Harbour Falls (A Harbour Falls Mystery #1)(87)

So much blood, there was so much blood. In my left hand, I was still clenching the envelope I’d stepped on. Loosening my grip, I glanced down. The “M” on the front, now smudged with Jimmy’s spilled blood, taunted me. Though the envelope was empty, I was sure it had once contained the photograph I’d come to pick up. But now that picture was gone. And Jimmy was dead.

Was he dead because he’d been trying to help me with the case? God, I prayed not, but my instincts told me that was the case. I felt numb. Someone had taken a drastic step to ensure the picture remained hidden. Who would murder someone over a picture? The person responsible for Chelsea’s disappearance, my mind whispered.

Yeah, that—or someone close to the individual responsible. The fact that a person would go to these lengths strengthened my conviction that the picture somehow held the key to Chelsea’s disappearance. That blonde mystery woman knew something.

I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help but hope Jimmy had remembered to make a copy of the photo and mailed it to me. Because now it was my only chance of ever finding out who was in that picture with Chelsea Hannigan.

The wailing of the sirens grew closer and closer, until the cacophony was joined by the flashing of red and blue lights as they pulsed through the single glass block window cut into the front of Billy’s. Several officers of the Harbourtown police department burst through the front door, but I was unable to move. So I stayed where I was—kneeling on the dusty, wooden floor, next to a kid lying dead in his own blood. My left hand twitched, and I realized I was still holding onto the potentially incriminating envelope. Only it wasn’t just an envelope, it was Jimmy’s death warrant. And it had been signed, so to speak, with my initial. It had to go. I scanned the area for a place to dispose of it.

The police were approaching, and I panicked. Fearing that I’d be implicated in Jimmy’s murder, I crumpled the envelope— inadvertently smearing more blood along the front and back—and quickly tossed it into a trash container tucked beneath the bar.

When I glanced back up, a young officer was before me, offering his hand. I searched his face to see if he had seen what I’d done, but there was nothing to indicate he’d caught me throwing the envelope into the trash can. In fact, he graciously helped me to my feet and then told me his name, asked if I was OK.

Did I look like I was OK? The name went in one ear and out the other, but I did have the wherewithal to nod that I was—at least physically—unharmed. He led me away from Jimmy’s lifeless body to a table in the back room. He wanted me out of the way, but in a place so small, I still had a pretty good view of the Harbourtown PD as they moved around the body like bees around a hive, processing the crime scene.

I sank into a wood chair at the table, and the young officer told me to remain where I was. He said a detective would be over to speak with me shortly. I nodded absently, but I don’t think he even took notice. He was too busy staring at my bloody hands. He pulled several napkins from a metal dispenser atop the table, handed them to me with a shake of his head, and then left me alone.



The blood on my hands—so sticky, still wet—made my stomach roil. Disgusted, I scrubbed at the gloppy, red mess as best as I could. I wanted it off, off, off. But even as my hands grew sore from the intense rubbing I employed, they still retained a faint pink tint. I choked down the lump rising in my throat and tossed the soiled napkins into a pile on the edge of the table. I surveyed the rest of my body. Besides a long, diagonal streak of blood smeared across the front of my beige sweater—I must have wiped my hand without realizing it—there was no more evidence of Jimmy’s demise marking me.

Now that I was as cleaned up as I was going to be until I could take a shower, I resumed watching the flurry of activity surrounding Jimmy’s body. More importantly I listened carefully to what was being said…

Jimmy Kingston—,whose last name I’d never taken the time to learn—was pronounced dead at 12:48 p.m., though the coroner who had arrived on the scene a few minutes before, and was now barking this information out, estimated the actual time of death to have occurred roughly an hour prior.

That meant I had just missed the killer. A chill ran down my spine at the thought.

Cause of death: a single bullet wound to the head. Ballistics: Jimmy was shot with a .38 caliber weapon, at close range.

The gun I’d come across in Adam’s desk drawer flashed through my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. After all, lots of people owned that particular type of firearm.

No sign of a struggle.

Jimmy had either known the individual who’d shot him, or he hadn’t seen the individual as a threat. Someone pretending to be a customer, most likely. Or had it been someone he recognized?

An officer with a portable fingerprinting kit was lifting prints from the half-full glass of beer still perched on the bar. He was telling another officer that the only prints found, so far, belonged to the victim—Jimmy.

Maybe the killer had worn gloves? Or maybe Jimmy had poured the beer for himself?



Another officer chimed in that the surveillance video that would have captured the perp’s entrance and exit from the bar was missing. It was becoming apparent that the person responsible for Jimmy’s death had been smart and thorough.

No money was missing. So a robbery-gone-wrong was ruled out. It was clear from the snippets of conversation I picked up that the police were coming to the conclusion that Jimmy had been the intended target. Something I already knew.