Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(84)

As it turned out, the children, and Christine as well, insisted upon a proper burial for Boomer. They insisted upon singing three rounds of Jesus loves Me and going through a eulogy which consisted of each child’s lengthy description of loving Boomer. After it ran on for twenty minutes, Jack complained, but when Christine glared across the mound of dirt with a look that could kill, he kept quiet for the remainder of the service. After Christine herded all three children into the car and drove off toward Tastee-Freeze, he returned to the station house. By that time it was quarter of nine.

When he got there, Paul Puglisi was the only detective still in the station house. “Are you available to go on a pick-up with me?” Mahoney asked.

“Yeah,” Puglisi answered, “who you got?”

“Scooter Cobb.”

Puglisi who was nearly the size of Scooter but in better shape, raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, boy,” he said, “we’re gonna have our hands full on this one. What are you bringing him in for?”

“Murder; we’ve got blood evidence that ties him to the Doyle killings.”

“Does Sam know?”

Mahoney shook his head sorrowfully and gave a shrug. “I sure as hell hope not,” he said, “because he’s already got a gigantic problem.”

When Mahoney and Puglisi arrived at the diner they were expecting trouble. Knowing Scooter Cobb, they expected him to heave stacks of dishes at them, slam his fist into a coffee urn and send it flying in their direction, whack a heavy boot at their shins, then punch and cuss for all he was worth. What they didn’t expect was for him not to be there. “You got any idea where he is?” Mahoney asked Bertha.

“Nope,” she answered. “He flew out of here like his pants was on fire and I ain’t seen or heard from him since.”

“What time was that?” Puglisi asked.

“About Five o’clock; it was before the dinner rush. He got a phone call and then out he went. He didn’t say one word about how I’m supposed to handle the cooking and serving when people are lined up waiting for dinner. I’m one person, how am I supposed to handle—”

“You know who was on the phone?” Mahoney asked.

“You think I got X-ray hearing?”

“Did he maybe mention a name? Or a place where he’d be going?”

“No. I got better things to do than eavesdrop on other people’s fighting.”

“So,” Puglisi said, “he was arguing with somebody?”

“Might’ve been; he don’t tell me his business.”

With thoughts of Emma jumping to his mind, Mahoney told Puglisi, “Let’s check his house,” and they turned to leave.

“Hey,” Bertha yelled, “what about me? I’m supposed to quit at ten, and there ain’t nobody here to take over. What am I supposed to do?”

“Soon as I find him, I’ll let you know,” Mahoney called back.

“Well make it fast ‘cause I been on my feet all day,” she grumbled; but by then they were gone.

When the two detectives arrived at the Cobb house, Emma answered the door with red-rimmed eyes and a pasted-on smile. “Would you like some coffee? Cookies, Maybe?” Her voice was hollow, thin as an eggshell.

“No thanks, Emma,” Jack said sympathetically, “we’re looking for Scooter.”

“He’s not here,” she answered, registering a look of surprise. “Have you checked the diner? He ought to be there, he usually works till after eleven.”

Jack nodded. “Bertha said he left early this evening.”

“Without telling her where he’d gone?”

“I’m afraid so,” Jack answered.

Puglisi, already eyeballing the room, asked, “Mind if we take a look around?”

Mahoney glanced over at his partner and gave a slight shake of his head, but Puglisi was a by-the-book man, and pursued the issue. “Of course, if you got something to hide…” he said, suspicion hanging all over his words.

“Look around if you want,” Emma answered; but by then Puglisi had already started trekking through the house. Once he was gone from earshot, she whispered to Jack, “He’s not here, I swear he’s not.”

“I believe you, Emma. Puglisi, he’s just following procedure.”

“I’d tell you if he was. I’d tell you for sure. You’re the only one I’ve got to look out for me and Sam. I swear, Jack, I’d tell you.”

He didn’t say anything right off, but simply took her hand in his and patted it reassuringly—soft and easy, the way he would have done for his own mother had she not been dead for some fifteen years. “Don’t worry about Sam,” he finally said, “things have a way of working out for the best. I spoke to Sergeant Gomez over in Wyattsville—Sam’s been released and should be home sometime this evening.”

Emma registered the slightest trace of a smile; “Thank you, Jack,” she whispered, “thank you.”

After Puglisi had thumbed through the house, and satisfied himself that Scooter was nowhere about, they left Emma and headed for Sam’s apartment. Jack figured with Sam being released that afternoon, he’d probably be home by now; a man with a full cast on his leg wasn’t all that mobile, he reasoned.

Sam, as they soon found out, never made it home. What they didn’t know was that he was still sitting in the Eastern Shore Ferry Terminal waiting for his daddy.