Chapter 26
How was it that Mondays always rolled around so fast? Still, Gibson considered himself fortunate. Not every case came with weekends off. Katherine had been more relaxed than normal, although she was prickly. She had completed her final exam, but now the wait for the results gnawed on her nerves—and his. He stood at the front window sipping his first coffee of the day and gazed at the bay shimmering in the sunlight. It was another glorious fall morning with a cloudless sky. He walked back to the kitchen and watched Katherine pottering around in her greenhouse. It was time to regroup. He headed out, glancing once more at the ocean and all its potentials. He drove through his little village and hit the freeway, joining the long lines of vehicles going into the city.
Gibson had a tough job finding a parking space on the street so he headed to the underground garage. He slogged up the steps, gave a wave to the receptionist behind the security counter and trudged on to the next floor. Scottie was in her office bent over a pile of folders scattered across her desk.
“Hey.”
Scottie looked up and fell back in her chair, tossing a pen on top of the papers. She stretched her legs out and stifled a yawn with her hand.
“I hate paperwork.”
Gibson hung onto the doorframe as he leaned into the room and nodded. He knew Scottie had spent countless hours on Friday writing the reports, perusing each page to ensure the details were correct. The chief was a stickler for accuracy. The District Attorney had hammered that home after a ruined trial last year. An indiscretion in a detective’s statement had blown the case into smithereens.
“Did you find out anything about either the homeless guy or the dog walker?”
“No. I got hung up on this,” Scottie said and picked up a document. She was ruffled.
“The chief. You know.”
“Yeah,” Gibson quirked an eyebrow and smiled. “Thanks for covering for me.” Scottie understood his situation at home with Katherine. Gibson never had to solicit help.
She shrugged it off.
“The bully factor is out. Right?”
“Yes. I suppose.” He grudgingly conceded on that point. Tim was in the clear. Doesn’t mean he’s not a bully, he thought to himself, not daring to voice that to Scottie. He didn’t need a ‘told you so’.
“What an ass. That’s for sure.” Scottie laughed. She watched him teeter on dark emotions and changed the subject. “So, money?”
“Gunner and Na are still checking the cash trail,” Gibson said. “Too bad we can’t bring Tony down for sexual improprieties.” He studied the ceiling, his jaw thrust forward.
“We know Jeff gains financially from Robbie’s death.” She motioned her partner into her office.
Gibson sat in the solitary chair in front of her desk. He crossed his legs. His right hand drummed a song he had heard on the drive in.
“The chief feels strongly about the money motive. Could we put some pressure on Jeff? He seems to be the most promising person at this point. What have we got?”
Scottie pulled a journal out of her pocket and flipped through several pages. She tapped the book and put it away.
“He doesn’t have an alibi.”
Gibson’s thought as well—alibis. He had pursued the investigation in a linear motion, bent on pursuing the bully. Now each person’s whereabouts had to be made clear. It was obvious they had overlooked a detail. Not having an alibi didn’t make a person guilty, but it did eliminate the individual as a suspect.
“Ellen’s is solid.” Gibson pushed back in the chair, extending his legs out.
“Who else?”
“Nick.” Scottie closed her eyes momentarily. “And Tony. We have to recheck everybody.”
Gibson blew out a loud sigh, making that rude noise with his lips again.
Scottie looked up, shocked at her boss’s lack of finesse, not in character.
“It’s getting to me,” was his only comeback.
“I hear you.”
“The guys at the safety seminar,” he continued.
“That’s another big black hole,” Scottie agreed.
They sat quietly, each in their deliberations. Gibson thought they had let their guard down. Apparently so did Scottie because she spoke up, mirroring his sentiments.
“Okay, we really didn’t pin that meeting down. Did we? And I’d like to scout out that homeless guy.” Scottie stopped to think it over. “Give me one day to find him. Somehow he must be connected to this.”
“Sure,” Gibson agreed. “The jacket won’t help us.”
“Nope.”
“Let’s get a coffee.”
