Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(36)

“That’s strange.”

“In what way?”

“Well, if he was just some random homeless guy, why would he ditch his coat?”

“To throw us off.”

“But a homeless guy on a chilly day who probably only has the one coat to speak of?”

Uncle Bob bent his head in thought as I took a closer look at the crime scene.

“Who died?” I asked.

“What?”

“Who died?”

“A woman in her midthirties and an elderly man.”

I nodded. Bit my bottom lip. Started to let the emotions of the spectators I’d felt earlier soak in. A couple felt off, but I chalked that up to reporter enthusiasm. Only a reporter would get excited at a fatal shooting. Especially if he were the first on the scene. So there was definitely one reporter present. So, then, why did I get a similar reaction from another spectator who had no press credentials or cameraman to speak of?

“Who died first?”

“We don’t know that yet. What are you thinking?”

“Okay, who was shot first?”

“According to a security feed and a couple of witnesses, the woman who died was shot first.”

“Was the kid hers?”

“Yes,” he said, fighting the urge to care on anything more than a professional level. He was usually pretty good at that. This one bothered him, though.

“What is it, Uncle Bob?”

“The kid. He jumped in front of his mother, trying to protect her.” Then he looked at me as though the puzzle pieces started falling into place in his mind. “The shooter shot the woman once. Then the boy jumped in front of her to protect her. The shooter…” He stalked to a hall that led to the offices in the back of the place. I followed.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing. Not yet. It’s just, it looked like the shooter tried to move the boy out of the way, but the shooter was blocking the camera’s angle, so it was hard to tell exactly what happened.”

We went into an office where another detective was viewing the security recording. He nodded at Ubie, then went back to his task.

“Can you rewind it?” Uncle Bob asked him.

He did, and we watched as the horrific event unfolded. I slammed my hands over my mouth as the woman was shot. When the boy lunged to protect her, my faith in humanity was completely restored. We may be a messed-up race, but there was still more good in the world than bad.

The man struggled with the kid a few seconds, then gave up and shot, very carefully, through him. After that, the shooter opened fire randomly. Many of the employees and customers had already fled. Those who were left hid behind counters and under tables, but the shooter still managed to take down several of the more unfortunate, including an elderly man who used a cane. He couldn’t have run out if he’d tried.

Then, just as the man was about to flee, he stopped over the woman. Pointed the gun at her head again. Nudged her with his foot.

Satisfied, he fled the scene out the back door.

I sank into a chair. Uncle Bob looked back at me. “What do you think, pumpkin? Her husband?”

“Yes. Or ex-husband. He didn’t want to kill his son. Unless he had to. But he damned sure wanted his wife dead. Enough to kill others to get her there.”

The other detective frowned at us. “You got all that from the video?”

“He’s out front, watching,” I told Uncle Bob. “You’ll probably find a wig and fake beard in his car. And he’s been practicing, so he’ll appear distraught. Nothing would make him happier than the news crew capturing his anguish for all to see when you tell him his wife is dead.”

Ubie nodded. “You don’t happen to have his name and Social Security number, do you?”

I raised my arm. “You’re going to need these.”

He shook his head. “You’re still under arrest.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t going to argue with him. Something was eating at him. Gnawing at him. And it definitely involved me. He had his reasons for wanting me to stay home. To stay safe. I could respect that even if I didn’t listen.

He pressed his mouth together, then summoned the officer to remove the cuffs. “You want to be a part of this?” The arrest. Did I want to be a part of the arrest.

“You know what? I think I’ll let you handle this one.”

“Okay.”

I stood and hugged him. Hard. For a long time. At least I didn’t have a family member stage a fake mass shooting to murder me. My family may have put the fun in dysfunctional, but we were rarely homicidal.

When I walked back to Misery, I passed the shooter. I stopped and took a step back. It was so obvious now. His emotions were all wrong. I wanted to look him in the eye. To let him know that we knew what he’d done. I couldn’t help the sneer on my face.

He was tall and beefy with a protruding beer belly that screamed heart attack.

“What?” he asked, eyeing me curiously. Then he realized I might be somebody important. His expression changed to one of concern. Desperation. “My wife. I think—I think she was in there.”

I stepped closer and stared up at him. “Ya think?”

I turned back to Uncle Bob, and gestured toward the man. “This is him.”

Not that I’d needed to. He’d been standing behind me the whole time, so the suspect would have been a little hard to miss.