The Killing Game(81)

“But she’s not involved with Wren Development.” He heard himself and added, “If that’s what this is about.”

“‘It’s too bad when little birds have to die,’” Andi quoted, her voice shaking.

“Let’s go back to your place. I’ll talk to him after they’ve cleared the scene.”

“All right.”

*

September stretched her arms over her head. She was tired of paperwork and tired of the runaround on Aurora Lane. It was Saturday and she wasn’t supposed to be working, but Jake was busy with a rich client who’d sprung for a working weekend at a hotel and spa in Oregon’s wine country, not far from his own family’s vineyard, and though September had been invited to join them, she’d met the wealthy client before and had deemed him an obnoxious waste of space, so she’d declined. “Traitor,” Jake had told her, and she’d kissed him and told him to have a good time, if he could.

She’d then started the day curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee watching television shows mindless enough to make her realize she couldn’t remember when the morning news program turned into an Infomercial. She was inside her own head, thinking about Jake and his weekend, their engagement, but even those thoughts were eclipsed by the one really occupying her mind: the bones found in the Singletons’ basement.

So she’d gotten dressed and headed to the station. She wouldn’t be able to clock the overtime and she didn’t much care. George and Wes were working on call today and September and Gretchen were on for Sunday. If the detectives weren’t needed, they would stay home. If they were, that’s when the overtime kicked in. As a rule, most of Laurelton’s crimes could be handled by police officers. The cases that required detectives weren’t plentiful, which was why the department cutbacks were a worry. September had been lucky to be involved in several big cases over the last year and a half, and she and her fellow detectives had certainly had their share of work-related injuries that sidelined them for a while—the memory of a man stabbing at her caused her to inadvertently rub the scar near her shoulder—so the work level had been consistent. But now they were in a lull that, although great for the public good, wasn’t so great for her career.

She’d called the number for the Burkeys from Elias Mamet’s list as soon as she’d left the interview with Kitsy Hasseldorn. No answer. She’d called again a few hours later and the same thing: no answer. The Burkeys weren’t getting back to her and she could find no separate listing for Thomas Burkey.

After that she’d phoned the landlord again, but Mamet was as unhelpful as ever. Though his rental house was only a few doors from the Singletons’ and had been for years, he swore he didn’t know much about them. He also didn’t remember anything about a tenant with an RV, and he brushed aside the horse by saying that a number of tenants had a horse or two. It was one of the draws of his rental.

Mamet’s records were as lousy as his attitude, but September had managed to winnow the long list he’d given her down to four names that could possibly belong to the family of the kid with the addiction problem. She’d called Mamet again later, trying to jog his memory on the four names, but his responses had devolved to gruff yes and no answers, except for his assurance that he didn’t really like police officers of any kind.

Now she was going over the four names of families who had rented the Mamet place. None of them were anything that sounded like shoe, as Kitsy had recalled, and only a couple of them had answered her calls or returned them. Of the two who had, most had some recollection of Tommy Burkey, but the kid with the addiction problem rang no bells, most likely because she hadn’t connected with the boy’s family yet. The whole process was like moving through molasses, slow, slow, slow, but that was the nature of police work.

After their talk with Kitsy Hasseldorn, September and Gretchen had been called to a domestic disturbance that ended in death. The wife had hit the husband with a frying pan filled with chicken Marengo, which had burned him and sent him to the hospital. What had killed him was the heart attack that followed this altercation, and the wife was so distraught and disbelieving, it was pretty clear she hadn’t mean to kill him. The case was now in the hands of the DA, who could decide whether to pursue it further. Afterward, it was time to go home, but September had wanted to pick up where she’d left off on the Aurora Lane case today, on the weekend, and here she was.

She put in one more call to the Burkeys, preparing herself for yet another voice message when, to her surprise, the line was answered by a suspicious male, who asked, “Who is this?”

“I’m Detective September Rafferty,” she began, but he cut her off.

“You’ve been leaving messages.”

“Yes, I have. Is this . . .” She’d been going to say Douglas, Mr. Burkey’s name, but changed her mind and asked, “Tommy?”

His intake of air told her a lot. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, I’m just looking for information about a boy who lived on Aurora Lane who—”

“You gonna arrest him for drugs?”

September trod carefully. “Well, no. I just want to talk to him.”

“Why don’t you call his mom and dad?”

“I don’t know their names, Tommy. What’s your friend’s name?”