Part 14 (2/2)
”Morgan's had him taken to Goode Brothers. I'm surprised she didn't tell you,” said Sam.
”She was asleep when I left the house. I've been checking on”
”Nate, you don't have to account for your time.” Sam handed him the autopsy report. ”I told Morgan I'd send this home with you.”
”What's the gist of it?” Nate handled the papers as if the smell of death might rub off on him.
”He died of a drug overdose. Cocaine positive. Dead approximately seven days.”
”Any chance it was an accident?”
Sam gave him a look. ”The report says homicide.”
Maybe the best approach was to just ask rather than stew around in his paranoia. ”You ever get a copy of Wheat Ridge's report?”
”I've got Stan Eisley working on it. He has an in with the Wheat Ridge police chief. It's only a matter of time.”
He was about to ask why he'd been kept out of the loop when he heard voices in the hall and footsteps.
”n.o.body up front.” A uniformed Wheat Ridge cop entered Sam's office followed by that knock-out woman detective who'd questioned him and Sam before. d.a.m.n, but her clothes fit her well. Hispanic, thought Nate, but drop-dead gorgeous. It wouldn't be half bad to get patted down by that.
”May I help you, Detective Sanchez?” Sam got up from his desk while Nate erased the silly grin that had crept onto his face.
”We're here for your computers.”
Nate felt his desire rapidly receding as the woman handed Sam what was most likely a search warrant.
Sam perused the paper and then said, ”Yes, this seems to be in order. Be my guest.” He gestured toward the computer hutch to the right of his desk.
Two other uniformed officers entered and boxed up Sam's computer.
”Can they do this?” asked Nate indignantly. The woman was looking less good to him by the second. A bit too lean for his taste which ran to the full-bodied. Probably didn't even like men.
”They just did,” replied Sam calmly. His tone almost sounded amused.
”Where are your other computers?” asked Detective Sanchez.
”There's one in the reception area,” Sam said.
”We've already got that one. Any more?”
Sam shrugged. ”I'm afraid that's it.”
”How about you?” She turned to Nate.
”Just my laptop, but that's--”
”Get it, please.”
”But there's nothing financial on it,” he stammered. ”It's my personal computer. Not company property. I a.s.sure you there's nothing--”
She nodded to one of the uniformed men. ”Go check the other offices.”
Oh, s.h.i.+t, they'd see all the sites he'd visited. He knew they could do that. The p.o.r.no sites. He hoped they wouldn't tell Morgan or Sam. But, why would they? Nothing to do with the murders or the financial records. Well, even if they did, he suddenly had a ready answer. Kevin had access to the laptop when he was in the house. Dead kid can't talk. Oh, but the dates. When had he last- ”Mr. Farris?” She was looking a hole through him, her eyes blacker than Morgan's.
”Yes, Detective Sanchez.”
”Is there something bothering you? Your computer will be returned, probably tomorrow. Is there something you'd like to tell me before I leave?”
He composed himself, even managed a very white Nate smile. ”No, Ma'am. Just that I don't see how my computer could help you, me not being on the financial team.”
”We'll decide that after we've viewed the contents. These machines will be returned as quickly as possible. Sorry to inconvenience you.”
The troops were gone as quickly as they'd come. Fredricka was still out to lunch. Nate seethed. Had she been there, he'd have had some warning and could have ditched the laptop. Gone out the back door, or... What was Sam smirking about?
”What's the joke, Sam?”
”I'm afraid it's on those officers.”
”What?”
Sam shrugged. ”Some people just have to learn by trial and error.”
Not going to let him in on the joke? Okay, fine. Probably some dumb accountants' humor that he wouldn't appreciate anyway.
In the privacy of his own office, Nate returned some past-due phone calls, caught up on some paper work and perused Kevin's autopsy report.
It was a confusing doc.u.ment. A bunch of medical terms he didn't understand. There was a needle mark on his neck. Cocaine-yes, there it was. The little s.h.i.+t had probably never stopped using. But, a needle mark on his neck? What was that about? And what the h.e.l.l was meperidine? Now, if he just had his laptop...
The drive back to Harrisons' bungalow took no more than ten minutes.
Puffed up by his own cunning, he pulled the standard rent application/release form from his briefcase and gave it the once-over. He compared the signature on the form with the signature on the annual report for the machine shop that he'd pulled off the internet before his laptop got nabbed. JJC Machining Inc. James J. Camacho, President. Great front for laundering money from drugs, extortion or you name it. Man, the cops were dumb.
He really didn't worry about forging Camacho's signature. Come on, really. What were the odds of the creep surfacing and suing him? And it could have been worse about the computer. What if he hadn't finished this project before going in to check on Sam? So what if they saw he'd gone to the Secretary of State's page? If anybody had a reason to check on this Camacho creep, it was he.
Nate felt a surge of confidence as he approached a sixtyish man with a beer gut, watering the front lawn of the bungalow.
”Mr. Harrison?”
He could see Betty Jean's outline just inside the screen door, watching them.
Ed Harrison dropped the garden hose and turned off the water. ”Mr. Farris.”
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