To Sketch a Thief (12 page)

Chapter 16

R
ory stopped at the supermarket on her way home. She’d been so busy lately that she’d been resorting to fast food and either her jeans were shrinking or she was gaining weight. She had to start eating better if she didn’t want to buy a whole new wardrobe. She filled the cart with the makings of salad, fruit for snacking, yogurt for lunch and a rotisserie chicken for dinner and stoically resisted the siren call of the cookie and chip aisles. She was reaching for fabric softener when the air in front of her started to shimmer as if she were dizzy or seeing a mirage. But since she didn’t feel light-headed and hadn’t been wandering the desert dying of thirst, she quickly realized what was happening. In that same instant Zeke appeared, at least the top half of him, as if he’d been in such a hurry that he’d forgotten to bring his legs along. In spite of this deficiency, he was still mighty pleased with himself, judging by the grin on his face.

Rory immediately checked up and down the aisle to see if anyone else was there to witness his impromptu magic act. With a sigh of relief she saw that she was alone.

“Get out of here,” she said as fiercely as she could in a whisper. “Have you lost your mind? Get out now!”

Zeke’s image wavered, faded, then disappeared bit by bit, like pixels in a television image, until only his grin was left hanging in the air, Rory’s very own Cheshire Cat. Over the past few months she’d developed a real empathy for Alice; living with the marshal was a lot like living in Wonderland. Just before Zeke’s smile winked out, an elderly couple turned into the aisle. Rory held her breath, hoping they hadn’t seen it. No such luck.

“Oh my Lord,” the elderly woman gasped, her hand flying to her heart as if that would keep the rebellious organ from jumping out of her chest. “Did you . . . did you see that?” she asked her husband, her eyes fixed on the spot where Zeke’s mouth had been just a moment earlier.

The husband, who’d been trailing a few feet behind with their cart, came to an abrupt stop beside her. “You okay, Francine?” he asked, his forehead rumpled with concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Rory had all she could do not to burst out laughing from nervous tension, but she kept a sober face while she put the bottle of fabric softener into her cart.

“I did. That’s it exactly,” Francine replied, unwilling to look away in case Zeke’s mouth did an encore performance. “You didn’t see it?”

“See what? All I see is you and that young woman up ahead. Maybe it’s the new blood pressure medicine the doctor put you on. I think you’d better call him when we get home.”

Francine finally turned to look at him with an exasperated scowl. “There isn’t a damn thing wrong with me or my medicine, you old fool,” she snapped. “If you’d just watch those programs about the ghost hunters with me, you wouldn’t be so blind to what’s going on right under your nose.”

“Okay, here we go again,” he murmured in the weary tone of one who’s already been down this particular path too many times. He started pushing his cart again, leaving his wife to either follow or stay behind without him.

Francine squared her narrow shoulders and marched along in his wake. As they approached Rory, who’d stopped to read the label on a bottle of stain remover, Francine couldn’t seem to resist the chance to corroborate what she’d seen and prove her husband wrong.

“Excuse me, miss,” she said hopefully, “by any chance did you happen to see something . . . well, something a bit strange a minute ago at the other end of this aisle?”

Rory was sorely tempted to tell her that she had. And more specifically that what she’d seen
was
a ghost, or part of one anyway. She would have loved to see the look of vindication on the older woman’s face and the look of utter shock on her husband’s. But after a quick assessment of the consequences, and with a silent apology to Francine, Rory chose to simply smile and deny that she’d seen anything out of the ordinary.

R
ory set down the two grocery bags she was carrying and unlocked the front door, but when she turned the knob and tried to push it open, it wouldn’t budge. It didn’t seem possible that the door could have become warped over the past few hours. She looked at the hinges, but they looked the way they always looked. Not that she had any idea what she would be seeing if they were keeping the door from opening. Frustrated, she put her shoulder to the door and pushed again with all the power she could muster. This time it moved a couple of inches, before suddenly flying open the rest of the way. Rory lost her balance and stumbled inside, where Hobo was whirling in gleeful circles. So much for the mystery of the door. Hobo was a very effective doorstop. It would be great if all of her investigations were that easy to solve.

