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I cut him off. “Youare the chief of police. Do you think George should have been fired for how he looked into Lavender’s death?”
Bartlett swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“And now you’re doing what you’ve been told to do, so don’t think that won’t come back to bite you.” Then I changed the directions because I didn’t want the people from the sheriff’s office here either, but for different reasons. “I took pictures, but the real evidence is up here and on the bike. We need Will Porter with his tow truck to pull that up and out.”
“And the body?” Bartlett asked.
I looked at Mac and then Captain Olson. “I’ll get it. Hook the basket to the fire truck winch.”
“I’ll do it,” Mac volunteered.
I shook my head. “He’s my responsibility.”
Mac raised an eyebrow, Bartlett looked confused, and Olson issued orders.
* * *
By the time I was winched back up guiding Jim Pitts’s body lashed into a carry basket, Will Porter was waiting. With help from Olson’s guys we lifted Jim Pitts over the rail and put him in the back of the ambulance. It pulled away, lights off, because there was no rush getting to the morgue.
Then, Olson had the fire engine backed up so Will could get in position. For the third time I went down the ravine, sweat pouring down my back and dotting my forehead. August in Ohio is no time for extended outdoor activities. It didn’t bother me; I was used to dirty, sweaty jobs. At least no one was shooting at me. I had the end of Will’s tow cable in hand as Will let it out and Olson unwound my winch.
I arrived at the dirt bike. There were leather saddlebags on both sides. The bike was banged up and battered. I ran the chain at the end of the line through a gap and secured it to the frame. Then I walked it up the slope, much like I had done its rider.
We put it on the road. I unhooked and unbuckled, my shirt soaked in sweat. Mac handed me some cold water from a cooler. I took a long drink as we gathered round. The mirror on the road matched the one on the right handlebar. Looking at the left handlebar, there was white paint scraped on it.
I looked at Bartlett. “Can I bring an expert in to look at all this?”
Bartlett frowned. “Who?”
“Raina Still. She does forensic for Cincy PD. We can trust her.”
“The one who helped with Lavender Porter?” he asked. “The Black woman?”
I nodded. Bartlett’s internal debate played across his face. He’d be a horrible poker player, so I made a mental note to start up a poker game with Mac and Will and to tell Bartlett that the chief had played with us every week and then invite him in and take his salary. My mind was wandering because I didn’t want it to slide back to Jim Pitts. I wondered briefly if the box on his license for organ donor was checked and something positive could come out of this tragedy.
“All right,” Bartlett decided. “But we can’t keep this road closed indefinitely.”
Bartlett had a strange sense of priorities. Other than the Pink House, the only other thing up the hill was the country club. I’d seen cars getting turned around. “Open one lane,” I suggested. “Keep this outer one clear. Leave everything as is.”
Bartlett nodded eagerly, as this was something in his skill set. “Right.”
I noticed Olson watching us and realized I was issuing orders to the chief of police.
I called Rain and it turned out she was already on her way to Burney to have an early dinner with Molly and could be on site in fifteen minutes, so that was fortuitous.
I knelt down and looked more closely at the bike. One of the saddle bags was empty, but the other bulged with something. I unfastened the buckles and flipped it open. Given I’d had the contents of Navy Blue’s briefcase six weeks ago, I had a very good idea of exactly what I was looking at.
“Chief Bartlett,” I called out. “I am formally reporting the discovery of what appears to be two hundred thousand dollars in cash in the saddle bag of Jim Pitts’s motorcycle.”
I now knew where half of Mickey Pitts’s money was.
CHAPTER 13
When I was almost a prune, I got out of the tub and toweled off, put on the ridiculously lush robe I found on the back of the door, and took my laptop into that cushy bed with a new glass of champagne. I felt decadent and pampered and appreciated, but mostly I just felt wrapped in silence, wallowing in my solitude, nobody to take care of for a change. Just me. Just me taking care of me.
I damn near wriggled in happiness.
I texted Vince that I was at the Shady Rest and to meet me here, hoping he’d see it as an invitation to luxurious sex. Especially since he’d see it below the picture I’d sent. Then I threw my phone in my purse, determined not to answer it again until tomorrow. I needed silence to think, although now that I was snuggled down in that bed, sleeping held more appeal than thinking—
