Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(83)

“Hurt?” Scooter repeated. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not he’s hurt. I wanna know what he’s got on me, what he had to say.”

“Well, he didn’t actually say much…”

“Anything about seeing me beat up his old man?”

“No, but…”

“But what?” Scooter snapped. “Say what you’ve got to say!”

Dreading this moment, Sam mumbled, “I didn’t talk to the kid.”

“What the hell? You was there, right?”

“Yeah; but the grandma hit me with a baseball bat and busted my knee before I had a chance to talk to the kid.”

“So, go back and talk to him.”

“I can’t Pop.”

“Can’t?” Scooter stormed, “What kind of shit are you giving me? When I say do something, you do it! Now, get your ass back there and find out what the kid knows!”

“Look, Pop, I’m real sorry about your predicament, but there’s no way I’m going back. First off, I couldn’t get there even if I wanted to; I’ve got a cast on my leg and can’t drive. My car’s still over there in Wyattsville. Second off, I—”

“Your car’s still at the kid’s place?” Scooter asked, his voice suddenly sounding considerably more conciliatory. “So somebody’s gotta go pick it up?”

“Eventually,” Sam answered, “but right now I need a ride from the ferry terminal.”

“No problem,” Scooter said, “You gonna be on the five-thirty?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered, bewildered by this sudden change of attitude.

“Okay, I’ll be there. Now what’s the address for the car, I’ll have somebody get it.”

“You don’t need to bother about that right now Pop.”

“No bother! I owe you. Now, where exactly is this place?”

“Wyattsville. Take Route four-sixty north, till you pass through Richmond then swing over to Thirty-three and go west. It’s the third exit; Bolder Street. My car’s parked smack in front of the Wyattsville Arms, you can’t miss it.”

“Wyattsville Arms, huh? Okay.”

“Pop? You are gonna meet me at the ferry terminal, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Ten seconds after he’d hung up the phone, Scooter Cobb was behind the wheel of his car, headed south toward the ferry. He’d left the diner without a word to anyone, no indication of where he was going or when he’d be back.

He made it to the terminal in record time, whizzed right past the parking lot and edged into a lane of cars driving onto the Norfolk bound ferry.



When Jack Mahoney arrived back at the station house, he had two messages waiting for him. The first was from his wife who had indicated it was urgent he call home as soon as possible; the second from Detective Pratt at the laboratory. Seeing as how his wife had specified, soon as possible, he dialed her first.

“Jack,” she said tearfully, “Boomer died. He was perfectly fine one moment and then all of a sudden he just fell over dead.”

“Well, Christine,” Mahoney sighed sympathetically, “Boomer was well on in years. Most Saint Bernards don’t live twelve years, Boomer was—”

“You’ve got to do something,” she wailed.

“Do something? What can I do? When a dog’s dead, he’s—”

“Boomer’s in the middle of the living room floor! The kids are curled up alongside that big furry body and crying their poor little hearts out. Just listen!” Christine extended her arm and turned the telephone receiver in the direction of the living room. “You hear that?” she asked.

“I hear it,” Jack answered, “but what am I supposed to do?”

“Come home; come home and get this dog out of here!”

“I’m in the middle of a murder investigation!”

“I don’t care what you’re in the middle of—your children are contracting germs by the millions hanging onto that dog’s body! You know how much they loved Boomer! Right now they’re crying hysterically and working themselves into an emotional state. Now, is it too much to ask that you give them some consideration?”

“No,” Jack sighed, “it’s not too much to ask. I’ll be there shortly.” He hung up the receiver and sat looking at the second message for a few moments—it was five-thirty, chances were Pratt was already gone home. Lab people weren’t ones to hang around after hours unless they were in the middle of some red hot investigation and Jack could tell Pratt didn’t consider this one a priority. Nonetheless, he picked up the receiver and dialed.

“Pratt,” the detective answered.

“Glad I caught you,” Mahoney replied. “Anything new on the shirt?”

“We got a match. Most of the bloodstains came from the male, Benjamin Doyle; but on the left arm there were trace amounts from the female, Susanna Doyle. I sent an analysis report; you should have it by morning.”

“Thanks,” Mahoney said and hung up. Now, he no longer had a choice; like it or not, he had to arrest Scooter Cobb. “Poor Emma,” he sighed and pushed back from his desk.

Normally, Jack would have addressed the situation with Captain Rogers immediately; he would have requested another detective to accompany him and gone directly to the diner to arrest Scooter—but there was this situation with the dog. How long, he figured, could it take to haul the dog’s carcass from the living room to the back woods? He’d be back within the hour and then he could do what he had to do.