Something rolled across the lawn with a hollow, thunking sound.
“Dorothy Foote is dead?” I asked.
“Five years ago.” Slidell closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket.
“Has her son turned thirty?”
“No.”
“Does he live here?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Technically?”
“The little sleaze rents the place out to turn a few bucks.”
“Can he do that under the terms of the will?”
“Couple years back Foote’s daughter hired a lawyer to look into that. Guy couldn’t find any way to get the kid tossed. Kid does everything under the table, so there’s no record of money changing hands. Daughter lives in Boston, never comes to God’s little acre here. Place isn’t worth that much. Kid’s twenty-seven.” Slidell shrugged. “Guess she decided to wait it out.”
“What’s Dorothy’s son’s name?” I asked.
Slidell smiled. There was no humor in it.
“Harrison Pounder.”
Where had I heard that name?
“You remember him, Doc.”
I did. From where?
“We discussed Mr. Pounder just last week.” Toothpick. “And it wasn’t because the squirrel’s appearing on our new career leaflet for police recruits.”
Pounder. Pounder.
“Harrison ‘Sonny’ Pounder,” Rinaldi supplied.
Recollection sluiced through my brain.
“Sonny Pounder?” I asked, incredulous.
“Mama Foote’s baby boy,” Slidell said.
“Who’s Sonny Pounder?” Ryan asked.
“Sonny Pounder’s a dime-a-dozen, low-life dirtbag who’d sell his mama to the Taliban for the right price.” Slidell.
Ryan turned to me.
“Pounder’s the dealer who traded the tip about Tamela Banks’s baby.”
Thunder cracked.
“Why didn’t you know this was Pounder’s place?” I asked.
“When dealing with authorities, Mr. Pounder prefers listing his city address. Legally, this farm is deeded to Mama,” Rinaldi said.
Another peal of thunder. A low wail from the porch.
“Tamela may have come here with Tyree, but that doesn’t mean she dealt dope or killed her baby.” My reasoning sounded weak, even to me.
In the yard, a door banged, banged again.
“Are you going to talk to Pounder?” I asked Slidell.
The hound-dog eyes settled on mine.
“I’m not a moron, Doc.”
Yes, you are, I thought.
At that moment, the storm broke.
Ryan, Boyd, and I sat on the porch until the squall played itself out. The wind flapped our clothes and blew warm rain across our faces. It felt wonderful.
Boyd was less enthused about the raw power of nature. He lay at my side, head thrust into the triangle of space below my crooked knees. It was a tactic on which Birdie often relied. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Ergo, I am safe.
By six the shower had dwindled to a slow, steady drizzle. Though Slidell, Rinaldi, and the CSU techs continued their search of the house, there was nothing more Ryan and I could do.
As a precaution, I trotted Boyd around every floor a couple of times. Nothing caught his interest.
I told Slidell we were taking off. He said he’d call me in the morning.
Happy day.
When I let Boyd into the backseat, he circled, curled with his chin on his hind paws, and gave a loud sigh.
