A Jeff Resnick Six Pack
Page 17
“Yes, but … murdering him? I dunno.”
“An eye for an eye,” I quoted.
“I’m a doctor. I swore an oath to Hippocrates.”
“Nobody’s asking you to terminate a killer.”
“Yeah, but you know a murder is going to happen and you aren’t going to stop it.”
“I don’t know that a murder is going to happen. I only know that it could be a possibility.”
“And you didn’t try to stop her,” he reiterated. “In fact, you may have helped to make it happen.”
I said nothing.
“I can’t believe you approve of murder,” he tried again, disappointment heavy in his tone.
“I approve of justice.” Though our contact was brief, I knew the woman in the bar had suffered as devastating a loss as me. She knew Kovshutin was never going to pay for his crimes, so she was determined to deliver her own brand of justice.
“Did you consider the alternative?”
“What do you mean?”
“That woman might attempt murder and become that bastard’s next victim.”
I shook my head. “That wasn’t the impression I got. Look, I don’t think we should discuss this anymore.”
“Why? Because you don’t want to acknowledge your guilt?”
“No. Because I don’t feel any guilt, and that pisses you off.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Richard said, obviously frustrated.
“It’s karma, Rich,” I said, my gaze riveted on the road ahead of me. “What goes around comes around.”
“The law should handle these things.”
“All well and good for average citizens, but we’re talking about a guy with diplomatic immunity.”
“And that’s just wrong,” he asserted.
“But you can’t change it, and neither can I.”
He let out what sounded like a frustrated breath. “I guess you’re right.”
We drove another mile before I spoke again. “Think of it this way, those women that the scumbag killed might finally find peace.”
“And how about you?”
“I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since the day Shelley admitted she was into drugs. I’m looking forward to a night of undisturbed slumber.”
“Are you sure you can live with what you’ve done—or, rather, haven’t done to stop that man’s death?”
I wished I wasn’t driving at the time, I would have liked to have looked him in the eye when I answered, “Yes.”
#
We stopped in Utica to top up the gas tank and grab something to eat. Richard resisted the urge to call Brenda to let her know how far we’d traveled. I could tell he was pissed at me by the lack of conversation between us during the previous few hours. He fell asleep before we hit Syracuse and I continued to drive west.
The only scenery in the dead of night was of cars and trucks overtaking us, and the periodic glow of the green highway signs. The Thruway cut across rural New York giving no hint of the skyscrapers (what there were of them) that populated the bigger cities.
It was nearly four in the morning when we approached the Buffalo toll booths. The car slowing roused Richard from sleep.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
Richard rubbed bleary eyes. “I was supposed to take over driving hours ago.”
“I wasn’t tired.” I’d had far too much on my mind. Speculation, mostly. None of it pretty or commendable.
Richard fumbled for his wallet, ready to be fleeced by the Thruway Authority. He handed me a ten and the toll ticket. I handed back the change before I steered us toward the Main Street exit.
“You didn’t have a chance to call Maggie,” Richard said.
“No.”
“She has good news.”
“About Holly?” I asked.
“The pathology report came back. The dog is going to be okay.”
“Good. It’ll give me something to celebrate.”
“I thought you already had a cause for celebration with the death of Shelley’s killer.”
I wasn’t going to reignite that powder keg of a conversation.
The lights were on in Richard’s kitchen when we pulled up his driveway. “Are you going to come in?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never left Herschel,” my cat, “this long. I should go pay some attention to him. Tell Brenda I’ll be over later to see her and CP. Then we’ll drop off the rental car.”
“Right.”
We collected our luggage from the trunk of the Lexus and went our separate ways. As anticipated, Herschel was ecstatic to see me—for about a minute. Then he swished his tail and turned, giving me the cold shoulder.
I didn’t bother unpacking and grabbed a beer from the fridge, settling on my couch. I didn’t bother to turn on the tube and instead wondered if old Sergei had already left this earthly plane. As I’d told Richard, I did not feel guilty. I thought I might feel relief in knowing what had really happened to Shelley, but instead I didn’t seem to feel anything at all.
I’d once vowed I’d never visit her grave again, but now I wished we’d taken the time to do it. Right until the end, Shelley had worn the wedding ring I’d slipped on her finger that sunny day in August.
I raised my beer bottle. “Here’s to you, Shelley.”
#
Once again the phone rang. I’d known it was going to ring. I’d known who was calling. And again, that didn’t make me want to lift the receiver.
“Good morning, Detective Baldwin.”
“You got caller ID?” he asked from four hundred miles away.
“No. I always know when you’re going to call, only this time I suspect it may be the last time we talk.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You’re calling to tell me that Sergei Kovshutin is dead.”
“You’re right,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection.
“And?” I prompted, my lack of emotion mirroring his own.
“He went missing the night you left Manhattan.”
“Do tell.”
