Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries)

by Bartlett, L. L.

  Where the hell was my cat?

  “Herschel? Where are you, boy?”

  The darkroom door was open. Holy Christ, what if he’d gotten into any of those hazardous photo chemicals?

  Everything was sealed — at least I’d left it that way, having dumped the last batch of chemicals the day before. But the cat wasn’t inside. I turned off the light, my hand still shaking as I closed the door.

  There weren’t many other places for a cat to hide.

  The ceiling light blazed when I threw the bedroom switch, I looked around. The closet door was still shut, the bedspread was unwrinkled. I crouched down, lifted the dust ruffle Maggie insisted I needed under the mattress, and found two frightened amber eyes staring back at me.

  “It’s okay, pal, he’s gone. You can come out now.”

  Herschel glared at me as if to say, “No way.”

  I struggled to my feet and headed for the kitchen, finding the counter behind the breakfast bar littered with empty chip bags, an empty bread bag and a jar of open peanut butter, with smears of it on the sink where the dirty knife had been tossed. I looked across the way to see a couple of what I’d bet were empty beer cans sitting on my coffee table.

  Trying to throttle back my sense of rage, I retrieved a can of cat food from the kitchen cabinet, pulled the flip tab and dumped it into a bowl. Returning to the bedroom, I again crouched down and offered the cat a treat, but even his favorite flavor couldn’t entice Herschel to venture out from his safe hiding place.

  “I don’t blame you, pal.” I slipped it under the bed and replaced the dust ruffle.

  Returning to the living room, I opened the windows to air out the place, then returned to the kitchen to pour a glass of Maker’s Mark on the rocks. I settled on one of my living room wing chairs, kicked off my shoes, and tried to decide just what it was I felt. Anger, for one, but also a sense of violation. If I was honest, I’d felt that way since the minute Da-Marr had walked into Richard’s study three days before.

  All the good feelings I’d experienced with Maggie had been obliterated.

  I raised the glass to my lips to take a sip and then thought better of it. I held the glass up to the light. Something wasn’t right. I sniffed it, wrinkling my nose. Something had been added to the dark amber liquid, and I didn’t want to speculate what that might be. I tossed it in the sink and put the glass in the dishwasher before disposing of the rest of it. The bottle of Jack Daniels hadn’t been opened. I grabbed more ice and poured it into a fresh glass.

  The chilly night air wafted through the opened windows and I figured the place had been aired out enough. Where the hell had Da-Marr gotten the pot? While he’d been out on his little joy ride during the afternoon? How had he found a dealer so fast?

  I was on my second drink when Herschel finally crept into the living room. He warily studied his surroundings and, crouched low, made a circuit around the room before he jumped onto my lap. He nudged my chin, and I scratched his head. It took him a minute or two to settle down. A minute after that, he began to purr. He didn’t sit on my lap often. Usually he’d perch on the back of my chair or beside me, but he must have felt terribly insecure to need so much reassurance.

  “I’m gonna fix this, buddy,” I said as I scratched his chin. “I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I’m going to fix this so that you won’t have to be frightened by that asshole ever again.”

  Herschel head-butted my hand and purred even harder.

  I’d had maybe three hours of sleep before I got up, dressed, and took off in my car. The mega hardware store opened at eight. I arrived at the parking lot about seven-fifty and waited, as rain spattered my windshield.

  The drizzle had stopped when Richard showed up at my place about nine. I was turning the last screw on the sturdy new bolt I’d attached to the inside of my door as he came up the stairs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ensuring my privacy.”

  “Don’t be stupid. What if there was a fire?”

  I turned the screwdriver one last time. “Then I’d fry.” I got up and headed into my once-again tidy apartment. I topped up my tepid coffee. I didn’t offer Richard a cup.

  “Is that a new lock as well?”

  “It sure is.”

  He held out his hand. “I want a copy of that key.”

  “Not until your guest leaves.”

