Chapter 8

Eight

JAMES ROBERTSON'S AUTOPSY hadn't revealed any new clues.

Expelling a frustrated breath, Jack leaned forward in his desk chair and gave the material a second scan, homing in on the pertinent parts.

Cause of death—two gunshot wounds to the chest, with perforation of heart and lungs.

Manner of death—homicide.

Two small-caliber lead bullets had been recovered and sent to the crime lab, all of the tox screens from the accelerated testing were normal, and no trace evidence had been found.

Bottom line? The case was getting colder by the minute.

He sat back and stared at the wall in his office.

Six days in, and they had zip. Unless a clue surfaced soon, he'd have to—

His cell vibrated on his desk, and he glanced at the screen.

A call from the owner of one of the more legit pawnshops downtown, who'd provided helpful information on several past cases.

He put the phone to his ear. "Tucker."

"Dirk West here, Detective. One of those pieces of jewelry on the list you sent around over the weekend is in my shop."

His pulse picked up. Maybe the Robertson case wasn't dead after all.

"Do you know the person who brought it in?"

"No, but he's still here."

Even better.

Jack stood and snatched his jacket off the back of his chair. "Try to delay him. I'll have a city cop there in minutes. Whoever shows up will detain him until I arrive."

"You got it."

"I owe you."

"I'll collect."

"I have no doubt of that."

Jack ended the call and took off for the parking lot at a trot as he put in a call to one of his counterparts in the city who could get an officer there fast.

Once behind the wheel, he pushed the pedal as close to the floor as he dared without flicking on lights and siren and raced east.

Not one but two cruisers were parked in front of the shop as he pulled up fifteen minutes later.

Wearing a disgruntled look, Dirk met him at the front door and motioned to the vehicles. "Major overkill. Cop cars in front of my shop are bad for business."

"Sorry about that. Must have been a slow day. I'll take care of it. Where's the guy?"

Dirk tipped his head toward the back of the shop. "They escorted him to the office and gave him coffee. My coffee."

"Watch for a Starbucks card in the mail."

A smile creased the man's face. "I do like me those fancy drinks." He led the way to the counter and picked up a diamond-encrusted bracelet. "Here's what he brought."

Jack pulled out a clear evidence envelope and opened the top. "Drop it in here."

"Yeah, yeah, I know the routine." Dirk deposited it. "Now get rid of the cops."

Pocketing the envelope, Jack continued to the rear of the store, where he found one of the officers checking his phone while the other kept tabs on the guy who'd brought in the stolen bracelet.

A guy who didn't come anywhere close to fitting the stereotype of a thief who targeted high-end houses in ritzy areas of town.

The officer with the phone stood. "You want us to hang around?"

"No, I've got it. Thanks for the assist."

"Not a problem." He hooked a thumb toward the man. "He doesn't have any ID, and we could only get a first name. Goes by Pop."

As the two officers filed out, Jack positioned the extra chair in the office in front of the grizzled, gray-haired man with weathered, wrinkled skin and faded blue eyes, whose mishmash attire screamed street person.

Hard to estimate ages for people who'd lived a hard life, but this guy had to be at least seventy.

Jack introduced himself. "Is there more to your name than Pop?"

"Long ago. In a different life. I'm Pop now."

Rather than push for an ID, Jack pulled out the envelope and held it up. "I understand you were trying to sell this."

"Yep." The man picked up the ceramic mug beside him, wrapped his fingers around it, and blew on the dark brew.

"Where did you get it?"

"From a friend." He took a sip.

"This friend have a name?"

"Uh-huh."

"What is it?"

The man squinted at him. "I don't cause trouble for my friends."

"The friend who gave you this is causing you trouble. This bracelet was stolen last Friday."

Pop shook his head. "My friend doesn't steal."

"Then he or she won't be in trouble if you give me their name."

The man studied him, his expression suggesting he was trying to work through the logic of that but having difficulty. As if too many hard years had dulled his brainpower.

"I don't think I should do that."

A different tack was in order.

Jack returned the envelope to his pocket and leaned back, adopting a casual tone. "Where do you live, Pop?"

"Down by the river most days, unless it gets too cold and I have to go to a shelter. But I don't like shelters."

"Why not stay with this friend of yours on cold days?"

"Nope. Three's company, you know." He grinned, revealing a gap where his left lateral incisor should have been.

"Your friend is married?"

"Uh-huh."

"When did this friend give you the bracelet?"

"Yesterday. Not in person. Someone delivered it."

