The idiot had left the smoking gun behind.
CHAPTER 52
I HEADED INTO my office at eight the next morning, still with a headache pounding like a jackhammer into a spot directly behind my right eye.
Cody was on the phone, but when I passed his desk, he held up his hand, signaling me to wait. He said into his headset mic, “Yes, sir. I’ll see if he’s in.”
He scribbled on the back of an envelope, “Chf Fescoe.”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
I went to my desk, snatched the phone off the hook, and said, “Mick?”
“Jack. This is a heads-up. Call your lawyer.”
“What happened?”
“Tandy and Ziegler found your gun.”
His words were like a fastball to the gut. I felt sick. I lost focus. My mind skipped over the events of the past three days as I tried to make sense of what he was saying.
Words came out of my mouth. “Found it where?”
“In your front yard. Buried under a vine.”
“Planted, you mean. I reported it missing the night Colleen was killed.”
“I understand that, Jack. Fact is, it’s your gun, a custom Kimber, registered to you. Your prints are on it.”
“Only my prints?”
“Yes.”
I sat down. Cody brought in my Red Bull, set it down on a coaster that he positioned just so. It took him a little too long to leave. I stared at him until he exited and closed the door behind him.
“Jack?”
“I’m still here, Mickey. Say again. Where exactly did they find the gun?”
“Under some mulch, just inside your gate. Your Kimber is a .45, same caliber as the slugs that killed Colleen Molloy.”
“The killer used gloves,” I said. “That’s why only my prints are on the gun. He left it where the cops would find it.”
“I hear you. Ballistics is running a comparison now,” said my friend the police chief, not committing himself. I pictured him: a big man, six-four, wide smile, me standing with him and Justine six months ago, cameras flashing and Mickey Fescoe thanking us for catching a killer.
He’d certainly trusted me then.
Fescoe’s voice softened. “Are the slugs taken from the victim a match to your gun, Jack?”
“Maybe. Probably. I still didn’t kill her. If I wanted to get rid of my gun, would I actually be that dumb? Mick. I’m asking you. Would I really bury the murder weapon outside my front door?”
“Call your guy Caine. Do what he tells you.”
“Thanks for calling, Mick.”
“No problem. Don’t leave town.”
“I’m staying at a nice hotel. Got everything I want right there.”