  He stood on the other side of the breakfast bar, his body coiled with tension. “Da-Marr told us what happened. What’s your version?”

  “Version?” I echoed, ready to bite his head off. “He was in my house, smoking pot at midnight. I didn’t invite him here.”

  Richard looked back at the shiny new lock and bolt. “Jeff, don’t do this. It looks like we don’t trust Da-Marr. It looks like — ”

  “I don’t care how it looks,” I grated in a tone I’d never used with Richard.

  “Take it off, now,” he said, the timbre of his voice matching mine.

  I straightened and met his deadly gaze. “Is that an order?”

  We stared at one another for a very long time.

  The new hardware wasn’t the real issue, and he knew it. Was he going to choose some punk kid he’d known for less than a week over me?

  Finally, he looked away. “I’m sorry Da-Marr invaded your privacy. He won’t do it again.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “Are you going to babysit him every hour of the day and night?”

  “Look, he’ll only be here a few more days — ”

  “Have you got that in writing, because from what Maggie tells me, Evelyn hasn’t given you guys a departure date.”

  “You’ve talked to Maggie?”

  I nodded. “We’re back together again. Really back together.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He let out a breath. “How can we get through the next week or so until they leave?”

  “Keep that kid out of my way. And if you’re smart, you’ll keep him on a short leash. I don’t know where he got that pot, but he sure as hell didn’t find it here.”

  Richard sniffed and frowned. The odor still hung in the air. At least he knew that part of my so-called story was true. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I don’t doubt a word you’ve said. But I have to live with Da-Marr, with Evelyn, and with Brenda. She’s the most important person in the world to me and I’m willing to do anything to make her happy.”

  “Is she happy having company right now?”

  He didn’t reply. We both knew the answer to that question.

  “What do we do about the boat?”

  Richard looked uncomfortable. “Da-Marr wants another shot at driving it.”

  “Hey, I’m still waiting for my first shot.”

  “I’m sorry about that. The adjustor came yesterday afternoon. I thought I’d try to get someone to give me an estimate on fixing the upholstery. Otherwise, I was going to head over to the marina just to clean out everything that’s busted. I could use some help.”

  “I’d be glad to give you a hand. But not if the kid comes.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough.”

  A banging noise came through the floor from the garage below. “What’s that?” I asked, pretty sure I already knew the answer.

  “Evelyn thinks Da-Marr needs to stay occupied. She wants him to cut the grass.”

  “It’s wet. And we don’t have a working mower.”

  The sound of an engine roaring to life made mock of that statement.

  “Apparently he fixed it.”

  “Then he’s good for something, at least. Maybe we should take advantage of the situation and head to the marina.”

  Again he nodded. “I’ll tell Brenda and meet you back here in a few minutes.”

  “Right.”

  I watched in him leave, pulling the door closed behind him, then I wandered over to the window that overlooked not only Richard’s driveway but gave me a view of a chunk of the backyard. Sure enough, Da-Marr had already started cutti
ng a swath through the lawn.

  I gave up on my coffee, tossing it down the sink and putting the mug in the dishwasher before I grabbed my jacket. Herschel was nowhere in sight, probably sacked out on my bed. I locked the door and hoped he wouldn’t be terrorized again during my absence. Hell, I hoped that when I returned I wouldn’t be terrorized again, either.

  Chapter 11

  We made one stop on the way to the way marina, hitting the closest Wegmans to buy a box of trash bags. From what I’d seen the day before, we were going to need all thirty of them.

  A slice of blue sky had somehow managed to cut through the bank of clouds overhead as Richard drove through the marina’s opened gates. Though in one respect it seemed like ages had passed since we’d been there the day before, I was surprised to see that the number of boats now missing from their slips had substantially increased. The thought of impending winter depressed me, and yet there was no place on earth I’d rather be. For better or for worse, Buffalo was home, and I now regretted those eighteen years I’d stayed away.

