by Inga Vesper
‘I told you, there was no relationship.’
‘We’re still investigating that.’
‘Look, Joyce told me about Jimmy after we got engaged. She didn’t want me to be surprised when, during the wedding night . . . you know.’
Mick doesn’t. Him and Fran shared many a prenuptial afternoon in his tiny apartment, scuffling under sheets. They’d made sure that their own wedding night would hold no surprise.
He swallows his coffee too hot, burns his tongue and forces his thoughts back to the conversation. ‘So, Joyce and Jimmy had a physical relationship before your marriage?’
Haney winces. ‘He . . . forced himself onto her. Or, at least, he initiated it. She told me it was a big mistake. She didn’t repeat it with me. We held out for marriage. I was always proper with her.’
Aha. Poor Frank Haney wasn’t getting any even before he got married. That should have been a clue for him. But, Mick thinks, men like Haney don’t pick up on clues.
Haney seems to feel a need to fill the silence with a sigh. ‘Women don’t ever know what they want. I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of trouble with them in your line of work. Your colleagues told me a thing or two . . .’
Mick’s inner alarm begins to shrill. He flattens his palms on his legs and keeps his face as smooth as possible. ‘If this is about my transfer, the lady in question knew full well what she wanted.’ Out of O’Leary’s gang and into witness protection. And she’d found just the right dumbo detective to fall for her lies. ‘She was a mobster moll,’ he says. ‘I was going to use her to get to her boss, but then I guess I got used instead. I . . . I got no one to blame but myself.’
Haney grins, but it is a weak effort. ‘That’s our goddamned weakness. Women. We’re just too nice to them. And then they take us for all we’re worth.’
‘You just said they never know what they want.’
‘They don’t.’
‘Are you talking about your wife?’
Haney picks up his coffee. ‘First, Joyce wanted me. But suddenly I wasn’t . . .’ He pauses and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Who knows . . .? Detective, if it’s worth it, I think Jimmy did it. He had unquenchable desires for my wife. I think he killed her.’ His voice snags. ‘There was the baby.’
Inside Mick’s brain, the puzzle pieces fall in place with silent finality. The baby. Jimmy’s baby. Pride spreads in his chest. Joyce’s murderer is already under arrest. And once his little headache is cured, McCarthy’ll go to court and then dangle. Mick Blanke saved the day. Screw the Murphys of this world. His methods work just fine.
‘Listen,’ says Haney, and his expression confirms it all. ‘Please. You have to promise not to tell Mother. She still thinks it was mine.’ He pulls at his hair. ‘I thought we were so happy. I laid my heart at Joyce’s feet. And then . . . and then . . . this.’
‘She cheated on you?’
‘After everything I did for her. I thought it was just the birth of Barbara that had made her so . . . reluctant. But then I found out that wasn’t the reason . . . I went back to my mother. To clear my head.’
‘You upped and left while she was pregnant.’
‘You don’t understand.’ Haney wrings his hands. ‘She was crazy. Said she didn’t want me, didn’t love me. She called me a moron and a dumbass, said I’d ruined her life . . . things no normal wife would say to her husband. I had to get the doctors involved. They gave her medication. Strong medication. I thought it would be best for Barbara not to see all that.’ He hides his face behind the palms of his hand. ‘She pushed me away when she needed me most.’
‘She was pregnant.’ He cannot let this go. ‘She was having a breakdown. She wasn’t in a good place, and you just left her alone.’
‘I wasn’t in a good place, either. It was hell. I beat myself up for it now, Detective. Trust me.’
The image of Haney screaming at the station comes to his mind, the way he crumbled to the floor.
‘Hm.’ Mick sets his coffee down. ‘Well, I better let you get back to work.’
Frank Haney nods, but his eyes have glazed over. When Mick pays up and leaves, he is still sitting at the table, his head propped up on his hands, staring at the coffee grounds in his mug as if he’s trying to read a future that never came to pass.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ruby
‘F
or the last time, Ruby, I’m not signing nothing.’ Pa pushes the application form across the table and folds his arms. ‘It’s not gonna happen. Period. Why do you even have this thing?’
