Walk. Trot. Die

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  “Ugh.”

  Burton laughed.

  “My brother’s a photographer down there now, living the freelance life. I’m not sure he’s not still selling whitey to the tourists.”

  “Are you thinking of leaving your wife, Jack?”

  Burton pushed his uneaten hamburger away. She looked so beautiful, he thought. Sitting here in an effin’ McDonalds, her food in a styrofoam tub, dabbing her designer blouse with a paper napkin. He thought they must look like the rich bitch and her lawn man nailing down prices for the coming season.

  “I guess I’m thinking about it,” he said, slowly, watching her.

  Tess smiled as if it hurt her to do it.

  “Would it be because of me?” she asked.

  “No, of course not,” he lied.

  “Tell me it hasn’t been much of a marriage for a long time.”

  Jack leaned across the table and touched her perfect, unlined face. Dana’s eyes had little baglets under them, the price of being forty-three and conscientious, he thought, about everything but her looks. Tess’s plastic surgeon must have been good.

  “It hasn’t been much for a long time,” he said.

  “I love you, Jack.”

  “Let’s just get through this week,” he said. “Let me just handle one thing at a time.”

  “Can I help?”

  “You could, you know.”

  “How. Tell me. I want us to get to the other side of this Jilly mess.”

  “Take me down the trail the three of you went last week.”

  Tess looked away. Jack imagined she was picturing that last ride with Jilly, remembering the weather, the mood, the anger.

  “Yes, all right,” she said, finally.

  “I want to take Best-Boy down the trail again,” he said.

  She looked at him sadly and nodded.

  “You can probably handle him,” she said.

  “It never occurred to me I couldn’t.”

  8

  Burton and Kazmaroff walked into the interrogation room that held Mark Travers. Travers jumped to his feet when the door opened.

  “Not even a phone call! I’ve been here nearly three hours! Am I under arrest? Not even a glass of water!”

  Burton came in and dropped a McDonald’s Kiddie Meal onto the table in front of Travers.

  “Ask Sgt. Owens to get Mr. Travers a glass of water, would you, Dave?”

  “Sure, Jack. No problem,” Kazmaroff said, exiting the door.

  “Brought you a little something to eat, Mark,” Burton said. “Go on, help yourself. There’s even a toy in there.”

  “Look, you gotta tell me why I’m here. Have you found out something or has someone said something? Because it’s a lie if they have! I didn’t kill Jilly!”

  Kazmaroff entered with a plastic tumbler of water.

  “Yes, well,” he said. “It’s still a serious no-no these days to contract to have someone killed. Even if the killer is mentally retarded, as I guess yours was and not able to complete the assignment. That water’s not too cold for you, is it? Sometimes the water here at the station is so cold, it really bothers my teeth. Do you have sensitive teeth, Mark?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him, Dave,” Burton said. “He doesn’t really look like the sensitive-type. But yes, Detective Kazmaroff is absolutely correct, Mark. You have already admitted to a felony...that’s what we call breaking a rule that’s really bad...a felony. So you’re probably going to be coming down here a lot and...in the end...we might decide to keep you.”

  “In fact, I’d say we probably will, don’t you, Jack?”

  “Yes, yes, I guess now that you mention it,” Burton sighed and looked into the hamburger bag. “We probably will. I think these fries are getting cold, Mark.”

  “What the fuck do you want?” Travers looked like he would break down and begin weeping.

  “Well, we have a question for you,” Kazmaroff said.

  “Yes,” Burton said. “We wanted to know if you knew what Jilly’s maiden name was.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, it seems nobody can agree. We don’t know what her name was prior to marrying you. Sort of silly, huh?” Kazmaroff giggled.

  “It was...she was called ‘Waynis’.”

  “What do you mean ‘was called’? Like a stage name? Was Jilly a stripper or something before you married her?” Burton frowned as if in thought.

  “No, no! Of course not! Her name was Waynis. That’s all!”

