His mail-order badge had arrived that morning, and he wore it on his belt. He sat such that everyone could see it.

“How about a license number?” Bill asked.

“No, sir. Too dark and it sped by too fast.”

“How many occupants?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“And I guess you didn’t get a look at the driver?”

“No, sir.”

Bill put his notepad away and took the final swig of his drink. I poured him another.

“Where’s that CID guy?” he said. “I want to go home. You know, the unit called me because you and I have history. I was almost home. Had to turn around and come back.” He looked behind him at the door. “Where the fuck is CID?”

“I was hoping you’d stay a while, Bill,” I said. “Help me from having to go on base for an interrogation.”

“Who do you think did it, Stan?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

But I had a hunch. Buford had said he’d get Sanford to deal with the Army guys. My guess was that either Sanford himself or one of his Men in Black had saved me. The black SUV fit my scenario.

As we talked, the outer door opened and three men in civilian clothes walked in. Rodney shifted in his chair so they could see his badge.

“Sergeant Penrod?” one of them asked.

“That’s me,” Bill said. “You guys USACIDC?”

“We are, sir,” he said. “I’m special agent Stewart.”

“You guys want a drink,” I asked.

“No, sir,” Stewart said. “We’re on duty.”

“How come you guys don’t have a TV show like NCIS?” Rodney asked.

“Too many letters,” Stewart said.

Penrod said, “This is Stanley Bentworth and his nephew Rodney. They witnessed the shooting. You guys take over, and I can go home now.”

“Not quite,” Stewart said. “We’re not taking jurisdiction.”

“Why not?” Penrod asked.

“Your two stiffs aren’t ours.”

“What do you mean not yours?”

“They aren’t Army personnel. No dog tags, no ID, no insignia, bad haircuts, and the wrong kind of shoes. Those guys were pretending to be Army. Even the uniforms aren’t standard issue. Probably from a costume store.”

Bill said, “Stan, how come you didn’t notice all that?”

“I was too busy getting the shit beat out of me to notice details,” I said. “What about the car? It looks real.”

“That is ours,” he said. “Signed out to Captain Pugh. If you don’t mind, Sergeant Penrod, we’ll take the car now. The keys are in it.”

“Damn!” Penrod said. “I was hoping to go home sometime tonight. No, I don’t mind. You can take it.”

“Wait,” I said. “Couldn’t those guys be Army Intelligence? Under cover? They were working for Captain Pugh, who is, I believe, Army Intelligence.”

“Was,” Stewart said. “He was Army Intelligence. Nobody’s seen Jeremy since his boat blew up. So, as far as we’re concerned, if he isn’t dead, he’s AWOL. And if those two guys lying in the street out there were ours, we’d know them. Nope. Not our jurisdiction. We’re out of here. It’s all yours. Here’s our card. Call if anything changes.”

He passed out cards to Bill, Rodney, and me. With that, the three agents turned and left.

“Shit,” Penrod said. “So much for getting home on time. Stan, I’ll need your piece for a ballistics match. I’ll get it back to you after the lab eliminates it as the murder weapon.”

I went to the safe to get Roscoe. Now Rodney knew where I kept it. I took the pistol out of the holster, gave it to Bill, and sat down.

Everyone left and we closed shop. This time, I had Rodney walk in front of me while I groped my way down the stairs without help. One more hurdle cleared. We went out the front door to avoid the crime scene. I walked with him to the car. He started to get in the driver’s side, but I said, “I’ll drive.”

The drive back to Amanda’s house was okay. I managed to work the shifter and pedals even though I still had casts on.

When we got to Amanda’s house, I told Rodney, “I’m going home. You get your room back. Thanks for all your help.”

“No problem.”

Why do people always say that? Whatever happened to “you’re welcome?” If there had been a problem, does it mean they wouldn’t have done it? I wonder about shit like that.

“Tell your mom thanks too. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Bring my clothes and shaving kit.”

I drove home and managed my way from the parking lot into my apartment. I called Bunny at the diner and invited her over.

“Bring supper,” I said.

Things were looking up.

Chapter 20  

I started my investigation into Vitole’s murder at his house the next morning. His widow answered the door. She was startled by my appearance. All the bandages and bruises. Nothing like having a mummy on a crutch show up at your front door. That’s right, I was down to one crutch. It was like being released from bonds. I had my good hand free.

Stella Vitole was as I remembered her. Plump and unattractive. Like many such ladies, she overdid it with makeup, hairdo, and perfume trying to compensate, trying to be young again. Some people refuse to age gracefully. Others have no graceful beginnings from which to age. I should talk.

I introduced myself. “Mrs. Vitole, I am detective Bentworth. I am investigating your husband’s murder.”

I flashed my P.I. badge. She barely glanced at it. The shiny gold shield had done its job. She thought I was a cop on the job, and I let her think it.

She said, “A Sergeant Penrod already took my statement.”

“I know. This is just some follow-up.”

“Do you work with Sergeant Penrod?” she asked.

“I did before he made Sergeant.” Not a lie, but not exactly truthful either.

“Please come in.”

She led me to the living room, the same room where I had delivered a veiled threat to her husband.

“Please sit down,” she said. “How did you injure yourself?”

“In the line of duty. A different case.”

I sat on the sofa, careful not to bump my casts on anything.

“Can I get you something?”

“No, ma’am, I’m fine.” I took out my notepad and pencil. “You told Sergeant Penrod that your husband said you and he would be coming into some money related to Buford Overbee?”

She sat in the chair and looked at me.

“Yes, I did. And now you people have him charged with my husband’s murder. That was really fast. My congratulations and appreciation.”

“I’ll pass your comments on to the sergeant. Do you know your neighbors, the Sproleses? Your husband’s murder happened in front of their house, I believe.”

She got quiet and looked out the plate glass window into her back yard. Then she said, “Yes. We used to be friends.”

“Used to be? Aren’t you still friends?”

“No. Marsha and I had a falling out.”

“What was the nature of that falling out.”

“I’d rather not discuss it,” she said.

“Well, this is a murder investigation. If there’s something I should know...”

“Perhaps you should ask her, detective.”

“I will. Have you returned to work yet?”

“No. I will soon. My employer has been understanding throughout all this.”

“Where do you work in case I need to contact you during the day?”

“The Arnold Locksmith and Security Company in town. Here’s a card with the phone number.”

“The falling out you had with Mrs. Sproles. It wasn’t about her and your husband’s affair, was it?”

That took her by surprise. She took a while to answer.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, detective. I just buried my husband. What kind of question is that?”

“Just trying to get all our ducks lined up, ma’am.”

“Well, line them up somewhere else. I want you to leave now.”

I thanked her, got no “you’re welcome” in return, not even a “no problem,” and went out to my car.