"And Yeltsin had some?" Elizabeth asked.

  "He had two. He got them from the briefcase. Oh, and he gave one vial of the insulin to his mother." Hammer shook his head. "He said he left one in in the case because somebody else might really need it. We had to promise not to tell anyone he took the insulin."

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

  "She's put up with a lot from him," Mahan said. "Don't see why we need to mention it anywhere."

  "We'll see," Elizabeth said. "He just happened to have the syringes on him?"

  "In his work locker," Mahan said. "He thought there might be a business opportunity."

  "Keep going."

  Hammer grinned. "There's that sub shop a block from the liquor store. Yeltsin said he could meet Weeks there on his lunch break, but Weeks told him to go buy a breakfast sandwich."

  The front door to the station opened and a women in gardening clothes came in, leading a dog around whose neck she had loosely tied a piece of rope. "Chief Friedman, this is the dog I called you about."

  Elizabeth walked to the public side of the counter while Hammer reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a dog collar and short leash.

  The woman noted the leash. "My, you do come prepared, don't you?"

  Elizabeth took the rope, which was accompanied by several long licks to her hand from the seemingly happy part-retriever. "County folks have animal control, but we often get local pets and try to match them to owners."

  The woman nodded. "I'm Melba Greene. He came right up to me and I gave him some water. He must have gotten out of a yard."

  Hammer stooped down to fasten the collar on the dog. He was rewarded with several face slurps. "I'm sure we'll get a call when school's out or someone gets home from work and finds him gone."

  "Thank you." Melba turned toward the door, but stopped. "I won't have any peppers or squash for a while, but I'll bring you some."

  "I have a big garden," Hammer said.

  Elizabeth smiled. "I don't. But don't feel obligated."

  With a final wave Melba left.

  Elizabeth walked behind the counter with Hammer. "I know we've had calls like this many times, but I don't recall a dog in the station."

  "Rare," Hammer said. He reached into the drawer that had held the leash and took out two small dog biscuits, and grinned. "Other duties as assigned." He pointed under his desk and the dog moved there to get his biscuits. He settled happily at Hammer's feet.

  Elizabeth sat on the edge of Hammer's desk. "Back to business. Yeltsin met Weeks and gave him the syringes?"

  "Yep," Mahan said. Weeks wanted one with a needle and one without, so Yeltsin used a pair of plyers from the liquor store toolbox to snap off one needle. He tossed it."

  "So," Elizabeth said. "We have the mayor at the hospital, Weeks with the implement she needs to off Dingle. How does he get the syringe to her?" She nodded to Mahan. "You watched all those tapes. Did you see Weeks anywhere?"

  Mahan shook his head. "I'll look again, but I'd be 99 percent positive no. He's a big guy, and he doesn't dress rough, but he wears those green work pants you can get at Wal-Mart. Not what you see in a hospital a lot."

  Elizabeth sighed. "Yeltsin won't be a terribly credible witness, but maybe the sub shop has cameras."

  The phone rang and Hammer picked it up, listened, and said, "Come on back. We figured it out." He gave Mahan a thumbs up. "We're one up on Calderone. That was him saying the pharmacies don't have records of selling any syringes the day Dingle was killed."

  SINCE IT HAD BEEN LATE Friday when they'd learned about the syringes, Elizabeth wanted to wait to question Weeks again until they interviewed the sub shop owner and learned whether Weeks was at the hospital the day Dingle died. She assumed he'd managed to get it and syringes to Mayor Humphrey, and either he or Humphrey had the vodka.

  Elizabeth didn't expect either of them would kill again over the weekend. She had figured she would see both of them at Dingle's Saturday memorial service, and ended up walking into the funeral home not far behind Humphrey.

  Dingle's service did not tax the capacity of Leaving the Farm Funeral Home. Funeral Director Gretchen had scheduled it for the largest room, which could seat seventy, albeit close together. Elizabeth had contributed to a spray of flowers from city employees, and counted only four others.

