by John Evans
Devereaux reached the bottom of the stairs again and moved to the center of the room where Jonah died. “He stands here and empties his gun all around the room like he’s trying to shoot a butterfly. Why? Is there someone in the room with him, dodging bullets—him shooting at shadows? Or is it all his imagination—his brain misfiring after rolling down the stairs? The only thing we know is that Jonah’s gun is missing. Without it, we can’t even be sure it was his gun that made those holes.”
He waved at them with a stubby forefinger as he moved to the kitchen. “Then there is the mystery of the locked door. ‘Jonah never locks his door.’ I must’ve heard that a hundred times. What’d he do—advertise? Christ, it’s a wonder he didn’t have burglars bumping into each other every night.”
If Dusty’s theory was correct, Devereaux might have been closer to the truth than he knew. I opened a few cabinet doors. I wasn’t really taking inventory as much as looking for the cabinet where they found a bullet in a teacup.
“Jonah never locked his door because the lock didn’t work,” I explained. “Everybody also knew that Jonah didn’t have anything worth stealing.”
“Except a gun and a thousand dollars,” Devereaux corrected.
“In a wallet that was missing.”
“Maybe he had a shoebox full of hundreds or a mattress stuffed with them.”
“If Jonah had any money lying around, he would have paid us.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes,” I answered, “that’s the kind of guy he was. It’s why everyone liked him.”
“Almost everyone.”
I reached for another cabinet and Devereaux read my mind. “That’s where we found the bullet.”
The back of the cabinet had an “exit wound” of splintered wood. The teacup sat among some juice glasses on a stack of saucers. One teacup. Jonah must have enjoyed a cup of tea now and then and saved one cup for the occasion and none for company. I turned and looked at the kitchen furnishings—a table with an oilcloth cover, two chairs, and another painting, this one of hands clasped in prayer. Devereaux must have been following my eyes.
“Albrecht Durer, Hands, 1508, brush and ink on blue paper. That’s another reproduction.”
“You studied art or something?”
Devereaux grunted and his face broke into that odd smile of his.
“Not really,” he said, but I could tell he was pleased by my comment and took it as a compliment. The smile faded and he looked at me squarely. “I’m just thorough.”
With that, he walked to the door leading to the mudroom. It was old and battered, the white paint a dingy gray with a multitude of nicks, scratches, and boot marks where Jonah had used his foot to open or close it. The lock was a square plate of metal with one of those old fashioned keyholes under the loose knob. Devereaux inspected the edge of the lock plate. The latch was missing.
“You’re right. The lock is broken.”
I had a feeling he already knew that.
Devereaux stepped into the mudroom, a long, unheated hallway lined with pegs for hanging coats but that Jonah used to hang everything from umbrellas to bags of apples. At the end of the hall was the door to the outside. Like the interior door, it, too, was marred by hard use. The upper half of the door was glass. The doorknob was a wooden spool. And on the inside, below the glass, was a barrel bolt latch—the one I slid shut as Billy and Ray knocked on the other side.
Devereaux worked the latch two or three times. “This is the other little detail that I find interesting.” He looked at me for a moment. “Billy swears this door was locked. Ray swears it was unlocked. Know what that means?” He stared at me, building suspense.
“Someone was in the house,” I said.
Devereaux was still staring at me, but not for effect. He seemed puzzled by my apparent powers of deduction. I paused a moment—my turn to build suspense.
“Yes, someone was in the house while they pounded on the door.”
He said it slowly and I could see the wheels turning in his head as if I had slipped up and revealed something I shouldn’t have known. It made me uncomfortable and I rushed to explain.
“Billy and Ray came to that conclusion at Miller’s that night. Somebody was in the house with the door locked from the inside. Then when they ran around to the front, whoever it was unlatched the door and ran away.”
