The Wanderer (Thunder Point #1)

The Wanderer (Thunder Point #1) Page 38

Author: Robyn Carr

At almost eight o’clock his cell phone chimed and he saw it was Pritkus.

“Yeah, boss, it’s Christmastime in Mayberry. Got a pretty ugly domestic out at the Morrisons’, ambulance en route. I wouldn’t mind a little help from a supervisor.”

He stood before Pritkus stopped talking. “Who are you taking in for it?”

“Looks like the kid for sure and probably the missus, too. Puck is going in the ambulance. He’s going to be fine, but when you see this place, you’re gonna shit.”

“On my way,” he said.

He shouted for the kids as he pulled his shirt off and headed to his bedroom. He took only two minutes to get into his uniform, simultaneously telling Ryan and Dee Dee to lock him out, call his cell if they had any problems, stay in and if he was going to be later than ten he’d give them a call on the house phone. When they asked what it was about he said, “I’m not sure yet. Some kind of fight that Pritkus wants a supervisor to help with. Probably all paperwork now.”

“Then why are you going so fast and hurry?” Dee Dee asked.

“Because when an officer asks for a supervisor, you always go fast and hurry, but there’s nothing to worry about.” He kissed their heads and shot out the door, pausing long enough to listen to the locks slide into place. He waited until he was out of his own neighborhood to hit the lights and siren. It was very rare in Thunder Point to see a Sheriff’s Department SUV racing through town, lights flashing.

There were already two patrol cars at the residence, lights flashing. Two was one more car than they usually had in town and Mac’s made it three. That kind of turnout was usually reserved for major catastrophes. The ornate front doors of the Morrison residence were standing open. With his hand resting comfortably on the handle of his gun, Mac walked inside, glass crunching beneath his boots.

The place looked like a bomb had gone off. There was toppled furniture and broken glass everywhere. In the formal living room, Jag and his mother sat on the sofa, cuffed, while Puck held an ice pack to his bleeding head. There was blood splattered here and there, on the floor and furniture, on the suspects and the victim.

“Who called it in?”

“Mrs. Morrison made the nine-one-one call,” Pritkus said. “She said her son was attacking her husband. When we got here, the story changed to her husband was attacking her and she was defending herself.”

“How convenient.” Mac bent at the waist to be eye level with Puck. “Who did this, Mr. Morrison?”

“I’ll tell my attorney.”

“Who broke up all the china and crystal?”

“I did,” Mrs. Morrison said. “Is it against the law? It’s mine, right? If I want to throw around the glassware, that’s my business, right?”

Mac turned and stepped toward her. She looked like bloody hell, her hair a rat’s nest, her eye makeup running in black rivers down her cheeks, the sleeve of her blouse torn. Skinny as she was, with that sneer on her lips, she looked like a war victim.

Puck, on the other hand, though his face was battered and his head bleeding, looked better without the hairpiece. As expected, he was completely bald with some spikes of short white hair all over his shiny dome.

“And whatever possessed you to start throwing things?” he asked.

“I was angry!” she said, stiffening her skinny spine.

“He’s such a loser,” Jag muttered.

Mac merely glanced at him. Apparently he had an opinion here. He lifted his eyebrows and waited. But it was Mrs. Morrison who spoke up.

“He informed us we’re moving. Letting the house go, selling most of our possessions and moving because he can’t make a goddamn living! I’ve wasted most of my life on him and now this? So I threw a plate or two? Isn’t that allowed when someone tells you your life is over?”

“Is that right? Wasted your life?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t spent it all, Effie,” Puck said.

“How could I spend it all? Didn’t you give most of it to your ex?”

“I have sons!”

“And you have a son right here!” she shrieked. “A son who’s getting nothing!”

“He gets plenty. You get plenty.”

“My brothers drove Hummers in high school,” Jag grumbled. “You put them up in classy town houses for college. What’ve I got? A used car and a quad.” He laughed meanly.

“First, no more country club, then no more vacations, then no new cars. We have used!” Effie cried out. “Then the credit cards. Then the house? I can’t take it! You promised me! You promised me everything!”

“I promised you what I had and you took it. It is now gone!”

“Why the hell didn’t you buy that stupid Bailey land and spin it into a big sale? I told you to go get it, but what did you do? Sent that hussy real estate agent to try to convince him! Loser! Jag’s right, you’re a loser.”

“He didn’t want to sell!” Puck said.

“You should’ve found a way!” she said.

Without quite knowing why, Mac looked at Jag, narrowing his eyes. Jag just glared at his father. Finally Jag said, “There were ways. He just didn’t have the balls.”

Whoa, Mac thought. He paused, went over procedure in his mind, because he really didn’t want to screw this up. He smelled grand jury investigation becoming an indictment, not just on the battery, but possibly murder. Investigations weren’t fast and they were dicey and complex.

“Did you have the balls, son?” he asked Jag. “Could you have made it work? The sale of that property?”

