Lucky Bones

by Michael Wiley

  ‘Pipsqueak,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Watch it,’ Rodman said.

  But Cushman knew when to grin. ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘Mr Crane’s in the sunroom.’

  The wide hallway behind him was dim and cool, and as Kelson and Rodman stepped inside, Phillips – a good foot and a half taller than Cushman – emerged. He held a handgun, which he pointed first at Rodman’s chest and then at Kelson’s.

  ‘My man, Stretch,’ Kelson said.

  ‘We’ve got to do this, you understand,’ Cushman said, and he frisked Kelson, taking his two pistols. He hesitated in front of Rodman, but Rodman said, ‘Go ahead – one in a hip holster, one in my pocket,’ and Cushman took his guns too.

  Phillips lowered his gun then, and Cushman told Kelson and Rodman, ‘You get them back when you leave.’ He set the four guns side by side on a large entry table under a gilt mirror.

  ‘If,’ Phillips said.

  ‘Shut up, Stevie,’ Cushman said.

  ‘We understand,’ Rodman said, so calm and smooth that Phillips raised his gun again.

  As Cushman led them through the wide hall toward the back of the house, he said, ‘The call from the office surprised Mr Crane. He didn’t expect you to come running – at least not so soon. He thought you’d be grateful to have Genevieve off your hands. The day has been full of surprises.’

  ‘For all of us,’ Kelson said. ‘You’d never guess—’

  Rodman touched the back of Kelson’s neck with a big hand.

  ‘Nope, I never would,’ Cushman said. He seemed strangely cheerful.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ Kelson said.

  ‘No joke, nothing funny at all,’ the short man said, and led them into a high-ceilinged living room with double French doors that opened into a long sunroom. Through a plate-glass window on the outside wall, Kelson saw a swimming pool, full and sparkling in the cool weather.

  Cushman stopped before the French doors and let Kelson and Rodman go in before him. Then he and Phillips stepped in behind them, as if to block the way out.

  Harold Crane sat on a high-backed, plush-cushioned wicker chair, as large as a throne. He wore a bathrobe the rich blues and greens of peacock feathers. It fell to his knees, and, though he’d belted it snug around his waist, a tuft of chest hair poked from the top. His hair was wet, as if he’d come down from a shower or in from a swim. In one hand, he held an icy glass of something that included tomato juice.

  Genevieve Bower sat on a wicker sofa across from him, deep in the plush cushion. She’d squeezed into a black bikini. She splayed her legs like a man taking two seats on a train. She held a highball glass of ice and a clear liquid and a fat slice of lime. She looked as drunk as when Kelson had tried to talk to her as she vomited in his office. She raised the glass to him and Rodman, nearly tipping over from the effort, and said, ‘Cheers, boys.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘What the hell did you do to her?’ Kelson said.

  Harold Crane smiled at him. ‘Offered her a drink. Would you like one?’

  ‘And what’s this?’ Kelson gestured at the black bikini. ‘Other than a pretty great idea.’

  ‘Have you swum this time of year? Before the heat? It’s bracing.’

  ‘It would shrink my testicles.’

  Crane looked at Kelson’s crotch, as if judging what kind of testicles he had to shrink. ‘Why did you call my office? What do you need to talk to me about?’

  Rodman spoke over Kelson. ‘What would you say if we told you we have evidence that you abused this woman when she was a child?’

  ‘I’d call you a liar.’

  ‘I never lie,’ Kelson said.

  ‘I’d still call you a liar – and the people who matter would take my word.’

  Rodman said, ‘Until the videos run on the nightly news. Even edited down for family-friendly TV, they’ll tell everyone what you did.’

  ‘If you had this video – any video – why would you come here? Why not take it to the police?’

  Kelson said, ‘I have the—’

  Rodman swatted the back of his head.

  But Kelson tried again. ‘I’ve got the—’

  Rodman swatted him harder.

  Crane stared at Kelson with his sharp blue eyes. ‘The thumb drive? I assure you that you don’t. When Genevieve arrived a couple of hours ago, she told me what she did with it. It’s gone – destroyed. Do you think I would have let her in – and poured her several drinks – if I doubted her?’

