Zero Day (15 page)

P
ULLER WATCHED HIM
. The man ate his food slowly, deliberately. Coffee the same. One sip, then the mug went down. Ten seconds, another sip, then down again. Puller’s food came. He ate it faster than he had originally intended. The carbs and protein pumped up his energy level. He left cash on the table, not even waiting for the bill. He knew the amount from the night before.

He rose, cradling his last cup of coffee, walked past tables, ignored the stares, and stopped at the postman’s booth.

The man looked up.

“You Howard Reed?” asked Puller.

The skinny, sallow-cheeked fellow nodded.

“Mind if I join you for a few minutes?”

Reed didn’t say anything.

Puller flipped out his cred pack, badge followed by ID, and sat down without waiting for an answer.

“I’m with Army CID investigating the murders you stumbled onto on Monday,” he began.

Reed shivered and pulled his cap down lower.

Puller ran his gaze over him. Too lean in an unhealthy way. Spoke of some serious internal problems. Sunburnt skin. Probably looked ten years older than he was. Stooped shoulders. Body language spelled defeat. In life. In everything.

“Can I ask you some questions, Mr. Reed?”

The man took another careful sip of coffee and set it down, the mug just so. Puller wondered if he had OCD.

“Okay,” said Reed. It was the first word he’d said. His voice was hoarse, weak, like he didn’t use it much.

“Can you take me through your steps that day, starting with you pulling down the street? What you saw? What you heard? Maybe something you usually see or hear but didn’t that day? You follow me?”

Reed slid his paper napkin from next to his empty plate and wiped off his mouth. He went step by step. Puller was impressed with the man’s memory and method. Maybe you got that delivering a zillion pieces of mail, covering the same ground, seeing the same things over and over. You’d get a sense if something looked different.

“You ever see the Reynoldses before?” Puller asked.

“Who?”

“The murdered family was named Reynolds.”

“Oh.” Reed considered this, took his time, and treated himself to another deliberate sip of coffee.

Puller noted the wedding band on the man’s gnarled finger. Married but eating his breakfast out at half past five? Maybe that’s where the hopeless look came from.

“Saw the girl one time. She was out in the front yard when I was delivering. Never saw the man. Maybe saw the woman once passing by in her car when I was coming through.”

“Did you know the Halversons?”

“The folks who lived there?”

“Yeah.”

Reed waggled his head from side to side. “Never did see them. Wouldn’t have gone up to the house, but I needed a signature for the package I was delivering. Certified mail, return receipt requested. Were they killed too?”

“No. They weren’t there at the time.” Puller remained silent for a few moments. “What happened to the package?” he asked.

“The package?” Reed’s cup was halfway to his lips.

“Yeah, the one that required the signature.”

Reed put his cup down and placed a finger against his cracked
and dry lips. “I went in the house with it.” He shuddered and gripped the laminated tabletop. “Then I saw…”

“Right, I know what you saw. But focus for me please. Package in hand. Then you turned and ran back out. Hit the door, broke the glass against the banister.” Puller had learned all this from Cole.

Reed looked alarmed. “Am I gonna have to pay for that door? I didn’t mean to break it, but I ain’t never seen anything like that in my life. And hope to God I never do again.”

“Don’t worry about the door. Focus on the package. Was it addressed to the Halversons?”

Reed nodded. “Yep, I remember seeing the name on there.”

Puller didn’t respond. He just let the man think about it, picture the package in his mind. The mind was a funny thing. Give it time and something fresh usually popped.

Reed’s eyes widened slightly. “Now I think about it, it was a C/O.”

“Care of?”

“Right, right,” Reed replied excitedly. He slid his hands along the tabletop, bumping against his empty plate. He didn’t look hopeless anymore. He looked engaged. Maybe for the first time in years, thought Puller.

Puller reasoned, “So it wasn’t meant for the Halversons really? It was just sent to their house. Was there any other name on it? The Reynoldses? They were the only ones staying there.”

Reed remained silent, his gaze pointing slightly upward as he thought it through. Puller said nothing. He didn’t want to break the man’s focus. He took a drink of his own coffee, now lukewarm. He performed a long visual sweep of the diner. More than half the heads there were turned his way.

He didn’t flinch when he saw tat boy. Dickie Strauss was sitting at the far end of the diner, facing Puller’s way. He had a much bigger man with him. The second guy had sleeves, so Puller couldn’t tell if the arms were inked in a similar way or not. They were watching him while trying very hard to seem not to. It was pathetic really. Dickie must’ve forgotten all his military training, thought Puller.

He refocused on Reed to find the man staring at him. “I can’t remember,” he said apologetically. “I’m sorry. Do remember the C/O, though.”

“That’s okay,” said Puller. “The package? Was it big, small?”