They walked down to the employee restaurant on the first floor. The place was full of the chatter of detectives, deafening in the low-ceilinged room. Gibson felt restless and sat quietly. He had been unfocused all week by Katherine, the exam and the panic attack. Was he so preoccupied he had stopped doing his job well? He breathed in. Then let out another moan. Scottie left him to his musings and enjoyed an egg salad sandwich with her drink. The prattle at a table diagonal to them distracted him. He tilted his head at a sharp angle and twitched his lips upward. What had he overheard? Old man and a dog. Run over. His ears pricked up when he heard it happened at the university. Was it their dog walker? That would be a coincidence. He glanced over at Scottie and noticed the chatter had caught her interest too. She raised her eyebrows, motioned her chin in question to the group of officers.
“Check it out.”
“Yes, sounds like our guy.”
After their break, they moved out in opposite ways. Gibson drove over to the maintenance shed to see about the trucks. He had left in a rush on Friday and neglected to find out about the fleet protocol. He parked along the curb and headed for the workshop. AJ was busy at his work bench. He saw Gibson enter, so he put down his hammer and removed his gloves.
“What’s up?”
“Who gets a vehicle? Not for work but for personal use.”
“Both the supervisor and foremen take a truck home.” AJ paused, running his hand across the still tender gash. “Whoever’s on call takes one as well.”
“Who was it that weekend?” Gibson’s eyebrows arched.
“David.”
Gibson’s posture stiffened. He had let David’s alibi slide. A visit to Jackie was in order. He leaned his hip against the workbench trying to think this through.
“What about the keys? Especially to the back.” He pointed to the rear.
“Everybody in the yard has a full set for all the doors. We rotate the on-call work. It’s easier that way.”
Dead end. Access for all. Damn. There was a big whoosh of cool air. A tall, gangly fellow stepped into the room letting the door slam behind him. He looked at both men and smiled. AJ introduced.
“Meet Keith.”
The illusive assistant supervisor darted his eyes around the shop. Perfect. Gibson needed to pin down the movements of everyone at the meeting. This man would know. Keith had the best view that morning standing at the front. Gibson wanted everything. Who got up? Who left? How long were they gone?
“I don’t know.” Keith pursed his lips together, shaking his head back and forth in a constant motion at the questions Gibson fired at him.
It was hopeless. The man was no help at all. It had been his first time running a meeting, and he was nervous. He didn’t notice anyone come or go. Gibson continued to be disappointed. No confirmation of anybody’s movement. What was wrong with the people here? But still, it was a long shot. Not sufficient time to run across the courtyard, kill someone and make it back—no blood, not breathing hard. But certainly time enough to see something. Gibson was frustrated. He would arrange for Na to set up a fresh round of interviews. It would get sorted or…? Or what?
He left the building and sat in the F150, his eyes fixed inwards. He lowered the window and filled his lungs with the freshness before firing up the engine. It roared to life with one turn of the key. He headed out of the university grounds and took a right to Fou
l Bay Road. When he got to the house, he saw a white pickup truck parked in the driveway with some advertising on the side panels. He rapped on the door loudly. Jeff answered after a few minutes, opening the door only a crack. Gibson could see his dirty T-shirt and baggy jogging pants. As if Jeff ever jogged. What was wrong with him? Where was this cynicism coming from? He needed a holiday—at the least a scoot around the bay. Was it only Monday?
“Is that your vehicle?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you do for a living?” Gibson asked, although he had read the sign on the side panel.
“A painting contractor,” Jeff said. “Not much work in the winter.”
“I haven’t seen your truck before. Where is it usually parked?”
“My friend borrowed it last week. To get firewood.”
“Person’s name?”
Jeff gave him a name. Gibson jotted it down in his notebook with a big question mark. He would definitely follow up.
“Is that it?” Jeff held onto the door tightly. There would be no invite into the house today. Gibson leaned in and caught a whiff of something pungent—weed.
“You don’t have an alibi.”
All he got in reply was a twisted grin.