Page 86 of Don't Say a Word

Rather than being snide and sayinggive me her full name and number, I said, “It would help if I had Elijah’s actual schedule—I assume there’s some sort of time card system? From his mother, I have his assigned schedule, but I don’t know if he worked late or took a day off, things like that.”

“It will help?”

“I’m retracing his steps.” I didn’t know if it would help until I looked at it. Maybe he left early every Thursday. Maybe he worked late every Wednesday. Until I could figure out what Elijah did when he wasn’t working and he wasn’t in school, I wouldn’t know where he was Friday night.

“I’ll ask the accounting department to email you his last three months, is that sufficient?”

“Yes, thank you.” I rattled off my email address, thanked him, and ended the call.

I sat in my Jeep and considered why Elijah was taking photos of people leaving the Cactus Stop. It had started mid-July and continued up until the week he died. Based on the time stamps, he left work and watched the door.

I assessed the area around the store and determined—based on the angle and the slight distortion from zooming in—that he had taken the photos from across the side street. A short block wall would provide some cover, and the business on that corner, a veterinary practice, closed at 6:00 p.m., so no one there would have noticed him. But directly south of the vet, on the other side of the wall, the duplex would have full visibility of anyone standing or sitting there.

I made a U-Turn and parked in front of the residence that bordered the clinic. When I stood on the sidewalk I realized that whoever was in this house would have a very clear view of Elijah behind that half wall.

The duplex was a boxy house with two front doors that shared a covered porch. A small table with a sand-filled coffee can that served as an ashtray stood lopsided in one corner. A metal chair with a faded cushion provided the only place to sit. The stale scent of cigarettes filled the narrow space.

I’d smoked for a few years in the Army—three years, to be exact. When I changed my MOS from the Field Artillery Division to Military Police, the stress and boredom of being an MP on base had me take my very occasional cigarette to daily use. I quit cold turkey when I came home.

The smell made me cringe. I didn’t crave it anymore—not like I did for the first couple of years after the Army. Instead, my stomach felt queasy.

I knocked on the door.

At first I didn’t think anyone was home. Then suddenly the door opened almost before I could register the rattling of a security chain.

A very short, very old black woman stood behind the security screen. She wore large glasses that made her eyes seem unusually big. “You selling something?”

“No, ma’am, I am not. I’m a private investigator.”

“A private investigator?” she repeated.

“Yes, ma’am. Margo Angelhart.”

“Angelhart?”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t tell if she was repeating me because she was hard of hearing or ornery. Maybe a little of both, I decided, as she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.

“I have some questions about the Cactus Stop if you have a minute?”

“You’re not coming in,” she said firmly.

“Okay. We can talk out here.”

“Hmph.”

She closed the door and I thought she wasn’t going to talk to me at all. I considered leaving when a full minute later she openedthe door again, unlocked the screen, and came outside. She shuffled over to the chair, sat down, and pulled a pack of cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of her apron. She lit up.

She waved her hand with the cigarette and said, “Questions! You going to stand there all day or ask?”

“Thank you,” I said, holding back a smile. “Like I said, I’m Margo. And you are?”

“Edith Ann Mackey.”

“Mrs. Mackey, I—”

She harumphed again and said, “Call me Edith. My dead husband was a bastard.”