Orchid Beach (Holly Barker 1)

Holly looked around and saw the box on the floor, against the wall. “I see it,” she said. “Is that the only place you can think of?”

“Well, I don’t think the chief had much in the way of valuables, except for his guns and fishing stuff and the TV. I guess those were the only things somebody might want to take.”

“Thank you, Ms. White,” she said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“Glad to do it,” the woman said, then hung up.

“Fire safe,” Holly said, picking up the box and placing it on the desk. She reached to open it, and the hinged lid came off in her hands. “And somebody’s used a crowbar on it.” She removed the contents and spread them out on the desk. “Insurance policies, warranties on some electronics, checkbook, just ordinary stuff.”

“No notes or other papers?” Jackson asked, rifling through the files.

“Nope, not that I can see.” Holly opened the checkbook and went quickly through the ledger. “Nothing unusual here, just the regular bills he paid, and a few checks made out to cash.” She picked up the files and papers and returned them to the box, then she started going through the desk drawers. They were very neat and contained nothing out of the ordinary. “Okay, let’s go through the whole house, every room, every closet and cupboard. Look for another lockbox or a loose board—any place he might hide something.”

“Shall we split up?” Jackson said. “I’ll take the bedroom, you take the kitchen.”

“Okay, but let’s both go through the living room, first.” The two of them searched the room carefully, looking under furniture, under the rugs, behind everything. Holly checked the gun and fishing racks, but found nothing. Jackson went into the bedroom, and Holly took the kitchen. She went through every cupboard, checking every can for a false top and emptying cereal boxes. She searched the refrigerator and freezer, opening packages wrapped in foil and checking frozen food packages for signs of being opened.

Jackson came in from the bedroom. “Nothing in there, how you doing here?”

“Zip,” Holly said.

“Looks like if there was something here or at Hank Doherty’s, whoever was looking must have found it.”

“His notebook,” Holly said.

“What about it?”

“There isn’t one. Every cop is trained to keep a notebook; you never know when you might have to testify in court about the details of some incident. There’s no notebook here, and there was no notebook in the personal effects the hospital gave me.”

“So the shooters took it.”

“Yeah. I reckon that after they shot Chet, they took his notebook from his pocket and the shotgun from his car; then they went to Hank Doherty’s house, killed him and searched the place. It was fairly neat when I got there. Then they came here and turned over Chet’s place, taking some care to keep it neat. They’d have had the whole night to do it. Any panic they felt would have passed, so the

y took their time, even had a beer.”

“And left no traces, no prints.”

“Real pros,” Holly said.

“No mistakes?”

“Not so far. And if they don’t make one soon, we’re never going to clear these crimes.”

“You ready to go home?” he asked.

“Whose home?”

“Mine. I’m not letting you go until Monday.”

Holly glanced at her watch. “Let me try Ham again first. By the time we get home it will be past his bedtime.” She called from the phone on the desk, using her credit card. This time the phone rang only once; there followed an electronic shriek and a recorded message. “This number has been permanently disconnected at the request of the customer. There is no forwarding number.”

“I must have dialed wrong,” she said. She made the call again and got the same message. “I don’t understand,” she said, hanging up.

“Maybe your dad moved,” Jackson said.

“Without telling me? And without leaving a forwarding phone number? That would be very unlike him.”

“Is there somewhere else he might be?”