Snow is not the Time (Alaska Cozy Mystery Book 4) Page 6

  Conrad ran to the front counter and looked over. The body of Hank Dean was sitting in the recliner as an old episode of Family Feud blared on. Only now, Hank Dean wasn’t calling out quick and senseless answers to the questions like he used to do. Now, the man was sitting very silent and very still. “Stupid lunch break,” Conrad swore under his breath. A pattern of dark, sickly bruises were clearly visible around the man’s neck, and his head lolled to one side at an unnatural angle.

  We can’t take the blame for this,” Sarah told Conrad sternly. Sarah took a calming breath and looked closer. “Look at the size of those marks. Must have come from some pretty big fingers.” She frowned. Turning away from the front counter, she examined the lobby. The walls were lined with wood paneling that was peeling in places. The lobby was devoid of furniture, artwork, or anything else to relieve the atmosphere. Shaking her head, she turned to examine the body in the recliner again. “Okay,” she said to Conrad. “Let’s get to work.”

  Conrad shook his head. “How?” he asked. “No one in this town is going to help us, Sarah.” He looked over his shoulder at Amanda. “Stay near the door and keep an eye out. I’m going to check out Dean’s apartment. Sarah, you’re with me.”

  “But...” Amanda protested.

  “If you see anything or anyone, fire a warning shot and we’ll come running,” Conrad promised.

  “No way,” Sarah objected. “Amanda and I stay together at all times. Besides, she’s never fired that gun before, do you really want to take that chance? We’ll investigate Dean’s apartment, Conrad. You stay here.”

  Conrad considered this and then nodded his head. “Okay, go,” he said. He walked to the front door. “Be careful,” he warned Amanda.

  “I will,” Amanda promised, relieved. She followed Sarah through a door on the far back wall of the lobby. “Wow, what stinks?” she exclaimed, grabbing her nose with her right hand.

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said, and cautiously moved down the short, carpeted hallway. The hallway ended in a cramped room containing an unmade bed, a couch that looked as if it come from the local landfill, a rusted stove and a crooked kitchen table. Walking over the shaggy, cigarette-burned brown carpet, she made her way toward the stove and stopped. “Stove is on,” she said. “Stand back.”

  Amanda took a step back and watched Sarah pull the stove door open. Black smoke exploded from the oven. Amanda coughed and covered her nose. “Oh, so that’s the awful smell.”

  Sarah fanned at the smoke and turned off the stove. When the smoke cleared, she bent down and studied the interior of the oven. A smoldering green trash bag sat inside like a diseased turkey. “Amanda?”

  “Yes?” Amanda asked, slowly making her way over to the oven.

  “We have some trash to dig through.” Sarah straightened up. “Too bad the rain outside can’t wash away all the trash in this world.”

  Amanda bent down and studied the green bag. “We have a dead body, a burned trash bag, and a police chief who’s afraid of his own shadow. We’re really making progress, Los Angeles.”

  Sarah bit down on her lower lip. “I know, June Bug, I know,” she sighed. Her heart felt sick. She studied the room with sad eyes while the rain outside continued to pour down from the cold gray sky in furious torrents.

  Chapter Five

  Conrad carefully removed the trash bag from the oven. “I’m going to put this bag in the SUV, and then we should call Chief Messings,” he told Sarah and Amanda.

  Sarah didn’t like tampering with a crime scene—and she especially didn’t like concealing evidence—but the situation called for drastic measures. “I’ll call him,” she said, following Conrad back to the front lobby.

  “Okay,” Conrad replied with a nod, turning his collar up against the rain.

  Amanda closed the door leading into the small apartment and watched Conrad walk outside. Standing in a room with a dead body in it didn’t exactly make her feel safe, and the gun she was holding in her shaky hands surely didn’t make her feel safe, either. “I wonder what that bloke knew?” she asked Sarah, tossing a glance toward the front counter.

  “Maybe the contents of the trash bag will tell us?” Sarah suggested. She walked over to the front desk and, without looking at the recliner, leaned over the counter, picked up the brown telephone and dialed 911. “Yes, this is Detective Sarah Garland. I’m at the Snowflake Inn. The owner of the inn is dead. I need an ambulance and for you to dispatch Chief Messings to my location.”

