“Okay.” She sounded a bit shaky. “Are you going to call the police?”
I’d been so wrapped up in figuring out who and why, I had forgotten about the police. “Far as I can tell, nothing expensive has been stolen,” I said. “But I’ll call.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The police came and took my report. I had little faith that much would come of it since nothing big had been stolen. All my files were accounted for. I’d had my backup hard drive at the motel—out of sight and out of reach.
I placed a call to Little D. “Someone broke into my office,” I said. “I think it was probably Beaufort or Diesel.”
After I’d explained what Sheila had said, Little D said, “Well, it’s too late to ask Beaufort and I don’t think you want to ask Diesel.”
“But I would like to talk to Fisher,” I said. “He sent his little errand boy, Narsh, with an invite to see him. You doing anything this afternoon? I want to go by Fisher’s shop and see what he wants.”
“I can meet you there at three,” Little D said.
“See you then.”
* * * * *
Little D was waiting for me when I pulled up in front of Fisher’s Pawn, in a line of forlorn shops on Silver Hill Road. We walked together toward the shop, wedged between Rayelle’s House of Beauty and The Chicken Shack. The air reeked of hot grease and singed hair.
In the pawn shop, a transparent counter extended the length of the store, reminding me of a bowling lane. A Plexiglass wall separated the counter from the crammed-together merchandise. Everything from computer monitors to old radios and musical instruments packed the shelves.
A short, slight man, café au lait in color, looked up from the far end. I could see his resemblance to Tina.
“Rodney Fisher?” I asked.
“Who wants to know?” he asked, in a low, gruff voice.
“I’m Sam McRae.” I held up his card. “You wanted to see me. And it so happens, I want to see you.”
Fisher opened a gate and emerged from behind the counter. He strode down the long aisle toward us, eyes fixed on me. He seemed to be on a mission. I sensed Little D’s presence behind me. My stomach felt hollow with anxiety.
Fisher stopped about ten feet away. His gaze bore into me. “Where is she?” he asked. “Where’s my girl?”
I blinked. “I have no idea where Tina is. I was hoping you might know.”
“How would I know? I ain’t seen her. But you know, don’t you?” He was looking past me now, at Little D.
“Mr. Fisher, I need to ask something else,” I said. “Where were you a week ago Wednesday night—the night Shanae was murdered?”
“What bid’ness is that o’ yours?”
I started to speak, stopping when I realized that, like Greg Beaufort, Fisher was skinny and short. And they were both light brown. He looked more like Tina than Greg had. In the right clothes, with a cap pulled low over his face, he could have passed for Tina. And he could have left the house that night—after killing Shanae.
“I’m interested, Mr. Fisher, because I know Shanae had evidence she wanted to use to get more child support.” I chose my words carefully. “I know that must have worried you. And maybe made you mad at her.”
“Yeah, bitch stole that shit from me. But so what? I di’nt have nothing to do wit’ it. I was jus’ the middleman, you know?”
Recalling the evidence Little D had shown me, I said, “She stole the financial records.”
“Nah, not records. Some stuff wasn’t even mine, you know.”
This was news. Big news. I paused, trying to figure out what he meant without revealing that I didn’t have a clue. “She stole that stuff. And she used it to force you to pay more money,” I ventured, praying he’d fill in the blanks.
“Well, sure, then she got all pissed off when she find out what it was. But that shit not even mine. I dunno nuthin’ ’bout that shit. I di’nt care, so long as I got my ten percent. You know what I’m sayin’?”
I got it. “She took one of the packages. One of the DVDs.” She had found out about the janitor and the sex parties.