Fatal Connections

Chapter 53

What was it with Mabel Forbes and her houses? Perhaps I'd already met the self-proclaimed real estate maven herself. I took a few photos of the Harcourts' front yard from different angles. Not that there was much to see. I just wanted proof of that.

I made my way out the back door and moved around to the front-left corner where I took a few quick shots of the Harcourt house from a rather tricky but doable angle. That's when I noticed a uniformed man leaving the house where the van was parked. I stopped where I was and watched him as he walked toward the van. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten into the murky gray of pre-dawn, but I could make out his features well enough to see that he was handsome, about my age, a bit younger maybe. I raised my camera again.

He climbed into the van, fired up the engine, and swung the van around into a three-point turn. I held down the button on my phone to make it snap multiple stills without stopping. As the van rumbled past, the logo on its side came into view. A clock—the kind with hands—and the name "Round the Clock" on top of the image. Under the logo were the words (in quotes) "We deliver." I'll bet they did.

It wouldn't be long before the sun cleared the horizon. I made my way back to the car and checked Google Maps for the location of the delivery company. With any luck, the delivery van driver might have seen something.

There was nothing misleading about the company's name. Google informed me that the business was open and they delivered 24/7. I tried to picture the schedule for a typical shift. It didn't square with a driver stopping at home for two hours and then going back to work. Perhaps he was pulling a double shift. Or maybe that wasn't the driver's house. Which raised the question of why he'd entered the house and stayed quite a bit longer than most delivery personnel would. People work at all hours, as I well knew. Nonetheless, I wondered what was being delivered before the sun was up.

I considered the options. Take on the tricky task of questioning a potentially hostile witness or forget about him and potentially miss the clue that could solve the murders? Did I really have a choice? It was now a matter of when, what, who, and how. When was the driver last here? What did he see, if he was here? Who could answer my questions? And how much would it cost?

And then I remembered it was Saturday. Just another Saturday. What was the likelihood I could get this information today? Or tomorrow? Or ever? I sighed. My thoughts were muddled and I felt totally unmotivated. I should have been home in bed.

At that point, I must have drifted off, because from the depths of sleep, a hallucinatory vision of the Helmand Province deserts emerged. I raise my weapon as a car approaches. The resounding bang of an explosion, then muted sounds, as if I'm underwater. My ears ring, as well. The lengthy dissonant medley assaults me. As if the relentless heat and blinding sand aren't enough.

The bloody little boy of my nightmares is running toward me, when I hear an odd tapping sound. And the bloody child turns into a little girl. One clearly not from Afghanistan. I want to ask her a question, but I can't speak. The tapping gets louder. I jerk my head upright and my eyes open. Ow. Now, I had a crick in my neck to go with my bad back. I reached around with one hand and tried to rub it out. Three more raps on the window. I directed my attention toward it, and a cop stared back at me.

As Dirty Harry Callahan would say, "Marvelous."