‘Because I want to go.’ Ruby clasps the form, then slides it back to him. ‘I thought . . . I mean, I was expecting . . .’
‘We were all expecting.’ Pa’s eyes grow dark as tar. ‘But that’s how it goes. God rest your momma’s soul. The city ain’t giving nothing. So you gotta put your ideas out of your head.’
Ruby jumps up and grabs a glass, but the water faucets have been dead all afternoon. Thirst claws at her throat and turns into anger. ‘Let Mimi pull her weight a bit more.’
Pa scoffs. ‘Yeah, let’s take Mimi out of school and send her to work at Fine 49. That something you want?’
‘No.’ She clutches her chest where something burns bright and searing. ‘I’ll earn it myself, then. I’m getting there with the Haneys.’
‘Well, how much do you have?’
‘Nearly a hundred dollars.’ Ruby’s eyes well up. ‘That’s . . . that’s . . .’
Pa smiles a sad smile. ‘That’s good, girl. That’s mighty fine. But it’s so far from enough. You should get real.’
‘I—’
A knock on the door cuts off Ruby’s reply. It’s Mrs Estrada, in a shapeless red dress, her eyes rimmed with red.
‘I’m going out,’ she says by way of greeting. ‘My sister’s got the eviction notice.’
‘The freeway?’
Mrs Estrada nods. ‘The governor been sending letters out today. Them folks in University, they’ve cut off their water already. They’re gonna bulldoze it all to dust.’
‘Shit.’ Ruby swallows. ‘We have no water. Is that why—?’
‘That’s what they do.’ Mrs Estrada sniffs. ‘Cutting us off and cutting us up. Anyway, a Mrs Haney called. You’re fired. She don’t want you nosing around no more.’
‘But I—’
Mrs Estrada turns away and lumbers down the stairs.
Ruby watches her leave. She cannot move. Her entire body has gone numb. Her lungs contract, each breath sending needle pricks of pain into her ribcage.
‘I’m gonna head out for a bit,’ she says into Pa’s general direction. ‘See ya.’
When she steps into Trebeck Row, it’s nearly empty. Only a few people hurry to their homes or to work. Fine 49 is shut up. In the distance, Mrs Estrada is making her way to the bus stop, her dress aflame with evening light.
Ruby walks. Her feet don’t seem to reach the ground. Out of work again. Why does everything always—
A car comes up behind her, dawdles, then honks. She doesn’t turn around. Must be a peeper wanting to get a feel, or a gaggle of boys drunk on the roar of an engine. She walks closer to the wall, away from the reach of an arm.
But the car doesn’t drive off. From inside, a man shouts: ‘Hey, wait up.’
Fear flares and turns into anger. She spins around and hollers: ‘You wanna see ass, go back to your mother.’
Detective Blanke’s jaw drops onto the steering wheel of his Buick. Then he blushes. ‘I . . . I wasn’t . . .’
‘Oh.’ She quickly wipes her eyes. ‘I didn’t know it was you.’
‘Can we talk?’
She opens the passenger door and gets in. The detective signals correctly and looks carefully over his shoulder before he rolls into traffic. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘I just wanted to let you know we’re building our case against Jimmy McCarthy, the man from the break-in. We’re pretty sure he murdered Deena on Friday afternoon. She may have tried
to blackmail him. She was killed with a small caliber gun, just like the one he owns.’
‘Hm.’ Of course, Mr Haney also had a gun. And then he gave it to Mrs Ingram and, conveniently, forgot all about it.
The detective slows down at a yellow light and stops right at the marked line. ‘You’re not convinced?’
Ruby considers what she’s overheard this morning. Thinks again of the beer bottle. Of Mr Haney’s false alibi. And then, like God’s light shining upon the sinner, she discovers the trump card that’s been hiding in Old Man Toby’s garage all along. Jimmy McCarthy, CMJ in reverse.
‘I can prove it wasn’t that Jimmy fellow who killed Deena,’ she says. ‘I found his car.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I saw him drive away from Mrs Haney’s house on the day Joyce disappeared, just before I found the blood in the kitchen. A silver Crestliner with a green rear fender. It was brought to Geddit Fixed Garage. They’re changing the coat.’