“With Jonah’s gun.” He paused and looked around briefly. “And that’s where the matter stands. We have a shooting, but no one got shot. The gun that was used probably belonged to the victim, but it has disappeared. We have a door that was locked one moment and unlocked the next by someone who was in the house—someone Jonah was shooting at. And that person took the gun and who knows what else of value. We have a victim who died of a heart attack during a felony. And that leaves us with a murderer running around on the loose.”
CHAPTER 24
Dusty and I approached the coffin and peered in. This wasn’t the Jonah we knew. He was dressed in a white shirt, a black vest, and a red tie. His glasses were missing and so was his warm smile. His thin, windswept hair was slicked down into a coffin comb-over. His hands were the same—thick and gnarled by years of work, but they were uncharacteristically at rest on white satin.
The granddaughter who was supposed to come into town and handle his affairs did not show up. Those who did stood in twos and threes near the coffin talking quietly. Most of them I recognized from Miller’s.
Dusty and I sat down. Dusty fidgeted in the pew and removed his front four teeth. He inspected his partial for a moment and firmed it back into place with his thumbs. I just shook my head. Billy and Ray entered, dragging a faint smell of alcohol in their wake. They approached the coffin and stood reverently for a moment before sitting down next to us with a nod of greeting.
“Where’d he get them clothes?” Billy whispered loud enough to be heard in the parking lot.
Ray shook his head. “Should’ve buried him in his bibs.”
The service was simple and direct. Dusty and I served as pallbearers along with Ray, Billy, and two others from Miller’s. The only other people who attended the brief graveside service were the Reverend Hunsicker, Charles Layton the undertaker—and Frank Devereaux. He pulled up behind the three-car procession in the cemetery and joined us as we positioned the coffin on the straps stretched across the grave. He raised his hand in greeting.
“Couldn’t make the service,” he apologized to Reverend Hunsicker. “Just wanted to pay my respects.”
Hunsicker did the ashes-to-ashes thing and blessed the coffin. We turned away from the gravesite when the service ended. Billy looked over his shoulder at Devereaux, who headed back to his car parked well away from Jonah’s grave on another lane. When he was satisfied that Devereaux was out of hearing range, Billy whispered to anyone who was listening, “Hate that son-of-a-bitch. Thinks I stole Jonah’s gun.”
Dusty and I exchanged glances. I could tell that he was suppressing his trademark grin, but he still managed a wink.
“Everybody’s a suspect,” I said softly.
Billy and Ray looked at each other.
We climbed into Dusty’s car but the hearse blocked the way. Layton chatted with Reverend Hunsicker as we waited. Devereaux got into his car. Neither of us said anything until the car dipped with his weight and his door closed. He didn’t appear to be in any hurry to leave.
“What did I tell you?” Dusty said, allowing the smile to spread across his face. “Billy took the gun.”
“No,” I corrected, “Devereaux accused him of taking the gun. There’s a difference.”
“Well, at least I didn’t take it,” Dusty said with a measure of righteous indignation.
“If you didn’t take it and Billy didn’t take it, who the fuck has it?”
Dusty hunched his shoulders.
Devereaux’s taillights flashed and the car started to roll.
Dusty said, “I still think there was someone else in the house. That guy has it. He’s the
one Devereaux should be after.”
He still didn’t get it. Devereaux was looking for whoever was in the house and took the gun. The trouble was, we were there. Even if we knew for a fact that there was someone else in the house, Devereaux would have to go through us. We were the only ones who could testify that he might have been pushed down the stairs. We heard a grunt. But a grunt wasn’t proof. And once it was established that we were on the scene, the investigation would stop there. Case closed. Go directly to jail.
“Dusty, the only way we get out of this is if we make sure that gun never turns up.”
I studied his reaction, looking for any sign of guilt or concern. He was quiet for a moment and then brightened. “Maybe he’ll use it in a robbery—shoot somebody with it. Then we’re clear.”
“Not really.”
Dusty looked at me, confused.
