Witch House

by Dana Donovan

  His smile fell away. “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a number to a local movie directory; you know where you call in and a recorded voice tells you what is playing in what theater?”

  “A movie hotline?”

  “Yes.”

  Carlos said, “Maybe he took in a movie last night.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Carlos, you have the name of that woman Tarkowski gave us, Landau’s fiancée?”

  He pulled out his notepad and flipped through a few pages. “Stiles, Stephanie Stiles.”

  “Right.” I pointed to Spinelli. “Check her out. See what her story is, and while you are at it, find out what you can about anyone else involved in the robbery or the trial. This guy buck-tooth what’s his name—”

  “Johnny Buck,” said Carlos, his finger pressed to his two front teeth. “Johnny Buck Allis.”

  I smiled at that. “Johnny Buck. Yes. See what we know about him, too. Does he have any relatives around here that maybe wanted to get back at Landau for killing him? Same goes for the driver of the armored truck. You never know. He might have a brother, son or whoever that has just been waiting for this day to come.”

  “Got it,” said Spinelli, penciling my requests onto a tablet. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, find out what cops were involved in this, too: the first responders, the investigating officers and the arresting officer. If some of them are still around, then maybe we can pick their brains a little.”

  “Okay.” Spinelli punctuated the last order with an exclamation point. “You want the kid’s address now?”

  “The kid?”

  “Adam Landau?”

  “Landau. Yes, of course.”

  He flipped through several pages of his tablet, tore off a sheet and handed it to me. “He’s home now. I had a black and white do a drive by twenty minutes ago to check for his truck. It’s in the driveway.”

  “Really?”

  He gave us a light-hearted shrug. “The guy’s a carpenter. I figured there was a good chance he got rained out today.”

  I took the address from him. “Nice work,” I said, and with a look from Carlos to remind me, I added, “Dominic.”

  THREE

  In a stroke of pathetic timing, it seemed the rain began falling hard again just as we stepped foot out the door of the Justice Center. Because we had returned to the office after nine o’clock, the only parking spots left were all the way in the back of the lot. I knew then if I wanted to stay dry that it was going to cost me. I handed Carlos the car keys.

  “Go on,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”

  He stitched his brows in a permanent crease. “I think not. You get the car. I’ll wait here.”

  “Carlos, it’s your turn.”

  “No, it’s your turn.” He tried pushing the keys into my hand, but I would not take them. “You’re the one who parked way the hell out there. I told you to use the handicapped spot.”

  “And you’re the one who left the umbrella. I told you to take it just in case.”

  “Why didn’t you take your umbrella?”

  “Because it wasn’t raining then.”

  “So why would I take mine?”

  I could see we were getting nowhere. I reached for the keys. “All right, fine, but you’re buying lunch.”

  He snatched the keys back before I could grab them. “Are you saying you’ll buy lunch if I get the car?”

  I knew that would get him. “Sure.”

  “At the Percolator.”

  “All right then.” Oh, I thought, if only life were just that simple.

  On the way out to see Adam Landau, I asked Carlos what he thought about the case so far. He told me I might be on to something with the vengeful relative theory. More than money and second to passion, revenge is a most powerful motive.

  “It makes sense,” he said. “The guy’s not out of prison twenty-four hours and he gets whacked, yet he still has his wallet, money, a diamond ring; clearly robbery was not a motive.”

  “So, what do you make of the ring? That he had it would seem to indicate he met with his fiancée. Something had to go badly there or I should think he would have spent the night with her.”

  “S`pose they had an argument?”

  “Sure. Why else would he be drinking in a bar? If I just spent seventeen years in prison without female companionship, I know where I would want to spend my first night of freedom.”

  He agreed, adding, “We have to consider the fiancée a suspect.”

  “Of course. Listen, when you get a chance, call Spinelli back and ask him to send you a picture of Stephanie Stiles. We may need to show it around.”

  “Good idea.”

  “And find out when Pete’s Place opens. The barkeep there may have been the last person to see René Landau alive. Maybe he knows something.”

  Carlos nodded, as though taking mental notes. Naturally, I assumed I would have to remind him again later, but that is the nice thing about Carlos. He may seem preoccupied at times when really, he does get it. I do not know why, after all these years I still do not give him the credit he has earned. I suppose that is why I may never fully recognize Spinelli’s credentials either. There is just not enough time in a witch’s life, I suppose.

  The slowing of rain made it easy to hopscotch the puddles out front of Adam Landau’s house until we made it to his door. The crosswinds kicking up as we waited for him to answer, however, told me that navigating back to the car would not be as uneventful. I looked back at Carlos and noticed he had remembered his pocket-sized telescoping umbrella. I already owed him lunch at the Percolator. I wondered what price I would have to pay to arrive there dry.

  The first thing that struck me about Adam Landau, as he greeted us at the door, was how much he looked like his father; the second was how he seemed none too surprised to see us.

  “Adam Landau?” I showed him my badge and ID, and Carlos showed him his. I am Detective Marcella, N.C.P.D. This here is Detective Rodriquez. May we come in?”