  Amanda stared at Sarah. Despite all that they had been through, she had never heard her best friend speak in an official “I’m-a-cop” voice. “Impressive,” she said.

  Sarah put the phone back on the cradle. “Every emergency call is recorded. It’s an old trick. You always want to make sure you use a tone of voice that the courts can appreciate.”

  “You cops,” Amanda grinned. “I guess you’re more than donut-eating blokes living off the taxpayer’s dollar after all.”

  “Not all of us.” Sarah tried to smile but failed. Instead, she shook her head. “I never got used to it, June Bug. In all of my years dealing with homicides, I never got used to it. Human life is so fragile and so precious... yet it’s treated with contempt by so many. The heart of mankind is vicious and ugly, always lunging from dark shadows and attacking with merciless fangs.”

  “Is that the writer speaking or the cop?” Amanda asked gently.

  Sarah sighed. “Both,” she said. Keeping her back to the front counter, she carefully surveyed the front lobby. “This lobby is hideous, but to the man sitting in that recliner, this was his safe zone, his place to hide away from the world... even his home. Humans are just like other creatures, June Bug. They hide in all the cracks and spaces they can find. Alaska is our space to hide in... this motel was his.”

  Amanda moved to the front door to wait for Conrad, her mind still tangled with the words Sarah had spoken. “Kick over a rock... and you may find a ladybug or a spider,” she said.

  Sarah nodded her head. “Cities like Los Angeles are one big rock, and under that rock are ladybugs and spiders living together.”

  “Well,” Amanda said, taking in a deep breath, “this ladybug is a fighter and I’m not afraid of spiders... moths, yes... spiders, no.”

  “That’s my girl,” Sarah said proudly.

  Just then Conrad opened the front door and walked into the lobby with Snyder Smith right behind him, holding a gun to his back.

  “Drop your guns,” Snyder ordered Sarah and Amanda.

  “Do it,” Sarah told Amanda calmly. Amanda leaned down and gingerly tossed the Luger onto the floor. Sarah waited. Maybe, she hoped, he wouldn’t realize she had her own gun hidden in the holster strapped to her thigh under her knee-length skirt.

  “Against the counter,” Snyder said and shoved Conrad forward, too.

  Sarah moved toward the counter while Snyder closed the door, cutting off the sight and sound of the heavy rain falling outside. “I already called 911. Chief Messings is on his way,” she warned Snyder.

  Snyder ignored her. He was dripping with rain and wearing a coldly furious expression that clearly implied he was in no mood to banter. “I didn’t give the order for Hank Dean to be killed,” he spoke through angrily gritted teeth. “This man was simply a washed-up hippie trapped in his own mind. You obviously saw this when you met him.”

  Conrad reached out and gently eased Amanda closer to Sarah and a little behind him. “Mr. Dean didn’t appear completely mentally functional,” he admitted.

  Snyder kept his back against the door. “Obviously,” he said, making a great effort to control his voice, “I have multiple problems. Someone, it appears, took it upon himself to kill Hank Dean against my wishes, which now makes me the prime suspect in your eyes.”

  “You killed Mickey Slate,” Conrad accused, barely restraining the anger in his voice. “I don’t know who killed Dean, but I do know you killed Mickey.”

  Sarah watched Snyder’s eyes and facial expression closely. He s
lowly adjusted his stance and took a moment to compose himself. “Detective Spencer, I did some checking,” he said, looking pointedly at Amanda. “Detective Funnel is not a detective, after all. Detective Garland is retired. And you, sir, are a lowly cop working traffic stops in a small town in Alaska. You have no right to show up in my town, where I am the mayor and a respected citizen and funeral director who conducted a normal cremation. How dare you suggest otherwise when—”

  “Why did you kill Mickey?” Conrad barked. “I want answers, Snyder.”

  Snyder stared across the room at Conrad coldly. “Mickey Slate was not my problem,” he said coldly. “The man was meant to die in New York, but he escaped and came to my so-called neck of the woods. I was ordered to kill him. I simply carried out the order.”

  “Ordered by whom?” Sarah asked. “McCallister?”

