Page 30 of The Perfect People

Killian nodded.

“We’re here,” Timms announced as the car came to a stop in front of the bar. “Other units are en route but we’re first on the scene so stay alert.”

“I’m always alert,” Susannah told him.

Jessie didn’t love her partner’s cockiness but said nothing as she jumped out of the car, her eyes scanning the area for a potential killer.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They dashed over to the front entrance of Hercule’s.

Jessie did her best to ignore the wet, sandy clothes rubbing uncomfortably against her skin in the sticky heat and stay on the lookout for any older men holding weapons claiming to be killers.

“He went that way,” the bouncer standing out in front of the bar said, pointing around the corner the second they arrived. They peeked around the alleyway, which led steeply down toward a beachside parking lot, but the street was empty.

“He could have gone either way to the next block,” Timms said. “Do we each want to take one?”

“Sure,” Susannah agreed as the sound of sirens in the distance got closer. “Why don’t you go one block to the left? I’ll go one back to the right. Jessie, you okay going down this one just to make sure he doesn’t double back?”

“Sounds good,” Jessie said, removing her weapon and starting down the alley. She had to lean way back to counter the steepness of the narrow road as it descended down toward the beach. The sun was now really starting to dip in the sky ahead of her, making it hard to see. Since she didn’t have any sunglasses, she moved to her right, along the side of Hercule’s, to block the blinding rays and to avoid feeling so exposed.

The sirens were getting closer now and she was about halfway down the alley, nearing the side entrance of the bar, when she thought she heard a loud groan coming from the doorway. Suddenly concerned that their suspect may have attacked someone else, she pressed her back up against the wall next to the entrance, took a deep breath, and then spun to her left, pointing her weapon at the door.

On the ground in front of her was an older man, probably in his sixties, splayed out on the steps in front of the door. He had a tangled beard and wore the remnants of a disheveled suit. The strong odor of alcohol wafted off him.

“I killed her,” he moaned mournfully, his eyes clenched tightly shut as he reached for something in his slacks pocket. “I killed the lady in the house.”

“Stop!” she ordered, training the gun on his hand as he fumbled around. “Put your hands where I can see them!”

“I’m the killer!” he screeched, his voice rising above the sirens that now sounded only a block or two away. “I did the dirty deed!”

Then his hand gripped whatever he’d been reaching for in his pocket and he ripped it out. Jessie’s finger rested on the trigger of her gun, a twitch from pulling it. The man lifted his item high in the air and she saw what it was: a flask.

She relaxed her finger as she heard shouts and footsteps approaching. She glanced over to see both Susannah and Timms running up the hill toward her, both huffing heavily. She returned her attention to the man, who was now unscrewing the flask top and taking a glug from it.

“I think I found our suspect,” she told them.

When they joined her, it took several moments before either could speak. It was Timms who finally managed to respond first.

“I should have known,” he gasped.

“What do you mean?” Jessie asked.

“That’s Red Henry,” he said.

“Red Henry?” Susannah asked incredulously.

“His real name is Walter Falk,” Timms explained. “He’s the male version of Mary Mary, only he’s not independently wealthy. He’s a homeless alcoholic. We’ve tried to place him in shelters countless times, but he always ends up back down here. I didn’t realize he’d returned so soon. He also has a bad habit of confessing to every crime in town.”

A squad car appeared at the top of the alley and two officers jumped out, hands on their holsters.

“It’s just Red Henry,” Timms yelled up to them. “Can you call it in?”

They nodded and returned to the vehicle. A moment later, the siren cut out.

“Why does he confess to crimes he didn’t commit?” Jessie asked.

“Usually it’s when he’s hungry or doesn’t feel like sleeping on the street that night,” Timms said. “He’ll show up at the station and confess to whatever crime he read about in the local paper. He likes to do it later in the evening, when it’s too late for investigators to prove otherwise, or for him to appear in court. So he ends up getting a night in a cell with a bed, dinner, and breakfast. He must have heard about Shasta Mallory and figured that for an unsolved murder, there was no way we could turn him away if he was confessing to it after five on a Friday night.”

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