Murder by Moonlight Page 4

  I couldn’t help but believe she would have lived had Bowman done the right thing and investigated all possibilities in the case instead of jumping to a conclusion of murder one after uncovering that duct-taped jawbone. Where were the rest of the remains? If only the police hadn’t bowed to pressure from an impatient Bethlehem and continued properly investigating the situation instead of jumping on the “evil, neglectful mommy” bandwagon, the singular tragedy of one child’s death would not have been compounded by her mother’s death. Maybe in the end, she would have been charged and found guilty, but at least every possibility would have been examined, every stone overturned.

  That dead woman and her dead daughter…that’s why I’m taking on Joan Parker’s case. Just because the Bethlehem cops jumped to a speedy conclusion about Chris being the killer based on some convincing circumstantial evidence doesn’t necessarily make them right. Not by a long shot. Sometimes what seems obvious is anything but. And everybody knows cops have a hard-on for clean, uncomplicated cases. Especially ones that earn national attention, just like the Christina Riley case and now the Chris Parker case.

  Cops. Fucking suburban cops.

  I’m not about to allow them to run the risk of making another big mistake for the sake of avoiding a protracted, expensive, high-profile, drawn-out investigation. That means I’m not about to watch my step in Bethlehem. It means I’m not going to stay away from Doc Robinson’s Pet Sounds just because he’s “good people,” whatever the hell that means. It means I’m going to get to the bottom of whether Christopher is in fact an axe murderer or simply a decent kid who’s been grossly misunderstood.

  The Pet Sounds Veterinary Clinic doesn’t look a hell of a lot like a clinic. Nor is there anything about the place that reminds me of the famous Beach Boys album of the same name. I get it, though…Pet Sounds.

  How very clever.

  The place has been converted from an old two-story, clapboard-sided, Sears kit bungalow. The front porch sports one of those old-fashioned Andy Griffith two-person swings that hangs down from the rafters by means of four vertical ropes. Opposite it is an empty space that’s taken up by two square cages, which I assume are used for holding dogs or cats or whatever animal requires medical attention. A pet waiting room, you might say.

  I enter Pet Sounds through the front door and make my way across the small living room waiting area to a reception counter. The young woman who sits behind it is wearing a white pullover top, like an RN for a people hospital. She smiles perfect white teeth and runs her right hand through lush, shoulder-length black hair.

  “I’m Moonlight,” I say.

  “That so?” she giggles.

  I toss her a wink. “I’d love to speak with Doc Robinson.”

  Coming from the hallway and attached rooms behind her, a muffled human voice. But no pet sounds.

  “He’s with a patient at the moment,” she says. “Can I ask the reason for your inquiry, Mr. Moonlight?” Smart, pretty, polite, college educated. Beauty, youth, and brains. What more can you ask?

  “It’s just Moonlight. I’m a private detective looking into the Parker affair. I understand Christopher worked here on his summer vacations.”

  She holds onto her happy face. But I can tell that if she owned an Adam’s apple, it would be bobbing up and down inside that beautiful little neck.

  “A real private detective, huh?” she says. “Never met one of those before.”

  “We’re very rare. And, as you can see, very handsome.” I toss her another wink. It makes her happy face turn red.

  A man enters the reception area behind the cute receptionist’s back. He’s a tall, thin man and he’s wearing green scrubs. What’s that they say about adopted kids taking on the physical characteristics of their adoptive parents? It’s the same for this man. He reminds me of a cute, cuddly, sad-faced dog. Kind of like those color, glossy, big-eyed, sad dog posters they used to sell at the five-and-dime back when I was a kid. A shaggy black beard, longish black hair, big sad brown eyes, and an even sadder expression.

  “Dr. Robinson, I presume.”

  Cute Receptionist turns. “This is Mr. Moonlight,” she says. “He’s wondering about Christopher.”

  Puppy Dog Robinson blinks, sets his right hand on her narrow shoulder. Affectionately.

  “It’s OK, Erin,” he explains. Then to me. “How can I help you…Mr. Moonlight?”

  I tell him the reason for my visit.