“If the guy saw us in the house, all he has to say is he got the gun from two guys—one squeaky clean, and the other full of ink.”
Dusty groaned. “Holy shitbird.”
CHAPTER 25
“Yo! Where’s Waldo?”
Cash clomped up the stairs to my apartment, announcing his approach with exaggerated footfalls as if he were killing cockroaches with every step.
“Waldo?” he asked through the screen door.
My back was turned to the door and I pretended to sort through a stack of bills I had snatched from the kitchen table. As usual, I refused to respond to his insult. It was my habit not to show any anger or annoyance. I simply ignored him.
“There’s Waldo. Lost in an avalanche of bills.”
The door opened and I spun around glaring at him. He froze with the door open halfway and I pointed beyond him to the outside. “This isn’t McDonald’s. This is my house.” I paused, still pointing. “My house! Now let’s try this again.”
He stood perplexed for a moment, gauging my seriousness, wondering perhaps if he should walk in. I held my pose and he took a step backward, allowing the door to close. We now stood looking at each other through the screen door. I lowered my arm and waited expectantly. Cash shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Finally, he rolled his eyes and knocked on the door three times.
“Who is it?”
He placed a hand on his hip and looked off into the distance. He blew out his breath. “Cash,” he said in disgust.
“Cash who?”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He tried to hold down his growing anger. “Cash Williams. Now open the fuckin’ door. We have bidness.”
I pushed open the door and he stepped in.
“What kind of ‘bidness?’”
He stood in my kitchen, the reek of French fries billowing out of his clothes. Cash reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Severance pay.”
“You’re delivering my check?” I asked.
“I look like a fuckin’ mailman? I told you—we have bidness.”
I had a nasty feeling that this was the shakedown—a little money for his cooperation and silence. Grabbing two beers from the refrigerator, I placed them on my table and sat. Cash joined me, tossing the envelope down, trading it for a beer. We popped them open at the same time. I took a long drink, watching Cash over the top of the can.
“So what’s the deal?”
“That detective came by—Devereaux or whatever. Wanted to talk about your work ethic—whether you showed up on time regular, how reliable you are. That kind of thing.”
I took another long drink, trying not to look nervous while my heart pounded away. I said nothing and tried to act unconcerned. Cash knew better. He let me stew a little before continuing.
“I lied—told him you were OK. Always on time, no trouble.” Cash glanced around the room acting casual. “Didn’t stay long. Just showed up to test the wind.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.” Cash drained his beer and then focused all his attention on me. “Oh, yeah. Asked to see your time card.”
My heart stepped up its beat. Devereaux was thorough. He researched the paintings Jonah had on his wall—paintings that anyone could see were cheap copies. He wasn’t “testing the wind.” He was stirring things up, probing into the one area that could punch a hole in my alibi.
“You’re lucky,” Cash crushed the empty can in his fist and worked it into a tight ball of aluminum. “Just got word we’re switching to biometrics—no more punching in for each other. Progress going to screw all you fuckups.” He thrust his chin toward the refrigerator. I finished my beer with a gulp and got two more. Cash tipped his head back and poured beer down his throat. I don’t think he even swallowed.
“Dexter ran up to me right after he left.” Cash studied me for a moment, letting me catch up. “He was working the window. Devereaux had me in the office right behind him. Things were slow and he must have listened to every word.”
“You’re telling me Dexter pieced it together—he figured it out?”
“Yeah, he’s an idiot. I know,” Cash said. “But it doesn’t take an idiot to work it out. You’re late returning from Jonah’s. Jonah is murdered. A cop comes around to see if you show up for work on time.” Cash finished his beer and made another aluminum ball. “Dexter’s worried about you.”
“We didn’t do anything,” I reminded Cash. “We saw the body and left.”
