“Or let you make your call.”
Dalton’s stare became cold, hard. “No real problem. I’ll drive down the hill later. Go into town, make my calls, and pick up some supplies. See what the buzz is.”
“Buzz about what?” Buck asked.
Dalton stood. “You worry about my brother. I’ll worry about everything else.”
CHAPTER 20
Cain drove. He followed Cassie’s black Jeep Cherokee to the Finley home, four blocks and two turns from Gracie’s Tavern. They parked in tandem behind a pair of patrol units. The rain had dissipated and the sun was out. It reflected off Hack’s vintage 1968 Olds 442 that sat in the sloping driveway, Hack standing next to it. They walked his way.
Earlier, after Hack, Fowler, and Duckworth left Gracie’s, Cain and Harper remained with Cassie. Another cup of coffee and more conversation. Then Cassie got the call from Hack.
“What’ve we got, Hack?” Cassie asked as they approached.
“It’s bad. Real bad.” He hiked his pants, a futile attempt to restrain the belly that lapped over his belt.
“All of them?”
Hack’s head twisted toward the front door. “Yep. The entire family.”
Cassie shielded the morning sun from her eyes and looked up at the house. “Show me.”
Cain and Harper followed them inside, Cassie saying, “Don’t touch anything.”
“We know the drill,” Harper said.
“Figured. Just making sure.”
It was bad. Very bad. Reminded Cain of the inside of a mud hut he’d walked into once in some desert shithole. After a pair of Marines had taken care of business. Six bad guys, a couple still clutching their Kalashnikovs in a death grip. He guessed they shouldn’t have placed the IED that took out a transport, killing four soldiers, or tried to ambush the Marines who came to investigate. Karma is as Karma does.
“Jesus,” Cassie said.
“The Baby Jesus had nothing to do with this,” Hack said. “This is some evil shit.”
Cassie pointed. “On the sofa are Martha, son Tommy, and daughter Jennifer. Over there,” she nodded toward the man slumped in a wingback chair, “is John.”
Cain circled the sofa, carefully avoiding the blood spatter. All three had been shot. The most disturbing image was Martha. Her left eye had been blown out, along with the back of her head. He stopped next to the chair where John Finley’s corpse lay draped over one arm, right hand dangling near the carpet above a pancake of congealed blood.
“John caught two in the chest,” Hack said. “Jennifer, chest and forehead, and Martha in the face. Gruesome.” He pointed toward Tommy. “Tommy basically got it between the eyes.”
“So what?” Cassie asked. “The killer, or killers, lined them up and shot them?”
Hack forked his fingers through his hair. “A real turkey shoot, I’d say.”
“I take it there wasn’t any forced entry or anything like that?” Harper asked.
“Nope. But there’s a twist to the story.”
“I hate twists,” Cassie said.
Hack shrugged. “Me and you both.”
Hack walked over to a credenza that sported a big screen TV and picked up a plastic evidence bag. He held it up, revealing that it contained a handgun.
“The twist,” Hack said.
“The murder weapon?”
“Doubt it. I found it on the floor near Tommy’s feet. Only one round fired.” He handed the bag to Cassie and then pointed behind her.
Cain turned toward the large circular blood stain in the carpet. He had noticed it coming in but hadn’t yet understood its significance. It was a good ten feet from the sofa, the coffee table between. “One of the killers took a round,” Cain said
“That’d be my guess,” Hack said.
“I have to ask,” Cassie said, “but I’m sure I know the answer—you called the hospital?”
“Sure did. Nothing. I’ve got Poppy checking with every hospital within fifty miles. Haven’t heard back yet.”
Cassie explained that Poppy Phelps worked dispatch and did just about everything else at the station. Indispensable and then some.
“And there’s more,” Hack said.
“Great.”
“Maybe a motive,” Hack said as he led them down a hallway to one of the bedrooms. Tommy’s no doubt. Metal band posters on the wall, a laptop computer on a messy desk. Clothes tossed in piles near an open closet. A pair of evidence bags lay on the unmade bed. Hack picked one up. Inside a smaller bag of white powder.
“Looks like meth,” Cassie said.
“Probably.” Hack dropped the bag back on the bed. “Could be coke or heroin. I found it in the drawer over there.” He indicated a chest, the top drawer open. “Along with some cash.” He picked up the second bag. “Two hundred and forty bucks.”
Cain and Harper stood just inside the doorway. Cassie turned to them and continued with what she had told them about Tommy Finley earlier. He had been more than a little familiar to Cassie and everyone else in the department. A smart-ass punk. Always had been. A long drug history. Been to jail, been to rehab, and Cassie was sure he was still dealing. Never was able to hang that charge on him but she had no doubts. The meth and the money reinforced that belief.
“Sure smells like a drug hit,” Cassie said. “No doubt Tommy was dealing. Probably pissed off the wrong people.”
“As druggies are wont to do,” Hack said. “Until someone settles the score with this kind of shit.”
Cassie let out a deep sigh. “Why does this crap have to land in our backyard?”
“Why not? It seems to land everywhere else.”
She gave a slow nod. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“Which I usually am.” Hack smiled and gave her a wink.
“That you are.” She looked around the room. “Who called this in?”
“I was just fixing to tell you,” Hack said. “That’s the other twist.”
“I’m about twisted out here.”
“Jason Epps.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Wish I was.”
“Who is Jason Epps?” Harper asked.
Cassie explained. Jason was another punk. Long time buddy of Tommy’s. Also a user and probably worked with Tommy to push product. Another case she could never make. She almost had Jason once. Nearly caught him red-handed. But when she grabbed him, over in the park where most deals seemed to go down, he was clean. Had about $800 in his pockets
