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Decker wondered how much he should say to her. Brandy appeared to be truthful. Maybe it was worth the chance. “I pulled in a couple of punks this afternoon. Both of them told me that Brady was selling used and out-of-date electronic equipment to recycling dealers.”
She waited. “Okay. Is there something wrong with that?”
“No. The kids said he found the stuff dumpster diving. Does that sound like the kind of thing your brother might do?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Brady could be … entrepreneurial. But his business wasn’t always legal, to put it mildly.”
“He dealt drugs?”
“Nothing big, but yes, he sold pot and pills in high school.”
“And that’s all?”
“He didn’t peddle tar or crack, if that’s what you’re asking.” A pause. “At least, if he did, I didn’t know about it.”
“So it’s possible he could have dealt harder stuff.”
“Maybe.” She looked at the ceiling. “Something got him murdered.”
“True enough,” McAdams said. “Was he good at computers?”
“I’ve never known him to be a whiz or geeky or anything like that. But he did work in the electronics department at Bigstore, and he was promoted to manager. So maybe he was more adroit than I knew.”
“Was Brady good at numbers like you and your dad?” Decker asked.
“Yes, he was, come to think of it. He was no abstract math genius, but he could add and subtract in his head. I imagine that a gift like that would come in handy working in retail. Today, with calculators and computers, his skill doesn’t bring much to the table. But it’s a great party trick.”
“How about if you’re betting and the odds keep changing?”
“I don’t think Brady was a gambler. We both had our fill of that life from Dad.” Brandy checked her watch. “I’m sorry to be rude, but I have to meet my mom at the mortuary tomorrow and I’m just dreading it. I need a little time to relax. If you have more questions down the road, I’m fine with it. Just not now.”
The men got up and gave Brandy their cards. “Call if you can think of anything else,” Decker told her. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Have I?”
“Very much. Thanks for your time, Ms. Neil.”
“Just call me Brandy. It’s kind of a stripper name, but I like it. It’s about the only thing I’ve kept from my old life.”
AFTER THEY GOT into the car, McAdams said, “If Brady was a gambler like his old man, it could explain how he wound up dead. Maybe he borrowed money from the wrong person.”
“It’s a thought, but a true gambler usually doesn’t have cash lying around. They spend it as soon as they get it.”
“A professional poker player?”
“Living in the basement of his mother’s home?”
“A mediocre professional poker player?” When Decker didn’t answer, McAdams said, “Well, what do you think?”
“I don’t have any definite theories right now. But what do you think about a manager of the electronics department of Bigstore keeping company with a warehouse worker?”
“He was stealing from the inventory?” McAdams said. “Don’t they keep meticulous records?”
“I’m sure they have records … how meticulous?” Decker shrugged. “If he was dealing in broken-down parts, what’s to say that a box here and there didn’t get accidentally dropped and ruined?”
“Then Bigstore would return it to the manufacturer.”
“Yes, if it was a really big, expensive item. But Bigstore sells a lot of glasses, decorative pots and vases, and kitchenware and small appliances and food in jars. Stuff they wouldn’t ship back because it’s too little. If it was a smaller item—a phone or a cheap game system—maybe the store would elect to lump it all together under its breakage insurance policy.”
“Okay. Suppose Neil and Boxer were occasionally lifting broken items. That’s a good theory for explaining Neil’s extra cash. But it doesn’t explain how he got whacked in the head and ended up dead.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Decker’s phone rang and Butterfield’s voice emerged on Bluetooth.
“Hey, Deck.”
“Hey, Kev. How did the canvassing go?”
“Between that and CCTV, I have a few things. I’m at the station house. Where are you?”
“We’re just coming back from talking to Brady Neil’s sister. We’ll be right over.”
“Is the kid with you?”
“The kid is right here,” said McAdams. “When do I lose the moniker? I mean, is it really proper to call someone a kid if he’s been shot two times in the line of duty?”
Over the line, Kevin Butterfield said, “You’re right. You are now officially Harvard. The girl can be The Kid. Because I’m sure you can’t call any female a girl anymore without getting into trouble by the PC police.”
Decker smiled. “Okay, Lennie Baccus is officially the kid.”
“Good to have the rules down,” Butterfield said. “See you both later.”
After he disconnected, McAdams said, “You didn’t tell him about Lennie’s supposed sexual harassment.”
“It’s not supposed, it’s real. My daughter confirmed it. I didn’t tell Butterfield because I don’t want to bias his opinion of her. She needs to be judged on her own merit.”
“Even though she’s a spy for her father.”
“I never said that. You did.”
“But you did tell me that you don’t trust her.”
“That has nothing to do with who she is. It has everything to do with who I am. I’m very cautious.”
“Indeed,” McAdams said. “I started out cynical. You’ve turned me suspicious. If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be downright curmudgeonly before I hit thirty.”
CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_e267a6f9-094e-557d-8881-ae649bb3b21d)
THERE WAS A woman.” Butterfield was flipping through his notes. He was wearing a white shirt under a light blue sports coat and tan pants. “She had insomnia. She heard something around three-fifteen in the morning. It might have been a car motor. She peeked through the curtains but couldn’t see because it was too dark and she didn’t have her glasses.”
“Okay. That could mesh with what the punks told me. That they were there around three and the body was already there. Dash Harden also said they heard something a little later and they all took off. Maybe that’s what she heard.”
“Maybe,” Kevin said. “That’s convenient. I’ve been looking at tapes from CCTV close to Canterbury Lane. It took me a while to locate CCTV because not too many businesses have them, and it took me an even longer time to see anything on them, because Greenbury is a ghost town at that time in the morning.”
