Caveat Emptor

Chapter 20

The message came into Keith's phone right after a large bite of bun. Gravy dripped over his finger and splatted on the plate, and he reached frantically for one of the many serviettes that came with each order. Hastily wiping his fingers, he took out his phone and read the long text.

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" He pumped a fist, and looked up at the counter where Davy was waving a thank-you. Keith grinned and waved back.

"He thinks I meant his sandwich."

Barbara was too busy wiping gravy from her own chin to answer, but she knew it was a break in the case for him.

"The call Tewksbury made from the hotel in Marrakesh was traced back to a source known to the French police. He hired a hit man, Barbara."

"If they know about this source, how come he's still active?"

"The French have no authority there, and I guess the Moroccans have no cause – seems he doesn't do any work at home. I hate to rush you, but my deadline is today and I have to find Tewksbury yet."

She looked at the mess on her plate, her expression doleful. The sandwich actually was amazing and she didn't want to leave it. She looked up and Keith was holding two fingers up toward the counter, and a moment later Davy, grinning widely, arrived with two Styrofoam bowls with lids and a bag.

"A habit it seems," Davy laughed, transferring their lunches to the bowls and placing them in the bag. "Oh for the life of a policeman."

"I need to change my lunch hour." Keith joked, as they slid out of the booth and headed for the door, Barbara uttering compliments and apologies to the smiling Davy.

****

Edward Tewksbury lived in a rambling, California ranch style bungalow, popular in the fifties. A paved, medium long drive that led up to a double garage door, anchored the right side of the structure. A narrow cement walk led across the front of the railed porch, flanked by potted cedars, to the main entrance. Keith used the heavy knocker to announce himself, and stood back from the door, waiting.

The door opened, and the man stood at ease in the entryway. A head of styled, salt and pepper hair topped the tanned face, and the neatly trimmed moustache twitched as he learned Keith's business.

"I've already spoken with the police and told them everything I know. I have no other information."

"If I may come in, I'd like to discuss your recent trip to Morocco."

Edward blanched and stepped back automatically.

Was this the Canadian cop in Nice? "I don't see what my personal business travel has to do with—"

"Let me enlighten you. Gregory Snelgrove." Keith saw the recognition immediately as the tan seemed to fade and he started forward when Edward began closing the door.

There was a brief struggle, with Keith shouting his police warnings, then he fell forward into the vestibule when there was no more resistance. Tewksbury was running toward the back of the house and Keith saw him grab a door frame and skid to the left. He ran down the hall after him, still calling out police instructions to halt.

Rounding the same corner, Keith instinctively ducked and dove to his right as Tewksbury fired a shot into the wall. He bounced to his feet, his own gun out and aiming.

"Drop it! Don't make this worse than it is already. You cannot win here, Tewksbury, now drop the gun."

The weapon came slowly around toward him, and Keith felt his finger applying pressure. "Don't do it. Just drop the gun and step away."