  Fewer than forty people mingled and listened to the memorial service led by Gretchen herself. Dingle's instructions said he wanted no religious observance and "no speeches from any city officials." Elizabeth only knew this because Gretchen opened the service by saying why she was leading it.

  Gretchen's talk sounded more like a professional biography for a job application. She said nothing more than was in the obituary. Until she read it in the paper, Elizabeth hadn't realized Dingle's entire career had been in Logland, which was only thirty miles from the farm he'd been raised on.

  Elizabeth sat in the back and let her mind wander. Dingle must have known how unpopular he was, and apparently didn't care. He certainly never behaved in a fashion to endear himself to those around him.

  The only thing Elizabeth knew beyond his public persona was that Norma Norton's mother had rejected him. That had to be forty years ago or more. A person couldn't stay bitter that long, could they?

  If anything, Dingle met part of the definition of a sociopath. He manipulated people and didn't seem to have an ounce of empathy for anyone. He didn't have any superficial charm, but definitely had a grandiose sense of self. None of that mattered now. As the wooden box of his cremated remains made clear, he had returned to dust.

  As she studied the backs of the other attendees, Elizabeth realized that almost all of them were city employees. The paving contractor who did a lot of work for the city was there with his wife. He would have dealt a lot with Dingle and probably endured as many criticisms as Weeks did. Still, he probably made much of his living from city work.

  When the service ended, attendees simply spoke briefly to each other, if at all, and left. No one had prepared an after-service meal, and it didn't appear people were going out for coffee to share memories, or whatever.

  As she unlocked her car, it occurred to Elizabeth that this would be a perfect time to visit Dingle's house. She swung by the office to read Taylor's notes on the visit – which he'd finally finished – and pick up a key. The attorney who prepared Dingle's will had said police could keep it for a few days.

  Taylor had Saturday duty and sat at Hammer's desk. "Hey Chief. Did anyone stand up at the funeral and confess?"

  The lanky redhead had his feet on Hammer's desk and she raised an eyebrow in his direction. "If they did I didn't hear them."

  Taylor put his feet on the floor and sat up straighter.

  "I thought I'd stop by Dingle's place. Didn't look as if you thought anything was out of place."

  "Ha. It'd be hard to be in disarray. He barely had anything."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean there was furniture in every room, a television in the living room, and a few books. No pictures of family and friends, no letters in a desk drawer. And his closet was organized by color." Taylor said this last point as if nothing could be stranger.

  Elizabeth smiled. "How do you arrange yours?"

  He shrugged. "I don't. I try to set an example for my kids by not throwing dirty clothes on the floor."

  She nodded at Hammer's desk. "Hand me the key to the big file cabinet in the copy room, would you? I think that's where Hammer put Dingle's house key."

  Taylor retrieved the key from the same drawer in which Hammer had taken the dog leash yesterday. "It is."

  "What happened to the dog?"

  Taylor grinned. "I saw Hammer and his wife and kids taking it for a walk this morning."

  Elizabeth didn't bother printing out Taylor's notes. His verbal explanations were always better. She drove to Dingle's thinking she actually looked forward to an afternoon of laundry and cleaning, which she hadn't had time to do all week.

  Dingle's small bungalow sat about two blocks behind City Hall. He could've walked on good days, but she knew he didn't. She climbed the three cement steps and inserted the key in the wood door. It opened easily.

  The interior was as Taylor described it. The furniture looked expensive – solid wood end tables and a very formal sofa. She opened each kitchen cabinet, marveling at how precisely dishes – even canned food – were arranged.

  After searching each drawer in his bureau and finding them similarly in order, she began to realize that she was in the home of someone who was probably severely obsessive-compulsive. Maybe that had something to do with why he was so particular about how things were done at work. Didn't explain why he had to be a prick about it.

  The small room Dingle used for his office had a medium sized wooden desk with glass on the wood to protect it. The only other items were his desk chair, a recliner, and a second, smaller television, which had a DVD player. Shelves lined the walls, with cabinets underneath. The shelves held nothing decorative, in fact all the top ones were empty. Those with books were only half full.