  He stepped away from the door and presented a path with a sweep of his hand. “Please,” he said. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  We followed his invite and Carlos shut the door behind us. It looked like Adam had been working out before we arrived. His sleeveless tee shirt and shorts were wet with perspiration, although the house was almost as cold as outdoors. His hair was wet; beads of sweat ran off his brows and down his temples, collecting on a towel draped around the back of his neck. A similar cloth covered the seat and backrest of a Nautilus workout machine across the room. I waited for him to pat his face dry before delivering the news.

  “We are here about your father,” I said.

  He seemed bothered by that, perhaps expecting we were there looking for him. “I’m not surprised,” he told us. “What did he do, go and get himself in trouble already? I told him last night not to go—”

  “He’s dead.”

  The abrupt silence drew my attention to the start of raindrops tapping on the window outside. We had barely made it in before the skies opened up again. I looked at Carlos and noticed him clutching his umbrella just a bit tighter.

  “What?”

  I knew Adam heard me, and that his blinking was merely an involuntary motor function tied to the psychological defense mechanism of denial. “I’m sorry. We found him this morning in an alley behind a bar on Jefferson.”

  “Dead?”

  “Murdered.”

  “No….” He turned away, numb to the cold that was my news and sat upon the sofa. “I don’t understand.” His voice cracked above a whisper. “I just saw him yesterday.”

  I moved in closer to hear him better, hoping he would not have to repeat himself. “When was that, Adam?”

  He shook his head lightly. “I don’t know, noon, maybe. He had just gotten out of prison.” Adam looked up at me. His gaze glossed over, but tears had not yet broken. “This was supposed to be a new beginning for us. Do you know how long I’ve been w
aiting for him to get out?”

  “I do.” I sat down beside him. Carlos moved in closer. I suspected so that he could hear better, too. “Were you and your father close?” I asked.

  He laughed. “We were, if you can believe it. I wrote to him in prison all the time. You know, when I was a kid, even as I bounced from one foster home to another, I always felt that one day I would be with him. And now….”

  He trailed off without needing to finish. I looked up at Carlos and caught him checking his watch. It seemed rude, but I am sure Adam did not notice. Outside, the rain began hitting the window in squall-like intervals. I imagined it would keep us there longer than any of us wanted. There had been no thunder accompanying the weather system that week; not unusual I suppose. I have seen it rain sometimes for days without a break in clouds or a pause for thunder. A steady rain can grow on you sometimes, its rhythmic pulse both seductive and hypnotic. It is all right if you fall into a daydream listening to its charms in peaceful confines, but to wallow in grief while in its trance can easily push a man over the edge of depression.

  “Adam,” I said. “Do you have someone you can be with now, a friend maybe, to help you in your grief?”

  “I have Trish.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Trish Rosado, my girlfriend.” He leaned back on the sofa, gesturing with a nod toward a framed photo on the end table. Carlos and I followed his gesture. In the picture, we saw Adam, his arm around an attractive young woman, blond hair, curls to her shoulders, a movie star smile and azure eyes like ocean jewels. “I was going to ask her to marry me,” said Adam, “now that my dad was out of prison.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was going to get a ring for me to give to her. That’s where he was going when he left here.”

  “Where was that?”

  He looked up at me without moving his head. “He went to break up with his slut bag fiancée and get back the ring he gave her.”

  “Stephanie Stiles?”

  “That’s her.”

  “You don’t like her, I take it.”

  “Chyea! Ya think?”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because, the bitch hops. She’s a pigeon.”

  “A pigeon?”

  “What? You don’t know what that is?”

  “Well, it’s just that I….”

  “You know, maybe you should leave now. I want to be alone.”

  In that instant, I felt the reins of the interview slipping from my hands. I think Carlos sensed it, too. He stepped in and asked Adam, “What’s her bad, man?”

  He looked up at him curiously. “You want to know?”

  “Yeah, why you all salty on her?”

  “I’ll tell you why. While my dad’s cribbin` up at Walpole, she’s out cup-cakin` in all that, jockin` her monkey for drinks and smack and kickin` boots with any L7 lookin` her way.”

  “Whale-tailin` that badunk-a-dunk, eh?”

  “Yeah, and her bobo tatas, shit.”

  “She ain’t the lick.”

  “Damn straight she ain’t!”

  “I’m down with that, man. I feel it.”

  He smiled up at Carlos. “Man, for Five-O, you ain’t bad. You know that?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  They laughed at that and finished off by bumping fists. I admit I had no idea what had just happened, except to surmise that Adam thought lowly of Stephanie Stiles and he probably let his father know his feelings in terms equally certain. I cleared my throat and asked Adam, “Can you tell me where Stiles lives?”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly. I know she has an apartment out by the river district. Don’t know how she affords it, though. Probably mackin` some poor schmuck. I heard my dad tell the guy on the phone where he was going when he called for the taxi.”