  He thinks about it for a moment while staring off into space. Until he slides his hand slowly off Erin’s shoulder, pulls a ten from out of the single chest pocket on his scrubs.

  “Why don’t you go get a cappuccino,” he says, handing her the money.

  Erin holds the bill apprehensively. “Mrs. Miller is arriving with Rusty in a few minutes,” she warns.

  “It’s fine. I can handle it myself.”

  Erin brushes back her hair. She comes around the counter sporting a pair of very tight, low-rider jeans. Puppy Dog’s got himself a choice piece of ass to come to work to every day.

  “Nice meeting you, Moonlight,” she says, tossing me an over-the-shoulder grin.

  “Isn’t it pretty to think so,” I say.

  She exits the clinic, taking most of the oxygen with her. That leaves me alone with Puppy Dog, who’s settled on giving me the silent treatment for a few uncomfortable moments.

  I decide to be the lesser man and shatter the silence.

  “So where were we?” I say.

  “She’s twenty-two years old,” he says.

  “Excuse me?” I say. “Who’s twenty-two?”

  “Erin…My receptionist. Your eyes are bulging out of their sockets.”

  “I’m forty-something. I’m not dead yet.”

  He sighs. “I’ve already spoken to the police,” he goes on. “About Christopher.”

  The phone rings. He lets it ring without picking it up.

  “What’s he like as an employee?” I ask.

  He reaches into the pants pocket of his scrubs, pulls out a ChapStick. Uncapping it, he runs it across his thin lips like he’s trying to put out a fire.

  “You know that if you use too much of that stuff,” I warn, “it’ll kill your natural ability to produce moisture.”

  He finishes with the ChapStick, caps it, stuffs it back in his pocket. “Too late for that. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Sure thing. Then back to the question. What’s the kid like as an employee?”

  “Like a member of my family. Someone I can trust. Someone who’s on time and conscientious about his work. Christopher has a way with animals, especially dogs. A healing way. Not exactly what you might expect from an axe murderer.”

  “Like the dog whisperer,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  “The guy on the National Geographic channel. You know, dude talks to dogs, makes them feel good. Makes them behave.”

  “I don’t watch much TV.”

  “Now I feel real small and stupid. Don’t read People mag either, I bet.”

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Moonlight?”

  The phone stops ringing. I wonder if it’s Rusty saying he’s going to be late. Or is Rusty a she?

  “Prior to September 15th, had Christopher been acting strangely? Fighting a lot with his folks? Fighting with anyone else?”

  “I can’t imagine him fighting with anyone…can’t imagine him raising his voice.”

  “But it is possible?”

  He cocks his head, runs an index finger over his waxy lips. “I suppose anything is possible. But taking an axe to his mother and father? Not a chance. And I will stand up in a court of law and testify to that fact, if necessary.”

  “You’re one tough vet. You’re gonna make my job of proving Christopher didn’t hack up his folks real easy.”

  The door opens up again. A tall, thin woman stops in the doorway. She has short-cropped gray hair and a lit cigarette in her mouth. She yanks the cig from her mouth, tosses it into the bushes, then
closes the door behind her. She grips a leash in her left hand. The leash is attached to a leather collar that’s wrapped around the neck of the cuddliest little rust-colored dog you ever did see. A cocker spaniel, if I have to guess. Like a stuffed animal only alive, with droopy eyes, floppy long ears, chubby belly, short, stubby tail that wags to and fro.

  Rusty the Dog.

  “As you can see, Mr. Moonlight,” Robinson says, “I have a clinic to run.”

  I nod, reach into my pocket, pull out a card. Hand it to him. “If you can think of anything else,” I say, “I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

  He takes the card, stuffs it into the chest pocket on his scrubs. Then he reaches into his pants pocket, once again pulls out the ChapStick and does up his lips like it’s possible they’ve gone dry in the few minutes since he last coated them. “Hello, Mrs. Miller,” he says, peering down at the dog.

  I turn, lower myself at the knees, reach out to pet Rusty. The cuddly little dog lunges at my fingers, snapping its jaws shut.

  “Yikes!” I bark while recoiling.

