Shauna wasn’t an idiot. She knew she had a temper. She knew she was curious. And sometimes her tenacity got her in trouble. Nothing serious—but she couldn’t let bullies run roughshod over others.
In high school, she’d once confronted a football jock who thought he could use his bulk to intimidate smaller boys into humiliating themselves. She had been a jock herself—she played volleyball and soccer—and no way was she going to let athletes get a bad name because one of them was all attitude. She owed her brothers a debt of thanks for teaching her basic fighting skills, because she got jock-boy on his knees with a bloody nose. It was worth the weeklong suspension.
And then in college, one of her professors had propositioned her roommate—go away for the weekend, and she’d get an A. Monica had been embarrassed and upset, but was willing to do it because she needed to keep her grades up to maintain her scholarship. Shauna convinced her to say no, the horny prof gave Monica a D, and Shauna set him up to confess what he’d done. Monica ended up with a B+ in the class and Shauna destroyed the tape. Well, she destroyed the tape she’d played for him. She kept a copy in case he needed reminding that sex for grades was a big no-no.
While Shauna didn’t put John Black or Sam in the same categories as bullies, they both treated her like she was some annoying fly who didn’t know any better. They might be cops, but that was clouding their judgment. Sam said he was taking her seriously, but how could she be sure? He hadn’t taken her seriously when she told him she loved him. He’d been skeptical when she explained the baseballs. Maybe he was going to follow through, but he’d been back for what? A couple days? Could he convince that big detective Black she was right? Was Black only looking at this as a robbery, not something more?
Shauna wanted the truth.
Ten minutes later, she parked in front of Mack’s apartment. Dooley had given her the key earlier and asked her to throw out any food that could spoil, take out the garbage, gather up his mail and any insurance or banking papers. Dooley had Mack’s will, if the scribbled paper would hold up in court. She remembered when Mack had written it out, on the back of a ticket pad.
In the event of my death or incapacitation, I give power of attorney to Patrick Dooligan.
Shauna had been the witness, though she’d told both of them that they should write up something a bit more formal.
Mack had said, “I don’t have much, and I trust Dooley to give away my trinkets.”
Nine years Mack had worked for Dooley. He’d attended her high school graduation. Then her college graduation. He’d become part of the family. His death was senseless.
She took a deep breath. Now was not the time to get weepy.
She walked up the stairs to the second floor and unlocked Mack’s door with Dooley’s key. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the bright August sun to the dim light. As they did, her skin tingled. The place was a mess. She’d only been inside the apartment a few times before, and while Mack had never been tidy, this was beyond bachelor slob.
Shauna closed the door and carefully walked around. Had he been robbed? Someone who heard that he’d been killed maybe looted his place because they didn’t think anyone would notice? That seemed weird. And his large, flat-screened television and his computer were still in the living room.
Each of her three brothers had told her she was suspicious by nature. Nothing valuable seemed to be missing, so Shauna pulled out a garbage bag from a cabinet and emptied out the refrigerator. There wasn’t much—milk, orange juice, fruit, a few take-out boxes from Dooley’s, some that should have been tossed days ago. She left the partial six-pack of beer and everything else that hadn’t been opened. She’d get Mike or Skip to help her pack up the apartment this weekend. She suspected Dooley would want to do it, but he couldn’t do it all.
The garbage under his sink was half-full. She emptied it into the bag, then wound a twist-tie around the top and put it by the door. Dooley would need to access his bank account or insurance records, so she went over to Mack’s desk and sat down.
The drawers were a mess. It looked like someone had been looking for something, dumped out the papers, then put them all back. That didn’t seem right. She went into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the two of the dresser drawers were partly open.
“Someone was here,” she said out loud. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Detective Black. He didn’t answer—of course—and she left a message.
“This is Shauna Murphy. I’m at Mack Duncan’s apartment in South Natomas, and I think he’s been robbed. Call me back. Please,” she added, hoping being polite would expedite a return call.