  “Besides, what kind of a dumb stage name would ‘Waynis’ be?” Kazmaroff chided his partner.

  “You’re right,” Burton said. “Okay, thanks, Mark, for clearing that up. You can go.”

  “That’s it?” Mark stared at them with his mouth open.

  “Yep, that’s it,” Kazmaroff said. “Until next time.”

  9

  Burton snapped on his desk lamp in the empty squad room. He glanced at his watch. It was after 8 p.m. Dana would be pissed. He hadn’t called.

  Kazmaroff walked up to his desk and placed his hands on his hips. It was an aggressive stance; Burton braced himself.

  “Good interview,” Kazmaroff said. “He’s definitely upset.”

  “Yeah,” Burton said, not looking at him. “So far, it’s the best part of the case--harassing the little twerp.”

  “But you don’t really think he’s involved.”

  Burton looked up at him.

  “He might be,” he said.

  “Yeah, Jack,” Kazmaroff said. “And so might Annie the office cleaning lady, but it’s not likely.”

  Jack didn’t respond. He moved some papers around on his desk.

  Now what? Why’s the bastard hovering over me? If he’s got something to say--

  “I put in for a transfer,” Kazmaroff said.

  Burton stared at him.

  “You’re moving?” he said.

  “No, man,” Kazmaroff said. “I’m not moving out of the city. I asked to be placed with another partner.”

  Burton made a grunt of disgust but his mind whirled.

  Isn’t this good? Isn’t this what I want? It’s good, isn’t it?

  “What did the Chief say?” he asked.

  Now it was Kazmaroff’s turn to act disgusted.

  “He said we had a great track record together, can you believe it? The bastard sits on our necks for four fucking years about what screw-ups we are, and then tells me we’re his prime partnership!”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “That we’re the best?” Kazmaroff shook his head. “No, man. I thought feeling miserable all the time was like some indication of how well we were doing. I mean, if you hate your job, and everyone tells you how much you suck, then, how can you feel like you’re doing good?”

  “You hate your job?”

  “I guess I just hate working with you. I don’t know about the job.”

  Burton nodded and pushed another stack of papers around.

  “So did he say he’d do it? The Chief?”

  Kazmaroff turned and walked to the door.

  “He said he’d okay it if you agreed to it. I told him that’d be no problem.” Without waiting for a response, Kazmaroff walked out the door, shutting it hard behind him.

  Burton sat quietly at his desk, staring at the closed door of the squad room.

  Finally free of the obnoxious son of a bitch.

  He turned to pick up the phone to call Tess and confirm tomorrow evening’s ride, when the phone rang.

  It was his wife.

  “I’m just on my way home,” he said.

  “Don’t bother,” she said. Her voice tired and unemotional. “Daddy called and Aunt Liv is worse. I’m flying down there tonight. I’m walking out the door right now. I left you a note and a casserole in the freezer.”

  “Sorry to hear about Aunt Liv,” Burton said, his mind whirling with possibilities--none of them related to the old woman’s condition.

  “Yeah, right. So I’ll be home Sunday night. I
’ll call you from the airport.”

  “Okay, yeah, I’ll pick you up.”

  “There’s my taxi. Bye, Jack.”

  “Bye, Dana. See you Sunday.”

  Jack hung up the phone. Times like these he almost regretted that he and Dana had never gotten into the habit of endearments. It would make things so much easier, so much less obvious. An interjected dear or darling could soften even the hardest circumstances, he thought.

  He turned in his chair and stared at the telephone.

  First Dave. Then Dana. Well, well.

  Chapter Eight

  1

  The noise from the living room could be heard from the street. The sound of squealing children, mixed with an incessantly loony musical rift, forced Robert Shue to hesitate on the doorstep of his own home.

  They’d obviously started early, he thought, wondering if the crowd of parked cars on the street front was a true testimony to the size of the crowd inside. Sandra must have invited everyone in Chelsea’s second grade class.

