Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(73)

Detective Jack Mahoney

I’d like to believe that the kid is lying; that he’s concocted the entire story, just to get even with Sam. It would make my life a whole lot easier if I could just chalk the kid’s story up to a case of misdirected anger.

After all the boy’s been through, it’s logical to think he might be looking to get even—pay Sam back for the way he treated his Grandma.

It was dark and the kid had to be seventy or eighty yards away; how probable was it that he could actually see the face of the attacker? And then, how likely was it that he’d stay hidden in the bushes and watch his daddy being murdered?

That bit about Scooter Cobb taking them to New York…I gotta question that. Scooter might be a man to chase around a bit; but the women have come and gone and he’s always stayed married. Running off to New York? What about Emma? What about the diner?

If I start thinking Scooter Cobb might have done this thing, then I have to ask myself—does Sam know? Is that his reason for acting so belligerent toward the boy? Is that the real reason he felt a runaway kid wasn’t worth chasing after?

Let me tell you, the last thing any detective wants to do is suspect a fellow officer of covering up a crime—especially one as heinous as this. Much as I hate the thought of what I could be walking into, I can’t get rid of the feeling that the kid is telling the truth.

We’ll see.





Evidentiary Fact

On Wednesday morning Mahoney walked into the criminal records office and asked to take another look at the file for the Doyle murders. Line by line he read through every detail of the findings. He studied the photographs of the shoe prints alongside Benjamin’s body—a man’s shoe, size thirteen, a heavy tread on the bottom, the sort of shoe a man standing on his feet all day might wear. The window broken from inside; it matched up with Ethan’s story. Then there was the partial thumbprint on the bedroom doorknob—not enough for identification, but sure evidence of a large hand. Susanna Doyle killed by a single blow to the back of the head, her blood found on a large rock alongside the driveway, her body found lying in bed—everything was just as the boy told it. “Shit!” Mahoney said and closed the folder. He left the station house and headed for the diner.

He knew Scooter Cobb would be there; standing behind the counter nursing a cold cup of coffee, or standing at the griddle and frying up some hamburgers. Scooter was a man who stood twelve hours a day, seven days a week. He more than likely wore shoes with a heavy tread on the sole, a tread that could absorb the pressure of his weight. Of course, Mahoney reasoned, there was any number of people about whom you could say the same thing; but the boy had specifically named Scooter. There were days when Mahoney wished that he’d chosen another profession, anything but this—teacher maybe, or a Southern Electric Company meter reader with little to do but stroll from house to house recording the amount of electricity each family used.

Mahoney arrived at the diner shortly before eleven; the noonday rush had not yet started. Scooter was standing at the counter with a half-empty coffee cup and gave a nod when Mahoney walked in. “How’s the investigation going?” he asked. He set a cup and saucer in front of Jack then filled the cup with coffee.

“Slow,” Mahoney answered, “A lot of standing around; my feet are killing me.”

Scooter topped off his own cup. “Standing’s tough duty,” he said.

Mahoney nodded, “You ought to know, you’re on your feet all day.”

Scooter rolled his eyes; “That’s for sure.”

“What I should do,” Mahoney said, “is get myself a pair of more cushiony shoes. Shoes meant for standing; something like you’ve got.”

“These, is a lifesaver. Cost thirty-nine dollars, but worth every cent.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Be my guest.” Scooter bent over, untied his right shoe, and handed it to Mahoney. “Stick your foot in,” he said, “these are probably too big for you, but you’ll get the feel.”

Mahoney pulled off his own shoe and slid his foot into Scooter’s. “You’re right,” he said casually, “these are way too big for me, what size foot you got?”

“Thirteen, extra wide.”

Mahoney pulled the shoe off and turned it over in his hand. The tread was a narrow-wide, narrow-wide, zigzag pattern—exactly the same as the footprint found alongside Benjamin’s body. Same size, same tread pattern; not what he’d been hoping to find. “Long as I’m here,” Mahoney said, handing the shoe back to its owner, “mind if I ask you a few questions about Susanna Doyle?”

“Susanna? She worked here, that was about it.”

“Oh? There’s talk of her having a lover, you know anything of that?”

Scooter shrugged, “News to me,” he said, “where’d you hear a thing like that?”

“We got it from her boy,” Mahoney answered. “Ethan Allen claims he and Susanna were supposed to go to New York City with this man.”

Scooter began nervously swiping at the countertop which didn’t have a speck of dirt on it. “That kid,” he said, his voice sounding a register higher than it had earlier, “he’s a born liar. You can’t believe a thing he says. Poor Susanna had all kinds of problems with him.”