  Kelson said, ‘It’s in—’

  ‘Goddammit, shut up, Sam,’ Rodman said.

  ‘Let the man talk,’ Crane said. ‘What’s it in?’

  ‘It’s incredible how stupid you are,’ Kelson said. ‘I’ve seen what you did to her. And to Sylvia and Voudreaux.’

  Crane’s smile seemed to disintegrate. Genevieve Bower looked at Kelson with vague interest. Crane said, ‘Let’s imagine for a moment that you have something. Do you know the law?’

  ‘I was a cop for fourteen years.’

  ‘Then you must know the statute of limitations in this state for what you say happened. I’ll recite it for you, because I’ve learned it well. Prosecution may be commenced within twenty years after a child victim attains eighteen years of age. Do you know Genevieve’s age?’

  She brightened up. ‘Thirty-nine,’ she said, as if that would win her a free drink. Then she drank from the highball.

  Crane said, ‘So if what you say happened really did happen, you’d still have to say, Oops, too late. Unless you were a civil attorney. But you’re not, are you? You’ve got no training that way at all. So even if what you say happened were true, there wouldn’t be a damn thing you could do about it.’

  ‘We could kill you,’ Rodman said. Calm. Smooth.

  Phillips aimed his gun at the big man.

  ‘Not saying we would,’ Rodman said. ‘Just correcting an inaccuracy.’

  ‘Thank you for doing so,’ Crane said, ‘though, as Stevie’s reaction should tell you, killing me might be harder than you think. No, the only person who can hurt me is Genevieve, but why would she? She’s back with the family. We’re gold. So who are you to threaten me?’

  ‘Then why did you fight so hard to get the thumb drive?’ Kelson said.

  Crane fingered the belt on his robe. ‘If what you say happened really did happen – and if Genevieve really had evidence of it and we still had a disagreement – she could file a very messy, very damaging civil suit. As you might imagine, I would greatly prefer that a video such as the one you describe never be seen, for obvious reasons.’

  Rodman said, ‘I expect your clients would get pissy if their banker showed up on the nightly news diddling a little girl.’

  ‘My clients have thicker skin than you think. As long as their names stay out of the story and they make money, they’re happy.’

  ‘I know their names,’ Kelson said.

  Crane’s laugh sounded like tin. ‘The Winsins? You’re a bad judge of character, son. The Winsins take heat like they were born to it. You name them, and they’ll figure out how to turn a profit. They’ll start by taking you to court and stripping you naked.’

  ‘How about the others?’ Kelson said.

  ‘What others?’ Crane directed the question to Genevieve Bower, whose face and neck were tinging red.

  Kelson thought of the names from the thumb drive files. ‘David Vance? He’s the biggest in your over-five-million club, right? Or Joshua and Denise Seiden, or Siddhartha Chowdhury? They’re sneaking up on Vance. The Winsins barely make it into the club.’

  Crane glared at Genevieve Bower. ‘You goddamned bitch.’

  So she threw up – mostly clear liquid, which ran over her chin and down her front.

  Crane turned his eyes to Kelson, as if he could make anyone he looked at go belly up. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Kelson said.

  Crane said, ‘You should understand, I’m asking only once. After that I take without asking.’


  ‘Let’s make it simple, then,’ Kelson said. ‘I want you to go with us to the cops and admit what you did to Neto LeCoeur – and Jeremy Oliver – and’ – he gestured at Genevieve Bower, who was wiping her neck with a bare hand – ‘her. We can work out the rest later.’ As he spoke, Rodman drifted toward Cushman and Phillips.

  Crane said, ‘I’ve navigated this world for a long time, and I’ve come through storms you can’t imagine. If you think a brain-damaged ex-cop, his big black boyfriend, and my lying twat of a niece worry me, you underestimate me.’

  ‘But this time you might’ve sailed out too far,’ Kelson said. ‘I’ve got the videos and the names and numbers.’

  Crane glanced at Phillips, who held his pistol at his side. Phillips gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘I’ll ask once,’ Crane said to Kelson. ‘Where is the thumb drive?’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that,’ Kelson said, ‘it’s right outside in my car.’

  Crane glanced at Cushman, who smirked and shook his head.

