“Settle down, Steve…”
But Pritchard was yelling at the top of his lungs, screaming more obscenities and epithets, drawing the attention of Daniels, who came trotting over, hand going to his mace.
“Huh?! Hey, you fat Russian fuck! Next time the cops won’t save you, pussy!”
Daniels withdrew the mace can and started to open the rear door. Mike thought the young cop looked more worried than aggressive. “Sir,” Daniels said, “you need to calm down right now.”
“Ah, fuck you.”
“Sir, get back. Get back, Mr. Pritchard, or I’m going to—”
Pritchard suddenly leaned back and kicked out with both feet, connecting with the vehicle door, cranking it back the rest of the way. Daniels jumped back but the door hit his leg. He recovered and pointed the mace. Mike turned away as the officer sprayed Pritchard, who screamed louder.
Mike clambered out of the front seat, drawing a big gulp of air. Mullins had run over to help and the two local cops struggled to subdue Steve Pritchard. Finally, Daniels, huffing and puffing, withdrew from the back seat.
Mike heard Pritchard moaning and mumbling. “She had it coming,” he said. “Rita had it coming to her.”
Daniels got into the driver’s seat, eyes bulging. “Sorry, Mike. I had to hit him with it.”
Mike swiped a hand over his face. The mace hadn’t touched him.
Mullins trotted round to the passenger side, glancing at Mike. “We have to take him in. Now.”
She had it coming to her.
Mike nodded, stepped back from the cruiser as it ripped away, thinking they might just wind up adding murder to Pritchard’s charges.
Seven
“Investigator Nelson?” Bobbi switched the phone to her other ear. His phone call was alarming. “Is everything okay?”
“Just Mike,” he said. “Everything’s okay; nothing to worry about. Need to ask you a quick question.”
“Okay…” She was alone in her apartment. A pizza box and paper plates littered the kitchen. She’d been too tired to clean up after the boys had left last night. Connor had hinted at wanting to stay, but she’d worried about Jolyon – not just what he might infer about spending a night at her house, but she feared for his safety if someone was after her. So she’d told Connor she needed some time to think and process everything – the truth, even if it scared her to be alone – and now she braced for what Mike would say next: We have reason to believe the killer intended you to be the victim, and he plans to correct the mistake.
“I was wondering if Harriet ever talked about her brother, Steve Pritchard,” Mike said.
She felt some relief, quickly followed by curiosity. “I know she had two brothers… We talked about it a little because I grew up with brothers, too.”
“Did she ever talk about either of them specifically?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve only been there a few months. We meet in group-soup every Monday, that’s the only time we ever really discuss our personal lives.” Bobbi left the kitchen and went into the bedroom, pulled a duffel bag out of the closet and gave it a kick. It felt full, but she bent and unzipped it anyway.
“Group supervision, right. Some of the other caseworkers have referenced that.”
“Is there something that… Is one of her brothers a lead, or something?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t really say right now.”
“I wish I had something else for you.” She pawed through the gear inside the bag – her karate gi, her sparring gloves, an empty water bottle. She brought the bottle into the kitchen to fill it.
“No, that’s perfectly alright. I appreciate your cooperation.” He paused. “How are you holding up? Any of the media been bothering you?”
“I had someone call. The reporter asked me what I knew about any developments, if the police had any suspects. I told them no comment. Is there going to be a press conference?”
“That’s good. Yes, the local DA is putting that together for later today. At the town hall in Lake Haven.”
“I don’t know how they got my number,” Bobbi said. “I just have a cell phone.” She screwed the cap back on the water bottle and set it beside the sink. “You think someone is talking? Sharing information or something?” She immediately thought of Jessica Rankin, but that was probably unfair.
“Small town,” Mike said. “First murder case in almost twenty years. At the press conference we’ll really stress that the media leave all the employees alone. They ask you anything else?”
“Well they knew that she – that Harriet – was covering for me. No idea how they knew that either. When they started to ask me if they thought Harriet was killed by mistake, I hung up.”
Silence from Mike. After a moment she said, “Hello?”
“Sorry. I’m here, just thinking.”
“Sure. So, are we going to, um…?”
“We’ll talk soon. In the meantime, just… you know, try to live your normal life, keep busy. And be with friends, if you can. Be visible.”
The fear came back, the nightmare persisting after all. “Mike, should I be worried?”
“Maybe this thing with the Fullers,” he said at last. “I’d say that could be part of it, but they’re in jail, so… is there anyone else you can think of who might want to hurt you, Bobbi?”
She wondered, not for the first time, if her ex-boyfriend Jamie was capable of something like this. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other – she was sure he’d moved on. It was true he had a history of violence, but slashing someone to death was a big leap, mistakenly killing Harriet an even bigger one.
“I don’t think so,” she said. She zipped up her bag, ready to go. Throwing shade – whether on Rankin or her ex – wasn’t her style.
“Listen,” Mike said. “Take care, Bobbi. Just keep doing what you’re doing; we’ll figure this thing out.”
“I will.”
* * *
Mike drummed his fingers on the desk. Finished talking to Bobbi, he stared at his computer screen.
“How are you doing, Mike?” Lena Overton had arrived in his doorway.
Mike twisted his screen away and offered her a smile. “Come on in, sit down.” She crossed the room, just long enough for him to notice the shape of her legs stemming out of her skirt. When she took the chair on the other side of his desk, he asked, “How is your guest?”
“He was a live one, they said. Finally passed out around three in the morning.”
“Can’t wait to see him again. He say anything else before he passed out?”
“No. Never asked for a lawyer, either. What’s the story on the vehicle? Is that what you’re looking at?”
“No, not what I’m looking at; we’ll get to that in a second.”
“I’ve been going through Facebook and Twitter all night,” Overton said. “Caseworkers and social workers don’t post much. Or – some of them do: Rachel Watts is pretty outspoken on politics. Pritchard has zero social media presence.”
“Someone called Bobbi Noelle. Newspaper or TV – I don’t know.”
“She say anything to them?”
“Said she stonewalled them.”
“Good. But, so, anything from the vehicle? We get a print for Pritchard and this thing is done. He’s totally good for it. I mean, if we’re settled that Harriet was the intended victim…” She lifted her eyebrows. “Are we settled?”
“I don’t know. Bobbi is new – nowhere near the history Harriet has with DSS. And Bobbi is from out of town. That could mean she brought trouble with her. I’m waiting to see what we get from the car. Right now it looks like there was no break-in.”
Mike opened the file from the top of the stack on his desk. Around them, phones rang and men and women circulated through the large room where state troopers and investigators commingled. The area was sometimes referred to as the bullpen, though Mike and some of the older investigators had dubbed it the Boiler Room – they were in the business of selling evidence to the prosecution.
He read from the file, paraphrasing: “Labrador retriever hair everywhere. Rear seat fabric removed for processing.” He glanced up at her. “The search for trace evidence is ongoing, but nothing so far, no prints we haven’t eliminated.”