by Ken Lindsey
“Not bad, man. Just havin' a stress reliever cuz the boss is on a rampage today. No kiddin’, there's something nasty up her ass, man.”
“Sucks for you,” I replied. I did my best to seem nonchalant, like I was just hankering for some shitty short order food, and not coming in to find out how full of it his boss was.
“Seriously. So, what's up, man? You find out anything about Julian?”
“I'm working on it.”
“Cool.” Jimmy dropped the butt of his cancer stick and stubbed it out with the toe of his sneaker. Same busted shoes, this kid needed to go shopping. “I got to get back in there before she eats my face.”
I watched him stroll along the side of the building and enter through the back door before I put out my own butt and headed for the main entrance. It made sense that she'd be in a shitty mood with all that happened the other day, but maybe there was something else. If I could get her off-guard for a few minutes, I might dig something up.
The place stunk of fried food and despair. I'd smelled exactly like that a few times in my life, so I recognized it. There were maybe five customers sitting at different tables throughout the dining room, and just as many employees behind the counter. The latter were all staring at random spots in the room, like they could see their souls trying to escape through the grease-caked cracks in the walls.
“Sit wherever you want,” said an unhappy looking teenage girl with pimples covering her chin and an eyebrow ring that looked more than mildly infected. She followed me to a bench in a dark corner and plopped a menu down in the center of the table. “You want a drink?”
Good question, but I had spent my entire life without hepatitis, and wasn't sure that I wanted to see the other side of that coin. “No, could you actually get your manager for me?”
Her thin lips formed a pout, and her left eyebrow scrunched down toward her nose. The right one didn't move, possibly because the infection had paralyzed that part of her face. “Oh, come on, I didn't even do nothin' for you yet.”
Her name tag read, “Aimee.” Really. That's what it said.
“It's not about you... Aye-I-Meee. Tell her it's about her husband.”
She looked relieved and rushed off, behind the counter and into the back. I had a little time to reflect, and decided I never wanted to bring a kid into a world where people can spell names however the hell they pleased, with no worries about phonetics or grammar or how goddamn letters work.
When Jody came out of the kitchen, she wore an irritated look and scanned the dining room quickly until she found me. She hesitated, turned back to the kitchen, then turned right back toward the dining room. I watched, thoroughly entertained as her lips went through a variety of strange workouts. Corners up, corners down, one corner down, then the other.
After a few seconds, I realized she was trying to force herself to smile. It was damn terrifying.
I guess she must have given up, because when she finally shuffled over to my table, her lips were flat and straightened to a harsh line. “Can I help you?” she asked in her sternest I'm not impressed by you sort of voice.
Always the charmer, I smiled, “Hi, Mrs. Dunn. I think you might remember me from...”
“Yeah, I know who you are. You wanted to talk to me about my husband?”
Jeez, you'd think she could be at least the tiniest bit less shitty to the guy that tried to stop her husband from beating her to death. Oh well. I gestured to the seat across from me, “Sit down and chat with me for a minute, please. I just need to get a bit of information.”
She sat, arms crossed and eyes going everywhere but toward me. “I need this to be quick. I have work to do.”
“Sure, Jody. I'm a private detective and I'm working with the Reno Police Department, trying to find out anything I can about the death of Julian Wells.”
She hopped up like her chair had caught fire, “I don't...” she started, her voice high pitched and turned up about six notches. “You... I came out here because you said it was about my husband.”
“It is, Mrs. Dunn. Some people at the department think your husband may have had something to do with Julian's death.”
She clutched at her greasy apron like a life preserver, pulling and plucking from one hand to the other, over and over and over. “That's stupid. Why would Rick want to do anything to...? Julian was just a dishwasher for Christ's sake!”
“That's true. But a dishwasher you were having sex with.”
She spit. Not really, more like her mouth exploded because she tried to breathe out too quickly, and a lot of liquid came out when it happened. It landed all over the table and on the front of my shirt. For a moment, I worried that it might be venom that could burn my clothes and melt my intestines. Mostly because there was an awful lot of it, and I hadn't seen her drink anything since she came out of the kitchen.
Whatever the case, it was disgusting.
“You! Get out! Right now! You. Are. Not. Welcome. Here!”
I smiled and tipped my hat to her, “No problem, Mrs. Dunn.” She stared at me as I made my way out, probably praying that she would never see me again. Too bad that wouldn’t work out for her.
Chapter 15: VHS and Whiskey Hold All the Answers
David rewound the video with his heart in his throat, praying that his eyes were playing tricks on him. His office was dark, aside from the blue glare of the tv screen, which had two flashing arrows pointing to the left. The security tape had been an actual VHS, and it hadn't been easy finding a VCR in the 21st century police station.
He hit the play button again. The time stamp read 12:37:09 and started counting as the tiny black and white figures rambled in four squares, each highlighting their own area of the club. There was one pointed at the main bar, one aimed at the dance floor, another recording the smaller bar and the area where they had been sitting that night, and the bottom right corner showed the wide hallway that housed the restrooms.
