A Dead Issue

by John Evans

  We walked out of the office, and I headed down to the guest room to share my relief with Liza and Dusty, but as I opened the door I knew that something was wrong. The room was empty. The backpack sat on the bed next to a crumpled up shopping bag. I opened the backpack to find what I feared I would find—a pillowcase filled with bricks of Georgia Pacific copy paper.

  I ran to the garage, and out into the parking area. Tony’s green Mustang was missing also. Liza and Dusty had run off together, taking a quarter of a million dollars with them.

  Devereaux caught up to me a few moments later. I looked at him. He was clearly sympathetic.

  “Could you do me a favor?”

  Devereaux nodded.

  “Shoot me. Just shoot me.”

  CHAPTER 65

  “Here’s your wallet,” Devereaux said sliding it across the desk at police headquarters.

  I opened it, counted the thirty-three dollars, and nodded. “That should cover the damage at the Crow’s Nest.”

  Devereaux smiled. “And take a chunk out of the money you owe your father.”

  We sat in silence for a while and then Devereaux shifted in his seat. “How are you going to break the news?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “No good way, I guess.” He paused. “At least he won’t have to see you in jail.”

  It was Devereaux’s way of telling me the case was closed, but I needed more. I stared at him expectantly.

  “Everything’s landing on Stomp. He had Jonah’s gun. Easton Police searched his room at the Belmont and found Jonah’s wallet and a handful of Remington forty-fives. Plus we found his prints on a dresser in the bedroom at the top of Jonah’s stairs.”

  Devereaux was quiet for a moment.

  “I could put this away and feel real good about it if I knew one thing.” He paused and looked at me like he knew I had the answer. “I need to know why Stomp was after you and Dusty—and it wasn’t about money for your car repair.”

  I knew in that moment that he was not going to let this go. It wasn’t in him to walk away with questions unanswered. I took a deep breath.

  “The night Jonah died, Dusty drove to Easton to buy some weed from Stemcell. Stomp was playing pool and Dusty asked him where we could find him. Stemcell slipped out the back. We followed him to the Britz and found him sprawled across the front seat of his Cadillac. It must have just happened. Stomp thought we did it. He was after drug money.”

  “So you were there.” Devereaux said. “You and Dusty—the two guys parked next to the convertible. Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “We were afraid we’d get the blame.”

  Dusty’s plan to take a walk on the wild side as an alibi was suddenly coming to the surface—and it was working.

  Devereaux frowned, maybe considering how much he should tell me, and then continued. “Funny, the Easton police think Stomp did it. They’re working on matching the casings at the scene with Jonah’s Colt.”

  “When those tests come in,” I said, “I think they’ll find that Stomp didn’t kill Eric Stem. He couldn’t have. He was still playing pool at the Belmont when we followed Stemcell. He didn’t have time to beat us to the Britz.”

  “You know the Easton police will want to talk to you.”

  I nodded.

  “Shit has a way of running downhill,” Devereaux said. “The Easton police aren’t the only ones that think Stomp did it. Some very unpleasant people were on his ass. That’s why he hid out at the farm.” He looked at me seriously for a moment. “Sometimes justice has a way of working itself out.”

  I sensed that our interview was coming to an end.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “How did you get out of the vault?”

  Devereaux threw his head back and chuckled. When he looked at me, his sad little eyes were twinkling. “There’s a release mechanism in the vault door so people don’t get locked in by mistake. Didn’t you know that?”

  I shook my head that I didn’t.

  “Neither did Cash. I saw him close the door on me. I almost decided to wait in there because I smelled ransom—all that money and a backpack. I thought of Tony Lovell. I didn’t know how Cash fit into it, but he knew I was in there. I gave you fifteen minutes or so and slipped out and hid in the closet in your father’s office. At my age and size, I don’t sneak so good. I just waited. Whatever was going down would involve the money. Then I heard Tony ordering you around and was just ready to come out when Stomp shot him.”

