by Joel Goldman
“And I forget that you can’t resist taking them apart and putting them back together again, a perfect combination for driving two people nuts. Looks like we’re picking up where we left off.”
“I know. And,” she said, pausing and taking a deep breath, “while we’re at it, how’d it go with Joy last night?”
I shuddered, a mild flurry. “It didn’t. She was in her room with the door closed when I got home, and the door was still closed when I left this morning.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. “Separate bedrooms?”
“When she needs the space.”
“What do you call that?”
“I don’t know what to call it. It’s not what it was when we were married or when we were first divorced. All I can say is that we’re feeling our way.”
“Are you in love with her?”
I hesitated, searching for the right words, saying things out loud that I’d struggled to piece together in my mind.
“Crazy, can’t wait to see her, rip her clothes off, suck all the air out of the room in love? No. Build a life, laugh and cry, retire and die love? Not that, either. Help each other through the night because we can’t do it alone and that’s all we’ve got left and we owe it to one another. If that’s being in love, then yeah.”
“I’d call that noble and a little bit sad, but I’m not sure I’d call it being in love.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying that’s what it is.”
“And you’re willing to settle for that for the rest of your life?”
I smiled, shaking my head. “It’s not my life we’re talking about. It’s Joy’s, and she’s dying. The cancer has spread, and there’s not much the doctors can do about it except to tell us to think in terms of months, not years.”
Kate paled, her hand at her throat. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, Jack.”
“Like you said before, you don’t walk away from someone you care about even if you have a good reason.”
“Well, that’s enough to make me feel heartless, rotten, and small.”
“Me too. So you get my point.”
“Yeah, I get it, but you could have told me, you know, before I made a complete ass of myself.”
I nodded. “I could have, but I didn’t know how to fit it into…”
“Into what?”
“Us.”
She thought for a moment, staring at me. “Duty always comes first for you, doesn’t it, Jack?”
I took a deep breath. “Yeah.”
“And what comes next, when you’ve done your duty?”
“It seems like I never get that far.”
“I hope you get the chance to find out. You deserve that. At least your night ended uneventfully.”
“Depends on your point of view. Ammara Iverson was waiting for me with copies of the KCPD files on the Martin and Montgomery cases when I got home.”
“Another gift horse about which I don’t ask any questions and you don’t tell any lies?”
“You catch on quick.”
“Okay. Where are the files?”
“At home. Lucy is going to pick them up this morning.”
“What’s in them that we don’t already know?”
“I haven’t had time to go through them. I’ll let Lucy and Simon pick them apart. Let’s go grocery shopping.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Staley’s Market was near the intersection of St. John and Monroe; a thirty-foot brick and glass storefront shielded by wrought-iron bars, the name spelled out in flickering purple neon stretched across the center panel, flanked by promises of everyday low prices, fresh produce, and cold beer painted in twelve-inch red and yellow script. The aisles were empty, no cashiers ringing up sales, no baggers offering paper or plastic, and no shoppers sorting coupons. A hand-drawn notice was taped on the door, papering over the hours of operation, announcing the market was closed, out of business, impossible to tell which was cause and which was effect. An American flag hung limp from a bracket bolted into the frame.
The lights were off, but there was enough daylight to illuminate narrow aisles of canned goods, cereals, snacks, detergents, lightbulbs, toilet paper, and toothpaste. Refrigerated and frozen cases lined one wall; meat, poultry, and produce the other. Three abandoned check-out lines stood at the front. Powerball tickets offering billion-to-one odds against turning a dollar into fairy dust were looped around spindles next to the registers alongside packages of cigarettes and copies of the National Enquirer. I tried the front door, pounding when it wouldn’t open.
A man appeared at the back, his head visible over the top of a swinging saloon door, a fluorescent ceiling fixture shedding cool light behind him. He hesitated before easing one side half open, his arm tucked under the apron hanging from his neck. He edged into the store like he was testing thin ice, taking his time getting to the front, his hidden hand gripping something at his waist as he turned the lock and opened the door a crack.
“Looking for Nick Staley.”
“That’s me, but I’m closed.”
He was an older, battered version of his son.
“We saw the sign. You’re out of business?”
“You saw the sign. What? You think I’m kidding?”
“Not kidding, just maybe not yet. We don’t want to buy anything.”