  “Daddy! Daddy! You’re home early!” An exuberant little girl, her brown curls long and flying around her face, jerked open the heavy front door and flew into Shue’s arms. He dropped his briefcase--even the one with the new laptop in it--and scooped up his daughter.

  “Yes, of course, angel,” Shue said, still holding the girl, and shutting the door behind him. “Had to see this kind of bedlam with my own eyes. Are you having fun?”

  “Oh, so much fun!” The girl wriggled free and dashed off into the crowd of children.

  His wife appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “Oh, good,” she said, smiling. “The cavalry has arrived.”

  “Where are the parents?” Shue asked before kissing his wife on the mouth. “Are all these little darlings drop-offs? I thought the invitation read--”

  “It did and they are.” His wife laughed. “You know the line: ‘Can I just dash down the street to...I won’t be a minute and so-and-so’s very well-behaved...”

  Shue shrugged out of his jacket and threw it on the back of a kitchen chair.

  “How many we got?”

  “About twenty. Come into the kitchen and let’s do a drink before we have to cut the cake.”

  “Chelsea’s loving it,” Shue said, watching his blindfolded daughter grab the end of the donkey’s tail and jab it in the vicinity of the living room drapes.

  “Oh, yeah, she’s having a good time. How was work?”

  Shue settled on a chair in the kitchen.

  “Fine, fine. You look gorgeous, babe.”

  “Do I?” His wife grinned and swung her medium-length bronze hair around her shoulders. “You know how birthdays always make me try a little harder.” She laughed. The sound made Shue feel like smiling. As soon as he did, he felt his stomach knot.

  He’d met Sandra in college. Then, like now, she was sweet, energetic, loving, and rich. He’d loved her in spite of her being rich, or maybe because of it; he was never really sure. Sandra was just so pleasant, he reasoned when he married her. So if he was marrying her for her money, he’d decided, it was not at all disagreeable. Could be love, he thought, as he watched her now. It wasn’t an easy thing to determine. It wasn’t like how he felt about his daughter, for example. Now that was unmistakable and perfect. That was love in anyone’s book. But if what he felt for his wife was love --and he dearly hoped that it was -- it was kind of like being friends, only you screwed.

  He watched her as she made the gin and tonics, the sounds of their daughter’s glee in the background, and considered the extreme lengths he would go to protect them.

  2

  Burton stood at the gate to the back pasture and squinted out across the field. Two blue jays bathed in a shallow mud puddle. He watched them as they splashed and ruffled their feathers.

  Burton had purposely arrived early for the ride. He found himself savoring the time before Tess arrived, enjoying the anticipation. He hadn’t yet told her about his wife’s departure. He was savoring that, too.

  Jack watched as one of the geldings nudged another one in the rump and the two seemed locked in a comraderly cuddle for a moment. Then, standing sleepily butt to head, each alternately administered an occasional lash of the tail to the other’s face, shooing away flies and gnats. Jack smiled and shook his head, noticing other pairs in the pasture with the same cooperative arrangement.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  He turned to face Margo.

  She hobbled up to the gate and used her arm not in a sling to pull herself up onto the first fence slat.

  “They bat the flies off each other,” she said, still staring out to the pasture of mares and geldings. “And if one of them hears something and freaks--that’s enough for all of them to freak, too, and they’ll all stampede. They’re not a very independent bunch, horses.”

  “How you feeling, Margo?”

  Margo eased herself back to the ground and stood next to Burton. She nodded.

  “Better. I’m doing better,” she said. “I’ve slowed down and it’s good. I mean, I feel like shit and I’m afraid you think I killed Jilly and want to put me in jail, but aside from that, it’s weird--I’ve never been better.” She didn’t look at Burton. “You’re riding Best-Boy this afternoon?”

  He nodded.