The detective accelerates and turns onto the Harbor Freeway. His lips are set tightly and he stares straight ahead. ‘Mrs Ingram mentioned that car. Why haven’t you told me that before?’
‘Because I . . .’ Because she wasn’t going to give it all up at once. Never a smart move. But he doesn’t need to know.
‘It’s an alibi for Jimmy,’ she says. ‘Mrs Ingram told me she saw nothing after Jimmy broke into the house. He brought his car to the garage on Friday at noon. Must have been right after the break-in. He couldn’t have gone to Deena’s.’
‘Are you saying Mrs Ingram is lying?’
‘Perhaps. Ask Old Man Toby. You’ll have to look at Melanie’s diary, though, ’coz Old Man Toby’s keeping the cash jobs separate.’
The detective is silent for a while. ‘You say that man who runs the garage cooks his books?’
She nods. ‘Old Man Toby doesn’t like the tax man.’
‘Then the timings are probably false.’
‘Nah, he keeps things in order.’
‘I don’t think a jury would buy that.’
‘But what if it wasn’t Jimmy? What if . . . ?’
‘Yes?’
She takes a breath. ‘I think it was Mr Haney,’ she says carefully.
The detective frowns. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘His alibi is a fake. Mrs Ingram said he wasn’t in Palmdale. I overheard them talking. Did you ever ask around at the conference he was at? Did anyone see him?’
‘He showed us all the bills. He stayed in the motel. And he wrote a report for his boss, which we’ve also seen. It all checks out.’
‘How long is the drive from Sunnylakes to Palmdale?’
‘About three hours.’ The detective sighs. ‘Ruby, you’ve got to look at the evidence and then build up the case. You don’t make up a story and then fit the facts around it.’
‘But I’m not making it up. I’m looking at the evidence, just like Dr Futterer says. The beer bottle, for example – it doesn’t make sense that it was there.’
The detective takes his eyes off the road for a moment. ‘How do you know who Dr Futterer is?’
‘I got a book on . . . Look, I’m just saying. The bottle—’
‘The prints on it were McCarthy’s.’
‘Yeah, maybe. But what if someone’s trying to frame Jimmy? Perhaps Mr Haney wants to get rid of his rival.’
The detective accelerates. ‘That sounds preposterous. The district attorney won’t buy it. Especially not from a . . .’
He stops just in time and clears his throat. But Ruby’s mind fills in the pause regardless. And once that word has been put in place, it can never be erased.
‘Well, someone like you,’ he continues lamely. ‘Plus, you just said you saw McCarthy’s car driving away from the Haney property on the Monday Joyce disappeared. That’s evidence against him, not exonerating him.’
‘I did, but . . .’ She sighs. Yes, she saw his car. And Jimmy may be a bad apple. But why would he kill the woman he loved?
‘Anyway,’ the detective says, ‘I just wanted to say thank you. And, if it was up to me, you deserved the money.’
She inhales. So that means . . .
College. Oh, no.
Oh, well. It was dirty money anyway. She never really wanted it, not for the price of Joyce’s blood. But now that it’s not coming her way, it just twists the knife that little bit more.
‘Who . . . who got it?’ she asks.
‘Mrs Ingram. She’s a sharp one.’
‘But,’ she says, and her voice wobbles. ‘But it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Mr Haney . . .’ Warmth rises in Ruby’s throat. The watery heat of tears. Oh, Lord. Why do You always do this? Why can’t I ever win, for once?
Cars idle three deep where traffic has been diverted from University. They stop and go and stop and go. The warmth in Ruby’s throat contracts into anger. She needs to get out of here. Right now.
‘I guess that’s goodbye then.’ She grabs the door handle and pulls while they’re accelerating.
The detective slams on the brakes. ‘Ruby, wait. It’s not like—’
‘I gotta go. And it’s Miss Wright to you.’
She jumps out and runs into an alleyway where he can’t follow. Tears drown out the yowl of sirens from the street. She presses her hands to her chest where everything hurts. Her heart pumps like an engine, and every breath wracks her with pain. Because she’s failed. Even though she read Dr Futterer back to back, and used non-leading questions and did everything right.