"Who?"

Pop took another chug of coffee. "Don't know his name. Another homeless guy who was passing through. He left this morning."

Dead end.

"How do you know the bracelet was from your friend?"

"There was a note with it."

"What did it say?"

"That I should bring it here and use the money to buy myself a warm coat and a pair of boots for winter."

"You still have the note?"

"Nope again. I was supposed to throw it away after I read it, so I did."

"Where?"

"I tore it up into little pieces." Pop pantomimed the motion. "Then I tossed it into the river."

In other words, the note was gone—assuming this whole story wasn't a fabrication.

Yet every instinct in Jack's body told him the man was being truthful.

Even if he wasn't the perpetrator of the robbery or the murder at the Robertson house, though, the bracelet said he had a connection to the killer.

On to plan B.

"You know, Pop, you're in possession of stolen jewelry. And you were trying to sell it."

"I didn't know it was stolen. My friend must not have known it was stolen, either."

"Where do you think your friend got it?"

"I don't know."

"Is your friend rich?"

He chortled. "Richer than me."

This was going nowhere.

Maybe if they could identify this guy, they could get a lead on his friend.

Jack stood. "At the moment, you're my prime suspect."

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"It would help if your friend confirmed that."

"I'd have to ask him if it was okay to tell you his name."

"Why don't you call him?" Jack pulled out his cell. "You can use my phone."

That earned him another gap-toothed grin. "I may be missing a few marbles, but I don't fall for too many tricks. If I call him, you'll have his number. I'll ask him next time I see him."

Frustrating as the man's answer was, it was hard to fault his loyalty.

"When will that be?"

"He comes around regular. You have a card? I could borrow a phone and call you after I talk to him."

"I'd rather talk to him myself."

"I'll tell him that."

Now what?

He could find grounds to take the guy in, but the man wasn't likely to be any more forthcoming at headquarters.

Jack flicked a glance at the almost-empty ceramic coffee mug on the desk.

Bingo.

There was no law against running prints from an item if the owner gave permission. Namely Dirk.

Identity problem solved—if Pop was in any of the databases.

As for the friend who'd sent him the bracelet? A job for the undercover crew. Cataloguing who showed up to talk to the man could be very helpful.

On to his next question.

"Where were you last Friday around noon?"

"Where I am most days at noon. Eating lunch at my favorite restaurant." He mentioned a charity that served daily meals to the homeless in the city.

"Can anyone verify that?"

"Sure. The volunteers all know me. I'm a regular." He picked up his coffee and drained the dregs.

"You mind if I take your picture?" He extracted his phone again. "So I can show it around at your lunch spot."

His face split into a smile again. "This mug could break a camera. But shoot away if you want. And try to make me look good."

Jack snapped several shots, put the phone away, and fished out a card. "Remember ... I'd like to talk to your friend as soon as possible."

"I'll pass that on." He tucked the card into one of the pockets of his beat-up coat. "Can I go?"

"Yes."

The man set the mug down and ambled out of the office, toward the front door.

As soon as he disappeared from sight, Jack snapped on a latex glove, pulled out another evidence bag, and sealed the mug inside. After filling out the chain of custody label on both items his trip to the pawn shop had produced, he returned to the front of the store.

"What's the story on your guy?" Dirk motioned toward the front door.

"I don't know yet." He hefted the bag with the mug. "I'd like to borrow this."

"Keep it. I have dozens of them. You gonna run his prints?"

"You have any issue with that?"

"No. The mug's yours now, anyway."

The bell over the door announced the arrival of a customer, and Jack pulled out his keys. "Watch for that Starbucks card. And thanks again for the call."

"Anytime, my friend."

Jack exited into the almost balmy weather. Quite a contrast to last week's sudden cold spell. But that was November in St. Louis for you. And according to the meteorologists, the warm spell was going to last for another few days.

Meaning Cara should have decent weather on Sunday during her drive up from Cape for their monthly family get-together.

That would be a pleasant interlude in what otherwise had been a frustrating week.

Maybe Pop's prints would provide helpful information. Or the man would follow through and talk to his friend. Or the undercover operative would observe a helpful interaction once he picked up Pop's tail at the man's favorite lunch spot.

But as Jack slid behind the wheel of his car and pointed it west, the mounting odds against solving this case didn't leave him feeling hopeful.

Nor did the unsettling sense that despite the murderer's apparently clean getaway, he or she was keeping tabs on this investigation and wouldn't hesitate to strike again if anyone got too close to uncovering their identity.