Page 134 of Murder on Charity Lane

“Gah!” she said, and scrambled toward her own car.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. B asked through the window.

She licked her lips. “There’s a body in that car.”

“Why didn’t you ask them any questions?”

“A body, Golda. Behind the steering wheel. A corpse.”

61

VERNON

When the receptionist directed Ocean Mistral’s call to Vernon’s desk, he felt a spark of excitement. She’d actually listened to him. She’d spoken with the other tenants and cobbled together some information. Of course, that could mean anything from a vital clue to Mrs. B’s carrot cake recipe, but still.

He lifted the receiver. “Detective Enible.”

“This is Ocean. Mistral. Yeah. I found a body.”

He felt himself still. “Where?”

“Mrs. B and I. We found a body. Stabbed or— There’s a lot of blood. In a car.”

“At the Cottages?”

“No, no. No, outside a place called VivX, way out by Parma Park? Um, wait a second. What’s the address? It’s on your phone.” He heard Mrs. B in the background, then Ocean rattled off an address. “It’s inside a car. A Genesis G something. In the parking lot. I have a license number if you want.”

“Yes please,” he said.

“Oh! Shit, shit.” An edge of panic tightened in her voice. “It’s sun weel, S-U-N-W-E-E-L. It’s—it’s Sunny Wheeler, that’s got to be…”

“Take a breath,” he told her, speaking softly. “Good, that’s good. Now stay put and don’t touch anything and—don’t let her touch anything.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

He did believe her. “A patrol unit will join you in two minutes. I’m already on the way.”

“There’s so much blood,” she told him.

Vernon submitted a verbal report and grabbed a few water bottles on his way to his car. He expanded his verbal on the radio, to officially note the possible connection to an ongoing case, and he was still only halfway to the scene when the Genesis tag returned an ID. Sure enough: Jonathan “Sunny” Wheeler.

“Well, damn,” he said.

So Mrs. B and Ocean, both friends of CJ Moore, had found Sunny Wheeler, a friend of Frank DeYoung, murdered in a parking lot. Two men from the same social circle died violently within a month of each other. Two men from the same party. Plus, Wheeler had provided testimony implicating Moore. That turned Vernon’s simple case, his easy conviction, into something far more complex—and uncertain.

“Damn,” he said again.

When he arrived at the address, a patrol car had already taped off the area, and two more had preceded him into the lot. Everyone loved a murder. To his surprise and relief, only one of the officers had parked too close to the Genesis, undermining the integrity of the scene with new tire tracks and a billow of dust. He decided to show the kids how a veteran acted. He drove slowly to the far end of the lot, keeping his expression unimpressed, barely glancing at the murder car.

Then he stepped into the sunlight, in absolutely no rush, and offered Ocean Mistral and Mrs. Bakofsky his water bottles. You prioritized the living. At this point, despite TV crime lab bullshit, the dead barely mattered.

“Thanks,” Ocean said, after taking a gulp.

“She wouldn’t let me within twenty feet,” Mrs. B complained. “I’ve never seen a stab victim before.”

“I’ll show you the pictures later,” Vernon said.

The old woman perked up. “Really?”