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She nodded. Conklin went on.
“He lives here? And you’re expecting him home?”
Donna nodded, again, looking from my partner’s face to mine, then back to his.
Conklin said, “Well, if you have a couple of minutes, maybe we could come in and talk while we wait for Walter.”
“Certainly. Come in. Go right on through to the dining room,” she said.
I had a lot of questions for Donna, starting with “Who are you to our belly bomb suspect?”
But that could wait until I was looking into her big brown eyes.
CHAPTER 81
WALTER BRENNER’S HOUSE smelled like a bakery.
“My new recipe for Baby Cakes,” Timko said, as Conklin and I preceded her into a small white-painted living room furnished with country upholstery and bookshelves bracketing a fireplace. Half-folded laundry was in a pile on the furniture. Stairs to the second floor were in a hallway to our right.
We continued on through an arched pass-through to the dining room. Donna said, “Have a seat at the table. I was just making coffee.”
I looked at Conklin, shrugged, and he shrugged back.
Then we pulled out a couple of ladder-back chairs at the round, four-person dining table and sat down. The dining room was small, maybe a hundred fifty square feet, with a view of the kitchen just ahead and, through the windows to our left, the charming houses across the street.
In a couple of minutes, Donna Timko returned with a tray of coffee cups and individual-size cakes and some details about the recipe.
I was watching Donna’s expression as she busied herself at the table. She was talkative but definitely preoccupied.
I had my hand around a gold-rimmed coffee cup when I asked, “Donna, what is your relationship to Walter Brenner?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? Walt is my half brother. We own this place together.”
“Terrific house,” said Conklin. “Very homey. How long have you been living here?”
“About three years. What’s wrong? Is Walter okay?”
Conklin said, “He’s fine, just fine. You know we’re talking to all of Chuck’s employees. We noticed that Walter pretty much goes to every store once a week. We hoped he might have some thoughts on anyone with an attitude, a grudge against the company, something like that.”
“Walt loves his job, if that’s what you want to know. He’s the poster boy for happy employee of the year. Gee,” said Donna, “talk about timing. Here he comes. You can ask him whatever you like.”
I followed Donna’s gaze to the windows and saw a white van with a Chuck’s logo on the side pulling up to the garage doors. I hadn’t planned on the complication of Donna Timko, so the next few minutes were going to require finesse.
I thought of several scenarios, including the one where Timko shouts at Walt to run—and he does it.
Timko said, “Walt’s a very funny guy. Everyone thinks he ought to do stand-up. Sit, sit,” she said to us. “He’s coming through the back door.”
Timko placed her napkin next to her plate, got up from the table, and went into the kitchen. I heard the kitchen door open to the garage and then I heard the voices of a man and Donna talking low.
I took out my gun and put it on my lap and was looking to Richie to do the same, when Donna returned to the dining room with her brother.
There he was in the flesh, Walter Brenner, the skinny man I’d seen in several different guises on security tape. But this time he was life-size, in color, and clean-shaven, and he had dimples that hadn’t shown up in the Hunting Wolf run-through. He was also holding a .38.
I jumped to my feet, raised my gun, and shouted, “Drop the gun. Do it now.”
I was aware of Conklin getting to his feet at the same time, but my eyes went to Donna as she lifted her hand from behind her voluminous house dress and pointed a small gun at me.
She said, “Take it easy, Sergeant. Sit back down. Put your gun on the table and slide it over to me. Take your partner’s gun and give me that, too.