  Richard unlocked the trunk and I grabbed Baby Suck — my mini shop vac. We didn’t speak as we made our way to the boat. Richard already had the okay from Frank, the marina manager, to dump the trash in their Dumpster. Sure, it was worth letting us do that to try to avoid a lawsuit, not that he blamed them. The truth was, I was pretty sure there was no negligence on their part. We still had no clue who had owned the boat before that auction, and someone had obviously been looking for something. Drugs probably, but if there’d been any, I was pretty sure some pot-or coke-sniffing dog would have found it long before the boat had been released for auction.

  We stopped in front of the outside deck and stared at the lock the vandal had smashed to gain entrance to the boat. Someone at the marina had used duct tape to secure the door, but in the damp environment, the filament tape had failed miserably. Richard looked heartsick, so I took the lead and rolled back the sliding glass door to gain us entrance.

  “Brenda hasn’t even seen the boat and already she hates it,” he muttered.

  “She’ll feel different come summer,” I said, trying to sound hopeful, but I had a suspicion Brenda’s lack of enthusiasm was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to overcome.

  When we’d first scoped it out at auction, I’d been as elated as Richard to board Easy Breezin’. I’d been caught up in the excitement of the prospect of lovely summer evenings spent with him and Brenda, and seeing Maggie sunning herself on the bow, while little Betsy Ruth toddled around chewing on her toys while giggling uproariously. That little girl was going to be a perpetual bucket of giggles. The thought brought a smile to my lips.

  Richard wasn’t smiling — and why should he? He’d probably already heard way too many utterances of “I told you so,” if not from Brenda, then from Evelyn. “We’d better get to work. Then, if there’s enough fuel in the tank, we can take her out for a spin.”

  “I do owe you your turn at the helm.”

  I laughed. “You make it sound like a starship.”

  “Mr. Sulu you ain’t,” Richard said with a laugh.

  I wish we could have kept that level of levity, but once we entered the salon and started cleaning up the aftermath of vandalism we were both somber. Hell, I thought for a moment Richard might cry. The salon had been so sleek and comfortable, but now it lay in virtual ruins, with every flat surfaced covered in black fingerprint dust. The damage was far more extensive than we’d seen standing on the dock the day before. Not only had the ivory leather upholstery been slashed, and the couch and chairs eviscerated, but the cupboards had been emptied and anything that could have been smashed — was.

  “I’m sorry, Rich,” I said as we scooped handful after handful of cushion stuffing and ruined upholstery into the plastic bags.

  “Yeah, well … it is what it is,” he said, sounding defeated.

  “There are many happy summer days ahead of us,” I said.

  “On this boat?” he asked, sounding just a little skeptical.

  I wasn’t sure about that, but I answered in the positive anyway.

  It took twenty-eight of the thirty garbage bags, and five trips to the Dumpster, before the boat looked tidy, if spartan, once again. Richard stood before the controls about to fire up the engines when a voice called out that chilled me to the bone.

  “Hey, I thought you were gonna let me drive this sucka.”

  I cringed and turned around to glare at Da-Marr.

  “How did you get here?” Richard asked, trying, but not succeeding, to hide his displeasure.

  “Brenda’s car’s got GPS,” the kid said smugly.

  I turned around to glare at Richard. “You promised me,” I grated.

  To be fair, what could he do but shrug?

  Da-Marr bypassed the steps and jumped onto the back end of the boat. His knees were seventeen years younger than mine. He brushed past me. “Sorry about last night,” he said without sincerity and went directly to the bridge deck and the boat’s controls. “Are you gonna cast off?” he asked Richard.

  The fact that Rich didn’t protest and went to the dock to untie the lines and pull in the bumpers hit me like a slap in the face. I stood there, immobile, too stunned to move — or protest — and the next thing I knew we were drifting away from the dock as Da-Marr started the boat’s powerful engines.

