some evening when I can get enough eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich into you.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” I heard a match strike in the background, and Sergei began making smacking sounds, and I knew he was firing up a Cuban cigar.
86
John J. Lamb
“So, what about that guy I described? You know him, right?”
“Not by name, and I only saw him once. It was Wednesday morning, shortly after six a.m. I’d come in early to repair the exhaust duct behind the restaurant and I was up on a ladder, which gave me an unobstructed view of Reverend Poole’s house.”
As Sergei spoke, I grabbed a pen and began taking notes. There was a pause and I said, “And?”
“I saw this fellow with the shaved head and goatee that you described. He was unloading all sorts of appliances and electronic equipment from his truck and taking them inside the house.”
“Can you remember what kind of truck?”
“A metallic red Chevrolet S-10 with an extended cab.
It looked brand new.”
I jotted down the description. “Was Poole there?”
“Absolutely, in fact he was helping the man carry the things into the house.” Sergei took a long pull from the cigar and added. “And here’s something else you might want to know: When the bald-headed fellow got ready to drive away, Poole became quite angry and yelled at him.”
“What did he say?”
“That if he tried to double-cross him again, he’d be sorry.”
Chapter 8
I turned off the phone and went into the bedroom, wondering how I was going to break the news to Ash. Actually—
and I know this is going to sound insensitive, but I’m sorry, that’s just the way guys are hard-wired—my big question was when to tell her, since there are few topics of discussion that will dampen a warm romantic atmosphere more quickly than telling your wife that her childhood friend was now “a person of interest” in a homicide investigation. Look at it from my point of view: Why should I lose out on an evening of bliss with Ash simply because Poole threatened his stolen goods supplier a mere three days before the crook turned up dead? And the most aggravating part was that I only had myself to blame.
If I hadn’t been so damned diligent and insisted on calling Sergei this wouldn’t be a problem . . . and it was a problem, because I couldn’t lie to her.
88
John J. Lamb
Ash was in bed, her head propped up on a couple of pillows, reading a mystery novel about an amateur sleuth and her talking Pomeranian dog. My wife is a big fan of mysteries, but I’ve never cared for them. In fact, they drive me nuts, because the cops are almost always portrayed as endowed with the brainpower of gravel—and not high-grade gravel—the killer is invariably brilliant and erudite, and the perfect murder is solved by a canny layperson with the assistance of psychic intuition, magic, or an anthropomorphic house pet, for God’s sake.
Ash lowered the book and said, “So, what was the cloak-and-dagger message that Sergei wanted to convey?”
I put the wireless phone on the dresser and started to undress. “He told me that he saw someone matching the victim’s description at Marc Poole’s house early Wednesday morning. I guess Poole was absent the day they covered the eighth commandment at Bible college because they were both unloading stolen goods from the guy’s pickup truck and taking them inside the house.”
Ash sat up in bed. “What?”
“Wait, it gets better. Poole was also flamed at the guy and told him he’d be sorry if he double-crossed him again.”
“But this morning he acted like he didn’t know that man.”
“Yeah, the heartfelt prayer asking the Lord to help Tina identify the poor sinner was a masterful touch.” I tossed my clothes into the laundry hamper and pulled my nightshirt over my head.
“So, how was Pastor Marc double-crossed?”
“Sergei didn’t hear that, but it probably had something to do with how they were dividing up the profits from the flea market. Maybe
“I’m looking forward to it.” I heard a match strike in the background, and Sergei began making smacking sounds, and I knew he was firing up a Cuban cigar.
86
John J. Lamb
“So, what about that guy I described? You know him, right?”
“Not by name, and I only saw him once. It was Wednesday morning, shortly after six a.m. I’d come in early to repair the exhaust duct behind the restaurant and I was up on a ladder, which gave me an unobstructed view of Reverend Poole’s house.”
As Sergei spoke, I grabbed a pen and began taking notes. There was a pause and I said, “And?”
“I saw this fellow with the shaved head and goatee that you described. He was unloading all sorts of appliances and electronic equipment from his truck and taking them inside the house.”
“Can you remember what kind of truck?”
“A metallic red Chevrolet S-10 with an extended cab.
It looked brand new.”
I jotted down the description. “Was Poole there?”
“Absolutely, in fact he was helping the man carry the things into the house.” Sergei took a long pull from the cigar and added. “And here’s something else you might want to know: When the bald-headed fellow got ready to drive away, Poole became quite angry and yelled at him.”
“What did he say?”
“That if he tried to double-cross him again, he’d be sorry.”
Chapter 8
I turned off the phone and went into the bedroom, wondering how I was going to break the news to Ash. Actually—
and I know this is going to sound insensitive, but I’m sorry, that’s just the way guys are hard-wired—my big question was when to tell her, since there are few topics of discussion that will dampen a warm romantic atmosphere more quickly than telling your wife that her childhood friend was now “a person of interest” in a homicide investigation. Look at it from my point of view: Why should I lose out on an evening of bliss with Ash simply because Poole threatened his stolen goods supplier a mere three days before the crook turned up dead? And the most aggravating part was that I only had myself to blame.
If I hadn’t been so damned diligent and insisted on calling Sergei this wouldn’t be a problem . . . and it was a problem, because I couldn’t lie to her.
88
John J. Lamb
Ash was in bed, her head propped up on a couple of pillows, reading a mystery novel about an amateur sleuth and her talking Pomeranian dog. My wife is a big fan of mysteries, but I’ve never cared for them. In fact, they drive me nuts, because the cops are almost always portrayed as endowed with the brainpower of gravel—and not high-grade gravel—the killer is invariably brilliant and erudite, and the perfect murder is solved by a canny layperson with the assistance of psychic intuition, magic, or an anthropomorphic house pet, for God’s sake.
Ash lowered the book and said, “So, what was the cloak-and-dagger message that Sergei wanted to convey?”
I put the wireless phone on the dresser and started to undress. “He told me that he saw someone matching the victim’s description at Marc Poole’s house early Wednesday morning. I guess Poole was absent the day they covered the eighth commandment at Bible college because they were both unloading stolen goods from the guy’s pickup truck and taking them inside the house.”
Ash sat up in bed. “What?”
“Wait, it gets better. Poole was also flamed at the guy and told him he’d be sorry if he double-crossed him again.”
“But this morning he acted like he didn’t know that man.”
“Yeah, the heartfelt prayer asking the Lord to help Tina identify the poor sinner was a masterful touch.” I tossed my clothes into the laundry hamper and pulled my nightshirt over my head.
“So, how was Pastor Marc double-crossed?”
“Sergei didn’t hear that, but it probably had something to do with how they were dividing up the profits from the flea market. Maybe
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