Bicycle Shop Murder, Robert Burton Robinson [early reader books .TXT] 📗
- Author: Robert Burton Robinson
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“Yes, Sir.”
“Wait five minutes, and then bring them in. Oh—and, this is very important: don’t tell them I know who they are.”
Millie looked puzzled. “Okay.”
“We, uh—wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“I understand, Sir.”
After Millie had shut the door, Buford realized he had said too much. If anyone ever found out he was able to guess who was coming to see him from Coreyville, it would make him look highly suspicious. If he was not involved in the Coreyville trial and murders, why would he think Greg and Cynthia would be paying him a visit? It was their only possible connection.
Millie told Greg and Cynthia it would be just a few minutes. Greg decided to have a cup of coffee while they waited. He had taken only two or three sips when Millie walked over to where they were sitting.
“Okay. I will take you to Mr. Bellowin’s office now.” Greg dropped the cup in the trashcan as they followed her down the long hallway.
Buford looked surprised when Millie brought Greg and Cynthia into his office. “Millie told me that a couple of old friends were coming by to see me, but—I’m afraid I don’t know either of you.”
Cynthia noticed that Buford’s secretary seemed confused by his statement.
Greg said, “I’m sorry, Sir. We told your secretary that we were old friends because we thought it was the only way to get an appointment with you today.”
“I see. So, are you even from Coreyville?”
“Yes, Sir. That part is true. We have something really important to talk to you about. I hope you’ll give us a few minutes, even though we got in on false pretenses.”
“Well, you were resourceful—I’ll say that for you.” Buford laughed. “I’ve got to give you a few points for that. And, you are from my hometown. So, sure—I’ll hear what you have to say. Can you do it in ten minutes?”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you.” Greg couldn’t believe how much respect he was giving the apparent mastermind of a murderous rampage. “I’m Greg Tenorly and this is Cynthia Blockerman.”
Buford shook hands with his visitors, taking a long glance at Cynthia’s cleavage, and offered them a seat. Millie walked out and closed the door.
“So, what can I help you with today?” Buford sat down behind his desk.
If the executive desk was the yacht of desks, then Buford’s desk was a battleship. Cynthia wondered what Buford was trying to compensate for.
“I’m serving on a jury in a murder trial in Coreyville, and—”
“—wait. If this is about an ongoing trial, it would be illegal for me to discuss it with you.”
Great, Greg thought. Is this how he’s going to slither out of it? “No. Actually, I wanted to ask you about something not related to the trial.”
“Okay. But, be careful.”
We’ll never get anything out of this slimy snake, Cynthia thought, as she tried to maintain a pleasant demeanor.
“Yes, I will. I don’t know whether you’ve heard about it, but several people have been murdered in our town this week.”
“Wow. I’ve always thought of Coreyville as a safe, quiet little community. That’s pretty shocking.”
“So, I got a call from a woman yesterday. And while she was talking to me, somebody shot her.”
“You’re kidding me? Is she dead?”
“Yes. The killer shot her right after she told me who was behind all of the murders in Coreyville.”
Cynthia was watching Buford for even the slightest reaction.
Buford didn’t like where Greg was headed, but what could he do? He had to press on, showing interest, but no particular concern for himself. Besides, Marty was dead. Case solved. Maybe they hadn’t heard yet. “So, what did she say?”
“She said the person behind all of the murders was YOU.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. What’s the name of this woman who told you that?”
“Dorothy Spokane.”
It was slight, almost imperceptible—but Cynthia saw it. A quiver of the lip and the lower eyelids. Greg was right!
“Whoa. Now we’re talking about someone who’s involved in your trial, right? Isn’t that the trial for the murderer of Sam Spokane?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Because it’s in Coreyville. And I’m a lawyer.” He must regain control of himself, Buford thought. He must not appear to be nervous. “And I worked for Sam as a teenager. So, I knew Dorothy. I’m so sorry to hear about her. But I can’t talk about it anymore.”
“So, you don’t know why she would say that you’re involved in the murders?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve got to leave now, before we cause a mistrial.”
Buford hurried Greg and Cynthia out the door. “Maybe we can visit some other time, when it doesn’t put a trial in jeopardy. Goodbye.”
*
It was easy for John X to locate Greg’s big, red Bonneville in the parking garage. He knew he had the right car, even before he checked the license plate. He didn’t know whether Buford would want him to chase Greg and Cynthia, but he would be prepared. He took the box out of the paper bag and carefully, almost lovingly, removed the device from the box.
It was a fine piece of electronics—a GPS tracker, housed in a magnetic case, weighing only seven ounces. He inserted four AA batteries and turned it on. Then he placed it in an ideal spot on the undercarriage, where it couldn’t be seen without crawling under the vehicle.