As she turned back to bring in her packages, she groaned. The wooden molding around the left side of the doorway had been ripped off and whittled down to a pile of toothpicks. Something must have happened to make Hobo more desperate than usual to escape and find her. And she had a good idea where to lay the blame. The problem was that she and Zeke hadn’t had much to say to one another since their last fight. Their interactions had been minimal and only related to business matters, but Rory knew if they didn’t patch things up, her family dinner could turn into a full-fledged disaster. Before the incident in the supermarket, she’d actually been on the brink of proposing a truce. Nothing seemed to please the marshal more than hearing her admit that she was wrong. But even though they’d have to come to an accommodation and soon, she was no longer in any mood to hoist a white flag. She grabbed up the groceries and stormed into the kitchen with Hobo plastered against her as if they were hobbled together in some strange five-legged race.

“Ezekiel Drummond,” she fumed as she threw the perishables into the refrigerator, “we need to talk.”

“Pleased to see you too, Aurora.” His voice floated to her through the air. “I’m afraid I’m a mite indisposed. My little outing today used up more energy than I anticipated.”

At the sound of Zeke’s disembodied voice, Hobo tucked his tail and circled Rory, whimpering and trying to find a way to scale her body and climb into her arms.

“It also seems to have set Hobo back to day one,” she raged as his claws sought purchase, scratching her thighs right through the jeans. She managed to push him down and herd him to the back door and an alternate form of sanctuary. As soon as she held the door open, he dashed outside.

“That was not my intention, but I suspect my efforts to travel cause some turmoil in the ether.”

“We agreed that you wouldn’t keep trying to do that,” she said, pacing back and forth in the kitchen, since she had no specific focus for her attention. Not only was he invisible, but his voice didn’t seem to be coming from any one direction. “You could have caused a panic in that store today. People could have been hurt.”

“That agreement had two sides to it as I recall,” Zeke said. “You were goin’ to spend some time practicin’ with me in the yard where there’s no audience besides the mutt.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said defensively, her fury losing some of its steam. He was right. She’d been putting it off, hoping he’d forget. Who was she kidding? His refusal to move beyond the here and now until he had answers about his death was testament to the fact that when he set his mind to something he never let it go.

“Okay. Okay. You’ve made your point.” She sank onto one of the chairs. “As soon as you’re up to it, we’ll get started.” If she was going to ask for his cooperation with her family it was now or never. She wouldn’t find herself in a better bargaining position anytime soon. “On one condition.”

“You do like your rules and conditions, don’t you?” There was a mocking tone to his voice, but Rory let the remark slide, more interested in moving forward.

“I’m going to have my family here for dinner next week. I want your word that you won’t suddenly appear or cause any kind of problem or spectacle.”

“I will be the very model of virtue.”

“Never mind the flowery sentiment. Trust me when I tell you that they will not let me remain here if they think I’m in any danger. And as you may have noticed during the past hundred years, for most people, ghosts equal danger.”

“Knowin’ you, it’s right hard to believe anyone could make you do what you don’t choose to.”

“Zeke . . .” She drew his name out as if it were a warning. Then the telephone rang, cutting her off. “Don’t go anywhere; we’re not done,” Rory said, reaching for the handset.

BB was on the other end. “News flash, bulletin, hot off the presses,” he said by way of greeting. “Reggie just handed me the results of the DNA tests.”

“Great.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no, it all depends on what you were hoping to find,” BB said philosophically. “Both the letter and the envelope were clean, except for a few partial prints of yours. Since there was no DNA to match the hair sample to, all we can tell you is that the owner of the hair has no criminal record.”

Rory thanked him and once again asked him to pass her gratitude on to Reggie. On a previous occasion she’d suggested that perhaps she should deal directly with him so that BB didn’t have to play middleman. BB had assured her that he didn’t mind and that his colleague preferred to remain in the shadows in a Deep Throat, undercover way.

Rory hung up the phone, frustrated. She wasn’t any closer to knowing who’d sent the threatening letter. All she could say for certain was that the sender had done a topnotch job of not leaving any clues behind.

“Joe Kovack’s DNA wasn’t on the letter,” she told the empty room. When Zeke didn’t immediately respond, she had a fleeting image of herself old and gray, talking to invisible people, a legacy of her days with the marshal. Well, old anyway; she had no intentions of being gray.

“Then we can’t eliminate him,” Zeke said finally. He sounded happy enough with the results.