“Neither does anyone else. Not enough, anyway. If you’re from the bank, tell them I’ve got a guy coming to give me a bid on the inventory and fixtures. Tell them they’ll get some of what I owe but not all of it. They want to come after me for the rest you tell them they’re wasting their time. I’m walking away from here without a pot to piss in. There’s nothing they can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”
I tried pulling the door open, and he raised the hand under his apron, the barrel of a gun outlined against the thin fabric. I stopped, the hard cast in his eyes telling me he was willing. The iron bars testified to the rough neighborhood and hard times, so it was no surprise that he was cautious. The surprise was that he felt threatened by Kate and me.
“You won’t need that. We’re not from the bank, and we’re not armed.” I opened my jacket, lifting it above my waist and turning around. “My name is Jack Davis. This is Kate Scranton. We’re working with a lawyer named Ethan Bonner. He represents a friend of yours, Jimmy Martin. We’d like to talk to you about him.”
He took his time, chewing his lip, making up his mind before motioning to the rear of the store. “We’ll talk in the back.”
Half-empty shelves confirmed that Staley was going out of business. What merchandise he had wouldn’t last a week. I could guess what happened. As his customers got laid off, they stopped buying as much, making it hard for him to stay current with the bank. Roni said he’d diverted rent money from his real estate, but it wasn’t enough, forcing the bank to cut off his credit and his suppliers to cut off their shipments and his mortgage lender to foreclose. No customers, no credit, no groceries, no future, a personal pandemic of economic ruin repeated all across the country.
There was a small warehouse on the other side of the saloon door, empty wooden produce crates scattered on the floor, a folding table and chairs butting up against a sloppy pyramid made of overturned cardboard boxes. A calendar hung on one wall advertising a different power tool each month, and a radio sat on a three-drawer file cabinet tuned to an oldies station, the volume low, music mixing with static.
Staley turned the radio off, settled into a chair, and folded his arms across his chest. He had a fighter’s face, his forehead layered with scar tissue, his nose crooked and squashed, the look of a man who’d given as good as he got, the split decision written in his washed-out eyes.
“I don’t know nothin’ about Jimmy’s trouble.”
“Which trouble?” I asked him.
“What d’ya mean?”
“Jimmy is in a lot of trouble. Which trouble are you talking about?”
“I heard he got busted for stealin’ some copper off a construction sit
e. I don’t know nothin’ about that, and if he’s got his tit in the wringer some other way, I don’t know nothin’ about that neither.”
“But you do know Jimmy.”
“I know him.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “He’s from Northeast, I’m from Northeast. Both of us were in the Marines. You live here long enough, you know people. “
“You guys asshole buddies? Get drunk, chase women, play poker?”
He cocked his head, one corner of his mouth turned down and sour. “Shit. I know him, that’s all.”
“How about his wife, Peggy? You know her?”
He shifted in his chair, uneasy coming back to center. “Seen her around. Same as him.”
“You ever see Peggy when Jimmy wasn’t around?”
“What are sayin’?”
“She ever come into the store by herself?”
“Now and then. Most everybody in the neighborhood came through here one time or another. Or they did until everything went into the shitter. Now most of the stuff left on my shelves is past the sell-by date. Nobody’s got any money. I don’t know whose food people are puttin’ on their table, but it sure as hell isn’t mine.”
“Yeah. It’s tough all over. Peggy Martin, you get close to her?”
He laughed. “That’s what this is about? Jimmy tell you I was bangin’ his wife? Even if I was, what’s that got to do with him rippin’ off that construction site?”
“Were you banging his wife?”
He shook his head, smiling. “Not that I couldn’t have if I’d have wanted some of that. Peggy, she gets around. Least that’s what Jimmy said; why they split up.”
“Jimmy told you why they split up? I thought you and him didn’t hang out.”
“We might’ve had a couple of beers now and then. Run into each other at the Jigger, a bar over on Independence Avenue. Lot of the locals get pickled there on Friday nights.”
“When was the last time Jimmy and you talked about his wife?”
He pursed his lips, rubbed his chin. “Hell, I don’t know for sure; probably a month or so ago. What’s this about?”
“Jimmy tell you who he thought his wife was seeing?”
“Said he wasn’t for sure but someone was going to pay.”