  “With Tess, again,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, well, you should be okay. He’s a little less excitable since he’s been out to pasture.”

  “Have you ever ridden him?”

  “Best-Boy?” Margo finally looked at Burton. She grinned. “No way. I mean, I’d love to. He’s a fantastic horse, but...”

  “But Jilly wouldn’t have allowed it.”

  “You must think she was a real horror. She wasn’t. Not really. I probably could’ve ridden Best-Boy if I’d pushed it. Hell, for that matter, I don’t remember asking.”

  “You ever ride with Jilly?”

  Margo made a face but whether from the question or her injuries, Burton couldn’t tell.

  “Years ago,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  “You mean, why didn’t we still pal around and ride together? Well, mainly, I took this job. It’s one thing to hack with a friend who’s also on the circuit and doing respectably in the ribbons-department, you know? It’s a totally other thing if that friend turns into the barn manager at your boarding farm.”

  “Jilly was a snob.”

  Margo snorted a laugh.

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” She shot Burton a look. “No more of a snob than Tess,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t fault either of them for it. Maybe they can’t help it.”

  “You sound angry.”

  “Oh, wow. You are so insightful.” Margo began to hobble away. “You want a cup of coffee or something? Jessie’s here. She can tack up Best-Boy for you before Tess comes.”

  Burton followed her.

  “I didn’t hate her,” Margo said as they walked. “I couldn’t hate her.”

  “And that would be because why?” Burton tossed a pebble into a squat of azaleas bordering the main barn.

  “Mostly because I was in love with her,” Margo said. Her back disappeared into the darkness of the barn.

  3

  The sun was beginning to set over the metal top of the commuter train tunnel. It burnished the slick silver top a contrasting orange, and reflected back up into the sage-green sky, sick with pollution.

  Kazmaroff stood in the parking lot of the rail station, his cell phone in his hand. The station had been cleared of commuters and now only the homicide squad of photographers, police agent and junior detectives remained.

  “Can you tell how long?” he asked the white-jacketed agent on his knees before him.

  “Give me a break, man.”

  Kazmaroff grunted in impatience. He barked at a junior policeman. “Move the crowd back another twenty yards! They’re trampling the scene.” He punched in Burton’s number again and listene
d to the recording explain yet again that his party was not available.

  He snapped it shut, and turned his attention back to the police agent and the broken body in front of them.

  The call had come in from dispatch about thirty minutes earlier:

  “I think we got your body, Dave.”

  “Great! Where?”

  “Oddest place. Stuffed in the trunk of a car at the Lindbergh MARTA rail station.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Now, as he stood in front of the opened trunk of the late-model red Infiniti, he felt his guts turn. The smell was pretty bad already. Could be from the heat. Things didn’t keep in this heat.

  “Can you at least tell me if she was strangled or bludgeoned? I’m seeing blood everywhere. Could she have been strangled and bludgeoned? Is that a puncture wound?”

  The agent looked at Kazmaroff with what appeared to be an attempt at patience.

  “Five minutes, Detective. Just give me five minutes to collect the more fragile samples.”

  Kazmaroff squatted painfully next to the man.

  “Don’t touch her,” the agent said.

  Kazmaroff ignored him. He moved the mane of long hair away from her face to examine her neck. Angry red welts were visible.

  “Enough to kill her?” he asked, pointing to the welts. “Or just part of the overall struggle?”

  The agent made a noise of exasperation.

  Kazmaroff leaned forward and extricated a strand of hay from the corpse’s cotton sweater.

  “Detective!”

  “Yeah, man, I know,” Kazmaroff said, standing again. “Don’t touch.”

  He held the piece of hay in his fingers.

  4

  “You, bastard! You killed her and I’ve spent the better part of the week in jail for it!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Kathy Sue,” Shue said, shifting the phone to his other ear and closing the door to the den. “They’ve only questioned you this week--”

  “I’m going to tell them what I know! I’m going to tell them what I saw!”