  Devereaux paused, and the twinkle in his eye had disappeared, clouded over with deep sadness. “Twenty-seven years,” he said and paused. “Twenty-seven years, and that was the first time I had to use my pistol. First time I had to kill someone.” He swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Had to be done.”

  He looked away from me. Justifying his act with reason wasn’t going to ease the pain he would carry forever. I knew that—knew it well.

  Cash Williams survived his fall, but it would take several months of physical therapy before he could return to work. I never mentioned his cottage industry of “keeping my sorry ass out of jail.” I told Devereaux that Cash locked him in the vault so he wouldn’t interfere with the ransom payment, putting Liza at risk. I don’t know why I protected him. Maybe I felt a little sorry for him. I figured our score was about even.

  I called my father and told him I had scratched up his Smith and Wesson. I could tell he was upset, but he put on a front of being understanding and charitable. Then I added that his Beretta was possibly on its way to Brazil. That didn’t sit well. He went silent. When I told him that his gun case was smashed, he started breathing hard. I threw in the telescope, broken observatory windows and the dented BMW in one short sentence, and he swore under his breath. By the time I mentioned that a quarter of a million dollars went missing from his vault, you could safely say that he was totally pissed. He said he was coming home.

  I planned to wear Liza’s crucifix for protection.

  CHAPTER 66

  Once Devereaux went off to write his police report, I had plenty of time to think about Liza. I tried to call her on her cell phone several times, and each time I was directed to her voicemail. The first few times, I left a message, “Call me. Where are you? Are you all right?” Then I stopped, hanging up each time the voicemail prompt came on. With each call I became more depressed and my hurt deepened. I felt betrayed by Dusty—my half-brother, who, I thought, was interested in becoming family, but was more interested in a quarter of a million dollars. I felt betrayed by Liza—a girl who had worked her way into my heart with her rebellious spirit and wanted a fresh start in life like me. I had hoped we could do it together.

  By Thursday, the only thing I could think of was Dusty and his one-way ticket to Brazil out of Newark. I resisted the urge to jump into my car and drive to the airport. That would have been a waste of time. Liza would know enough to change plans—rent a car, drive to another state, and catch a flight to any place but Brazil.

  Then I got the phone call.

  “Mark. I’m in Newark.”

  “Liza—”

  “I don’t have much time. Dusty’s in the men’s room with the bag. The plane takes off in three hours. I wanted to let you know . . . I’m all right.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Mark, don’t. Stay there. Trust me . . .”

  “Where are you?”

  “Newark, but listen . . . oh, Christ. Gotta go.” And she was gone.

  My heart raced. Liza was not running off with Dusty or the money. She had called me—made contact—was trying to reassure me. From that short conversation, I pieced together what was going on in Newark. She and Dusty had the bag of money, but neither trusted the other. They were taking turns, one using the restroom, the bag going along for the ride, while the other stood outside waiting. It was a good system with one weakness—people have been mugged in restrooms.

  I had plenty of ti
me to get to the airport before the flight—three hours to make a two-hour drive. I ran to the computer and did a quick search for a flight out of Newark to Brazil. Continental Airlines Flight 31 was scheduled to take off at 10:05. Other flights were much earlier. This one was perfect—three hours from takeoff.

  I went to my father’s gun cabinet for a little snub-nosed .38, tucking it in my waistband and pulling my sweatshirt down over the bulge. The bag of Georgia-Pacific was still in the spare bedroom and I scooped that up on my way out. I remembered Dusty hugging Cash’s bag. His eyes must have popped when he realized he was holding a quarter of a million dollars with only Liza between him and the door. I wondered if she had pressed his hand to her breast to convince him she should go along. I snatched Liza’s Crucifix and slipped my head through the loop of chain and let it drop inside my hoodie. Then I headed off to Newark.

  It was early evening and traffic was light on the turnpike. I made good time, keeping my speed just under seventy. A little congestion on I-95 had me worried for a while, but I pulled into the short-term parking garage across from the terminal with less than an hour before takeoff.

