“Hurd, was the van locked when you got to it?”
“Yes.”
“So the van was in the parking lot for how long before you found the gun?”
“From shortly after midnight until around eight-thirty A.M., when I arrived.”
“Is the parking lot lighted at night?”
“Poorly.”
Hurst spoke up. “The van is from the late seventies. Anybody with a coat hanger could have opened it in thirty seconds. The question is, who would gain by planting the gun?”
“Whoever shot Chet Marley,” Holly replied. “That seems pretty straightforward.”
Hurd Wallace was shaking his head. “I think it’s much more likely that Sweeney bought the gun locally, and that he’s our man.”
“He didn’t behave like a guilty man,” Holly said. “Oxenhandler brought that out in court this morning. When he was approached by an officer, he made no attempt to hide the chief’s gun. He didn’t run, he didn’t resist. He didn’t behave like a drifter who had shot the chief of police twenty-four hours before.” She turned to Hurst. “Bob, did Sweeney give up anything at all during your interrogation?”
Hurst shook his head. “No, he was solid.”
“And the question of the make of the gun didn’t come up?”
“No, I don’t think it did.”
“Did you bring up the Doherty murder at all?”
“Not until late in the interrogation. I was trying to get him to cop to the chief’s shooting before I got into that.”
“Well,” Holly said, “I can’t fault anybody’s conduct in all this; it was handled by the book. I’ll call Marty Skene and tell him what we know. He’s very pissed off, and we need to defuse him right now before he starts making charges. You two return to your duties.”
The two men left her office, and Holly called Marty Skene. “I know you’re angry about this, and I am, too, but we’re both going to have to sit on it.” She told him about the burglary report. “Wallace and Hurst think that Sweeney bought the gun locally and used it on the chief, and I have to say that’s the most plausible explanation.”
“Maybe so,” Skene said, sounding placated, “but you’re going to have to face the possibility that somebody in your department planted that gun in the van.”
“I know that, believe me, and I intend to pursue it, but I’ll have to do so quietly. Was anybody from the local press at the hearing this morning?”
“Yes, their regular court reporter.”
“We’ll have to see how they play this. Maybe they’ll think Schwartz’s testimony torpedoed your case.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t count on it. You’d better be prepared to answer questions.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She said good-bye and hung up. Her phone buzzed immediately. “Hello?”
“Chief, Evelyn Martin, the court reporter for the local paper, is on the line.”
“Tell her I’ll call her back.” She hung up and let her mind range over the problem. Finally, she got up and went into Jane Grey’s office and closed the door. “Jane,” she said, “do you know anything about the relationship between Hurd Wallace and his ex-wife?”
“Just that she hates his guts,” Jane replied. “Their divorce went to trial, and she behaved like a madwoman.”
“So it wouldn’t be likely that she’d support him in some story he’d made up.”
“Not at all likely.”
“Do you remember anything about a burglary at her house a while back?”
“Seems like I do; she lost some money and a gun, but they didn’t take the TV or stereo or any jewelry. She came in and made a report for insurance purposes, I believe.” Jane smiled wickedly. “I think Hurd’s lucky her gun was stolen. She might have used it on him.”
Holly went back to her desk and called the reporter. She wasn’t looking forward to the conversation.
“First of all, Chief, welcome to Orchid Beach.”
“Thank you, Ms. Martin.”
“Tell me, what was all that at the judge’s bench this morning?”
“I was no more privy to that than you were,” Holly replied.
“Did you think you had the right man in Chief Marley’s shooting?”
“We did, but the fact that Sweeney owned a different gun didn’t help us.”
“You think Sweeney’s innocent?”
“I wouldn’t hazard an opinion on that. Let’s just say that we don’t have enough evidence at this point to say conclusively that he did it or didn’t do it. Anything else? I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.”
“Any news on the chief’s condition?”
“Unchanged.”
“Do you think that he will ever be able to help in the investigation of who shot him?”
“That seems very unlikely. We’ll just have to solve the shooting with good police work.”
“Sometime I’d like to sit down and interview you for the paper.”
“Maybe later, but I think you can understand how full my days are right now.”
“I’ll call you in a few weeks.”
“That would be a better time. Good-bye.” Holly hung up. She felt that Sweeney was probably innocent, but before she could be at peace with that, she was going to have to talk to him herself.
CHAPTER
The ground was bumpy, and the brush dense on each side of the track. It looked as though there had once been a road or driveway that was now disused, except for Sam Sweeney’s van, which appeared ahead, pulled off the track to the right. Holly stopped behind the van and got out. “Daisy, you stay,” she said.
She walked past the van, and her nostrils were assaulted with the odor of human feces. Sweeney had apparently not been a Boy Scout; he had never learned to dig a latrine. She pushed through a stand of palmetto and came into a clearing, shaded by live oaks and bay trees. Sweeney and the girl were sitting at the campfire, roasting hot dogs on sticks. Sweeney got to his feet.
“What now?” he said.
“I want to talk to you,” Holly replied.
“Sure,” Sweeney said. The girl went on cooking the hot dogs.
“Show me your Colt thirty-two,” she said.
“I don’t have it,” he replied. “The cops must have took it when they searched the van.”
“Where was the thirty-two in the van?”
“In the glove compartment.”
“You have any other firearms?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head. “Just the one, and I don’t have that one no more.”