  Richard climbed back to the bridge deck and stood beside him, giving him the instructions he’d learned by studying the online articles he’d read and the few actual instructions he’d been given two days before. And once again I couldn’t help but feel I’d been fucked. By Da-Mar — and worse — by Richard. And now as we traveled farther and farther away from the dock, I felt trapped.

  The memory of the mugging came back to slam my psyche. I was helpless once again. I steadied myself and tried to swallow the bile that rose to try and choke me.

  Da-Marr gunned the engines, and the momentum nearly sent me onto the deck. He let out a whoop of pure joy as the boat cleared the marina and headed north out on the river.

  I staggered across the open deck and into the salon where I collapsed onto one of the wooden benches that had been a comfortable upholstered couch just two days before. And then it occurred to me that none of us was wearing life jackets, either. Richard and I had disposed of the three that had been destroyed.

  Did I really care?

  “Jeff, come on up,” Richard called, but I ignored him.

  I was behaving like a spoiled child, and I didn’t give a shit.

  The drive home was silent. What could I say that wouldn’t make me look like the petulant jerk I was? I stared out the passenger window while Richard held the steering wheel in a death grip. We were almost home when he finally spoke.

  “Sorry about all that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Listen, I could use your help on something.”

  He had the gall to ask for another favor?

  “The baby’s crib could arrive today.”

  It was supposed to have arrived weeks ago.

  “There’s just one problem. It’s coming unassembled. “

  Richard was fine with the tools of his trade — a stethoscope, thermometer, etc. — but put a real tool in his hands and he was all thumbs. I knew where this was going.

  “You want me to build it?”

  “Well, give me a hand at least.”

  “Sure.” I was quiet for a moment. “Brenda doesn’t know it’s coming unassembled?”

  “No. It was the only way I could get it here before the baby came, and — ”

  I held up a hand to stave off the rest of the explanation. “Sure. But I have to go to work tonight.”

  “Tomorrow morning then?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  He pulled up the driveway, opened the garage door, and pulled in. He opened the trunk and I retrieved my shop vac, putting it away. I was about to head upstairs when I noticed Richard standing in the driveway, staring at something. I joined him and my rage ignited
once again.

  The garden that had ringed the backyard had been filled with annuals when we’d left, but now all that was left were the chewed-up remains. All my hard work — gone. They wouldn’t have lasted much longer, but they wouldn’t have been so thoroughly destroyed by a mulching lawnmower, either.

  “I don’t know what to say, Jeff. I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak and turned and stomped off for my apartment. I needed to change clothes and feed Herschel before I headed for The Whole Nine Yards. I needed to cool off.

  I wanted to commit murder.

  I don’t think I was ever so happy to get to my minimum-wage job. Still, the tedium of washing glasses and drawing beers wasn’t mind-numbing enough for me to work off my anger and a few of my customers took their drinks and went to sit closer to the TV. The tips were going to suck.

  It was a good two hours into my shift before I began to feel like a regular human being again. About that time a guy about my age, dressed in jeans and a Red Sox sweatshirt, entered the bar and sat down on one of the stools. I finished pouring a Molson on tap for one of the regulars before I wandered over to wait on him. “What can I get you?”

  “Got any Guinness?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, no. But we’ve got Sam Adams black lager in a bottle.”

  “That’ll do,” he said, and shifted his gaze to the TV mounted on the wall to his right where a playoffs game was just about to start.

  I set a clean glass and the beer before him and gave him the total. He gave me a five and while he poured, I made change, handing it to him.

  “My name’s Mike Ryan.”

  “Jeff Resnick,” I said, and indicated the pin on my shirt that gave my first name.

  “I was told I could find you here,” he said, taking the first sip of his beer. He nodded in approval.

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked, suddenly wary.

  “Maggie Brennan said I’d find you here.”

  For a moment, I was confused. Then it hit me. “Father Mike from Maggie’s parish?”

  He nodded and smiled. “That would be me.”

  I offered him my hand, wanting to make a good impression for Maggie’s sake. “Good to meet you.”