“It seems you had a run-in with him at a bar called Henry’s.”
“I wouldn’t say run-in. I saw him there. My brother and I had a drink and then we left the city.”
“Why such an abrupt departure?”
“Because I knew the law wasn’t going to do anything to rein him in. What was the point of staying?”
“You haven’t asked how he died.”
I said nothing.
“The body showed some signs of decomposition, but wasn’t in such bad shape that the ME couldn’t count the number of stab wounds or see that his throat had been slashed.”
“A messy way to go. Do you have any leads?”
“Just that he was seen with a pretty black woman at the bar. Then there was no trace of him until he washed up on the shore of the Hudson River near Jersey City. I was wondering what you knew about it.”
“Why would I know anything about it?”
“Because you’re psychic,” he said with a sneer in his voice.
Again, I said nothing.
“The bar’s video shows that you spoke to the woman who was with Kovshutin. What did you tell her?”
“I warned her to be careful.”
“And that’s all?”
“I was concerned for her safety—and with good reason,” I fudged.
“And that’s all,” he pressed.
“I didn’t know the woman. I’d never seen or met her before. I said no more than a sentence or two to her.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I have no reason to lie to you.”
“Unless you’re guilty of collusion.”
“I already told you; I didn’t know the woman.”
“But you did feel a kind of kinship?”
That was a harder question to answer. “Maybe.”
“You can’t be more specific than that?”
“No, I can’t.”
“The man was viciously murdered,”
Baldwin reminded me.
“So was my wife.”
Silence greeted that pronouncement. It was at least another ten seconds before Baldwin spoke again. “The Russian Embassy is exerting a lot of pressure for the NYPD to wrap this case up fast.”
“I wish you luck.”
“You don’t sound very sincere.”
“I’m sure he has family somewhere who will mourn him. Just like the families of the women he killed here. Sorry, but I can’t muster any real sympathy for a murderer. I have a feeling that if you were in my place, you’d feel pretty much the same.”
He didn’t answer, because he knew I was right.”
“Was there anything about that woman you remember that might lead us to her?”
“She had on nice clothes. I figured she was a high-end hooker. If so, she probably left the city that night. I wouldn’t be surprised if she left the country.”
“Is that what your psychic sense tells you?”
“Just an educated guess, detective. It’s what I would have done.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I didn’t need to.” I didn’t speak again for long seconds. “Detective Baldwin; my wife is dead and now my life is here.”
“And you’re sure that’s all you have to tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Resnick. Have a happy, guilt-free life.”
I answered honestly. “I intend to.”
# # #
Who Writes This Stuff?
The immensely popular Booktown Mystery series is what put Lorraine Bartlett’s pen name Lorna Barrett on the New York Times Bestseller list, but it’s her talent–whether writing as Lorna, or L.L. Bartlett, or Lorraine Bartlett–that keeps her in her reader’s hearts. This multi-published, Agatha-nominated author pens the exciting Jeff Resnick Mysteries as well as the acclaimed Victoria Square Mystery series, Tales of Telenia adventure-fantasy saga, and now the Lotus Bay Mysteries, and has many short stories and novellas to her name(s). Check out the descriptions and links to all her works, and sign up for her emailed newsletter here: http://www.LLBartlett.com
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Other Books by L.L. Bartlett
The Jeff Resnick Mysteries
Murder On The Mind
Dead In Red
Room At The Inn
Cheated By Death
Bound By Suggestion
Dark Waters
Unfinished Business
Short Stories:
Evolution: Jeff Resnick’s Backstory, a collection of short stories
When The Spirit Moves You (A Jeff Resnick Mystery)
Bah! Humbug (A Jeff Resnick Mystery)
Cold Case (A Jeff Resnick Mystery-the inspiration for Bound By Suggestion)
Spooked!
Crybaby
Eyewitness (A Jeff Resnick Mini Mystery)
Abused: A Daughter’s Story
Writing as Lorraine Bartlett
Tales of Telenia (Adventure-Fantasy)
THRESHOLD
JOURNEY
TRECHERY (2016)
The Lotus Bay Mysteries
Panty Raid: A Tori Cannon-Kathy Grant mini mystery
With Baited Breath
The Victoria Square Mysteries
A Crafty Killing
The Walled Flower
One Hot Murder
Dead, Bath, and Beyond
Recipes to Die For: A Victoria Square Cookbook
Short Stories:
Love & Murder: A Collection of Stories
Happy Holidays?
Blue Christmas
An Unconditional Love
Prisoner of Love
Love Heals
We’re So Sorry, Uncle Albert
Writing as Lorna Barrett
The Booktown Mysteries
Murder Is Binding
Bookmarked For Death
Bookplate Special
Chapter & Hearse
Sentenced To Death
Murder On The Half Shelf
Not the Killing Type
Book Clubbed
A Fatal Chapter
Title Wave