  “Rusty!” the gray-haired woman scolds, yanking back on the leash.

  I turn back to Doc Robinson. He’s still holding the ChapStick.

  “Guess you never can tell a book by its cover,” I say. “Or a dog by its fur.”

  “I’m surprised,” he says. “Usually Rusty is a well-adjusted animal.”

  “You’ve been trying to tell me the same thing about Christopher,” I say. “See my point?”

  He just sighs.

  “Go easy on that ChapStick.” Careful to take the long way around Rusty the cuddly killer dog, I slip out the door.

  Back out on the cold street, this is what I’m thinking: forget fancy-pants Bowman.

  I didn’t listen to him when he asked me to stay away from Doc Robinson and I’m not about to wait forever to get a look inside the Parker house. I’m not about to start making mistakes just because it’s quite possible he already made a whopper by arresting Christopher. But then, no way is Bowman about to allow me entry now that I’ve been hired to refute his theories as to who attacked Joan and Peter. But I’m going to do the right thing for my client, even if it means breaking the law in squeaky-clean Bethlehem.

  Especially if it means breaking the law.

  ____

  It’s January. It gets dark early.

  It’s going on four o’clock in the afternoon. In a half hour, it’ll be full dark. I make an executive decision. Instead of driving back to Albany, I drive back into the center of town, park the hearse on the street.

  I choose to wait out the thirty or so minutes in the Four Corners coffee shop. I can see why the owners chose the name. Outside the shop, a traffic light divides two intersecting streets into four distinct corners, all of which are littered with cute little mom-and-pop shops, including the coffee shop.

  I open the shop door just as somebody is walking out. It’s hot little Erin from the vet clinic. Turns out I’ve startled her.

  “Mr. Moonlight,” she says with that smile; those big eyes; that smooth, velveteen, just-shampooed-under-the-shower-naked hair. In her right hand, she’s holding a medium cup of steaming cappuccino. I can smell the rich coffee vapors from where I stand. I know the coffee is dark and thick like the hair on her head, maybe the hair on her landing strip.

  My mind runs away with itself. I have to rein it in. “You wanna join me for another coffee?” I offer, holding the door open.

  “Gotta get back to the clinic,” she says. “But another time, maybe.”

  I feel a twinge in my stomach. I reach into my pocket, fish around for a card, give it to her. She’s not that much younger than me, in human evolutionary terms, anyway.

  “I wouldn’t mind asking you a few questions about Christopher. If it’s OK with you.”

  Her eyes begin to blink rapidly. “What do you know about Chris and me?”

  “Nada.”

  She stares down at the card like there’s more to read than my name and cell phone number. She stuffs the card into the pocket of her tight jeans. Lucky card. “I’ll call,” she says.

  “Maybe we’ll get a real drink instead of boring old coffee. We’ll talk a little more about Christopher.” Now I’m smiling. More than I should be.

  She walks out onto the sidewalk, issuing me another one of those over-the-shoulder glances.

  Ah youth…

  “I’ll think it over,” she calls back with a smile. “I like older guys.”

  “Wow,” I whisper to myself as she slowly struts away.

  Lucky me.

  ____

  I take an empty seat by a window that faces out onto the four corners. The “Great Society” town is full of cute young mothers dragging their little uniformed school kids in and out of the deli, or the dry cleaners, or the bookstore, or the bank. The kids are all cute, too. Bushy-haired, wide-eyed, energetic, not a single clue about mortality. They remind me of my son, Harrison, or Bear, as we came to call the pudgy, round toddler back when he was that age. When I was a suburban dad with a real job, a first wife, a mortgage over my head, enough credit card debt to keep me up most nights. It was a desperate time.

  One mom dressed in too-tight designer jeans and come-spank-me pumps tries to hold her little boy’s hand while she crosses the busy road with him. But he manages to pull his hand away and sprints across the street on his own. She screams, runs after him. But her pumps are slowing her up. She’s probably sore as hell from tennis lessons at the club. My heart skips a beat when the driver of an oncoming SUV with tinted windows has to hit the brakes, stop on a dirty dime in a screeching halt of burning rubber.

