“How did Desmond pay for that fancy car of his?” asked Gran.
“Cash,” said Chase. “Turns out he was an inveterate online gambler, and had a windfall last year. Squared away almost a hundred thousand, which he spent on that car and that watch—which he bought second-hand, by the way. No evidence that he ever received any money from Brian, aside from hispaycheck.”
“So what are you telling us?” asked Gran.
“I’m telling you that the investigation is proceeding slowly,” said Chase, getting up. “And that I’m not giving up. I know that Brian is behind this whole thing. And if I have to go to the Cayman Islands and personally drag the truth from these bankers, I will.”
“He won’t,” Odelia assured us. “Uncle Alec told us he doesn’t have the budget for such a trip. He said first to gather more evidence, and then he’ll decide. Plus, we would need a court order, for which we also need more evidence, so…”
“So what, you can kill people and steal money and hide it and nobody can do a thing about it?” said Gran.
“Unless I have conclusive evidence that Brian set up that bank account, there’s not much I can do,” said Chase. “And since the guy isn’t cooperating…”
“Chase looks sad, Max,” said Dooley.
“That’s because his investigation isn’t going anywhere,” I said. “And when a cop has collared a suspect, but he can’t prove the suspect’s guilt, it’s very frustrating.”
“So what does this mean for us?” asked Harriet. “Can we leave now, or do we have to stay here?”
Odelia, who had heard Harriet’s question, smiled down at us. “I think you can leave now. There’s nothing you can do for us here.”
“We can leave?” asked Scarlett, her voice betraying her excitement. “We can finally go home?”
“We are home, Scarlett,” said Gran. “This is our happy home!”
“Oh, no, it’s not,” said Scarlett. “Any home where a serial killer is allowed to run amok is not a happy home to me!”
“We’re going home!” said Harriet happily.
And I had to admit the prospect of leaving this place filled me with joy. It might be a happy home for some, but our happy home was somewhere else entirely.
“And so our adventure endeth,” said Brutus, suddenly becoming lyrical. “And a wonderful job was done by all.”
“Not such a good job,” I pointed out. “The killer hasn’t confessed, we don’t have any evidence linking him to the case, so chances are that he might not get charged.”
“The case is closed for us,” said Harriet. “The rest is up to Chase. And since I have absolute confidence in that man, we can rest easy now.”
Oddly enough, rest easy was the last thing I could do. Somehow I had the distinct impression that we’d missed something. But what?
47
“We did good,” Scarlett assured her friend.
“You think? I’m not so sure,” said Vesta.
“What are you talking about? We caught a serial killer. Thirteen people dead. And who knows how many more would have died if we hadn’t caught him.”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Vesta. Somehow she was still feeling restless, and for the life of her she couldn’t have said why. Scarlett was right. They had caught a vicious killer, and had saved who knows how many lives in the process. So then why didn’t she want to go home yet? Why did she feel as if their work wasn’t done? Was there some clue they still needed to find?
Chase and his team had searched Brian’s office top to bottom, and the digital forensics team had gone through his computer with a fine-tooth comb. If there was anything at Happy Home that hadn’t been found, it certainly wouldn’t be found by them—a couple of rank amateurs.
She watched her cats as they talked amongst themselves, excited that finally they were going home. The only one who didn’t seem pleased was Max, but then Max was basically a deep thinker, and rarely prone to extreme emotions the way Harriet was: pure joy or abject despair. That cat had learned to take the bad with the good, and looked at things from a philosophical point of view. They could all learn from him.
“What do you think, Max?” she asked now. “Did we do a good job here or not?”
“Oh, I think we did a great job,” said Max immediately.
She sensed there was a but.“But…”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t put my digit on it, but I have the feeling there’s something we’re missing.”
“I feel the same way,” she said, gratified that their brainiest feline agreed with her. “But what is it?”
“Beats me,” he said with a shrug.
“I guess we’ll just have to trust Chase and Odelia. They’ll figure it out.”
“Absolutely,” he said, though he didn’t look convinced, and neither was she.
A gentle tap at the window had them all look up. To her surprise it was Kingman, Wilbur Vickery’s cat. The sprawling piebald sat perched on the windowsill looking annoyed.
She quickly opened the window again—which was getting more visitor action than the door—and Kingman deigned to enter the room. He glanced around and sniffed. “Not too shabby,” he said. “Honestly, I expected worse.” He sniffed again. “What’s that smell?”
“It isn’t me!” Brutus cried. “I’ve been burying my doo-doo and wee-wee well!”
“And still I smell it,” said Kingman sternly.