“Hey!” he shot out angrily. “My job is to go to high school, all right? It’s his job to run the business, support the family! And he’s an old loser!”

Mac slowly turned toward Puck. “Who hit you in the head? Who injured you?”

“I’ll talk to my lawyer.”

“That’s fine. The missus and young Jag here are going for a ride. We have a domestic with injuries and that’s what happens. Anyone we can call for you?”

“My sons,” he said. “My older sons.”

And that was just about all Mac needed to hear.

Mac worked on Sunday, much of that time looking at public records on his computer at his office, even though people who were finishing up the Christmas decorating kept coming into his office. What he wanted to know was what had brought Puck Morrison to this point in his life. What he learned was a lot of it was lust.

When Puck was a fresh young kid, he married Miranda Lessing, both of them from Eugene, Oregon. She gave him two sons, helped with his development and brokerage business and they became a successful team. When his sons were seven and nine he bought a nice piece of land on the point and built himself a showy house, surrounding it with an ornate wrought-iron fence. It looked, according to public record, like it was four years from the time he bought the land until the house was finished.

When he was in his fifties, he divorced his wife of thirty years and immediately married a twenty-two-year-old town girl, Effinesia Carter Sloan. She gave birth to her only son, Jaguar Morrison, three months later. They moved into the Morrison mansion at that time.

Wow, Mac thought. How cool the way public record matched up with the local lore. He’d heard this story. Carrie James had told Lou long ago about the scandal, about how Miranda—a kind, intelligent and giving woman by all accounts—left the big house, packed up her half of the furnishings and her half of the money, and went home to Eugene where she started a successful brokerage firm. Her sons worked for her, one in construction and one in sales.

There was no public record to support the gossip that Effie got her bosom before her marriage to Puck, but there was record of his financial difficulties and his ex-wife’s financial success—enough to suggest maybe she’d been the brains behind their business partnership. Puck was a nice guy, though, funny and involved in the community and usually a good neighbor, if a little uppity sometimes. Guys around town didn’t mind raising a glass with him from time to time, toasting this or that, telling a few off-color jokes.

No one from the Morrison debacle would admit to anything, but Mac put Puck in the hospital and Effie and Jag in jail, based on the 911 call and the interview at the scene. Their lawyer had them out before Mac completed his research of public records on Sunday.

On Monday he went to talk to the county district attorney and the coroner about whether there was sufficient cause to reopen the investigation into Ben Bailey’s death. “I think this constitutes motive,” he said. “I can’t say I have evidence, but there were some very suspicious statements. And I’d like to know more.”

“Who are you looking at?” the D.A. asked him.

“Well, Puck weighs about one-forty and is five foot four and seventy-three years old. His wife is five-five and a hundred and ten. But their boy, who doesn’t seem to like the idea of settling for less than his older half brothers had, is a pretty big kid. And a lot of their angst seems to rest on that property of Ben’s—something they seem to think could’ve rescued them. I just want to know if that’s just talk...or if there’s something more to discover.”

Gina hadn’t seen Mac, except from afar as he went in and out of his office across the street from the diner a few times. It appeared he wasn’t working too much, and there was no explanation for it. Finally, on Thursday, he came in for his morning coffee at around ten. She put her hands on her hips. “Well. It’s about time! Where have you been?”

“It’s been a busy week.” He sat on the stool in front of her.

“Busy with your disturbance out at the Morrisons’?” she asked.

“You know I can’t talk about that,” he said, but he smiled.

“You can talk to me! I’m the soul of discretion. All I want to know is, who hit who?”

“Depends on who you ask and when you ask them.”

“Isn’t a nine-one-one call a matter of public record?” she asked.

“When the case is no longer under investigation,” he reminded her.

“Details! I heard it was Jag beating up his little old father.”

“Jag and his mother were both arrested on battery charges. They were released on bail almost immediately, even though we have a twenty-four-hour hold on battery suspects. Time enough for the victim or possible victim to get away if he or she wants to get away. But with Puck in the hospital overnight—”

“Puck moved out of the house, I heard.”

Mac lifted both brows. “Really? Now that’s news. Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to his older son’s—someone said they saw his oldest son’s truck pass through town. I have to tell you, Mac, the diner has been a real hotbed of gossip this week—and you were nowhere to be found!”

“I had serious paperwork and there were a couple of things in Coquille I had to do, so Steve Pritkus has been minding the town.”

“Yeah, what did you do to him?” she demanded. “He used to be one of the best gossips around. Did you threaten him or something?”

Mac laughed at her. “I did. I told him he could tell anyone but you.”

She slapped his arm. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Would so. Changing subjects, I want to know about the date. You threw me over for the doctor, so tell me about it.”

“It was lovely,” she said. “And I didn’t throw you over. He asked, I accepted, we had a very nice dinner out in Coquille.”

“Did he kiss you good-night?” he asked.

She leaned toward him, hands pressed on the counter. “Who hit little old Puck?”

He reached for her hand. “Was it really nice? The date?”