Joseph spoke true. She should never have trusted the detective. He’s a cop, after all. He’s white. He almost called her that word. He listens to goddamn Pat Boone. He was never, ever on her side.
She walks without seeing. The block is very quiet. There are no cars on the street, only litter. A movement catches her attention. In the distance, where the road curves toward the freeway, a wall is moving. She blinks to clear her vision. Now it looks more like a centipede, with many legs and shields that glint.
Police. Hundreds of them. Marching toward her.
Something hurls over her head and smashes into a store window. Glass explodes. She jumps and turns. There are boys running down the road. Angry boys, wild boys. Their shirts are torn and bloodied. Some have scarves wrapped around their face. They scream and howl like devils. One boy at the front carries something burning. He throws it high, and it flies like a comet trailing fire before crashing onto the asphalt, setting it aflame.
Ruby stares. Them folks in University, they’ve already cut off their water.
And then she runs. Away from the police and through the streets full of boys. Two buildings are burning. Smoke billows down the street. It sticks in her eyes and makes her retch. The air tastes of plastic. A man runs past her, grinning, a baseball bat dangling from his fist.
Ruby darts toward where there are cars and people, where there’s life in the streets. But she’s lost among the smoke and the shouting and the shapes. Glass crunches under her feet. Something sharp slips into her shoe and stings her ankle. Finally, she sees the traffic along the freeway. And then two men step out of the shadows and cut her off.
Their faces are covered. Their eyes, very white and also terribly dark, pin her like prey.
She staggers back and runs. They come after her. She takes an alleyway and another, toward the road, toward the cars. Taillights wink, hundreds of them, like a chain of Christmas lights. She dives between them. Tires screech and horns honk. Behind her, the footsteps come closer.
‘Wait up, baby,’ shouts a man. ‘Tonight’s a free-for-all.’
She turns and screams. The men laugh. One of them lunges forward. An arm shoots out from nowhere and grabs her. She thrashes about as the world turns red. It doesn’t help. Someone drags her back and pulls her into a car.
*
‘Jesus Christ, Ruby, it’s a fucking riot down there.’
The detective steps on the gas and swerves into the middle lane. He zooms down the highway toward Beverly Hills. �
�What the hell were you thinking? Don’t you listen to the radio? You’re damn lucky I was still stuck in this jam.’
Ruby doesn’t answer. She has no answers left.
The detective makes a U-turn and sighs. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’m really sorry. I know the reward would have made a real difference.’
He knows nothing. His neighborhood’s not burning. His daughter is in college. He’s never been evicted for a fucking freeway.
Ruby sinks back into the seat. ‘You know what?’ she says after her heartbeat has steadied and her hands have stopped shaking so much. ‘I still think it’s Mr Haney and you’re wrong. And if you’re hanging the wrong guy, Joyce will never see justice. Her daughters will be raised by her killer. It’s . . . it’s not fair.’
The detective’s voice is strained. ‘I know how you feel, but—’
‘You don’t. Mrs Haney senior fired my ass. I lost my job for this. I’m not speaking to Joseph no more, because of this case. I just don’t . . .’
I don’t want it to be over like this.
‘I’m sorry,’ the detective replies.
They are silent until they glide into Trebeck Row. The detective pulls up in front of Fine 49 and turns the engine off.
‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Call me if there’s anything. Really, anything. Just give old Blanke a buzz.’
‘Yeah,’ she replies and cracks open the door. ‘See ya.’
‘Honestly, you got my number.’
She doesn’t answer. She won’t call. That bridge is burned forever.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mick
T
he nurse guides Mick to a four-bed ward that’s been cleared of all other patients. The beds are made perfectly and the brave soldiers of medical care – drips and wheelchairs and oversized floor lamps – are standing to attention. The room is pleasantly air-conditioned. Since it’s always good to put a fink like McCarthy at ease, Mick takes off his coat to look less official and lets the breeze scatter goosebumps over his back.
McCarthy is lying in bed. His eyes are closed. A bandage is wrapped thickly around his head, turning him into a giant marshmallow ready for the toasting.
Mick draws up a chair and pulls out his notebook. Jimmy McCarthy flutters his eyelids like the blond lead in a monster movie. But the voice that gurgles from his throat is anything but helpless.