“We can’t eliminate
or
accuse him,” Rory pointed out.

“So, how did it go with Eddie Mays?” he asked, grabbing the reins of the conversation.

She figured he didn’t want her backtracking to more ultimatums. That was fine with her; she’d said enough on the subject anyway. She had his word not to interfere with her family, and if she badgered him about it, she’d only succeed in changing his mind. Instead she related the details of her interview with Eddie.

“Sounds like a freak you’d see in a sideshow back in my day,” he said after hearing Rory’s description of the man.

“These days it’s all a sideshow,” she said with a laugh, glad to let go of the anger. “People like Eddie don’t even raise eyebrows anymore. And though I wasn’t crazy about his appearance or his attitude, as far as I could tell he was being honest with me.”

“Then we’re right back to where the bronc threw us.”

“That about sums it up,” she agreed, thinking that someday she ought to put together a book of the marshal’s pithy observations and words to live by.

Zeke took his leave, promising to return as soon as he’d recouped enough energy. Rory was relieved to be alone. She and Hobo could use some quiet time themselves. She was trying to decide between peach and raspberry yogurt for lunch when the doorbell rang. She never had any stopby visitors, unless she counted Aunt Helene, and she saw clients by appointment only, so she couldn’t imagine who would be there in the middle of a workday. When she opened the door she found the mailman holding a manila envelope that required her signature. She’d completely forgotten about the information she’d requested from the U.S. Marshals Service.

Chapter 17

R
ory took the envelope back to the kitchen, disappointed by how light it felt. Hobo was standing at the back door waiting to be let in. When she held the door open for him, he sniffed the air and cocked his head, his ears like furred antennae trolling for ghostly noises. Once he was satisfied that there was no current danger, he bounded across the threshold. He stopped for a long, noisy drink from his water bowl and then ambled over to the table where Rory was seated. He took up his usual spot at her feet, dribbling excess water on her in the process.

Rory didn’t notice. She’d opened the envelope and withdrawn the five sheets of paper that were inside. When she’d first thought of contacting the Marshals Service, she’d had, as it turned out, unrealistically high hopes of finding enough information to shed light on Zeke’s killer.

The man with whom she’d spoken at the local headquarters in Brooklyn had entered her name and address into his computer along with her request for a Freedom of Information application and immediately asked if she were related to a Michael McCain. It had taken her a second to realize that he was referring to Mac. Her uncle had only used his given name on official papers and it sounded as alien to her as if she were hearing it for the first time. Once she’d recovered her wits, she confirmed that Michael was indeed her uncle, now deceased. Apparently Mac had also requested an application from the Marshals, but according to them, he’d never returned it. One of the many pieces of his life that had been left hanging when he’d been murdered. She’d hung up the phone buoyed by the reminder that she was following in his footsteps and completing work he had started. It made her feel as if she were still bound to him by some fine cosmic thread.

Rory studied the papers in her hand. They were all photocopies of original documents held by the Marshals Service. Two of the sheets contained the statements given by Winston Samuels and his daughter Claire. These provided essentially the same information as the newspaper article Rory had found from that time. There was also a sketch of a man with a caption that read “John Trask, aka John Corbin” and a letter stating that Ezekiel Drummond’s personal effects, i.e., his badge and billfold, had been returned to the U.S. Marshals Service in the Arizona Territory to be disposed of as they saw fit.

The final sheet of paper showed a picture of what appeared to be a ticket, the ornate printing on it badly faded and difficult to read. Dislodging her feet from beneath Hobo’s rump, she went to the kitchen drawer where she kept a miscellaneous pile of items. After a minute of rummaging through it, she came away with a small magnifying glass.

The ticket was from the Pennsylvania Railroad. It had been purchased for travel from Philadelphia to Jersey City and was stamped with the date, September fifth, 1878. Beneath the image, someone in the Marshals office had written, “recovered from the parlor of the Samuels residence September sixth, 1878.” Since the ticket didn’t bear the passenger’s name, its usefulness pretty much ended right there. She couldn’t go back and interview the ticket agent who had sold it, unless she wanted to hold a séance. Her only hope was that seeing the image might stir up some memories for the marshal.