  “Oh no,” Snyder said and actually laughed to himself. “I’m not foolish enough to poke at that anthill. If Mr. McCallister had wanted Mickey Slate dead, Mickey Slate would not have escaped from New York like he did. It wasn’t McCallister, I know that much. Mickey... was a very skilled man. But not skilled enough to escape McCallister,” he finished with a sneer.

  Conrad felt like running across the room and punching Snyder in the face. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm. It was obvious someone in Winneshabba was working against Snyder, and he needed to find out who it was. Conrad’s first suspect was Chief Messings; but would the bumbling police chief really have killed a motel owner to spite his own boss, the mayor? But first, he had a more painful and immediate question that Snyder needed to answer. “Why did Mickey have to die?”

  “Why?” Snyder asked, looking as if Conrad had just slung cold water onto his face. “Detective Spencer, Mickey Slate was not the saint you perceived him to be in that twisted mind of yours.”

  “Skip the dramatics,” Conrad snapped.

  “Very well.” Snyder abruptly changed his tone from cordial to cold and calculating. “Your old friend Mickey Slate was blackmailing a very powerful businessman. Why? Because Mickey had a gambling problem, that’s why. He was in debt. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. He needed money and my client became his target.”

  “Your client?” Sarah asked.

  Snyder locked eyes with Sarah. “Detective Garland, up until four years ago I worked with a hidden group formed within the United Nations whose core responsibility was to create global policies designed to cause conflict and eventually war between nations. You can imagine that I came into contact with some very merciless people.”

  “You snake!” Amanda yelled.

  “Perhaps,” Snyder said, unfazed by Amanda’s insult. He continued. “Eventually, it became time for me to... retire, as they say, due to certain internal conflicts within the United Nations. After I retired I relocated to this small community and began my shadow business.”

  “You hire out mercenaries,” Conrad guessed.

  “Certain clients contact me when they need me to provide... extermination services, yes,” Snyder explained. “However, Detective Spencer, I did not plan for Mickey to be eliminated in New York.” He paused, trying to control a sudden burst of temper before spitting out, “My client took it upon herself to take a few cheap shots at him.”

  “Herself?” Sarah asked.

  Snyder turned to Sarah, flustered. Realizing that his slip of the tongue had revealed a vital piece of information, he shook his head and ignored her question. “We have a mess here, do we not?” he asked. He began to pace slowly back and forth, taking his eyes off his intended victims as he did so.

  Conrad glanced at Sarah. Sarah nudged Amanda and then spoke to Amanda with her eyes, nodding her head down where her gun resided in its holster.

  “Oh,” Amanda whispered, her eyes widening.

  “Pretend to faint,” Sarah whispered in a voice so faint it was almost inaudible. Amanda hesitated. She looked at Snyder, who was still muttering and pacing back and forth. Her heart raced as she realized what they were about to do. Sarah looked at Conrad, her eyes asking him if he was ready. Conrad nodded his head a fraction, keeping his eyes on Snyder. “Now,” Sarah whispered to Amanda.

  Amanda felt as if she really were about to faint. She let out an anguished moan and crumpled to the ground. “Amanda,” Sarah cried out, dropping to her knees and slid her gun from her thigh holster in the same motion, on the side facing away from Snyder

  “What now?” Snyder growled, his eyes narrowing.

  “She fainted,” Sarah said in a voice so believably worried that she probably deserved some kind of award. “My friend is... hypoglycemic. She hasn’t eaten very much today. Her blood sugar has probably dropped below the danger line.”

  Snyder rolled his eyes. “Leave her be,” he ordered.

  Sarah rested her hand on Amanda’s cheek. “She needs a hospital,” she told Snyder with false urgency, moving to feel Amanda’s forehead in order to distract from what she was doing with her right.

  “Stand up, now!” Snyder barked at Sarah and pointed his gun at her. “Detective Garland, I will not tell you again.”

  Sarah cast her eyes up and looked at Snyder. “Is asking for a doctor too much?” she begged, shifting her eyes to Conrad for a second, knowing he would take the cue.

  “Yes,” Snyder snapped. “Now, stand up.”

  Sarah slowly began to stand up, her mouth open as if to continue pleading. Now it was Conrad’s turn to join in the act. “Hey!” he shouted, turning to point at the door leading to Dean’s small apartment, “someone is back there!”

