“The US sees about a hundred and thirty successful suicides a day. Around seventy percent are middle-aged white men, most of them using firearms.” Bible held up a finger. “Anticipating your next question, no—our guy didn’t kill himself. I think he probably tried and failed. That’s a pattern with these fellas, too. If they weren’t failures, they wouldn’t be so damn angry. And we know our bad guy didn’t trot off to the hospital after his failed attempt, otherwise there would’ve been a police report, and of the eighty-four attempted suicide reports filed in the five-state area over the last five days, none of them have a connection to the judge.”
Andrea felt her brain start to wake up. This wasn’t just a curiosity. Bible was seriously invested in his theory.
She asked, “Why would there be a police report? It’s not illegal to try to kill yourself.”
“Technically, it is in Maryland and Virginia. Dates back to thirteenth-century English common law.” He shrugged. “Perfectly legal in the state of Delaware, but generally, a lot of the ways folks try to kill themselves involve drugs obtained by illicit means or improperly discharged firearms. Not to mention there’s an ex or a neighbor or a co-worker who calls in something funny.”
That made sense, but still, she quoted Bible’s words back to him. “‘We’re not the investigators. Our only job is to keep the judge safe.’”
“Well, sure, but I thought we were just shootin’ the shit here, hoss. Can’t investigate much over a greasy cheeseburger unless you’re trying to Scooby-Doo some heartburn. Thank you.”
Ricky was making the rounds with a pitcher to refill their drinks. Her molars worked the chewing gum like a piece of machinery. She started on Andrea’s glass, giving her another wink. “Doin’ good, hon?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Andrea looked down at her glass as she tried to compose herself. She was still elated about discovering Ricky. She could only pray that Bible didn’t notice.
He noticed. “Looks like you made a friend.”
Andrea didn’t answer his implied question. “‘Particular details.’”
“What’s that?” Bible took a swig of Pepsi.
She waited until his glass was back on the counter. “You said that there were some particular details about the judge’s private life in the letters that were mailed to her chambers. That was why the death threats were deemed credible. So it would follow that whoever is threatening the judge knows her—at least well enough to know the particular details.”
“Hot diggity damn,” Bible said. “Mike was spot-on about you, Oliver. You’re sharp as a tack. I wish I had your memory. Is that something you picked up in art school, an eye for detail?”
She sensed a rope-a-dope coming. “You seem to know Judith really well.”
He picked up the glass again and finished the Pepsi before setting it back down on the counter. Then he slowly swiveled the stool until he was facing her. “All seriousness?”
“Sure.”
“If this is gonna work between us, Oliver, I gotta know one thing about you and one thing only.”
She could smell the bullshit coming, so she built her own pile to get in the way. “I’m an open book, Bible. Ask me anything.”
“Are you a pie or cobbler person?”
“Pie.”
He had been holding his breath, but now he let it out. “That is a damn relief.”
She watched him spin back around and stick his hand into the air for a waitress.
Andrea stared out the car window at the never-ending clusters of giant vacation houses to the west of Beach Road. She didn’t need to consult the town property records to know that the sprawling mansions had devoured the small cottages that vacationers had used for generations. The same type of overdevelopment had happened in Belle Isle. Laura’s tiny beach home was dwarfed by what she called gargansions. She was constantly complaining about notes left in her mailbox offering her gobs of cash to sell.
“Asshats,” she would mutter as she tore up the letters. “Where would I go?”
Andrea glanced at Bible, who had turned unusually silent since they’d left the diner. The dash lights gave the scars on his face an eerie glow. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel along with the Yacht Rock mumbling from the radio. Andrea had often imagined her mother’s generation would spend their later years in the nursing home shuffling along to a Duran Duran cover band and occasionally shouting “Whatchu talkin’ bout, Willis?” at the staff.
Despite Bible’s familiar taste in music, Andrea didn’t know if she could completely trust her new partner. He clearly knew the Vaughn family better than he’d let on. At least well enough for Judith to greet him like an old friend. He was obviously trying to figure out who had threatened the judge, even though he’d made it clear that their job wasn’t to investigate. And he wasn’t sharing the why or how with Andrea, which seemed fair because she wasn’t sharing her alternate investigation with him, either.
She opened her mouth, thinking that she should try to get him talking again, but then she remembered what he’d said about being a thermometer. He was running a bit cool, so she should run cool, too.
Her eyes turned back to the McMansions. She was still in the information-gathering stage of the Emily Vaughn cold case investigation. The fact was that no one knew for certain Clayton Morrow was guilty of murdering Emily Vaughn. Andrea hoped he was, because it would not only keep him locked up, but would likely give her family some peace. But she was also aware it was sloppy detective work to start with a solution and work her way back.
You didn’t have to go through months of training at Glynco to know that looking for motive, means and opportunity was the starting point of every murder investigation. Andrea applied that formula to the brutal attack that had caused Emily’s death.
Means was easy—a piece of wood that had been wielded like a baseball bat. The elder Chief Stilton had matched the weapon to a broken shipping pallet in the alley where Emily was attacked. It had presumably been tossed out of a car window, because a dog walker had spotted the splintered, bloody plank just off the main roadway between downtown and the Skeeter’s Grill.