  Pulling my hood up and slinging the backpack over my shoulder, I crossed the airport road to Terminal C and entered the baggage return area. Most of the carousels were empty and still. Only one was in operation with a few pieces of luggage spinning forlornly. I wanted to blend in with the crowd, but there was no crowd. My plan to catch Dusty crumbled as I stood there. I had a gun in an international airport. Dusty and Liza were at the boarding gate, beyond metal detectors and heavy security. I’d need a ticket to join them—and a passport. I needed to think.

  Most of the travelers were milling around the Euro Café, an open area with racks of candy, magazines, and a self-serve coffee zone. The thought of a steaming cup of coffee drew me toward the café, and off to the left I spotted Liza and Dusty. They had settled into a row of chairs facing the restrooms where they could keep an eye on each other when nature called. Liza sipped at her coffee, cupping it with both hands. Dusty sat with the backpack between his knees and glanced down at his watch.

  Liza seemed distracted, scanning the crowd over her coffee cup, and I had no doubt that she was searching for me. I wanted her to look in my direction so I could catch her eye. Then I noticed the suitcase at her side and my heart gave a lurch. Fucking Dusty and his Gypsy comment, planting a seed of doubt. It had turned into a cancerous growth. She was not leaving, I told myself. She had called—told me not to come, to trust her.

  Making my way to the far side of the terminal, I stopped by a pillar near the restrooms. With the thin crowd, the chances were good that I might be able to catch Dusty alone, but time was growing short. They might go to the plane without using the restrooms again. I started to text Liza, letting her know that I was near.

  Dusty stood up. He said a few words to her and gestured toward the men’s room. I backed up, keeping the pillar between us as he neared. Dusty carried the backpack like a suitcase. As he approached the restrooms, he casually looped one arm through the shoulder strap. When he disappeared through the door I counted to ten and went after him.

  He was standing at the fourth urinal, both hands busy in front of him. The backpack was now securely centered on his shoulders. Dusty did not look up as I entered and headed toward one of the stalls behind him. I stopped at the door, turned, and stood behind him.

  “Hello, Dusty.”

  He didn’t move. I stared at the backpack. A little brass lock was hooked through the double zipper pulls—another safety precaution. Liza must have been holding the key so he couldn’t stuff his pants with packets of money.

  “Did you really think I was going to let you walk off to Brazil with all that money?”

  “I was hoping,” he said.

  Dusty zipped up and put both hands on the urinal.

  “How do you want to do this?” I asked.

  “I have a choice?”

  “Easy or hard.”

  Dusty turned and gave me a smile. It was weak, clouded with resignation.

  “Shitbird,” he said. “I’ve never had it easy.”

  I lifted my sweater to show him the butt of the pistol. He shook his head sadly. I waited for him to slip the backpack off, but he just stood there. And then I heard Liza right outside the door.

  “He’s been in there like forever. Sheesh! Could you just see if he’s all right, officer?”

  Dusty smiled, a shit-eating grin this time, and turned back to the urinal and unzipped.

  “He’s blonde. Black sweater. Backpack,” she continued as the figure appeared before me—a compact man in a brown TSA uniform, elbows sticking out for clearance over his sidearm.

  We both stopped just inside the door. I felt my face drain and a bead of sweat rolled out of my hair.

  “You OK?” he asked, his brow furrowed with concern and his eyes squinted with suspicion.

  I shook my head. “I’m sick,” I said. “Just threw up.”

  “Your girl’s worried,” he said.

  I stepped past him. “Thanks.” I felt his eyes on me as I left.

  Outside, Liza jumped into my arms and we hugged. The snub-nosed revolver dug into my flesh and Liza pulled back, her eyes wide. “You’re not that happy to see me,” she said. “Let me have it, quick.”

  I looked toward the men’s room. The officer was either questioning Dusty or pissing next to him.

  “Why did you send him in there?”

  “He was going in. I was warning you.”

