stroke of luck. There was nothing clever or original about my finding her. In a way she found me. She heard me talking to someone in the drugstore. And she recognized the picture.”
“However it happened, you came up with the best information they’ve gotten. I’m sure they’ll find the registration and the whole plate number from those Bs.”
“I’ll call Joe in the morning.”
“Now, how did you come up with that?” the good detective said when I gave him the Bs.
I told him briefly, along with the fact that the victim gave her name to Gladys French as Rosette Parker.
“Well, I’ll recommend you for a gold shield for that, Mrs. Brooks.” The gold shield is a detective’s badge. You can’t apply for it; you can’t take a test for it. They give it to you because you have earned it.
“I appreciate that, Joe. I’ll wear it around my neck when I go to complain about my phone bill.”
He laughed at that. “What’s next on your agenda?”
“I think it’s time for me to give up. You’re the professionals. Whatever I dig up, you can do yourselves, and I don’t want to get in your way. If I hear anything, which I don’t expect to, I’ll give you a call.”
“Likewise. By the way, we have results on the prints we lifted in the apartment. No police record on any prints.”
“I didn’t think this was done by a career criminal,” I said. “The killer had some kind of grudge or the Mitchells betrayed a trust. Maybe one stole from the other a long time ago, or some terrible accident occurred and the victim’s family never accepted it was an accident.”
“Those are good theories, Mrs. Brooks. Keep working on them.”
We chatted a bit more and then finished our conversation. I must admit I was at loose ends after I hung up. I had gotten myself into the spirit of the chase, and having bowed out, I felt let down. There were things I could do, of course. I volunteer my time at the local parish to do whatever is necessary, including cleaning up the classrooms, not a very appealing alternative to hunting down a killer. It was a while since I had done word processing for my friend Arnold Gold, the lawyer. It was also some time since we’d met in the city for lunch, and I had an open invitation that I could accept at any time he wasn’t in court or otherwise busy working for his clients. That was tempting. I looked at my calendar, which was largely empty, and was about to call Arnold when the phone rang.
“Chris, I’ve got something for you,” my husband said.
“What? Have you talked to Joe?”
“Not yet. I decided to run that partial plate number. Did you give it to him?”
“About half an hour ago.”
“Then I’m not stepping on toes. There’s a maroon van-type vehicle registered to a Charles Proctor with a box number address—at least it looks like one of those mailboxes at a private company. It’s the only maroon van with three Bs in the plate number in that zip code.”
“Charles Proctor,” I said. “Boy, they really have a lot of names.”
“I also looked for a driver’s license under both of his names and both of hers. Did you say she drove?”
“Yes. She was always driving when she picked up Gladys French. The husband sat in the backseat and read the paper.”
“Well, there’s no license for her under Mitchell or Parker, but there’s one for him under Proctor. So he registered the car and got his license under the same name as is on the mailbox. Maybe he did his taxes under that name, too.”
“Did you check for a driver’s license for a woman at that mailbox address?”
“I did and there isn’t any. Maybe she has her own box somewhere else.”
“I’d go nuts with all those identities,” I said.
“So would I. I think you’re right about them. They were hiding from someone and doing a damn good job of it. Finding Gladys French was fantastic luck.”
“Well, I told Joe I’m resigning from the case. He’ll find out what you just told me as soon as he
“However it happened, you came up with the best information they’ve gotten. I’m sure they’ll find the registration and the whole plate number from those Bs.”
“I’ll call Joe in the morning.”
“Now, how did you come up with that?” the good detective said when I gave him the Bs.
I told him briefly, along with the fact that the victim gave her name to Gladys French as Rosette Parker.
“Well, I’ll recommend you for a gold shield for that, Mrs. Brooks.” The gold shield is a detective’s badge. You can’t apply for it; you can’t take a test for it. They give it to you because you have earned it.
“I appreciate that, Joe. I’ll wear it around my neck when I go to complain about my phone bill.”
He laughed at that. “What’s next on your agenda?”
“I think it’s time for me to give up. You’re the professionals. Whatever I dig up, you can do yourselves, and I don’t want to get in your way. If I hear anything, which I don’t expect to, I’ll give you a call.”
“Likewise. By the way, we have results on the prints we lifted in the apartment. No police record on any prints.”
“I didn’t think this was done by a career criminal,” I said. “The killer had some kind of grudge or the Mitchells betrayed a trust. Maybe one stole from the other a long time ago, or some terrible accident occurred and the victim’s family never accepted it was an accident.”
“Those are good theories, Mrs. Brooks. Keep working on them.”
We chatted a bit more and then finished our conversation. I must admit I was at loose ends after I hung up. I had gotten myself into the spirit of the chase, and having bowed out, I felt let down. There were things I could do, of course. I volunteer my time at the local parish to do whatever is necessary, including cleaning up the classrooms, not a very appealing alternative to hunting down a killer. It was a while since I had done word processing for my friend Arnold Gold, the lawyer. It was also some time since we’d met in the city for lunch, and I had an open invitation that I could accept at any time he wasn’t in court or otherwise busy working for his clients. That was tempting. I looked at my calendar, which was largely empty, and was about to call Arnold when the phone rang.
“Chris, I’ve got something for you,” my husband said.
“What? Have you talked to Joe?”
“Not yet. I decided to run that partial plate number. Did you give it to him?”
“About half an hour ago.”
“Then I’m not stepping on toes. There’s a maroon van-type vehicle registered to a Charles Proctor with a box number address—at least it looks like one of those mailboxes at a private company. It’s the only maroon van with three Bs in the plate number in that zip code.”
“Charles Proctor,” I said. “Boy, they really have a lot of names.”
“I also looked for a driver’s license under both of his names and both of hers. Did you say she drove?”
“Yes. She was always driving when she picked up Gladys French. The husband sat in the backseat and read the paper.”
“Well, there’s no license for her under Mitchell or Parker, but there’s one for him under Proctor. So he registered the car and got his license under the same name as is on the mailbox. Maybe he did his taxes under that name, too.”
“Did you check for a driver’s license for a woman at that mailbox address?”
“I did and there isn’t any. Maybe she has her own box somewhere else.”
“I’d go nuts with all those identities,” I said.
“So would I. I think you’re right about them. They were hiding from someone and doing a damn good job of it. Finding Gladys French was fantastic luck.”
“Well, I told Joe I’m resigning from the case. He’ll find out what you just told me as soon as he
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