shirt, again in a ball cap but a different shade, the face mostly hidden by the appliance door. After he grabbed the champagne bottle from Steve’s grasp, the intruder hit him in the head with it. Steve dropped to the floor. The intruder stooped over, even more hidden, then straightened, his back to the camera. Light briefly appeared at the top of the screen, flashing a sunburst at the camera as the attacker left the house, his victim motionless on the linoleum.

Callie replayed the recording a dozen times, each time seeking a new fact, noting the time stamps. Clothing, body language. She wrote notes, each replay focused on another aspect of the scene.
Damn it all to hell!
No definitive image whatsoever on the second guy, but she at least noted a ring on hands that weren’t as big as the first invader.

Two different people.

Replay. Again, again. She worked on her interview statements, prepping them for Seabrook, then went back and replayed the scenes, hoping the break had heightened her observation abilities.

Her phone rang, the caller ID indicating Seabrook. He could cool his heels. An hour wasn’t nearly enough time to dissect the recording and put her interviews in proper order. The call went to voice mail, but he immediately called again.

“Hello,” Callie answered, her gaze stuck on the screen, eyes unblinking, this time watching the floor for shoe recognition. The second intruder wore deck shoes versus Peters’ sneakers.

“Where are you?” Seabrook asked. No salutation, no lead in.

Callie stopped the recording. “Why?”

“Not the best answer,” he said with a severity she didn’t like.

“I’m at home, with evidence from the Maxwell house that’ll make your day. What’s wrong?”

“Don’t leave the house. An officer ought to pull in your drive any second.”

Her blood turned to ice water. Was there another murder? She jumped up, her heart almost erupting. “Is Jeb all right?”

“This has nothing to do with Jeb.”

She rushed to the door where Dickens already held his post. “Stay inside, ma’am.”

Seabrook’s cruiser crunched shells in her drive. He stared up from behind his windshield at her, both with phones hugged to their ears. He hung up first, excited, and headed up her steps.

She watched, trying to discern his mood, and met him at the top riser. “What—”

“Go back inside,” he said, his mouth flat and serious. “Raysor’s been shot in the back during a traffic stop. With your missing gun. Now do as I say.”

Chapter 29

SEABROOK ESCORTED Callie back into Chelsea Morning, hand at the small of her back. She recognized the subtle gesture as mannerly, yet close enough to react and grab her if she bolted. Dickens stood at parade rest as if he guarded the barrier between Heaven and Hell.
Un-friggin’ believable.
Seabrook seriously suspected her, when she was the most powerful tool in his box to hunt this guy.

“Why the backup officer, Officer Seabrook?”

He didn’t respond.

She was fed up with his passive, irritating, almost pouting ways. She reported her Glock stolen, dammit. He shouldn’t be surprised it was used.

Once in the kitchen, he pulled out a chair. “Have a seat.”

Screw him. She crossed her arms, not pleased with the sudden scrutiny. “After you.”

He didn’t, so she backed up to her kitchen counter. “How’s Don? Was he wearing his vest?” Her alibi’s validity depended on the exact time Raysor was shot. She should have taken her missing gun more seriously. Seabrook as well. And she should have installed security sooner.

“His vest took all three bullets,” Seabrook said. “He’s in the hospital with a broken rib and possible internal damage.”

Callie closed her eyes. “Thank God.” Then she opened them. Seabrook watched her intently. All bullets hitting center, as if the shooter knew about the vest. Her butting heads with Raysor. Who wouldn’t suspect her?

“Where were you about an hour ago?” Seabrook asked, memo book open.

“So this just happened?”

His tone hardened. “Answer my question.”

“You’d get better cooperation if you asked a question properly.” Defiant, she tapped into her experience as she pondered who the hell might have shot Raysor. Pauley and Peters remained her top two candidates. She was dying to speak to both of them now, but she wasn’t ruling out anyone. Maybe Raysor was the good guy in all this after all, getting too close to the truth.

Callie recrossed her arms. “Where were
you
an hour ago, just so we’re even here?”

“On another call at a rental,” he said. “Seventy-year-old woman fell in her hot tub.”

“And I was here,” she said, “going over the Maxwell interview and evidence you need to see.”

“Anybody with you?”

“No,” Callie said. “But—”

“What time will the Maxwells say you left their house?”

“Quarter to seven.” She slapped her notes on the table, then laid the recorder beside them. “I noted it in my interview.”

“That cuts it awful close.”

“My car hasn’t been cranked today. I’ve been here on this street, talking to the victims.” She felt moisture building on her palms, her respiration building though she was innocent. Who had really tried to kill Raysor with her gun? If they would shoot Raysor, they’d shoot anyone touching this case. “Tell me what happened.”

Seabrook showed no emotion. “Raysor pulled over a speed violator,” he said. “He stopped the car on the side of Highway 174 in front of the turnoff to the Serpentarium when someone in a nearby vehicle saw him get popped three times. Raysor’s bulk blocked the driver’s view. Once Don went down, the driver lost his head. He couldn’t recall his own name.”

“Probably realized how easily one of the bullets could have been his.” But evidence carried more weight than an eye witness. “How do you know it was my gun?”

“The casings were .357 Sig Sauer, used in a Glock by law enforcement types. Don’t see that in the possession of too many civilians.”

True, but that still didn’t confirm her weapon. “I didn’t shoot him. If I had, he’d be dead. Someone’s setting me up.”

“Unless you wanted to scare him, or get even.”

“That’s your guess, Acting Police Chief? No wonder you don’t want the job full-time.” She pushed off the counter. “Seriously, his distaste for me becomes my motive for shooting him? Like he had no other enemies.”

“Add it up, Callie.”

She pointed at him, careful not to touch him. When she was on duty, an aimed finger at her chest always set her off. “No, you add it up. Raysor’s rude to coworkers, victims, and suspects, an equal opportunity ass with a long history. Maybe he discovered something we didn’t and pissed somebody off. Or he orchestrated a scam, tossing his ample weight and authority around, holding threats over people’s heads to make them work for him.” Her face tightened in a tense, low anger. “What the hell do I have to gain from shooting Raysor?”