“Don’t worry, we’ll manage,” Liv said.
“No, you won’t. Joe, if I called into town would you please go pick up a couple of pizzas?”
“Sure,” he said, trying not to convey his disappointment. He’d hoped he’d be in for the night. He was thankful he’d only had one light drink. It was unfortunate, he thought, that they lived too far out of Saddlestring to order a delivery.
April appeared in the hallway as if summoned, her hair disheveled from wrestling.
“Get more beer while you’re at it.”
As she spoke, Sheridan rushed her from behind and threw an arm around her neck and pulled her back. April said, “Ack,” but then broke out in laughter. Kestrel followed the two of them back down the hall, clapping her hands for more combat like a little Roman emperor.
Joe climbed back into his boots and clamped his hat on his head and left the House of Feelings with a sigh.
Then he thought of something.
* * *
—
It was only a ten-minute detour to Bert Kizer’s place on the mission to pick up pizza and more beer. The home had been taped off with plastic yellow tape and a sheriff’s department vehicle was parked in front, idling little puffs of exhaust from its tailpipe.
Joe pulled in behind the GMC Acadia and killed his headlights. Before they went off, he saw the deputy inside the SUV sit up and rub his eyes.
Steck had been sleeping in his car. Joe didn’t blame him.
The driver’s-side window slid down. “Hey, Joe, you caught me.”
“Hey, Ryan. Do you mind if I pop inside for a quick look around?”
Steck arched his eyebrows and thought it over. “Well, I could call the sheriff and wake him up and ask, I suppose.”
“Or you could sit tight in your warm car and I’ll drop off a pizza to you on my way back home.”
“That’s a much better idea.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” Joe said. “Did Gary finish all the forensics?”
“He said he’s nearly done and that he’ll be back tomorrow morning to wrap up.”
“Did he find anything that points to the killers?”
“Not that I heard. He’s gathering evidence at this point, and I don’t think he’s started analyzing it yet. What are you looking for, anyway?”
Joe said, “Marybeth had a theory that maybe Bert kept a stash of cash in his house that someone was after. It’s not a crazy idea, if you think about it. Why else would someone do that to him?”
“So what do you expect to find?”
Joe said, “Maybe an empty safe. Maybe nothing. Who knows?”
Steck rubbed his chin while he thought it over. Then he said, “Thin crust, pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, and sausage. Oh—and don’t touch or move anything inside.”
Joe patted the hood of Steck’s GMC to acknowledge the order as he walked toward the house. He pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and ducked under the crime scene tape.
* * *
—
After turning on all the lights inside the house so he could see better and so Steck could keep an eye on him, Joe did a cursory search of the cabinets, the drawers, the closets, the refrigerator, and the freezer. He noted that black latent fingerprint powder had been left on most of the smooth surfaces and that numbered evidence ID tents were placed across the floor and on the countertops. He observed where swabs had been taken from the dried blood on the floor, walls, and ceiling. The tools had been bagged and removed from the kitchen and although the chair the victim had been bound to was still in the middle of the floor, the duct tape from its limbs had been removed.
From what he could see, Norwood had done a very thorough job. But the forensics tech had been documenting the crime scene. He hadn’t been looking for hidden cash.
Again, Joe looked over the framed photos on the wall. Most were much too small to hide a safe. Nevertheless, he tipped each one up and shined his flashlight behind it for a hole in the Sheetrock that he didn’t find.
He also glanced behind the framed large print of Charles M. Russell’s The Camp Cook’s Troubles for a safe that wasn’t there.
Joe peeled back rugs in the dining area and Bert’s bedroom for openings to crawl spaces, but found none.
In his experience over the years, he’d learned that people liked to keep their hidden valuables close to them. That meant in between mattresses or under their beds. Men who wanted to hide things from their wives favored toolboxes and garages as hiding places, but Bert lived alone.
He dropped to his hands and knees and shined his flashlight under the double bed. Beside dust motes the size of tennis balls, there was a green metal footlocker near the head of the bed. When he saw it, Joe felt his heart rate speed up. In the layer of dust on the hardwood were tracks. It was obvious that the locker had been pulled out and replaced very recently.