When she looked at the clock she realized that half the afternoon had slipped away between grocery shopping and dealing with Zeke. She only had a few minutes left before her appointment with Joanne Lester. With any luck Holbrook’s accountant would have a promising lead for them.

Hobo was still sleeping soundly, and Rory decided not to wake him. He’d be fine alone in the house while she commuted to her office in the backyard.

Joanne Lester arrived ten minutes late, full of apologies. She was a pale, fragile-looking young woman, several inches shorter than Rory, who’d always considered herself short at five-four. Joanne’s brown hair fell straight and blunt to her shoulders as if it had been cut with a hedge trimmer instead of a hairdresser’s scissors. Parted on the left, it draped over the right side of her face, partially covering her right eye, like a curtain behind which she could hide from the world.

“Okay, Joanne, how can I help you?” Rory asked once her visitor was seated on the couch.

“Actually I think I may be able to help
you
,” Joanne said in a politely measured voice that was so soft Rory found herself leaning forward to hear her.

“Well, you certainly have my attention.” She smiled, hoping to put the accountant at ease.

Joanne smiled back, then quickly looked down at her hands as if she’d crossed some invisible line in interpersonal relationships. “Sorry,” she said without looking up. “I’m not very good with people.”

Rory cast about for an appropriate remark that didn’t sound condescending or inane and came up empty. In the end she decided to simply skip over it and get on with the conversation. “How did you know I was investigating the dognappings?”

“I overheard some of the staff talking about it after you brought Hobo in,” Joanne replied, looking up again, but fixing her eyes on the computer monitor to Rory’s right. “Not that I eavesdropped,” she added. “I would never do that.”

“I understand,” Rory said when Joanne didn’t immediately pick up her narrative.

“Right. Sorry. I lost my place. Anyway, I thought to myself, ‘Joanne, you really ought to go see this woman and tell her what you know.’ ” She risked an oblique glance at Rory, then looked away again.

“I’m glad to have any information that might help me solve a case,” Rory encouraged her, thinking that Joanne had probably picked the perfect career, given her issues. She worked with numbers in an office populated with more animals than people.

Joanne stopped and took a deep breath as if she were summoning up the courage to dive into cold water. “I think Dr. Holbrook might be stealing the dogs.” The words gushed out of her as she exhaled, and her whole body went a little limp, as if she’d been rigid with the effort of keeping the accusation tamped down inside.

Rory sat back in her chair, feeling like the air had escaped her as well. It was definitely not the sort of remark she’d expected to hear. She had no doubt that Joanne believed what she was saying. She was clearly not the type to seek out a conversation with a total stranger unless her conscience was making it hard for her to sleep at night. Even so, in all fairness to Stanley Holbrook, a person who lived as insular a life as Joanne probably did couldn’t necessarily be counted upon to be a good judge of others.

“I’m sure you have strong reasons to believe that,” Rory said, wondering if one of those reasons might be the list that Holbrook hadn’t wanted her to see.

“It just makes sense,” the accountant said, her voice a bit more confident now that she’d unloaded the burden of her suspicions.

“I’m listening.”

She cleared her throat as if she were about to address a gathering. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“That’s okay, go on.”

“Well, I’ve been taking care of Dr. Holbrook’s finances, personal as well as business, for almost five years now. He has an expensive lifestyle. Up until two years ago that wasn’t a problem. His income supported it. But he got divorced at that time, and between child support and alimony for his ex-wife while she went back to school, his practice just wasn’t covering the bills anymore. I know he tried to cut back, but I guess that’s not so easy to do when you’re used to the finer things. I’m sorry,” she interrupted herself, “I know that must sound like I’m trying to make excuses for him, but really I’m not. I just want you to get the whole picture.”

Rory nodded.

“Then about five months ago the money problems disappeared. I didn’t see any upswing in revenue from the practice, and Dr. Holbrook never explained how there was suddenly enough money in his bank account for everything again. So I was trying to figure out where he was getting the extra money. That’s when I realized that he’s in a perfect position to steal dogs. You’d be amazed by how many dogs come through that office.”

Rory remembered thinking the same thing during Hobo’s visit there, but she refrained from commenting, because it sounded like Joanne had memorized her little speech and might have to start at the beginning again if she lost the thread of her narrative.