  ‘A smartass,’ Crane said. ‘Even at a time like this – when you might save your life.’ Phillips raised his pistol and aimed at Kelson.

  But Rodman smashed the tall man’s shoulder with his fist, and the pistol clattered to the tile floor. Phillips ducked as Rodman tried to hit him in the head. Cushman scooped Phillips’s gun from the floor, and aimed it at Kelson again. Turning, Rodman punched Cushman in the face, and the short man and the pistol hit the tile together. Phillips reached for the gun, and Rodman shouted at Kelson, ‘Go.’ They ran through the French doors into the living room as Phillips squeezed off a single shot, the bullet shattering a glass pane in one of the doors. Then Phillips went after them.

  ‘Wait,’ Crane shouted at him. ‘Shoot her.’

  Phillips stepped into the sunroom again. His gun rang twice.

  Kelson tried to turn back.

  Rodman grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the hallway, but Kelson pulled free and moved back through the living room. Framed by one of the sets of French doors, Phillips stood over Genevieve Bower, his pistol shaky in his hand. She had a spot of blood on her forehead and another in the valley between her breasts.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Rodman said, beside Kelson.

  But Kelson tried to go to the sunroom. He wanted to breathe life into Genevieve Bower’s lips. He wanted to save her though he knew she was beyond saving.

  Rodman gripped his elbow and pulled him into the hall.

  When they came to the front foyer, they swept their guns up from the entry table, and Kelson turned toward the hall again.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Rodman was breathing hard.

  ‘We need to get her.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Rodman said. ‘It’s done.’

  ‘Then I’ll get Crane – and Phillips and Cushman.’

  ‘Listen to yourself. You’re—’

  At that moment, Phillips came up the hall, his pistol aiming at Kelson, his finger on the trigger.

  Rodman lifted his big Beretta 92 and squeezed a single shot. The sound exploded through the hall, and Phillips’s chin disintegrated into blood and bone.

  Rodman looked into Kelson’s eyes and said, ‘Let’s get out of here now.’ His voice was quiet, but Kelson heard nothing smooth or calm.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  They raced down the driveway toward the street in Kelson’s Dodge Challenger.

  ‘Call nine-one-one,’ Kelson said.

  Rodman drew his phone from his pocket. ‘You know they’ll clean up fast.’

  ‘Not that fast,’ Kelson said, ‘and if they do, I want them talking to the cops instead of following us.’

  But as they turned from the driveway on to the street, a blue pickup truck emerged from beside the house and charged after them. Kelson drove through the stop sign at the first intersection without slowing, and the pickup rounded from the driveway a second later, barely holding the pavement.

  Kelson’s Dodge Challenger had six cylinders, enough to leave most cars behind, but the pickup grew in the rearview mirror.

  At the next intersection, a brown station wagon crossed as Kelson and Rodman approached. Kelson eased the gas.

  ‘Go, go, go,’ Rodman said.

  ‘I’m sick of this prick,’ Kelson said. He hit the brakes, and the car slid to a stop.

  ‘Goddammit,’ Rodman said.

  ‘Yep.’ Kelson grabbed his KelTec and Springfield and got out.

  Rodman got out too, with his Beretta and Colt revolver.

  The blue pickup charged to within three car lengths and stopped. Cushman stared at them over the dashboard. If he punched the gas he would crush them or, if they leaped aside, destroy Kelson’s Challenger.

  Kelson and Rodman raised their guns and aimed at the pickup windshield. For a long moment, Cushman sat in the truck and Kelson and Rodman stood on the suburban street.

  Then Cushman shifted into reverse and backed the truck a half block, turned it around, and drove toward Harold Crane’s house. Kelson and Rodman waited until it turned into the driveway, and then they got into the car and headed toward the Interstate.

  When Rodman called the cops, the local dispatcher seemed to doubt anything bad could happen at Harold Crane’s mansion – the kind of doubt Crane must’ve either paid for with cash or earned through generous civic deeds. The dispatcher agreed to send a cruiser to check things out only after making Rodman tell his story three times.

  ‘Crane’s got them in his pocket,’ Rodman said after hanging up. ‘He won’t even need to let them in the front door.’

