Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(75)

“Did your husband know Benjamin Doyle?”

Emma shrugged, “He might have come into the diner, I can’t say.”

After Jack Mahoney left, Emma took the rosary beads from her pocket and fingered them one by one as she knelt and prayed to the Virgin Mary. “Holy Mother,” she whispered, “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Protect my husband,” she pleaded, “and forgive me for the lies I speak on his behalf.”



When he left Emma Cobb, Mahoney went back to the station house and submitted the saucer he’d taken from the diner for a fingerprint analysis. “Check if the prints on this match the partial taken from the Doyle bedroom door,” he told the crime scene laboratory detective; he walked out with his shoulders hunched over as if he already knew what the answer was going to be.

Even if the print was a match, Mahoney told himself, it simply verified that Sam’s dad has been at the Doyle farm—it could have been days before the murder; he might have been out there visiting Susanna one afternoon when her husband was working in the field. There was no forensic evidence that could say how long the prints had been on that brass doorknob—it could have been weeks, maybe even months; it was obvious that the house hadn’t been cleaned for a while. Scooter Cobb was well-known for his indiscretions and although having an affair might not be too respectable, it wasn’t against the law. Maybe that’s what this was all about; maybe the boy knew they were having an affair and that was why he made up such a story. Maybe, maybe, maybe… After Jack Mahoney had racked his brain counting up all the maybes, there was still the size thirteen shoe print, which was no maybe.

For two hours, he studied the crime scene investigation reports then he closed the file folder and headed home. Tomorrow was another day; tomorrow he would tell the Captain of his findings and question Sam Cobb. “This is some shitty way to earn a living,” Mahoney grumbled.





Sam Cobb

My brother Tommy, he’s the smart one. He left home nine years ago and hasn’t dropped a postcard since. Who could blame him? With Pop, nothing’s ever right. You can bust your ass trying to please him, but he won’t even bother to say thanks. The only thing he’s got to say is how let-down he is ‘cause you didn’t perform to his standards. His standards, that’s a joke. He’s got no standards; they’re just for other people.

I swear, this is it—I’ll do this one last thing for him, then I’m gone.

So long, that’s what I’m gonna say; so long, Pop, and by the way, you can kiss my ass when it comes to any more favors.





The Confrontation

Sam Cobb left the station house shortly after two o’clock; he climbed into his car and drove south along Route 13. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but he could think of no other way. He figured by leaning heavy on the gas pedal, he could get to Wyattsville, take care of what he had to do then return to Norfolk in time for the last ferry, which left at midnight.

Sam rewound the conversation with his father and played it through his head, over and over again. He attached weight and meaning to every word, to every phrase, even to the few pauses and stammers; then he separated the syllables and listened to hear what hadn’t been said—all of this in an effort to sort out the truth.

There had been trouble before—the woman from Laughton, the dancer from Virginia Beach, the red-headed cocktail waitress—all of them swore Scooter had taken advantage of them and he swore he’d done no such thing. Sam, blinded by an eagerness to please, had always accepted Scooter’s version of the story. So, dressed in his patrolman’s uniform, he’d visited each of the women and handed over an envelope of money; authoritatively suggesting that they leave town.

Sam stopped for a red light and wearily lowered his head down onto the steering wheel, “Stupid,” he sighed, “just plain stupid.” If he sat there and thought about it for a moment longer, common sense might have told him to turn around and head home; but as it happened, a heating oil truck pulled behind him and the driver began beeping his horn the instant the light switched over to green.

Despite memories of the past, Cobb blood ran through Sam’s veins and by the time he arrived in Wyattsville he had once again convinced himself of his father’s innocence. So what if Pop is a bit hot-headed, Sam reasoned, that’s not a crime. He may be guilty of indiscretion, but murder—never!



After Olivia realized she’d been mistaken about the light in Detective Mahoney’s eyes, she decided a new level of diligence would be required for watching over Ethan Allen. She informed the boy that she would be driving him to school in the morning and back home in the afternoon; and that she or one of the neighbors had to be sitting in the playground whenever he was there. “From now on,” she said, “You’re limited to a one-block radius for this errand-running business and you’ll have to check in after each trip.” When Ethan Allen complained he was being treated like a child, Olivia apologized. “I’m only doing this for your own good,” she sighed, and hugged him to her breast.

“But, jeez,” he moaned and wriggled loose.

Of course, Ethan was still free to roam the hallways of the Wyattsville Arms apartment building, which he did. He played catch with Dog for biggest part of the first afternoon then he batted a brand new Spaulding from wall to wall for a while. After that, he practiced turning summersaults and tried walking on his hands, but before long he was bored. He then came up with the idea of running errands within the building and started ringing one door bell after the other. “Need somebody to fetch your laundry from the basement?” he asked Emma Kline who had a faulty hip and was forever complaining about it.