‘Yeah, there was a rucksack – a leather, fashion-type piece rather than something practical for hiking – sunk on the bottom of the pool.’
Rick remembers Moira saying about a bag in the pool, but that she’d not managed to get a proper look. ‘You know what was in it?’
‘That I do.’ Hawk pauses. Chews his gum.
‘And?’
‘Apparently it was a bunch of random stuff – a gold mantle clock, a few pieces of nice jewellery, some antique silverware like milk jugs and creamers, a set of rare baseball cards. Good stuff, quality, you know? But not stuff that fits together.’
Rick does know, and he knows how they fit together. All those things are items that’d been taken during the recent burglaries. ‘The cops have any theory on that?’
‘Not so far.’
He clenches his teeth. How can the homicide squad be so far behind? The contents of the rucksack connect the homicide to the thefts that have been reported in Ocean Mist over the past month – they could run a search of their database and see the link. It’s an obvious move, one of the first they should have done. Rick shakes his head. It’s as if the cops in Homicide are deliberately dragging their heels. ‘Well, thanks, I appreciate you passing this on to me.’
‘No problem. One last thing, I ran that plate, the one for the old wagon.’
Rick waits. He can hear Hawk’s still working his gum hard.
‘It came back with the name of a young punk from out of state, but I figured you’d be interested anyways. He has himself a bit of a rap sheet.’
‘Yeah?’ Rick says. Interested.
‘Nothing major, but there’s a couple of DUIs, and a bit of trouble a few years back with thefts, small stuff – the high-school football trophy is the most notable item.’
‘Any indication of violence?’
‘Not that he’s been arrested for.’
‘Okay. You said this guy is from out of state, whereabouts?’
‘DMV has his address as a place in Maryland.’
That fits with what Donald said – that the car had a Maryland plate – but it’s a long way from Maryland to Florida. ‘Can you give me a name?’
‘Sure I can, buddy, as it’s you.’ There’s a rustle as if Hawk’s turning the page of a notebook. ‘The guy’s name is Michael Graften.’
‘Graften?’ says Rick. He knows a Graften here at Ocean Mist – Miss Betty is one of the oldest residents. ‘You sure about that?’
‘Positive. I’ll message you a photo of his licence.’
‘Appreciate that.’
‘And remember you owe me a ticket to the game.’
‘Already got you covered. Next home game there’s a pair of seats just behind the dugout with our name on them.’
‘I’ll let you know when I’ve got more. Autopsy isn’t likely until late today, or could be tomorrow.’
‘Call me when you’ve got something.’
‘For sure.’
Rick ends the call and puts his cell in his pants pocket. Picking up his coffee mug, he takes it over to the sink, rinses it out and sets it on the drainer. Hawk said the beige station wagon with the Maryland plate is registered to a guy with the same family name as Miss Betty. Betty’s place is over on Albatross Heights Boulevard, the opposite side of the Ocean Mist district to Seahorse Drive and the head of the Wild Ridge Trail, the places the vehicle had been spotted parked up by Donald and Clint. Interesting. And something that needs checking out.