Blackman's Coffin by Mark de Castrique Read Free Book Online Page A

the gearshift into position. Clever, and I guessed a hell of a lot cheaper than a factory installation.
    The unset handbrake between the seats showed a similar customization. A third bolt had been fastened to the button on the end and a small eyehook protruded from a wooden block taped midway down the lever.
    I leaned in the car for a closer look. Scrapes on the parking brake’s leather trim indicated Tikima had sometimes missed her makeshift device. I turned back to Nakayla. “You set your handbrake even though we’re on level ground.”
    “Yes. Then you’ll never forget it on steep ground. Mother forgot once and the car started rolling with Tikima and me inside. Tikima was ten and jumped in the front seat. She couldn’t reach the brakes, but she steered the car past a tree and we crashed into a laurel thicket.”
    I moved clear of the door. “Then would Tikima have always set her parking brake?”
    Nakayla stared into the car.
    “Were you with the police when they dusted for prints?”
    She seemed oblivious to my questions. “Tikima had to have set the brake. She’s the one who hounded me to do it before I even turned off the ignition.”
    I stepped closer and grabbed her arm. “Nakayla, were you here with the police?”
    “No. I gave them the key. Why would they have released the brake?”
    “I don’t think they did. But you need to ask.”
    Nakayla searched my face for confirmation of what she must have suspected.
    I nodded. “Yes. That’s an explanation. Someone else parked her car.” I edged between her and the vehicle. Since the police had found the doors locked, they probably concentrated their efforts on the exterior. They might not have even printed the interior.
    Kneeling was difficult so I braced my right hand on the driver’s seat and bent down to examine the floor mat. On the carpet to the left of the brake pedal, a smudge showed the imprint of a shoe. The dirt looked like dried sand laced with flecks of mica.
    I pointed to the spot. “Could Tikima have left that footprint?”
    Nakayla peered over my shoulder. “No. It’s too big. And Tikima wore flats, high heels, or running shoes.”
    If we were looking at a clue, then I deduced a man had stepped in wet sand, gotten in the car, and rested his left foot long enough for the sand to dry into the carpet. The shape of the toe and the gap between the sole and heel suggested a dress shoe.
    I walked to the rear tire. The tread and sidewalls were clean, but since Tikima’s disappearance we’d had several heavy thunderstorms. I reached into the wheel well where the tire would have been protected from the rain and cupped my hand around its inner edge. Gritty particles clung to the rubber. I held my palm open to the sunlight. Mica sparkled amidst dirty brown sand.
    Nakayla ran her delicate fingers over the grains. “The police botched it, didn’t they?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe it’s in their report.”
    She pulled her cell phone from her purse.
    “Who are you calling?”
    “The detective on Tikima’s case.” Nakayla punched in a number and gave me a hard look as she waited for an answer. “Lieutenant Roy Peters, please.” After a brief pause, she said, “Nakayla Robertson. It’s important.” She turned to the open driver’s door as if to be sure of her report. “Lieutenant, I’m standing by my sister’s car and I believe there are some things you missed.”
    I wondered what the homicide detective must be thinking. At least Nakayla’s voice was calm. She’d made the statement as a matter of fact.
    “Tikima always set her handbrake, and unless one of your officers released it, then someone else parked her car.” Nakayla listened for a moment. “No, Tikima wouldn’t forget. And how do you explain a man’s footprint on the floor carpet?”
    Peters must have challenged the claim because Nakayla whirled around, her eyes locking on me like twin lasers. “I’m not imagining things. Chief Warrant Officer Sam Blackman found it.