“How’s that going to help your client?”
“I don’t know if it will. But it might show that a rusted lock had nothing to do with the murders.”
Daniels nodded as he thought it over. “Well,” he said. “I’ve got work to do, as I’m sure you do also. Let me walk you out of here.” Neither of them talked as Daniels led the way through the squad room and to the street. Once outside, Daniels asked Shannon if he had any ideas.
“Not many. I guess first thing I’ll do is look into whether this was drug-related.”
Daniels shielded his eyes against the sun. “If I wasn’t worried about someday having a defense attorney grill me on whether I ever had any inappropriate discussions about this case, I’d probably tell you we’ve found nothing to suggest the victims were involved with drugs.” His gray eyes narrowed as he met Shannon’s stare. “At least I’d probably tell you something like that,” he said.
“If you did, then I’d probably have to thank you and admit I have no good ideas at the moment.”
“Welcome to the club,” Daniels said.
Chapter 4
When Shannon had first moved to Boulder, he drove a few times through Loveland for skiing and would see nothing but open prairie once he got past Longmont’s city limits. That was five years ago. Now it seemed as if Longmont had been stretched out with more and more subdivisions erasing miles of prairie. Once he got onto US 287 there was some open space, but it was peppered with new construction-mostly McMansions, four thousand plus square foot homes loaded with cathedral ceilings and bay windows. This trend continued well into Loveland proper, but eventually Shannon got to a part of town where the houses were older and more modest. Past a trailer park, he found Eunice Carver’s address. The house was barely a shack, probably no more than four rooms. A chain link fence surrounded the property, the yard mostly dirt mixed with a few weeds. Tires, a stove from the fifties, and a worn-out looking sofa were sitting in the front yard. As Shannon made his way up the walk to the door, a yellow and white pit bull mix charged out from under the sofa. When the dog got close to Shannon, it threw itself at him, but a chain around the neck snapped it back. The dog let out a yelp, then was back on its feet, frothing at the mouth and nearly airborne as it tried to get at Shannon’s throat.
Shannon eyed the dog cautiously and edged away from it. The front door opened and a kid, maybe eighteen, wearing a stained sleeveless muscle shirt and shorts that fell past his knees stepped out. He was thin and had a squirrelly look about him, with long greasy blond hair, bad skin and eyes that were too small and set too close together. His sleeveless shirt showed off greenish-colored tattoos on his pale and nearly skeleton-thin arms. Even though he had none of Taylor Carver’s good looks, Shannon could tell that they were brothers.
Randall Carver gave Shannon a quick look, then focused on the dog, yelling at it to shut up. “Buttercup, shut the fuck up!” he warned a second time. To Shannon’s surprise, especially given the frenzy the dog had worked herself into, she listened to him, cocking her head to one side as she paid full attention to the kid. Randall looked back at Shannon. “Who are you?” he asked.
“My name’s Bill Shannon. I’d like to talk to Eunice Carver. Is she home?”
“What do you want to talk to my ma about?”
Shannon walked towards the front door, stopping when he got a few feet from Randall. Up close, the younger Carver smelled like a mix of sweat and bad cheese. The kid’s eyes darted from left to right as if he were trying to make up his mind whether to stand his ground or flee.
“I’m investigating Taylor’s murder,” Shannon said. From behind he could hear Buttercup growl.
“Are you a cop?”
“I’m a private detective. You’re his brother, Randall, aren’t you?” Almost as if his head were attached to some invisible string, the kid nodded. “I’d like to talk to you also,” Shannon said. “Is your mom home?”
“Let me see.” Randall stuck his head into the house and yelled, “Ma, there’s a guy here wants to talk to you!”
A woman’s voice yelled back, “What about?”
“Taylor. He’s some sort of private eye.”
There was a silence within the house. Then, “Tell him I’m busy!”
Randall turned to Shannon and smiled, revealing teeth that were the color of chewing tobacco. “My ma’s too busy to talk with you,” he said. “And so am I.”
“That’s too bad. I would’ve thought the two of you would want to help find the person who murdered your brother. This won’t look good when your lawsuit goes to court.”
“How do you know about ma’s lawsuit?”
“I’d like to tell you, but you’re too busy to talk now.” Shannon turned and started towards his car, making sure to give Buttercup a wide berth. Randall stuck his head back in the door, yelled, “He says you not talking won’t look good with the lawsuit!”
“How does he know about that?”
“He won’t say!”
“Goddamn it!” There was a long silence that was broken only by Buttercup’s growling, then, “Tell him I’ll talk.”
Randall yelled out to Shannon, “Ma says she’ll talk!”
Shannon turned from his car and headed back towards the house. Buttercup stood with her head pushed forward as she watched Shannon, all the while growling disapprovingly. Randall, his face locked in a sullen stare, led Shannon into a small room that served as a combination living room and dining room. The same perspiration and rotten cheese smell that came off of Randall permeated the house. Shannon’s ordeal with Charlie Winters and his horrific stench of decay had left him hypersensitive to certain sickly-sweet odors. Over five years later, odors like the one in this house still physically affected him. This one brought a dull throbbing to the back of his head. Shannon tried breathing in only through his mouth to avoid the smell but it didn’t help much.
As Shannon looked around, he was surprised at what he saw. While the room was dirty, it had newer and more expensive furniture than Shannon would’ve expected, including a large plasma TV set that covered a good part of one wall. Off to the side was a small kitchen where Eunice Carver sat at a three foot square oak table, a cigarette between two fingers and a cup of coffee to her right. As Shannon entered the kitchen, he noticed that a new stove and microwave had been installed.
“Buttercup’s some name for a pit bull,” he said.
“She’s a sweetheart of a dog, and only part pit bull.” Eunice Carver peered up at Shannon with glazed eyes, then looked away. “You wanted to talk?” she said.
Shannon took a chair to her left. Like her son, Randall, she had long stringy hair that needed washing and eyes that were too small and set too close together. Her face was bonier than Randall’s and had a yellowish, unhealthy pall to it giving her the general appearance of someone who was worn out. Shannon couldn’t imagine her being attractive at any age and decided whatever good looks Taylor had, he’d gotten from his father.
“Yes ma’am, I’m investigating your son’s murder, and am hoping that you and Randall can answer a few questions for me.”
She inhaled deeply on her cigarette and let the smoke blow out her nostrils. When she turned to face Shannon, her eyes didn’t seem able to properly focus on him, almost as if she were looking past him to someone behind him. “Why do you care about Taylor?” she asked. “Who hired you?”
“
Shannon’s answer had an effect on both mother and son. An uncertainty clouded Eunice’s face, and Randall, who had been standing off to the side slouching against a wall, straightened up and combed his fingers through his hair.
Eunice noticed that the cigarette had burnt close to her fingers. She stubbed it out on a plate she used as an ashtray, then tapped a fresh cigarette out of the pack and lit it.