“Now, I’m not saying he’s doing this all on his own. I think maybe he’s just selling the information to the real thieves. They probably pay him in cash so he doesn’t have to declare the extra income or explain where it came from.” She looked at Rory again, as if trying to assess her reaction, and this time she managed to maintain eye contact for a moment before dropping her gaze to her clasped hands.

“Have you ever seen a list with the names of Holbrook’s clients, their pets and phone numbers?” Rory asked.

Joanne shook her head, but continued to stare at her hands as if she were afraid they might do something awful if she wasn’t vigilant.

“I saw a list like that when I was in his office,” Rory explained, “and there was a letter notation next to each of the names—either a ‘T’ or an ‘M.’ Any idea what that might mean?”

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

Rory assured her that she’d already been very helpful. She rose from her chair and held out her hand to say good-bye, hoping it didn’t seem too abrupt. But if she heard Joanne apologize once more, she might just have to wash her mouth out with soap.

Joanne stood and shook her hand. “You won’t . . . I mean you’ll keep what I told you in confidence, right?” she asked, looking deeply worried, as if it had only now occurred to her that Rory might not be bound by the same ethics as a doctor, lawyer or priest. “I can’t afford to lose my job. I only wanted to do the right thing, you know. . . .”

“Discretion is my watchword,” Rory assured her. Of course if Holbrook was involved in the dog thefts, he’d probably lose his veterinary license along with his need for Joanne’s services, a possibility the accountant didn’t seem to have considered. But there wasn’t much Rory could do about her suspicions anyway, without some actual evidence. If Holbrook was guilty, he’d no doubt fed the list she’d seen to a shredder the moment she’d left his office that day.

“W
elcome back,” Rory said. She’d been sitting on the couch in the living room reading the newspaper, with Hobo beside her chewing on a stuffed toy, when the lights flickered and Zeke appeared in the chair kitty-corner to them. Hobo immediately dropped the toy and tucked his big head into the protective curve of Rory’s arm, like a furry, four-legged ostrich.

“Glad to be back.” Zeke grinned, a slash of dimples bracketing his mouth like exclamation marks. He appeared refreshed, even jaunty. And if he’d thought of any sarcastic remarks to make about Hobo’s hiding skills, he courteously chose not to voice them. Rest was apparently as good for a ghost as it was for folks still hooked up to flesh and bone.

“I have something to show you,” Rory said. With her free hand she reached for the manila envelope she’d left on the glass cocktail table, away from the threat of kitchen spills and stains. She shook the envelope until all the pages slid out, then picked up the sheet with the image of the railroad ticket and held it up for him to see. “Does this look familiar?”

Since Rory was still seated with the cowering Hobo for an anchor, Zeke stood up and came closer to get a better look at it. His eyebrows arched in surprise. “It surely does,” he said, straightening to his full height. “That’s a Pennsylvania Railroad ticket to Jersey City, New Jersey. Back in my day the train didn’t take you all the way into Manhattan, it being an island and all. You had to take a boat for the last part. Where ever did you come by that?”

“The U.S. Marshals Service. It was one of the only pieces of hard evidence they had from the day you were killed.”

“I’m impressed, Aurora.”

In the spirit of good sportsmanship, Rory didn’t chastise him for using her given name. “I want you to know that before Mac died he’d also been tracking this down.”

“I thank you for that,” Zeke said, his smile ebbing into a gentle sadness. “I never did lose faith in his efforts to help me.”

Rory wanted to ask him why he’d been giving
her
such a rough time about it then, but she snatched the words back before they could pass through her lips.

“Wait a second,” Zeke said, hunkering down and frowning at the image of the ticket. “That’s not my ticket.”

“Are you sure?”

“Damn sure. Look at the date it was purchased.”

Rory had seen the date, but it hadn’t raised any questions in her mind. She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Well, I boarded the train for Jersey City on September the fourth. This ticket’s dated the fifth. And Trask was workin’ out here in Huntington for near on a month by then, so the ticket can’t be his, neither.”

“It belonged to the man who killed you,” Rory murmured, the words no more than a whisper. Although she already knew that Zeke had died in this house, in this very room, she was suddenly swamped by the image of his dying moments, moments that had played out within inches of where she sat. A tremor flashed up her spine and spun out through her limbs, making her grateful she was still seated.