  She opened the cabinets under the shelves, knelt on the floor, and said, "Aha." Dozens, probably hundreds, of DVDs were neatly arranged. She felt like a voyeur, but pulled out a few to examine. Then more. Every movie was upbeat, many with a holiday theme.

  It had never occurred to her that he would have any movies, much less that all would be those such as The Sound of Music, It's a Wonderful Life, and The Wizard of Oz. Most were old, but the collection included Little Miss Sunshine and Mrs. Doubtfire. Grand Canyon was hardly cheerful throughout, but the ending was peaceful.

  Stumped, Elizabeth sat on the recliner and let her eyes travel the room. Everything perfectly organized in a contained space. The remote sat on the arm of the recliner, so once he was settled he was in control of his world. A bitter old man trying to travel to the kind of world he wanted to live in?

  She shook her head. "You're not a psychologist." But Elizabeth thought she was right. Donald Dingle didn't just want things his way, he needed them to be just as he wanted them. And it crippled his ability to get along with anyone.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE MESSAGE ON HER voice mail the following Monday was clear, though the low voice sounded disguised. "You're looking in the wrong place."

  "Hey, Hammer. Come listen to this, would you?"

  His chair scraped as he stood from his desk. "Sure thing, Chief." He came into her office carrying a partially open envelope.

  "Mail already?"

  "In the drop-off box," Hammer said.

  Elizabeth pointed to her phone and redialed the code to her voice mail. The voice repeated, "You're looking in the wrong place."

  "Man or woman, you think?" she asked.

  He stared at the phone for a few seconds. "Sounds like a woman who's deepened her voice. A lot."

  "I think so, too. The time stamp says it came through about five this morning. I assume you weren't here then."

  "No, but, I think…"

  "People can only put messages directly into my voice mail if they know the specific extension. And I don't give it out."

  Elizabeth gestured to a chair across from her desk.

  Hammer sat as he ticked off names on his fingers. "Only the mayor, Skelly, Calderone, Mahan, and me have the code."

  "Right. Everything goes into the main voice mail so whoever needs to listen can pull messages."

  "Unless I answer a call and put them in your voice mail."

  Elizabeth nodded. "We can't be sure it's about Dingle's murder. But if you add having my code to the fact that we've been most visible looking at the hospital, it makes sense someone could want to direct us to City Hall."

  "The mayor knows she's the only city official who has your extension number," Hammer said. "Why would she use it?"

  Elizabeth shrugged. "Maybe she keeps it in a drawer or under her desk blotter and someone else found it."

  Hammer shook his head. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

  "She's only left me a direct message two or three times, and she didn't choose the code. She might need to look it up. I've seen her pull notes from under her blotter."

  "Now what?" Hammer asked.

  Calderone stood in the doorway. "What are we now-whatting?"

  Elizabeth replayed the phone message and said why she thought it could point to someone who worked with Dingle.

  Calderone frowned. "Despite accusing Skelly with no evidence, the mayor's a smart woman."

  "We can't trace a voice mail," Elizabeth said, "but can the phone company give us a list of any calls that came in about that time?"

  "Yep." Hammer grinned as he finished opening the envelope he'd brought with him. "Unless the caller knew how to override the time stamp, which they wouldn't. No one else will have called at 5 AM."

  "Burner phone with no caller ID, don't you think?" Calderone asked.

  Elizabeth nodded. "I suppose. What do…"

  Hammer swore. "I can't believe this!" By its corner, he held an eight-and-a-half by eleven piece of copy paper that had words pasted to it.

  Elizabeth pulled an evidence bag from her drawer and opened it for him. Hammer slid the paper into it.

  Calderone leaned over. "What's it say?"

  Elizabeth studied the note, now in its clear plastic evidence bag. Look in the dumpster behind City Hall. Mahan came in and she passed him the bag.

  He shook his head. "When's the last time you heard of someone cutting letters out of a magazine to write a note?"

  "I've never seen one," Elizabeth said. "For real, I mean. Seems like just more chances to leave fingerprints."

  Calderone regarded the evidence bag for several seconds. "The only thing I can think to look for is the syringe."