“Well,” Cash began slowly like he was leading up to something, “Dex don’t know nothing about that. He knows that he covered for you. He feels . . .” Cash paused as if searching for the right word, “like you owe him a little something.” Cash looked at me steadily with his cold eyes. I waited for him to flash me a shark grin, but he didn’t. His eyes never blinked.
“What did you tell him?” I finally asked.
“Them,” he corrected. “I talked to Phil, too. I said you had nothin’ to hide. I told them all they have to remember is that they come to work when asked and go home when they’re told and you’d appreciate not having Devereaux in your shorts. Dex wanted to know how much you’d appreciate it. I told him I’d find out.”
That was worth another beer and I pulled the last two out of my refrigerator. I sat down and the cans remained unopened during a long silence.
“So what’s next?” I finally asked.
“I’m finding out. That’s why I’m here.” He reached out and placed his fingertips on the envelope. He pushed it in my direction. “Now that you have some money, it might be a good idea to invest some of it in security.”
This was it—the shakedown. “How much?” I asked without hiding my distain.
“I figure fifty bucks ought to do it—each.” He looked upward as if still calculating. “You give them each fifty, and they’ll be happy.” Cash cracked open a beer and flashed me a predatory grin. He took a long swallow.
“I don’t have a hundred dollars,” I said.
Cash reached out and tapped the envelope. I picked it up and tore it open. Inside was my last paycheck from McDonald’s.
“I can’t cash this until tomorrow,” I said.
Cash reached into his pocket and drew out a pen and placed it on the table in front of me. Then he went into another pocket and withdrew a bank envelope fat with cash. “I came prepared,” he explained with a smile.
I took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. I was being manipulated and there was very little I could do about it. Cash had indeed come prepared, and after thinking about it, buying a little loyalty from Phil and Dexter didn’t seem like a bad idea.
Flipping the check over, I endorsed it with Cash’s pen. Cash spilled the loose change out of the envelope—two quarters, a dime, and three pennies: the sixty-three cents on my paycheck. He then pulled out the bills and fanned them like playing cards and spread them on the table. He pulled two fifties out, and examined them one at a time carefully, holding them up against the light and squinting. One was not satisfactory, and he tried another. When he had two that were to his liking, he folded them in half and stuck them in his shirt pocket—fo
r Dexter and Phil, no doubt. The rest of the bills went back into the bank envelope and the sixty-three cents remained on the table.
When I finished signing my name, I slid the pen toward him. “Can I ask you something?”
Anticipation gleamed in his eyes. “Go ahead. Shoot.”
“Why are you doing this?”
He cocked his head and pursed his lips as if weighing the matter and selecting the right words. “It’s my new job,” he said, the shark smile spreading across his face. “Keeping your sorry ass out of jail.”
“I suppose you expect to get paid,” I said flatly.
“Wouldn’t be a job without a paycheck.”
“You get paid by the hour?”
“By the job,” he explained. “Figure me like a consultant. When I do something that helps keep your ass out of jail, I get paid.”
I cracked open a beer and took a swallow. “How much?”
“Depends.” He crushed his can into a ball and studied it. “Take today for instance. I took care of Phil and Dex. Made sure they don’t do anything to harm my client. That should be worth,” he reached out and picked up the envelope, “a hundred dollars.”
He pinched two of the bills and it slid them out. Holding them up to the light one at a time, he inspected and stuffed them in his shirt pocket with the other two.
“Tomorrow, I may have to shoot Dusty. That ought to be worth sixty-three cents.” He scraped the sixty-three cents off the edge of the table into his hand and poured the coins into his pocket. “Advance payment,” he grinned. “Then maybe next Tuesday I got to shoot that cop—Devereaux or whatever. That’ll get me enough to retire on.”
He gave me that deadeye stare that I usually found unsettling. Today, it scared the hell out of me. He held my eyes for an eternity, and then he winked. “Just kidding.” He put the can to his mouth and poured beer down his gullet. I reached over and snatched the fifties from his shirt pocket using my index and middle fingers.
