Page 45 of Deathmarch

“Thanks.”

Harper hung up, then pulled over to look through his list of names. Some he knew better than others. One name jumped out at him in particular: Dicky Poole,Allie’s old landlord who’d tried to take advantage of her after her father had lit out and left her to fend for herself.

Harper had been meaning to talk to the guy, was putting it off until the murder case was tied up. Looked like he wouldn’t have to wait after all. He looked up Dicky’s current address on his laptop, then swung by the fancy rancher that had a small boat in the driveway.

He knocked on the door. No response.

“About time,” the older woman coming from the house next door shouted over, letting out a schnauzer that was graying at the muzzle.

As Harper headed across the snow-covered strip of lawn between the two houses, she continued with “I was wondering when the old lecher would be picked up. Not soon enough. The high school girls waiting for the school bus shouldn’t have to put up with harassment like that. The things he says to them ought to be illegal.”

“Detective Harper Finnegan. And you are, ma’am?”

“Alma Stubner.”

Harper pulled his notebook. “Would you mind if I took your contact information?”

The woman stopped a couple of feet in front of him. “If it gets that pervert out of the neighborhood, gladly.”

Harper wrote down name, phone number, address. Then he crouched to pat the little dog before he asked, “Do you know where I might find Poole?”

“Florida. Three-day fishing trip.”

“You know where, exactly? His hotel?”

The woman shook her head. “We’re not exactly friends.”

“Do you know when he left?”

“Tuesday. Saw him going, and good riddance. Early Tuesday morning. Peete can’t hold his bladder anymore, so I have to take him out at the crack of dawn, snowstorm or no snowstorm. We were hurrying back in, on the sidewalk, mind you, when that degenerate sideswiped Peete with his suitcase. Almost knocked the poor dog down. Had to be before seven, because we were back inside by the time theMorning Showcame on.”

So, Poole left town a few hours after the murder.Hell of a coincidence.“You wouldn’t have information on his whereabouts on Monday evening?”

Alma flashed him a don’t-be-stupid look. “How the hell would I? It’s not like I go over there to check on him.”

“Of course. But you might have noticed if he had his car in the driveway or not, when you took the dog out.”

“He keeps his car in his garage. Especially when it snows.”

“I see. Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

Once he was back in his cruiser, Harper consulted his list of suspects and called his father.

“I remember you talking about Brody Cash before, but I can’t remember what you said. How do you know him?”

“Mr. Cash? He taught me in school. Must be around eighty by now. No wife, no kids, always lived alone. Big believer in corporal punishment. Used to keep an oversized wooden ruler on his desk, and if any of us boys misbehaved, he’d smack us over the head.” Sean Finnegan paused. “My flight just got called. We’re boarding. You look in on your mother.”

“Will do. Give the hogs my regards.”

“I plan on giving them the business end of my rifle.”

Harper laughed as they ended the call. Then he ran Cash through the system. No criminal record. DMV database showed one vehicle registered to him, a 2004 Oldsmobile Alero.

He googled the guy next, and found a feature article in theBroslin Chroniclethat mentioned him. The topic was medical bankruptcy, and he was listed as one of dozens of local victims of health industry greed.

Bingo. Follow the money. Dicky Poole leaving town the morning after the murder made him look suspicious, but the more Harper thought about Cash as he drove to the address listed in the DMV database, the more his instincts prickled.

The victim would have let any of his friends in. The men all had knowledge of the safe.ButCash was in desperate need of money.