“Got it. What’d you find?”
“See for yourself. This baby had a time of 3:17:34 and was taken from CCTV perched at the intersection of Tollway and Heart. It’s heading away from Canterbury Lane.”
“Where did you find this camera?”
“It’s mounted on the front of Sid’s Bar and Grille on Tollway. The place is four blocks from the body dump. Sid’s closes at two, and I checked the make and model with the owner. It doesn’t belong to him or any of his employees.”
“What is the make of the car? I can’t tell.”
“From this picture, it’s hard to see. But at 3:23:17, it shows up again blocks away from Sid’s on Tollway in front of the Bank of Northeast. I’d say it’s a 2009 or 2010 Toyota Camry—dark gray or black.”
“I agree. It might be heading toward the highway. You have any more sightings?”
“No, I’d just started looking in all directions when I found these two tapes. Tomorrow, I’ll go pull any CCTV tapes along Tollway and see if I can spot the Camry again. I’ll also try to pull current registries for 2009 and 2010 Camrys from the DMV.”
“Good work.” Decker stared at the screen. “I can’t see the face of the driver.” Another pause. “This blob over here. That might be someone in the passenger seat. Can you enlarge it?”
“I tried already. All it did was make the blurry images even blurrier. We don’t have the proper resolution equipment. I could try Hamilton. They’re a real city.”
“Leave Hamilton out of the mix for the time being.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to impose any more than necessary on Chief Baccus.” The excuse sounded lame to Decker’s ears.
“I’d think he’d want to know about this,” Butterfield said. “The mailbox felons live in his city.”
Decker had to backtrack. “Yeah, you’re right. Give Hamilton a call.”
“Unless you think there’ll be turf issues,” Butterfield said.
McAdams came to the rescue. “Baccus wasn’t too hot on giving us access to their files. Now that things are heating up, I think he’ll want the case back.”
“Really?” Butterfield said. “Even with Lennie on our team?”
Decker said, “Give Hamilton a call. Find out what kind of equipment they have to enhance this tape.”
Butterfield thought a moment. “I have a few buddies in NYPD in Queens and in Brooklyn. They’re way more likely to have the kind of equipment we need. I can give them a call. If it’s there, we can email in the tape.”
Decker said. “I’ll leave it up to you.”
“I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow.”
McAdams said, “It would be interesting if there were five figures in the car—our mailbox felons?”
“I thought about that,” Butterfield said. “I checked out the felons’ cars and the cars of their parents. Only one of them—Noah Grand’s dad—owns a Camry. It’s a 2006 and it’s light silver. That car on CCTV is too dark to be light silver.”
Decker looked at his watch. It was almost nine-thirty. He’d been working for over twenty hours and decided to call it quits for the day. “Kev, continue this in the morning. Let’s go home and get some sleep.”
“I’ve got the Riley Summers interview at ten. Lennie Baccus is doing the questions, remember.”
“Right,” Decker said. “I forgot about that. How about if I prep Baccus. You make the phone calls to the DMV. Then, you and McAdams check out the businesses on Tollway and see which ones have CCTV. See if you can spot the car and where it’s heading.”
“Sure, boss.” Tyler paused. “You know what goes in, must come out. We have a car driving away from Canterbury Lane. How about a car driving toward Canterbury Lane?”
“Too true,” Butterfield said. “I haven’t checked all the tapes. And I’ve just looked for the cars between the time frame of one a.m. and four a.m. If a car came in earlier, I wouldn’t know. Plus, the mailbox felons could be off on their time frame.”
“Or lying,” McAdams said.
“Always a strong possibility,” Decker said. “Get the tapes and we can all watch some TV tomorrow. Right now, let’s go home.”
They all walked out to the parking lot together. McAdams said, “You’re taking me home?”
“Unless you want to walk.”
McAdams said, “What are you going to do after Riley Summers?”
“Well, assuming I let him go, I suppose I’ll go track down Brady’s friend Boxer.”
Butterfield smiled. “Boxer?”
“Apparently he works in Bigstore’s warehouse department.”
“Maybe Brady Neil’s friend is a dog. Or maybe Boxer is the name of his profession? Or his favorite hobby?” McAdams started jumping around feigning punches. One came near Decker’s face, close enough that Decker jerked his head back.
“What is wrong with you?” He was annoyed. “Did you take your Ritalin this morning?”
McAdams looked chastened. “Sorry.”
Butterfield said, “Where’d you learn the moves?”
“I’ve been taking mixed martial arts classes in Boston.”
“Really?”
“No joke. I started with Brazilian jiujitsu. On the first day of class, I grappled with a five-foot, ninety-nine-pound girl and she took me down. After that, I switched to boxing.”
Decker smiled. “There’s got to be a lesson here somewhere.”
“Of course, there is. Don’t get hurt. However, if you do get hurt, you can always sue.”
AT ELEVEN THE next morning—after an hour of interviewing Riley Summers—Decker was having a hard time deciding if the kid was a deft psycho or if he was just another confused and/or stoned teen. The few coherent statements he did make seemed to jibe with the statements given by Dash Harden and Chris Gingold. Perhaps they all colluded, but it was hard to believe that these guys could keep a false story straight without tripping up. In the end, Decker released the kid, giving him the same stern warning that he gave Harden and Gingold yesterday: keep your nose clean and don’t go anywhere too far away.
“Does that mean I don’t have to go to work?” Riley was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and was scratching a pimple on his face.
