Chapter 11 #3
“Late Thursday night. Poor Ms. Clark. You can tell she hasn’t been sleeping well lately with those circles under her eyes, and then to get called back in to clean up the mess they left at that hour…
She’s practically been glued to her office ever since.
Think she’s been camping out in the hope they return to the scene of the crime, if I’m being honest.”
“Did they take anything?”
Mariana shrugged. “Ms. Clark didn’t report anything missing.”
Arthur glanced at Sal over the top of his aviators. That didn’t match what Quinn had said about the night of the mayor’s murder. Why hadn’t she told him about the break-in? And if nothing was stolen, why check the recording?
“Well, we’re not interested in city hall. Just the park.”
Mariana nodded and opened a video feed that, thankfully, wasn’t blank. “You got it!”
She set the playback to a fast speed, and they watched the parking lot clear out around sunset as the park closed.
There was a bit of action around seven thirty when a cute bunny hopped across the field of view, but it otherwise remained unremarkable until a little after nine, when a silver truck pulled into the lot.
It parked on the edge of the field of view, so they couldn’t see who got out of the truck, but something about it looked familiar.
He could’ve sworn he’d seen it parked downtown before.
Maybe it was Quinn’s. She would have had plenty of time to leave the Iris Inn before coming to the park.
At long last Arthur had reason to dramatically take off his sunglasses. He did so, saying, “Zoom in and enhance.” He pointed at the license plate on the truck.
Mariana and Salvatore stared at him. She spoke first. “That’s not a thing.”
“But on all the shows—”
“Movie magic, I’m afraid, darling,” Salvatore said mournfully. “The resolution of the camera is what it is.”
Arthur sighed and motioned for Mariana to press play once more. They watched as time seemed to stand still. Arthur felt his eyes beginning to lose focus when a flicker caught his attention. In the lower right corner of the screen, something moved.
“What’s that?” Arthur pointed. “Is it the killer? Her shoe or her shadow?” Any second now, he was certain Quinn would step into frame.
“I certainly hope not!” Salvatore exclaimed as the figure came into view.
The silhouette of a cat stood out against the silver truck as it leaped up onto the bumper and into the bed.
“Was that—”
“Rumble! What a clever girl!” Salvatore reached into the backpack to congratulate the feline, who was disgruntled to be woken from her nap. “Did you see the murderer? Come on, you can tell us. We’re your parents, after all.”
“Unless you’ve learned to speak cat overnight, I don’t think that’s going to be much help.”
Salvatore raised the backpack to eye level and closed his eyes slowly then opened them again.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asked.
“I’m trying to communicate with her.” Salvatore blinked again. “I read somewhere that if you blink slowly at a cat it means you love them.”
“And how is you expressing your love to Rumble going to get us any closer to solving this case?”
“Now, now, Arthur. There’s no need to be jealous. There’s plenty of me to go around.” Sal turned his gaze on Arthur and shuttered his eyes at him as well.
Arthur spluttered. “I’m not a cat, you know!”
“You and Rumble have more in common than you think, my dear. You’re both inquisitive, for a start. You’re both nocturnal. You’re both a little feisty at times. Oh, and I love you both with all my heart!”
It was entirely too wholesome for Arthur to abide. “Yes, well, we’re also both likely to bite you if you don’t focus.”
“Mm, think I might like that.” Salvatore grinned, but he turned his attention back to the screen.
They only had to speed through about twenty more minutes of footage to see a large tarp-wrapped object rolled into the bed of the truck by an unseen perpetrator.
They couldn’t make out much, but one thing was clear—George Roth or something his exact size and shape had spent some considerable time in the bed of a silver truck that belonged to neither Sal nor Arthur.
“That’s it,” Arthur breathed. Several emotions crashed through him—relief that Sal was off the hook for the murder and satisfaction that they’d been clever enough to solve it most prominent among them—and he couldn’t help his triumphant grin. “Got you.”
In the footage, the truck moved a little closer to the camera, the light hitting the bumper.
The truck’s license plate was still too blurry, but Arthur didn’t need it to identify the vehicle.
A bumper sticker, white and oblong, was on the tailgate.
Even with the low resolution from the camera, he’d know that molar shape anywhere and the slogan written across it:
Sorry for your floss.
“Dr. Young. This is his truck.”
Salvatore gasped in shock, for once being appropriately dramatic for the situation. “My nemesis?”
“Sorry, Sal.” Arthur clapped his husband on the back and steered him toward the door. “Looks like you’re going to pay the dentist a visit, after all.”