Now, wherever the car traveled, he could easily track it over the internet with his PDA. If Buford didn’t order him to follow them, it was $400 down the drain. But it was just part of the cost of doing business.
He had set his cell phone ringer on vibrate, to avoid alerting anyone to his location. Buford was calling. “I’m ready,” he whispered.
“Good. Wait until they get out of town. And try to make it look like an accident. If you do, it will mean an additional ten for you.”
“So, that’s thirty-five altogether, right?”
“Right.” Yeah, whatever, Buford thought. He couldn’t afford to quibble over money when his career, and even his freedom, was at stake.
“I already have a tracker on his car, so there’s no way they can lose me.”
“I don’t want to know details. Just do it!”
John X heard people talking, and it sounded like they were walking toward him, so he hid on the other side of the truck that was next to Greg’s car. He soon realized, from their conversation, that it was definitely Greg and Cynthia.
“So, what was I saying when you saw him flinch?”
“It was when you told him it was Dorothy Spokane who said he was responsible for all the murders. Something funny happened with his lips and eyes. It wasn’t real obvious, but I saw it.
“Yeah. He’s definitely guilty of something.”
“But, of what? Hiring a killer? And, if so, how do we prove it?”
“I don’t know, but I’m starved. Let’s get some breakfast and talk about it.”
John X heard them shut their doors, and drive away. Now he would need to select a vehicle for following them. The extended cab Silverado truck he was standing beside would work. Greg and Cynthia were stopping for breakfast. He would have plenty of time to catch up with them on the road.
“Cancel the rest of my appointments for this morning.”
“But Sir, Mr. Jacobs is already here, waiting,” whispered Millie.
“I don’t care. Make my apologies and reschedule him. And I do not want to be disturbed unless the building is on fire. Do you understand?”
Buford needed time to think things through. Sam was dead. The only witness who saw the murderer at the scene was dead. The bull-headed juror was dead. And he assumed the police now had Marty’s body. They would find his fingerprints at one of the murder scenes. Or there would be someone who had seen him nearby. They could blame the murders on him and close those cases.
Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman were now Buford’s greatest concern. But John X had taken care of Marty. Surely he could handle those two.
Then there was Kantrell Jamison. There was still a good chance he would be found ‘Guilty,’ even without Troy on the jury and without Arabeth Albertson’s testimony.
It had seemed like a good plan. He had personally done research, and selected Kantrell for the job. He was a poor black teenager who probably wouldn’t graduate from high school. And Buford was sure he could tempt the boy with cash. Back in March, he had mailed a letter to Kantrell:
Mr. Kantrell Jamison, This letter is private. Please do not share it with anyone. The inner envelope contains five one-hundred dollars bills. This money is yours. There are no strings attached. You can spend it any way you wish.
However, if you would like to earn much more money, please be waiting at the pay phone on the corner near Coreyville Car Wash at 7:30 AM on Saturday, March 18.
At that time, I will offer you a job that will allow you earn a large amount of cash. And you’ll only have to work one night. So, think about it. And have fun spending your money!
Kantrell answered the call on that Saturday morning. Buford had used a throwaway cell phone to call him.
“Don’t talk—just listen. Your pay will be $30,000. You will receive it in cash before you do the job. If you take the cash, but don’t do the job, a hit man will track you down. You will never be safe. He will find you, and kill you. Since you haven’t hung up yet, I will assume you’re still interested.
“The job is to kill Sam Spokane. You will go into his bicycle shop one night next week when he is alone and murder him. I don’t care how you do it. Just make sure he’s dead. Also, you will take all of the money from his wallet and from the cash register. You can keep that money too. Do you want the job?”
Buford had been proud of the scheme he had concocted. He had worn gloves while preparing the envelope and the cash. He had even remembered to wet the stamps with tap water instead of licking them. But he had made one stupid mistake. When he had dropped off the $30,000 envelope at the post office from his car, he had picked up the envelope with his bare hands.
As soon as he had released it into the box, he realized his mistake. But it was too late. Tampering with the U.S. Mail could send him to prison just as quickly as hiring a murderer.
But had Kantrell Jamison saved the envelope? Apparently he had been smart enough to hide the money. But if that envelope had not been destroyed, and the police ever found it, they would check for DNA. If Kantrell were found innocent, everything would be okay. But that outcome now seemed unlikely.
What if Kantrell decided to make a deal with the D.A.? If Kantrell could produce evidence against the person who hired him, he might get a lighter sentence. That envelope kept Buford awake at night.
*
Greg and Cynthia had not traveled far before stopping at an IHop for breakfast. As they were being shown to a booth, it happened again. And Greg was growing accustomed to it. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t blame the men for looking. If a shiny, new sports car passed by, you had to check it out—right?
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So, if beauty is not beheld, is it still beautiful? Greg Tenorly was a musician, not a philosopher. But sometimes
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