“Size of a piece of paper.”

“Okay. Do you recall who sent it? Or where it was mailed from?”

“Not offhand, but I can maybe find out.”

Puller slid across a contact card. “Any of those numbers or emails will get to me. Now, do you remember what happened to it? You ran out of the house, kicked open the door.”

Reed looked away from his plate. For a moment Puller was afraid the man was going to throw up his breakfast.

“I… I must’ve dropped it.”

“In the house? Outside the house? Sure it’s not in your mail truck?”

“No, it’s not in the truck.” He paused. “Yeah, must’ve been in the house. Had to be. Dropped it there. I ran out and it wasn’t in my hand. See that now. Clear as day.”

“Okay, I’m sure it’ll turn up. Anything else you can tell me?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I ain’t never been involved in anything like this before. Don’t know what’s important and what’s not.”

“House right across the street? Notice anything funny over there?”

“Treadwell’s place?”

“Right. He lived there with Molly Bitner. You know them?” In Cole’s report, Reed had stated that he didn’t know anybody in the neighborhood, but Puller preferred to hear it for himself.

Reed shook his head. “Naw. Only know the name ’cuz I’m the mailman. He gets lots of biker magazines. Has a Harley. Parks it out front.”

Puller shifted in his chair. He didn’t know if Reed was aware that Treadwell and Bitner were dead. “Anything else?”

“Just the usual stuff. Nothing that sticks out. I mean, I just deliver the mail. Just check the addresses. I don’t really do more than that.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Reed. I appreciate your time.” He tapped his contact card. “When you find out who sent the package, please get in touch.”

Puller rose. Reed looked up at him.

Reed said, “Lot of damn mean people in the world.”

“Yes, sir, there are.”

“Know it for a fact.”

Puller leveled his gaze on the man, waited.

“Yep. Know it for a fact.” He paused, his mouth working but no words coming out for a few seconds. “I’m married to one.”

After Puller walked outside Dickie Strauss and his large friend followed.

Puller had been pretty sure they would.

P
ULLER JIGGLED
the car keys in his pocket, leaned against his Malibu, and waited for them.

Dickie and his friend stopped on the pavement a few feet away.

“What can I do for you?” asked Puller.

Dickie said, “It wasn’t a Big Chicken Dinner. And it wasn’t a DD.”

“Good to know. But if you’re lying I can find out in about five minutes. Just a few keystrokes to get a reply back from the Army Records Center. So what was it?”

“A parting of the ways.”

“Why?”

Dickie looked at his friend, who was keeping his gaze on Puller.

“It’s personal. And it wasn’t nothing bad.”

His friend added, “And it’s none of your damn business.”

“So what can I do for you?” Puller asked again.

“I hear Eric Treadwell got killed.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah.”

Puller eyed the tatted arm. He pointed to it. “Where’d you get that done?”

“Place here in town.”

“Treadwell had one just like it.”

“Not just like it. Little different. But I used his as a model.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“That’s not really an answer.”

The bigger guy stepped forward. He was an inch taller than Puller and outweighed him by about fifty pounds. He looked like a former Division I defensive lineman. Not good enough for the pros but decent enough for four years of college on a full-ride scholarship.

“It’s
his
answer,” said the guy.

Puller swiveled his gaze to the man. “And you are?”

“Frank.”

“Okay, Frank. I thought this discussion was between Dickie and me.”

“Well, maybe you need to rethink things.”

“I don’t see a reason to do that.”

Puller watched as Frank pulled his hand from his pockets and balled up his fists. He also saw what was in the man’s hand, although Frank was trying to hide it.

“I got two pretty good ones right here,” said Frank, holding up his knotty fists.

“No you don’t, Frank, you really don’t,” Puller said evenly as he stood straight and also took his hands from his pockets. Puller had nothing in his hands, but he didn’t need to.

“I know you got a gun. Saw it in the Crib,” said Frank.

“I won’t be needing it.”

Frank said, “I outweigh you by forty pounds.”

“More like fifty.”

“Okay. So do you get the point?”

Dickie said nervously, “Hey, guys, it’s cool.” He put a restraining arm on his friend. “Frank, don’t, man. Ain’t worth the hassle.”

Puller said, “Your bud is making sense, Frank. I don’t want to hurt you. But if what I’m seeing in your body language gets transferred into action, you will get hurt. The only question is how badly.”

Frank snorted and attempted a confident grin. “You think just because you’re in the Army you can kick everybody’s ass?”

“No. But I know I can kick your ass.”

