“Was her brother angry she said no?”
Homer nodded. “He’s always been a selfish prick. When the old man was sick and Camilla was taking care of him, the brother hardly ever came over to help. It’s not like he lives across the country. He’s in the next town.”
“Did she say why they wanted money?”
Homer shook his head. “No. Just that they only bothered with her when they wanted something. I don’t think she was surprised Bernard was being an ass. He’s always been a selfish, entitled snob. But Camilla thought the girls were better than that.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us about the family?”
Homer shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then thank you for your time.” Todd left the barn and returned to his vehicle.
Interesting.
Todd headed back to the station to do more research on Camilla’s family. Their history was clearly more complicated than Bernard pretended.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the passenger seat of the SUV, Matt entered Kenny’s address into the GPS. Kenny lived in Grey’s Hollow, so the drive was short.
Behind the wheel, Bree made a left. “What do we know about Kenny?”
Matt relayed the background info he’d found on Kenny earlier. “Other than Oscar’s charges, Kenny’s record is clean. Before that incident, he had no priors and a steady employment history.”
“The sentence seemed harsh for a first offense.”
“Yeah. He refused to plea-bargain and maintained his innocence all the way to trial. The judge gave him the maximum, probably as punishment.”
Over 90 percent of cases were plea-bargained to save the court time and money. Arrestees were encouraged to accept deals. Some judges resented criminals insisting on trials for small offenses and issued harsh penalties as a lesson to the offender and as a signal to others: exercise your legal rights, and we’ll throw the book at you.
“So much for the right to a trial by your peers,” Bree said.
“The system has its problems,” Matt agreed. “Kenny is fifty-one, single, and currently works the night shift at a warehouse as a forklift operator. He has six months left on parole. There’s really nothing else to say about him. His prison record showed one altercation with another inmate. That incident was used to deny parole at his first hearing, but it was granted a few months later. According to his parole officer, he’s complied with all the requirements of his release. He has no social media accounts and no real online presence.”
Less than ten minutes later, Bree pulled up to the curb in front of a tiny house a few blocks from the small business district of Grey’s Hollow, and they walked to the front door.
The elderly woman who answered their knock was the size of a ten-year-old. The top of her head barely reached Matt’s ribs. At least seventy-five years old, she was dressed smartly in a navy-blue track suit and bright white sneakers. She looked exceptionally fit for her age, moving with a youthful bounce in her step. Blonde streaks artfully highlighted short gray hair. Despite her vigor, her age couldn’t be denied. She squinted through thick bifocal glasses, and Matt could see a flesh-colored hearing aid in one ear.
She checked her watch and eyed Bree’s uniform with suspicion. “I just finished my workout, and I need to shower before my bridge game. If you’re here to beg for my vote or a donation, you can just move right along. I’m not interested.”
Bree introduced herself and Matt. “We’re looking for Kenny McPherson.”
“Why?” The woman’s tone turned suspicious, as if she was protecting Kenny.
“We’re investigating a murder,” Bree said, clearly hoping her answer would be shocking enough that the older woman would give up Kenny.
But the woman’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re looking in the wrong place. Kenny’s a good boy. I’ve known him since he was this big.” She held a hand out about two feet over the floor.
Bree didn’t comment. “Can I have your name, ma’am?”
“Phyllis Weir,” she snapped. “Kenny was never a druggie. Those charges were bullshit.”
Matt gave her a reassuring smile. “We’re not here about the old charges.”
Not exactly.
“You know the blood test didn’t show any drugs in Kenny’s system.” Mrs. Weir was not swayed by his charms. She cocked her head, crossed her arms, and shifted her posture into outright defiance. “He mows my lawn. He’s been fixing up the house. He drives me everywhere. I’m telling you, he’s a good man.”
Matt tried a different approach. “How do you know him?”
“His mother—God rest her soul”—Mrs. Weir crossed herself—“was my best friend. She died while Kenny was in prison. Her heart was broken.” She glared at Bree. “Do you have a warrant? I don’t have to tell you shit if you don’t have a warrant.”
Matt tried to sound casual but firm. “Ma’am, we just want to talk to him.”
Mrs. Weir blew an irritated breath out of her nose, then jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “He rents the apartment over the garage behind the house.” Before Bree could say thank you, the woman shut the door in their faces.
“Not a fan of law enforcement,” Matt said.
“Clearly not.” Bree turned away from the door. “I’ll bet she’s calling Kenny to warn him right now.”
They quickened their pace.
Matt gestured to the driveway that ran along the side of the house. “You go up the driveway. I’ll cover this side in case he decides to run.”
They split up. Bree headed for the driveway on the left while Matt hustled across the grass and around the right side of the house. A detached single-car garage dominated the rear yard. Matt peered in the high windows and saw a twenty-year-old Buick Century parked inside. A set of wooden steps led up to the apartment over the garage. Matt caught a quick flash of movement at the rear corner of the yard. A bald man in a short-sleeved gray T-shirt and jeans disappeared behind the building.
“Halt. Sheriff’s office!” Matt shouted, then he turned and yelled for Bree. “This way. He’s running.” From her perspective, she wouldn’t see the fleeing man.
Matt raced after him. Ahead, the man leaped over the four-foot chain-link fence into the rear neighbor’s backyard. Twenty-five feet behind him, Matt ran faster. At the fence, Matt grabbed the top and vaulted over it, barely breaking stride. He sprinted across the grass, quickly gaining ground.
The man glanced back over his shoulder as he ran past the neighbor’s detached garage. Though he’d shaved his head since his original arrest, Matt recognized Kenny from his mug shot. He clutched a cell phone in one hand. Mrs. Weir had definitely warned him. Matt had to appreciate her loyalty.
At the front corner of the garage, Kenny paused and spun, grabbing the handle of a recycling receptacle and upending it into Matt’s path. Bottles broke and cans spilled out across the concrete. Matt slowed, but he couldn’t avoid a patch of broken glass. His foot slipped, and he went down on one knee and one hand.
Swearing, he pushed himself to his feet and continued the chase. Kenny reached the street and turned right. He should have headed across the yards, where he could use more objects to slow down Matt. Out in the open, there was no way that bastard was getting away. Matt turned on the speed. He was at least six inches taller than Kenny. And while the other man had clearly spent time lifting weights in prison—his lean frame looked solid—Matt ran every day and had considered training for an IRONMAN.
Kenny’s next glance backward was filled with panic. Matt caught up with him in a dozen strides. He reached for Kenny’s shoulder and shoved. The fleeing man tumbled face-first onto the pavement. The cell phone in his hand skittered in the road. As soon as he’d stopped sliding, Matt was on him. He flattened Kenny onto his belly and planted a knee firmly into the small of his back.