He watched, not realizing that he was grinding his teeth and only breathing every thirty seconds or so. 12:39:54 marked the time stamp when he and Claire went off to the bar for limes. He looked on, stunned, as Beth took the little pouch from her purse and added something to two out of the three shooters.
“Mother fucker,” he growled at 12:41:45. They had all taken their shots.
He hit the fast-forward button once, and the figures on the screen all twitched along at a much quicker pace. They were all having drinks, people were dancing, there was a fight near the main bar—it actually looked like a good time.
Until 01:23:13, when Claire slumped onto the table. He scooted closer to the screen and slowed the tape to normal, refusing to blink as Beth led one of his closest friends from the table area, across the dance floor, to the wide hallway. She paused and looked over her shoulder. The pair were alone near the bathrooms, but she still hesitated for a full six seconds.
Then she took Claire into the men's room.
She came out at 01:43:36. Alone. Smiling.
Twenty minutes.
It was a formality, but David watched the rest of the tape, doing his best to ignore the screen where he and Beth were still having a good time until they finally went outside at 02:19:57. He watched, counting the seconds each person spent in the restroom. Most people were barely over a minute. One guy, tall and skinny and wearing a 49ers cap, set the record for the evening at three minutes and twenty-two seconds.
Not enough time to do the damage that had been done to Claire. Of course, she never came out of the bathroom. Not until the Medical Examiner wrapped her in a body bag.
David rewound the tape again.******
I had never been in my new office on a Sunday before. It was eerily quiet without Kara's computer playing her weird alt-rock softly at the front desk. The city busily wound down outside my window, and the sun stayed up longer every day as Spring went by.
I poured myself two fingers of Jameson and dropped three ice cubes in the tumbler as I sat back down at my desk. The Julian Wells file rested there wide
open; I spent the last hour digging through every statement, every misdemeanor drug case number, and especially every mention of his employer.
Jody only showed up in three places: her own statement, where she claimed to have no ties and very little contact with Julian; Jimmy's statement, which had less information than he had been willing to share with me casually over a smoke; and Julian's sister, Becky's statement, although she only mentioned Jody as the “married woman” Julian had told her about.
No matter how many possibilities I tossed around my skull, I kept coming back to the affair. It was the only thing that made sense. Guy comes home, finds out his wife is screwing around on him again, and instead of taking his anger out on her, he goes for the guy she's screwing.
That's what I did.
But if he was telling the truth, and he didn't know about the affair... It didn't add up nice and clean. For some godforsaken reason, I believed him.
All at once, I knew how I could rule him out. I pulled up Jody's statement again and scanned to the bottom. Bingo. She had the dispatch number of the trucking outfit he worked for listed to contact her husband.
I finished my drink and poured another before dialing the number. My throat still had that sweet sting when the dispatcher came on the line.
“Hendrick's Hauling,” he answered. His voice came through gruff with a Southern accent.
“Yes, my name is David Reeves,” I started, hoping that a little white lie really hurt nobody. “I'm with the Reno Police Department, and I need to ask about dispatch for one of your drivers.”
“All right, who ya' lookin' for?” he asked without giving me any shit. Small miracle.
“That'll be Rick Dunn. Was he dispatched for March twenty-sixth?”
“Gimme a second here,” he replied. I could hear him tapping away at a keyboard. “So... just a sec. Dunn. D-U-N-N?”
“That's it.”
“Yeah, Rick was runnin' from Klamath Falls, Oregon, over to Missoula, Montana. That's a three-day run with all his stops, plus time to get back to Reno... lemme see somethin'.” He ticky tacked away at the keys again for a few seconds, “Hmmm, yup. He didn't get checked back in to Reno til the third of April.”
Not our guy. “All right, thanks so much,” I said, hanging up the phone without waiting for a reply.
It didn't answer all my questions, but at least it kicked one option off the list. I took a sip of my Jameson and leaned back in the chair. The room spun enough to let me know that I had finished the last glass too fast. I held the drink out in front of me, tipping the tumbler back and forth, watching as the golden liquid washed over and through the ice cubes.
What was I missing?
I took another drink. And another. Then I found myself once again holding an empty glass. I felt warm and cozy, no longer staring at that damned file. I looked out the window, then up at the ceiling, my mind wandered to the past.
The whole situation reminded me a bit of my ruined marriage. I had never felt like such a sucker in my life, and it pushed me to the edge of self-control. I got a little satisfaction out of it, though. Mike never spoke to me anymore, unless I spoke to him, and even then, he hesitated to make eye contact. I think he was scared I might beat the shit out of him again.
Whatever. He deserved it.
But Yvette was blatant with the whole thing as soon as I found out. She rubbed it in my face whenever she had the chance. Thank the holy book of Tom Cruise I didn’t have kids with that crazy shit bag.
Rick and Jody, though, they had kids. He couldn't just leave like I did.
Neither could she. She stayed with him, even though she wanted to be with someone else. And then she stayed again, after he had...
I pictured my mom once more. Eyes swollen, skin flushed and bruised. Scared.
Jody must have been terrified, too. Especially since she was back to fooling around.
