Kindred Crimes

by Janet Dawson

  “There’s no way out,” I called from the ramp. “It’s a dead end.”

  Without a word, she raised the gun and fired at me. The shot went wild, shattering the plate-glass window at Scott’s. I heard screams from inside the restaurant as people scrambled away from the broken glass that showered their tables. I shouted at her to stop and took aim with my gun. She fired again, a second before I squeezed the trigger. Her bullet grazed my right arm and my shot went astray, thudding into a piling behind her.

  Elizabeth looked up at the boardwalk, but there was too much space and water for her to bridge. I ignored the sting in my arm and launched myself at her, grabbing her legs, pulling her down. She fought like a cornered cat, scratching and spitting, her fury propelling us backward, until my foot hit air instead of planking. We tumbled into the cold black water of the estuary.

  After a long moment in the chilling darkness my head broke the surface and I gasped for air. Spitting out water, I shook my head and saw Elizabeth struggling in the water, trying to climb into the boat. I heard sirens and saw red lights flashing, reflected on the windows of Scott’s. People milled on the floats and the boardwalk, some of them in uniform, carrying flashlights and coming toward us.

  I swam to Elizabeth and grabbed her by the belt of her raincoat. The fight seemed to have gone out of her as I pulled her with me toward the pier. A dozen hands reached out to pull us onto the planking, a dozen voices spoke in a barrage of questions. I got to my feet and searched the faces around me. Finally I saw Mark, shoving through the crowd. I walked toward him, a question on my face.

  “They took him to the hospital,” Mark said. “He’s going to be all right.”

  Twenty-six

  SID LAY IN A PRIVATE ROOM AT MERRITT HOSPITAL. The night before the doctors had removed the slug from his right shoulder and listed him in good condition. Under his hospital gown I could see the white bandage against his brown chest. A flower arrangement sat on the nightstand and there were several others arrayed around the room.

  “Is there anything you need?” I asked.

  “Not unless you’ve got some booze in your purse.” He formed the words with an effort, as though all his energy was diverted into his glowering look. It was a weak version of his standard bad-cop expression.

  “I called Vicki last night.”

  “Damn it, Jeri. I don’t want her to worry.”

  “She’s your daughter. She needs to know.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “Like her father’s child.” My ex-stepdaughter had taken the news fairly well, though I had to dissuade her from hopping on a plane to Oakland. “She’s okay, Sid. She’ll call you today.” I reached out and smoothed the hair away from his forehead. “What were you doing there anyway?”

  “I came to tell Willis the floater wasn’t his sister. The dental charts confirmed it. I saw the three of you walking, but it didn’t register until I heard you say her name. I should have had her,” he said angrily. “I had a clean drop on her and she shoots me. I’ll never live it down.”

  I grinned. “Didn’t I tell you when we were married that you’re not perfect? At least she’s in custody. That’s the important thing.”

  “She admitted killing her parents and Karen, without batting an eye. Of course, after the headshrinkers get through with her she probably won’t do any real time.”

  “I think she will. Crazy’s no excuse these days.” I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to go.”

  I leaned over to kiss him on the forehead. He moved his head and my lips met his. His hand caught mine and squeezed it.

  “Hey,” he said. “Come see me tonight.”

  “I will.”

  I went back to my office, feeling tired. I’d spent the rest of the previous night at the Oakland Police Department and the hospital, falling into bed past midnight only to discover I couldn’t sleep. I had gone back to Homicide Section first thing in the morning, talking to Wayne Hobart until visiting hours started at the hospital.

  Edward Foster was waiting for me in the hallway outside my office. We exchanged looks. Neither of us said anything as I unlocked my door. I went in and sat down. He stood in front of my desk.

  “Something on your mind, Mr. Foster?”

  “I came up here hoping she was dead.”

  “Why don’t you just take satisfaction in knowing you were right about her all along?”

  His hard brown eyes blinked. “My daughter-in-law’s in jail and my son’s a wreck. I blame you. If you’d left this alone...”

  “Those were your messengers Monday night, weren’t they?”

  “You don’t scare easily.” He gave me an unpleasant smile. It was the closest he would ever come to admitting it.

  “No, I don’t. Things like that just make me more curious. I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other, Mr. Foster.”

  After he left I made a pot of coffee and sat down at the computer to update the Foster file. I typed in an account of last night’s events and printed it. The case was almost at an end. When it was over I would write a report. In this business the client pays the money and gets a report, a distillation of the investigator’s toil. What the client does with the end result is his or her business, not mine.

  But this case was different. In a way I was my own client. True, I’d been working for Philip Foster, then for Vee Burke, but I’d also been working for myself, getting the answers to satisfy my own curiosity. Jeri Howard the client wanted one more answer before Jeri Howard the investigator could close the Foster file.

  I got up to pour myself another cup of coffee. My door opened and Mark walked in.

  “I was wondering when I’d see you,” I said. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “Thanks.” I got up, poured him a cup, and handed it to him. He took it and held it in both hands. I resumed my seat leaning back, watching him.

  “How’s Vee? And Alice?”

  “I don’t know about Alice. She doesn’t talk to me.” He sipped the coffee. “Vee will be all right. She’s a tough lady. Besides, Uncle Charles is back. She can lean on him.” He sipped the coffee.

  “Mark.” He looked up. “I want to know what happened the night your parents died.”

  He set the coffee mug on my desk and put his hands in his pockets, walking to the window. He looked out at the sunny March morning. Then he took a deep breath and expelled the air in a sigh.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you.” He turned and faced me.