  As they headed toward the city, Kelson swore at the windshield, swore at the other drivers, and most of all swore at himself. When he ran out of breath, he drove for a mile, panting, then swore some more. When he ran out of breath again, he said, ‘I got her killed.’

  Rodman, who’d said nothing for the past five minutes, said, ‘Next time, stay in the car.’

  The words hit Kelson hard. ‘You mean it?’

  Rodman was silent again, then said, ‘No. I’m just pissed off. You didn’t shoot her. Phillips did. Or Harold Crane did – more or less. One thing led to another.’

  ‘So you’re pissed at me.’

  ‘Just stay in the car next time.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Kelson said. When Rodman said nothing, Kelson added, ‘You know that.’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘You wouldn’t really want me to.’

  ‘Yeah, I would.’

  They kept the windows up now, as if the cool May wind would turn their blood to ice.

  ‘She had a lot of life in her,’ Kelson said. ‘You wouldn’t think they could punch it out with a couple of bullets.’

  They drove toward Marty’s basement apartment, cut through city streets jammed with rush-hour traffic, and pulled into the self-park garage at Wabash and Adams. Kelson turned off the engine, popped the trunk, and pulled the thumb drive from under the spare. ‘You treacherous little bastard,’ he said to it, and put it in his pocket.

  They went out to the street and then in through the lobby of the building where Marty had his hideout. When Marty let them in, Stanley Javinsky was sitting on the leatherette sofa where they’d left him a couple hours earlier.

  Javinsky’s throat rasped. ‘Harry didn’t tear you apart.’

  ‘He tried,’ Kelson said. He dug the thumb drive from his pocket and gave it to Marty. ‘Will you copy the files? We need a backup.’

  Javinsky’s eyes lit up again at the sight of the thumb drive, and he stood to see what was on it.

  Rodman said, ‘Stay.’

  Javinsky stared at the big man, as if measuring his neck for a squeeze, then eyed the Beretta in Rodman’s hip holster. He sat down.

  Marty copied the files, then ejected the thumb drive and gave it back to Kelson. Kelson considered it, considered Javinsky – who watched as if he was thinking of a way to snatch it – and said, ‘Nah. Be right back.’ He left the basement apartment.

  He meant to take the thumb d
rive back to his car and put it in the trunk, out of reach unless he told Javinsky or anyone else where he’d hidden it – which he might, though he hoped not. But kitty-corner to the parking garage, there was a FedEx store. He crossed the street and ducked inside. He confused the clerk by asking for the slowest mail option, then addressed a mailing tube to himself at his office, stuffed one end with bubble wrap, dropped in the thumb drive, and stuffed the other end.

  He went back to the basement apartment and said to Javinsky, ‘Outsmarted you.’

  ‘Doubt it,’ Javinsky said.

  ‘Unless you want to strangle a FedEx clerk,’ Kelson said.

  Then Marty, who sat at his computer, said, ‘Jesus Christ, Kelson, why didn’t you give me this before?’

  Kelson looked at the screen. Marty was staring at the file that had only numbers, no names. ‘I didn’t have it before – or I had it, but only before we went after Genevieve Bower. I—’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Marty said again.

  Kelson stared at the numbers. They looked like numbers. ‘What?’

  Marty ran his cursor across a block of them and highlighted it. ‘See that?’

  ‘Nope,’ Kelson said.

  ‘That’s Chip Voudreaux.’

  ‘In what possible sense?’

  Marty gave him the kind of glance he might give a worm he’d stepped on. ‘Shut up a minute will you?’ He scrolled down the screen.

  ‘How is that Chip Voudreaux?’

  Marty spoke distractedly as he read blocks of other numbers. ‘It’s the string that always goes with his name. I’ve seen it while trying to crack through Neto’s work.’ He highlighted another block. ‘But I don’t know who this one is.’

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ Kelson said.

  ‘If I’m right,’ Marty said, glancing up at Kelson, ‘and I’m always right, Neto didn’t really redirect money that was heading to the G&G customers. He redirected money that was heading to Voudreaux and’ – he tapped the highlighted block on his screen with a little index finger – ‘whoever this guy is.’ Marty sat back in his chair. ‘Which explains a fuckload of my confusion.’