Free It's Murder, My Son (A Mac Faraday Mystery) by Lauren Carr Page B

down as it approached the Hardwick driveway. “Right on time.”
    Mac recognized David’s cruiser. The two men watched David get out of the driver’s seat and pick up a valise in which he carried his notepad and folders from the passenger seat. He slung the strap of the valise over his shoulder.
    “You’re in luck,” Ira said. “That’s David O’Callaghan. His pappy was Pat O’Callaghan. He used to be the chief of police until he passed away. That was when we had a real police chief. David’s just as sharp as he was. He’ll set the Hardwicks straight.” He chuckled. “They won’t like it, but he will.”
    After thanking his neighbor for the coffee and information, Mac bid him farewell. Ira was still eying the home next door when Mac led Gnarly out the front door to jog past the cruiser and up the driveway to Spencer Manor.
    *   *   *   *
    “Here.” Gordon directed his wife, “Take a picture of these cuts on my knees where he pushed me down.” He rolled up his pant legs to expose wrinkled red flesh.
    Priscilla Hardwick aimed her digital camera at her husband’s knees.
    “Do you see that?” Gordon asked the police officer.
    David shook his head. “All I see is a pair of ugly knees.”
    “They’re red and sore. It takes a couple of days for the bruises to show.” He pointed at his own face. “Guarantee it! By tomorrow this whole side of my face will be bruised where he slugged me for no reason.” He pointed at a red mark on his cheekbone while asking his wife, “Did you get a picture of this welt?”
    Obediently, she shot a picture of his face.
    David stepped forward to study the mark. “Did you clean up after the alleged assault?”
    “It’s not alleged.”
    “Did you wash up?”
    “No,” Gordon asserted. “I know about collecting evidence. I didn’t do anything except call you and my lawyer.”
    David leaned forward to look more closely at the mark on Gordon Hardwick’s cheek. It was round—perfectly round. “Tell me again how you got that.”
    “I told you. Mac Faraday blindsided me. He grabbed me in some judo hold and shoved me face down in my own driveway.”
    David strolled around the living room while Gordon continued to recount how, after calling out a welcome-to-the-neighborhood greeting, his new neighbor sicced his dog on him before threatening his life.
    Their tan poodle was curled up in her bed in the corner of the room. David noted that he had never seen the dog wag her tail. He thought that if he lived in this home, he wouldn’t be wagging his tail either.
    He found it. A bottled jar of potpourri rested on an end table. Dust covered the surface of the table, except for a clean ring, evidence of where the bottle had rested until someone picked it up to use as a weapon for a self-inflicted wound.
    Next to the bottle, David saw a yellow notepad with line upon line of letters, numbers, and symbols written in a feminine hand. Trying to appear casual in his discovery while picking up the jar, David tried to read the writing but couldn’t. The letters didn’t form words. Curious if they were a foreign language, he picked up the pad to decipher them only to find that they failed to have the necessary spaces to form word breaks.
    Priscilla snatched the notepad from his hand. “That’s none of your business.” She rushed down the hallway to where he knew they had their office. 
    Holding the jar in his hand, David turned back to her husband. “I don’t see any dirt, grime, or scrape marks in the wound on your cheek, Mr. Hardwick. If you received that by having your face pushed down onto pavement, your face would be dirty.”
    “I washed my face.”
    David shot back, “You said a moment ago that you didn’t wash it because you didn’t want to disturb any evidence. As a lawyer you know all about preserving evidence. I believe you had an altercation with Mac Faraday in your driveway, Mr. Hardwick. Based on your relationship with your other neighbors, it was only a matter