  “I see.” I glanced back at Carlos. Once again, he was taking notes of the particulars. “So your father went to see her straight from here?”

  “That’s what he said. Now, if he got in the taxi and changed his mind from there….”

  “Did you see him after that?”

  “After he left here? No, he never came back. For all I know, he made up with the bitch. I couldn’t call him. He had no phone.”

  “I understand. Let me ask you, do you happen to have Stiles’ phone number?”

  That earned me a look similar to the one I got from Carlos when I asked him to drive us over there. “Please, why would I have her digits?”

  “All right, we’ll drop it, but if you think that Stephanie’s relationship with your father might have contributed to what happened to him, I would—”

  “I know. You would appreciate it if I let you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry, Detective. If I find out that bitch capped my dad, you will be the first to know.”

  I looked to Carlos and got a high brow from him that almost made me laugh. He can do that sometimes when we are interviewing people, and I will laugh, but he does not always know when to apply restraint for respondents that are more victim than suspect. I drew a bead across my lips and aimed to change the direction of the interview slightly.

  “Adam, you say that you and your father kept close ties while he was in prison?”

  “Yeah, we wrote each other all the time, especially these last few months when it looked like he was going to get his papers.”

  “Did he mention anything about anyone being out to get him? Was he worried about someone maybe looking for him when he got out?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of any contacts he might have had with anyone else while he was in jail?”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry. Is this about the money from the armored truck hold up?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Of course. I may have only been a kid when he robbed that truck, but I was not stupid.”

  “So, what do you think happened to the money?”

  He leaned back again and laced his fingers over his stomach. “There is no money, Detective. It burned up in the fire.”

  “Along with Johnny Buck?”

  “Yeah.” He unstitched his fingers and went back to folded arms. “Along with Johnny Buck.”

  “Is that what your father told you?”

  “Yes. He thought it was funny how everyone went looking for the money. All these years and nobody found it. You would think they might figure it out.”

  “You believe it’s gone.”

  He looked at me, and this time turning his head to assure eye contact. “Yes, Detective, if my dad said it’s gone; it is gone.” He looked up at Carlos and caught him staring with opened mouth, his pencil frozen mid-sketch atop his notepad. I waited for him to release Carlos from his glare before pressing on.

  “Do you still have any of his letters?”

  He blinked a few times before answering, which made me think he was considering denying if he had them. Then he turned and looked toward the Nautilus workout machine, and the desk beside it. “Over there,” he said. “Help yourself.”

  I got up and crossed the room, stopping at the old secretary-desk littered with bills, papers and letters of all sorts. The correspondences from René Landau were easy to single out. Those were the ones on prison stationary neatly refolded and tucked back into their original envelopes. I removed one letter from the top envelope; the one dated latest, and read it. There seemed nothing curious in its contents, and indeed, it seemed to convey an expatiation of a joyful reunion. I was still reading when I heard Adam clear his throat.

  “Find anything of interest, Detective?”

  I folded the letter and stuffed it back into its envelope. “No,” I said, “except that I see your father and I had something in common.”

  He smiled curiously. “Oh?”

  “Yes, we are both just a bit dyslexic. I see he wrote; till next time, only he spelled time, tmie.”

  He laughed. “I do that, too. It’s about the only thing he ever gave me, that and his big Frenc
h nose. He had the same problem with numbers. Half his letters never made it to my door without first getting rerouted through someone else’s mailbox.”

  “I see in this letter that he also mentions the cabin.”

  “Yeah, he wanted to go fishing up there as soon as he got out. It’s something we used to do all the time when I was a kid.”

  “He knows of a sweet hole, does he?”

  “What?”

  “He makes reference to a fishing spot with GPS coordinates.”

  “Oh, that.” He seemed to pass it off with a shrug. “The lake’s fed by hot springs. It’s got lots of hot spots where the fish gather. He was always mapping them out for future visits.”

  “Adam,” I held the letter up for his inspection. “Would you mind if I borrowed this? I am hoping there might be something in here that may lend a clue into your father’s death.”

  He dismissed it with a wave. “Sure, if you think it’ll help.”

  “Thank you.” I pitched an ear toward the window and listened for the rain. It had let up significantly, though I did not expect that to last long. “I suppose we should be getting on now.” I glanced at Carlos. He could not have looked more relieved. Adam got up and met me halfway across the room.

  “Detective?” he offered his handshake. I took it. “If you find out anything about my father’s killer, you’ll—”

  “I will let you know. I promise. In the meantime,” I gave him my card, “call if you need us or want to talk.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, and one more thing. I have to ask you this. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Right here, Detective.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That is what you were going to ask me, isn’t it? You want to know where I was last night.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I was here the entire night.”

  “You can substantiate that?”

  “You can ask my girlfriend. We were together.”

  “That’s Trish.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is Trish now?”

  “Working.”

  “Where?” I saw Carlos reach for his notepad.

  “Down at the Percolator. She’s a waitress there.”

  “I see.” Carlos slipped his notepad back into his pocket. “Just for the record, do you own a gun?”