  "And maybe something that used to hold vodka," Mahan said.

  "And perhaps a burner phone." Elizabeth told Mahan about the phone message. "Seems like someone wants to be sure we look at City Hall rather than the hospital."

  Hammer shook his head. "Could be a prank. Somebody wants to see the police dig through garbage."

  Elizabeth leaned against her desk. "Sure. But any evidence is meaningless unless it has fingerprints." She raised her hands in mock surrender. "Either a prank or someone's trying to have us look at the mayor or someone else in City Hall instead of maybe the real killer."

  Hammer leaned against the door jamb. "Dingle was killed on a Tuesday. Garbage at City Hall gets emptied once a week, same as here, on Tuesday. Would have been picked up before Dingle died."

  "So, it'll be picked up tomorrow, early," Calderone said.

  Elizabeth sighed. "I guess we have to check it."

  Calderone said, "I have an idea. Maybe not the best one."

  "Speak now or forever holster your weapon," Elizabeth said.

  "Let's send notes to a few people in City Hall. Maybe saying…let's see."

  "Something that's a hint without specifics," Hammer said. "Maybe, 'Have you checked your trash today?' Something simple."

  Elizabeth nodded slowly. "It'll seem nonsensical to everyone except the killer. Maybe send it to all the department heads."

  "And the mayor," Hammer said.

  "We're focusing on her because she was with him at the hospital. Maybe someone got to him earlier," Calderone said.

  "I think he'd know if someone in the office stuck a needle in him," Elizabeth said.

  Hammer shrugged. "He stuck daggers in lots of backs and people never knew."

  ELIZABETH PLANNED A TWENTY-MINUTE break on Monday to pick up a sandwich at the Bully Pulpit, intending to eat it at the station. She paused at the door of the diner to read a lost dog sign, then removed it to give to Hammer. If his family wanted a dog, he'd have to go to the shelter.

  Marti was in a conversational mood. "You know what's funny, Chief?"

  Elizabeth handed her a ten-dollar bill. "What's that?"

  "People are worried that there could be a killer at the hospital. But nobody seems scared, or even upset, about Mr. Dingle's death."

  "I guess he didn't have a lot of personal friends."

  "He didn't come in here a lot, but any time he did, he acted like we served dog meat."

  Elizabeth smiled. "I think he put down most people and things. Would you say people are scared to go to the hospital?"

  Marti shrugged. "I think mostly if they might have to stay overnight. But there's a lot of talk. Plus, anyone who knows Skelly likes him. People think it's unfair he's still off work when you guys don't seem to suspect him of anything."

  As she accepted her change and put a dollar on the counter as a tip, Elizabeth thought Skelly may have been right. Fear could make some people go to other towns for procedures they'd normally use Logland Memorial for. She didn't know a lot about how hospitals balanced their books, but she figured a small hospital like Logland's couldn't afford to lose many patients.

  When she turned toward the door, Elizabeth had another thought. "Who was Mr. Dingle with when he came here to eat?"

  Marti grinned. "Mr. Gangle and sometimes the budget director woman. She lost a bet with Gangle a couple times, so she had to eat with Dingle."

  Elizabeth placed her sandwich on her desk but had not taken a bite when the intercom buzzed. Hammer said, "Mayor called some kind of emergency council work session tonight. Apparently some budget numbers were miscalculated, and they're supposed to take a vote on the budget in a couple of days."

  "Huh. That would certainly give the mayor a reason to be in the building late."

  "Yep. Stay later than the others and search the dumpster."

  "Very crafty." Elizabeth opened the sandwich wrapping. Too crafty?

  SHE DIDN’T USUALLY ATTEND budget work sessions. Elizabeth submitted the Police Department’s funding request with a binder of background material. If a council member had questions, they usually called.

  Department heads had a standing invitation to council work sessions, unless the mayor or a council member asked that it be closed. When she walked into that night’s meeting, Mayor Humphrey’s eyebrows shot up. Elizabeth figured half of the reason was because she didn’t usually attend any meetings in jeans and a Logland PD sweat shirt.

 

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