Frank’s right hand swung, but Puller had already launched. The top of his head hit the other man flush in the face. Puller’s skull was far harder than the other man’s nose. A stunned 280-pound Frank
whipsawed backward, his face bloody. Puller took hold of Frank’s left arm, windmilling it back and torquing the limb nearly to the breaking point. He slid a foot behind Frank’s left leg and the big man went straight down to the pavement. Puller had knelt along with the falling Frank, cupping his head with his free hand before it hit the ground so the man’s skull wouldn’t crack.

Puller dug the roll of quarters out of Frank’s fist, dropped it on the pavement, rose, and looked down. When Frank, who was holding his broken nose and trying to dig the blood out of his eyes with his knuckles, tried to stand, Puller put a foot on his chest and nudged him back down.

“Just stay there.” He turned to Dickie. “Go in the Crib and get a bag of ice. Do it now.” When Dickie didn’t move, Puller gave him a shove. “Now, Dickie, or I’ll throw you right through the window to speed your ass up.”

Dickie rushed off.

“You didn’t have to do that, you son of a bitch,” Frank said through his bloodied hands.

“And you didn’t have to take a swing at me with a roll of quarters.”

“I think you broke my nose.”

“I
did
break your nose. But it was already broken before. It goes off to the left and has the hump in the middle. Probably caught it on a face mask during a game. Doubt it was ever reset properly. And you’ve probably got a deviated septum too. Now, when they fix you up, they can make all that right.”

Dickie came back out with the ice enclosed in a small towel. When Puller looked over, everyone in the restaurant was standing at the window watching.

Dickie held out the ice to Puller.

“I don’t need it, Dickie, your bud there does.”

Frank took the ice and held it against his nose.

“What in the hell is going on here?”

Puller turned to see Sam Cole pull up in her police cruiser with the window rolled down. She was in full uniform. She parked at the curb and got out. Puller noted that her gun belt didn’t squeak.

She looked down at Frank and saw the roll of quarters. She glanced over at Dickie and then at Puller.

“You want to explain what’s going on? Did he attack you or did you attack him?”

Puller looked at Dickie and then at Frank. When neither of them seemed willing to speak, Puller said, “He slipped and broke his nose. His buddy got him some ice.”

Cole hiked her eyebrows and then glanced at Dickie. He mumbled, “That’s right.”

She looked down at Frank. “That your story too?”

Frank sat up on one elbow. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And what, a roll of quarters just fell out your pocket?”

“Shirt pocket,” said Puller. “When he fell. I heard him say something about doing his laundry. Explains the quarters.”

Cole put out her hand and helped Frank up. “You better go have that looked at.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They slowly walked off.

“Ready to get going?” asked Puller.

“What I’m ready for is for you to tell me what really happened.”

“You saying I lied?”

“That guy didn’t slip. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck. And that roll of quarters was probably in his fist when he took a swing at you.”

“All conjecture and speculation on your part.”

“Well, here’s some firmer evidence.” She reached up and smacked him lightly on the forehead. “You have blood right there. I don’t see a cut, so it’s probably his blood. That means he took a swing and you head-butted him. I’d like to know why.”

“Misunderstanding.” Puller used his sleeve to wipe the blood off.

“About what?”

“About personal space.”

“You’re really starting to piss me off.”

“It’s not important, Cole. Small-town, insider-outsider thing. If it turns out to be more than that, you’ll be the first to know from me.”

She didn’t look convinced but also didn’t say anything.

“I thought we were meeting at the crime scene.”

“Got up early, figured you’d be here,” Cole replied.

“I had a chat with your boss.”

“Sheriff Lindemann?”

“He came into the Crib. I gave him some contact info to help with the media stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“He thinks very highly of you.”

“It’s mutual. He’s the one who gave me my chance.”

“You said you were with the state police before you came here.”

“That was his idea. He said if I had that on my résumé, nobody could stop me from carrying a badge in Drake.”

“I take it he doesn’t make the hiring decisions.”

“County Commission. All men. All men living in the nineteenth century. Barefoot and pregnant and in the kitchen just about covers their idea of a woman’s role in life.”

“I also spoke to the mailman.”

“Mailman? You mean Howard Reed?”

“Yeah, he’s in there finishing his breakfast. He said he left the package he was delivering inside the house. Dropped it in there, more likely. He said it was sent in care of the Halversons, which means it was probably addressed to the Reynoldses. Do you have it?”

Cole looked puzzled. “There was nothing like that.”

Puller gazed steadily at her. “Didn’t you wonder why the mailman was at the door in the first place?”

“He told me he was there to get a signature for something. I just assumed…” Her voice trailed off and her cheeks reddened. “I screwed up. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“But you’re saying the package wasn’t found in the house? Reed was pretty sure that’s where he dropped it.”

“Maybe that’s what they came back for night before last.”

“Yeah, but your people had all day in there. Why didn’t they find the package?”

She said, “Let’s go get an answer to that, Puller. Right now.”