  Snyder took his eyes off Sarah and looked at the door in sudden alarm. Sarah didn’t waste a second. She dropped down to one knee and fired off a single shot. The bullet struck Snyder’s right hand. He cried out in pain and dropped his gun. Instantly, Conrad charged at Snyder like a raging bull. Before Snyder could react, he was on the floor and Conrad had secured his hands in handcuffs behind his back. “My... hand...” he cried out in pain.

  “Deal with it,” Conrad said with a grimace, scooping the Luger up off the floor and handing it back to Amanda. “Great performance,” he congratulated her.

  “Thank you, thank you,” Amanda said, standing up and taking a bow.

  Sarah patted Amanda on the back. “You did great, June Bug,” she said and then in the moment of quiet that followed they all heard the sound of car wheels creeping across the wet pavement outside. “Someone is here.”

  Conrad jogged over to the door. Carefully, he eased the door open just enough to see outside into the heavy rain. “It’s Messings.” He watched the police chief park his blue and white patrol car next to their rental SUV and climb out.

  “Put the gun away,” Sarah told Amanda quickly. Amanda tucked the gun into the right pocket of her coat. “Just in case we need another distraction, lie down and don’t move.”

  “Again?” Amanda sighed. She lay down on the floor and closed her eyes.

  “Snyder, if you want to live, not a word,” Sarah warned.

  “You’re all dead,” Snyder hissed. “All I have to do is make one phone call.”

  “Kill us later,” Sarah said, “but for now keep your mouth shut.”

  “What’s your plan?” Conrad asked Sarah, as he continued to watch Chief Messings, who was looking in the windows of their SUV.

  “Let him in,” Sarah said. She backed up to the front counter and placed her gun next to the telephone. “Keep your gun out of sight.”

  Conrad hesitated but then decided to follow Sarah’s order. “Chief Messings, in here!” he called out loudly, pushing open the heavy door.

  Chief Messings looked up at the door to the motel lobby, saw Conrad waving at him, and hurried over. “I received a call from dispatch,” he explained, stepping out of the heavy rain. Even though he was wearing a blue rain poncho over his uniform and a plastic cover over his hat, he was still soaking wet. “I was told someone was—” He stopped when he saw Snyder, handcuffed and lying on his stomach. The color drained from his face.


  “Arrest them, Messings!” Snyder snarled in rage. “My hand! The woman shot me. I need a doctor.”

  “This man confessed to killing Mickey Slate,” Conrad told the chief. “He tried to kill us. We acted in self-defense.”

  “What about her?” Chief Messings asked and pointed at Amanda with a worried finger.

  “She’s playing dead,” Snyder cried out in frustration. “There’s nothing the matter with that woman... but there will be,” he warned.

  “Chief Messings,” Sarah spoke calmly, “more importantly, Hank Dean is dead. His body is right behind this counter. Someone killed him.”

  Chief Messings immediately looked at Snyder. “I didn’t order the hit,” Snyder bit out.

  Chief Messings hesitated, like a child stuck in a playground fight, wondering which side to take. “Mr. Snyder... sir... I...”

  “Arrest these three criminals and call me an ambulance immediately,” Snyder yelled. “If you refuse, you will certainly pay the penalty.”

  “Oh, my,” Chief Messings said again in an anxious voice. “I...” He paused, removed his rain-soaked hat, and ran a meaty hand through his damp hair. “Listen,” he said to Conrad, “I never wanted anything to do with this guy. One day he floats into town and begins threatening me and my wife.”

  “You’re dead,” Snyder promised.

  “Maybe,” Chief Messings said and shook his head, “but I’m not a killer.” He turned to Sarah. “Detective Garland, I know I’m likely going to end up in jail because I covered for Mr. Smith when he sent his two men out here to kill Mickey Slate, but you have to believe me, I didn’t want it to be that way. I... my wife and I... we can’t have children and, well, all we have is each other. I can’t let anything happen to my wife.” Chief Messings looked down at Snyder. “And I knew Mr. Smith meant what he said when he promised to kill my wife first if I didn’t fall in line with his sick agenda.”

  Sarah felt pity enter her heart. She could plainly see that the man was speaking the truth. “I understand,” she said. She reached over the counter and retrieved her gun. “Amanda, stand up.”