Fuck me running! I sat up and got the spins again. Held on to the desk until I could see straight.
Jody Dunn might have even been scared enough to kill someone, if it meant making sure her husband never found out.
Chapter 16: Late for Dinner
David's cell phone rang, one of his favorite 90's love songs. He stared at Beth's picture as it floated on the screen, letting him know she was calling once again. She started calling at about six-thirty, and now it was almost nine o'clock. He didn't answer it. Again.
He didn’t know what to do. He held the video tape, rolling it from his left hand to his right, and back again. He had all the proof he needed to know that Beth had something to do with Claire's death. Maybe everything to do with it. But how could that be true?
He had told no one yet. If he wanted to follow the rules, he should have handed this case off the second he saw Claire’s face at the scene. And this video made the situation somehow worse. The victim, and the most likely suspect, were both closely connected to him.
The voice of logic, living somewhere deep inside, had been screaming at him to hand this information off to one of his superiors ever since the call came in about a body at the country-western club. Let them take the reins, get the warrant, make the arrest. Trust the courts to make sure justice got done.
David continued to ignore that voice. He didn't think he could trust anyone else to handle this, but he also had no idea what he should do. He felt so angry, livid even, and knew his mind wasn’t where it needed to be.
The phone rang again, a different song. This time it a picture of a horse's ass popped up on the little screen. Gavin.
“Hello,” he answered.
“I figured the bastard out,” said Gavin, his voice rough with liquor.
“Are you drunk?” David couldn't help being a little pissed, and a little jealous at the same time.
“Umm, I'm not not drunk. I think. But that's besides the point, goddamn it.”
David dropped the tape into his bottom drawer, his mind made up. “Well, what's the point then?”
“It's Jody Dunn. She's the one. She killed Julian.”
A small bell went off with the name, but David's mind was elsewhere. “Then go arrest her.”
“I can't do it m'self, Day-Viiiid. I'm not a cop n'more. Plus, I'm drunk. You have to do it.”
“Not now, Gav. Call me in the morning and we'll get to work on it, if you have any proof that makes any damn sense. I have shit to do right now.”
“Oh. Sure. I wanna be there to tell Meadows anywaysss. He is gonna sheee-it when he finds out I was right.”
David hung up. He needed to get home.******
Beth set the house phone back on the base and sighed. She expected David to have a hard time with Claire passing away, but she hadn't expected that somehow the bitch would take up more of his attention now than she had when she was alive. Oh well, Beth knew her love would help him move on before long.
She wrapped his plate with foil and stuck it in the fridge; it would be ready for him whenever he got home. Beth put all the dinner dishes into the sink with the knives and the other tools she'd used to prepare the meal.
She knew she needed to be there for him during his time of mourning. She needed to let him know that she loved him, and she couldn’t let these little changes make her angry. It was a small sacrifice for the peace she bought them by getting rid of the girl.
She had the newspaper open in front of her at the dining room table when he eventually came through the door. She looked up to greet him, with a smile already waiting to welcome him home, but it faltered once she saw his face.
His usually kind, bright eyes were dark beneath his furrowed brow, and his look was more intense and focused than she had ever seen. He didn’t smile for her, showed no gladness at seeing her home, waiting for him.
Ungrateful, she thought, before wiping it away and steadying her grin. “Hi, honey. I missed you today,” she said, getting up from her chair.
“Why did you do it?” he growled, taking a long step forward.
Beth's mouth went dry, and the hairs stood up on the
back of her neck. She froze where she was standing. He couldn't know, she thought. What was going on with him? Still fighting to keep her smile up, she asked, “What do you mean, Davy?”
He stepped forward again, almost lunging to close the space between them. She saw that his hands were so tightly balled into fists that his knuckles were pale white. “You were the one that took Claire into that bathroom. You did it. You killed her.” For the first time, she met his eyes as he screamed, “WHY!?”
Beth bolted from the dining room, her bare feet barely able to grip the well-polished tiles as she made her way through the kitchen door, slamming it closed behind her with enough force to knock the marble rolling pin onto the floor. It crashed down hard and loud and then rolled to a stop only a few inches from her toes. “DAVID!” she cried.
As she put her weight against the door to keep it closed, he slammed into it. The hit jarred her whole body, and she heard the wooden door frame crack from the pressure.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he screamed, throwing himself against the door again.
“Pleeease stop, Davy!” she begged as the tears began streaming. “I love you, baby. Pleeease can we talk, please?”
He didn’t respond and the hammering on the door stopped for the moment. Beth tried to calm her breathing and listen, “Baby? Are you there?” Again, there was no response, but she heard footsteps from the other side of the door. Maybe he was pacing, calming down. “David? Please talk to me.”
The footsteps got heavier, quicker, closer to the door. The young woman didn’t even have time to brace herself before David laid himself against the door hard enough to break it down on top of her.
She screamed at the sound of wood splintering and bursting. Then started flailing her entire body, fighting to squirm out from under the weight of the door with David on top of it. He grunted and moaned and then rolled off the door and fell to the floor next to her. He was hurt, and she needed to move.