  Liza reached under my sweater, pulled out the gun, and dropped it into her purse. “That’s not the smartest thing to carry around an international airport,” she whispered. “You could end up sharing a cell at Gitmo. Now let’s get away from here.”

  She pulled me toward the Euro Café. I held back, “He’s got the money,” I said.

  “Right now, that’s not important—getting out of here is. What if Dusty is telling that cop you have a gun—that he was being robbed? We’ll be in jail before Dusty’s plane leaves the ground.”

  I walked with her as she led me by the elbow, glancing back over my shoulder at the men’s room door.

  “You can sit and watch from over here. I’ll ditch the gun in case the cop comes back.”

  “He’s not getting on a plane with that money,” I said. “I’ll rip it right off his fuckin’ back.”

  Liza started to say something, but I wasn’t listening. Dusty had just come out of the men’s room with his new friend. The security guard pointed, giving directions, and Dusty walked with him in rapt attention. He now had an armed escort to the boarding gate.

  I surged after them, but Liza dragged me to a stop.

  “Mark, it’s not worth it!”

  “A quarter million?”

  I dragged her forward another step or two.

  “Listen,” she said and pulled my face close to hers. “You put that money at risk to save my ass, and I’m really grateful—really. But if you go chasing after Dusty and get yourself arrested just when we could be starting fresh, I’m not waiting for you. And if I get arrested with this gun . . .” she did not have to finish. I was busy filtering the words when we could be starting fresh.

  We gazed at each other silently for a moment, and then she pulled herself closer and we kissed—not long or passionately, but tenderly. We stared into each other’s eyes again until we became aware of our surroundings.

  “I have to follow him,” I said. “There still might be a chance.”

  We raced up the stairs to Level Two where passengers went through a final security check before entering the boarding gates. Dusty had already gone through the preliminary check of his passport and boarding pass. He was at the scanner, emptying his pockets into a gray tub. He placed the tub on the conveyor belt with his backpack right behind it. Both items disappeared into the bowels of the scanner. Dusty looked up and our eyes met. He immediately looked away and stepped through the full body scanner to collect his things.

  I s
witched my attention to the uniformed guard manning the scanner, expecting him to jerk in surprise as the unmistakable image of bundled money appeared on his screen. He didn’t even blink. I glanced at Liza and she shook her head as if she had been expecting this breakdown of security.

  The backpack slid out of the back end of the scanner and Dusty nodded at the guard. As he pocketed his wallet, he glanced at us and slung the backpack over his shoulder. With one last shit-eating grin and a thumbs-up, he turned and walked off toward the boarding gate. We watched until he was out of sight.

  Outside, a chill wind swept down Access Road as we waited to cross over to the parking garage. We were both quiet. Losing a quarter of a million dollars makes you introspective. I wondered what I could have done differently. If I had a passport, I’d be on the next plane.

  In the parking garage, I headed toward the BMW in section G. Tony’s Mustang was parked two rows closer and Liza drifted toward it. We stopped at the trunk. “I’ll leave this here,” she said. “Make that son-of-a-bitch come down here and pick it up.”

  I said nothing, realizing for the first time that she had no idea Tony was dead. My face must have told her something wasn’t right. She looked at me expectantly.

  “Tony’s not going to be coming down for his car—is he?”

  I shook my head.

  She seemed momentarily stunned by the news and then she seemed to relax. She was free. I could see the joy seep into her as she shook off the weight of Tony’s oppressive existence in her life.

  “Then his sister can come and pick it up,” she said with a smile. “But first, some Gypsy magic.” She stuck out her hand. “I’ll need your backpack.”

  She popped the trunk open with her remote and tossed my backpack in among a pile of blankets. Headlights swung around the corner and Liza said, “Shit. It’s the cops.” The car drove by. It was a family—a man, wife, and a teenager just in from Florida or someplace. I looked at Liza, puzzled by her needless paranoia. When the car was out of sight, she grabbed the backpack.

  “It’s that easy,” she said, handing it to me.