Dark Harbor (Stone Barrington 12)

“What time do you normally get here, Hilda?” Stone said.

“Usually, at nine,” the woman replied. “But it was ten, today; I had to do Mr. Brown’s grocery shopping. I always do that for him.” She went back to the kitchen.

“Dino,” Stone said, “you ask the questions.”

Dino nodded. “Gentlemen, did any of you know Mr. Brown to be depressed?”

“This wasn’t suicide,” Harley Davis replied.

“Please, just answer the question.”

“Don wasn’t depressed,” Mack Morris said. “He was pissed off.”

“About what?” Dino asked.

“About being in that fucking wheelchair thing. He didn’t like it at all; he was permanently pissed off about it.”

“Did he ever talk about suicide?”

All three men shook their heads. “He wasn’t the type,” Rawls said.

“Is the gun his?” Dino asked.

“Probably; he had a .45,” Rawls said. “If the cops don’t find another one, then it’s his.”

Jimmy hung up the phone. “The state boys will be on the next ferry,” he said, looking at his watch. “They should be here in an hour or so.”

“Gentlemen,” Dino said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d all go sit on the porch until the cops get here. Stone and I will take a look around the house.”

The four men went outside, and Dino went into the kitchen, followed by Stone.

“Hilda,” Dino said, “when you got here this morning, did you find anything unusual about the state of the house?”

“Well, Mr. Brown was dead in his bed,” she said.

Dino nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Anything else?”

“Well, the vacuum cleaner is normally in the broom closet, but it was sitting in the kitchen, by the back door, there.” She pointed. “And there wasn’t no bag inside it.”

Chapter 25

STONE AND DINO WENT and stood in the bedroom door, so as not to disturb anything further by entering the room.

“He’s sitting up in bed,” Stone said, “so whoever shot him woke him up first.”

“Unless he wasn’t asleep when the guy arrived,” Dino said.

“The TV isn’t on, and there’s no book present, so he wasn’t sitting up in bed reading. Nobody just sits in bed, doing nothin'.“

“Maybe you’re right. But why would the guy wake him up?”

Stone shrugged. “Maybe he had something to say to him before he shot him.”

“Like what?”

“Like, 'Here’s one from your pal, Joe,' or whoever ordered the hit.”

“You should write novels.”