  When mother and son are safely on the other side of the street, she bends over and scolds the little boy. But he seems not to care about her anger, or her love, for that matter. He just wants to run around, get rid of all that pent-up energy. He’s got no idea about death and nothing going on in his little brain that suggests life isn’t something you can “play again” should it suddenly come to an end, like in a video game.

  By the time I finish my coffee, it’s full dark.

  I get up, set a couple of bucks down on the table, place the empty coffee mug on top of it. I leave the shop, start walking toward Dad’s Caddy, which will take me back to the Parker residence under the cover of darkness.

  Time to break the law in the little town of Bethlehem.

  ____

  Ten minutes later, I’m turning onto Brockley Drive. This time, instead of pulling up directly outside the house, I park the Caddy on an adjoining street. I don’t want to take a chance on my old friend Maxwell sitting inside his living room with the lights out, scoping out the empty Parker residence. Grabbing a flashlight from the glove box, I shove it down inside my leather jacket, get out, and start hoofing it.

  When the Parker house comes into view, I cut up onto an absent neighbor’s side lawn, make my way to the backyard toward a stand of woods that runs the length of the property perimeter. Bushwhacking my way through the now-leafless greenbrier and oak trees, I come to the back of the house. I peer from out of the woods. I look right and I look left. Coast seems clear enough. I walk out of the woods, approach the back of the empty residence.

  I thumb the flashlight on.

  First thing I do is find the telephone wire that runs from the house out to a pole that stands on the edge of the property. I manage to locate the pole without a problem. I also locate the place where the wire makes its entry into the house on the second floor. But the wire isn’t to be found.

  Scratch that.

  It’s to be found, but it’s been cut and is now coiled like a snake on the dry, frozen ground beside the home’s concrete foundation. Christ, you’d need at least a stepladder to reach where the wire’s been cut. Even then you’d have to be at least six feet tall. Like Christopher. But then I also can’t imagine anyone other than a phone company techie making the actual cut. There’s a lot of juice running through those wires.

  I scan the back of the house wi
th the flashlight, search for anything that might give me further indication that this wasn’t the quick-and-easy inside job Bowman swore it was. A few seconds later, I see the screen that covers a window that accesses the garage. It’s been cut from top to bottom and yanked apart.

  Bingo.

  I make my way to the window, examine the cut. Nice and clean. The screen was sliced through with something very sharp, like a razor blade, not sawed through with a dull knife blade. I’ve got this idea. I pull the Swiss Army jackknife from my pocket, cut off a small portion of the screen. A piece about the size of my palm, one side of which bears the slice made by the original intruder. I stuff the piece of screen in my jacket pocket. Closing up the knife, I shove it back into my pocket also. I stuff the flashlight handle into my pant waist, set both hands on the cold window sash, brace my legs, and push up.

  It opens. So much for securing the crime scene.

  Since this seems like an obvious invitation, I gladly accept. Hiking myself up, I fish myself through the open window. Then, holding out my arms, I break my fall onto the concrete garage floor. I stand up, close the window behind me.

  I’m in.

  I scan the double-bay garage with the flashlight. No cars are parked inside it. The cars must have been impounded for Bowman’s split-second investigation. At least he was that thorough. The place is full of all the stuff you normally see inside a suburban garage. A push lawnmower with attached grass-catching bag. Lawn tools hang from sixpenny nails hammered into studs hidden by Sheetrock walls. A rake; a stepladder; a spade; an electric trimmer, the black cord neatly wrapped around the handle. Obviously, Peter Parker was a fastidious caretaker.

  The place smells of motor oil and gas. Not much else. With the heat off, I make puffs of white, flashlight-reflected steam with every breath. I step over to the door that accesses the house. Mounted to the wall beside the door is the alarm keypad. Or the base of the keypad, I should say, because the rest of the bitch has been smashed and now hangs precariously off the wall by two or three green and red wires. I wonder if tampering with the pad somehow stopped the alarm from sounding. I can’t help but think it would do just the opposite. It would, at the very least, send out a silent emergency signal to the police station.