  “I had dinner at Leo’s house. He and I were going to a party. I went home first, to change clothes. When I got there Betsy was in the living room, reading and listening to the stereo. I went upstairs. When I came down a few minutes later, Franny was picking on Betsy about something. I’m not sure what it was. It doesn’t matter now.” He shrugged, moving away from the window.

  “Betsy was white and shaking. I knew she was scared. It had happened more often in the previous months, Franny going after Betsy rather than me, like the time she burned Betsy’s arm with the cigarette. I told you I was afraid of what might happen when I left for college.”

  Mark came back to the desk and picked up the coffee, sipping the black brew. His face tensed as he spoke, as though the events he described were happening again, right before his eyes.

  “I told Franny to leave Betsy alone. She turned on me. Me, her old antagonist. She was enjoying the prospect of one last fight. I could tell by the look in her eyes. She said, ‘Where are you going?’ I told her I was going to a party. She said, ‘No, you’re not.’ I told her, ‘Go to hell. I’m eighteen and I’m out of here. I don’t have to listen to your bullshit anymore.”

  “I started for the front door. George was in his recliner, nursing a gin and tonic. He said, ‘Don’t talk to your mother like that.’ I said, ‘Is that bitch my mother? Could have fooled me. I thought she was a whore.’”

  Mark’s hand shook and he quickly set the coffee down. He stared down at the cup, then lifted his eyes to my face.<
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  “George came out of the chair,” Mark said, “and hit me across the face. He said he was tired of my lip. He was between me and the front door. I backed off. ‘I don’t want to argue with you,’ I said. ‘I just want to leave.’

  “I turned and went toward the doorway that led from the living room to the kitchen. Before I got there Franny snatched Betsy’s book out of her hands and threw it across the room. She grabbed Betsy’s arm and yanked her to her feet. She yelled at Betsy. Betsy started crying. Franny slapped her so hard Betsy stumbled back against the sofa. Franny laughed. That really got me. I stopped. I told Franny, ‘Don’t do that again. I’ll kill you if you do that again.’ I was so angry I could feel it, like a hot wave moving from my feet all the way up to my head.

  “Franny laughed again. Then she slapped me. She said I didn’t have the balls to do anything. I lunged at her. I think if I’d gotten my hands on her I would have strangled her. But I didn’t. George got between us somehow. He pulled me away. Franny was screaming at me, flailing at me with her fists.”

  He stopped and looked down at his hands. Then he folded his arms tightly across his chest.

  “I’m not sure when Betsy got the gun. George kept it on the top shelf of the hall closet. I knew it was there. I knew it was loaded. Betsy knew it too. All of a sudden she was standing there with the gun in her hand. Her face was white. She was shaking so hard I thought she’d drop it.”

  He was quiet again, for a long moment.

  “Everything stopped,” he continued. “It was like we were frozen in place. Nobody moved, nobody spoke. It seemed like a long time, but I’m sure it was only a few seconds. Then everything exploded, moving, arms and legs and heads. I heard Franny screaming, George bellowing. Then I heard two shots, one after the other. George was on the floor in the living room. Franny managed to crawl a few feet before she died.”

  Mark stood still for a moment, then he sat down in the chair facing me, slumping, as though all the energy had gone out of him.

  “Betsy was holding the gun. I took it away from her. I said, ‘Go to your room. You don’t know what happened.’ She didn’t argue with me. She just nodded and did what I told her to do.”

  “Why, Mark?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair. “How could you take the rap for her?”

  “She was only fourteen, Jeri. She had her whole life ahead of her.”

  “So did you.” I shook my head. “You wanted to protect her. All her life people have been protecting her. You did her more harm than good. If she’d faced the consequences then, none of this would have happened.”

  “Maybe. It’s pointless to sit here and speculate what might have happened.” Mark spread his hands out on the surface of my desk. “I made a decision, Jeri. Once I made it, there didn’t seem to be any way to turn back. It was a long time ago. Somebody paid for the crime. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It matters to me. You weren’t guilty of murder.”

  “Maybe I was,” Mark said. “I don’t know whether I wanted to save them or kill them myself. Doesn’t that make me an accessory to murder?”

  That was a question that neither of us could answer.

  “I thought about killing them,” Mark said. “I fantasized about it. I even talked about it to Betsy. I told her one day they’d go too far. I’d get that gun from the hall closet and blow them away.” He stopped and looked at me, his burden of guilt etching lines in his face.

  “Betsy picked up the gun. But I planted that seed. I have to share the responsibility.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I do,” he said quietly. He stood up.

  “Karen’s funeral is tomorrow. I’ll stay for that, then I’m going back to Cibola. I don’t like the big city. I prefer my well-ordered life in the mountains.” A smile lit his face. “I hope I’ll see you again, Jeri.”

  “You might.”

  I got up and reached for his hand. He pulled me to him and held me for a moment. Then he kissed me briefly on the lips and released me. After he left I picked up the Foster file and put it back into the cabinet.

  About the Author

  JANET DAWSON’S first Jeri Howard novel, Kindred Crimes, won the St. Martin’s Press/Private Eye Writers of America Best First Private Eye Novel Contest. It was nominated for Shamus, Anthony, and Macavity awards in the Best First Novel category. In addition to the Jeri Howard series, she has written numerous short stories, including Macavity winner “Voice Mail,” and Shamus nominee “Slayer Statute.” For more information on Janet Dawson and her books, check her website at www.janetdawson.com.