“What do you think he meant by that?”
“Christ, who knows what a man means by anything he says when he’s drunk.”
“You say that everybody knows everybody around here. You hear any talk about who might have been Peggy’s boyfriend?”
He shrugged. “People talk a lot, mostly about stuff they don’t know nothin’ about.”
“We could use a name.”
“What’s that got to do with Jimmy gettin’ busted?”
“No one has seen Jimmy’s kids in three weeks. The police think he kidnapped them, maybe even killed them, to punish Peggy. If she has a boyfriend, we want to talk to him, find out if he knows anything about the kids.”
He sighed. “I heard about the kids. That’s tough, real tough. I wish I could help you. All I can tell you is that Peggy’s got a big appetite; you know what I’m sayin’. A woman like that will do most anything.”
“Jimmy’s sitting in jail instead being out on bail because he won’t answer any questions about his kids. You think he’d hurt them?”
“No way. Man loved his kids. Talked about them all the time. Told me he’d never let Peggy have them and that he was going all out for custody.”
I pointed at his belly. “What is that under your apron? A .38?”
He smiled, patting the gun. “Nine-millimeter, man’s best friend.”
“We scare you that much?”
“These days, mister, getting out of bed in the morning scares me.”
Chapter Forty
“That must be a hard way to live,” Kate said.
He grunted. “I’ve had it worse.”
She leaned forward. “I can’t imagine how.”
“I did two tours in the first Gulf War, made sergeant. When I got out, I joined the Guard, figured to pick up a paycheck for one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer. Got sent back to Iraq after 9/11. Spent a year dodgin’ IEDs and snipers. Watched a lot of my men get blown apart.”
“Is that where you broke your nose?”
He rubbed it with the palm of his hand. “Nah. Did some boxin’, local Golden Gloves and when I was in the Marines.”
She smiled, knowing that most people can’t resist the impulse to reciprocate, the instinctive response building rapport and trust. She made it impossible, using her entire face, eyes lively, cheeks full and raised, mouth wide, framing her perfect gleaming teeth, adding a casual aren’t you something toss of her hair. His smile came in a flash with a soft blush—primal brain circuits picking up the subtle signal she intended loud and clear.
“You risk your life serving your country, come home, build a business, and then lose it because a bunch of greedy Wall Street speculators drive the economy off a cliff. I can see how that would make a fighter like you so angry he couldn’t see straight.”
He pulled himself up to the table. “You got that right, lady.”
“But I don’t understand how that would scare a man who’s survived two wars so badly he’d go around hiding a gun under his apron.” Staley started to rise, his eyes narrow, his jaw tight as she reached across the table and wrapped her hand around his wrist. “Tell us, maybe we can help.”
He pulled his wrist free, his voice a low growl. “We’re done here.”
“Almost,” I said, keeping my seat. “What’s Brett going to do now that you’re closing?” I asked him.
He stiffened. “How do you know Brett?”
“Met him yesterday at Roni Chase’s office.”
“Roni? What’s she got to do with Jimmy’s case?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. I’m helping her with something else. Where’s your son?”
“What do you want with my boy?”
“Did you know Frank Crenshaw?”
He nodded, dropping into his chair.
“Sure, I knew him.”
“What do you know about his murder?”
He glanced from side to side, breathing deeply, touching his hand to his temple and letting it slide across his jaw.
“Brett called and told me about Roni shooting Frank, and then I saw the rest of it on the news about Frank getting killed at the hospital.” He clasped his hands, setting them on the table, arms extended. “I been telling Brett since he was old enough to listen that those Chase women are nothing but trouble, starting with the old lady, Lilly. No reason why Roni was gonna turn out any different.”
“Did Brett know Frank Crenshaw?”
“Yeah, he knew him.”
“They ever have any problems, get into any arguments?”
He sat up. “Hey, what are you saying? You come in here accusing me of screwing Jimmy Martin’s wife, and now you’re all but saying my boy killed Frank! You got some nerve, mister!”
“Did you know that Brett came to the hospital right after Crenshaw was murdered and that the police questioned him?”
Staley shook his head, dipping his chin. “No. He didn’t say nothing about that.”
“When was the last time you saw your son?”
He let out a long breath, looked away, coming back and staring through us.
“It’s important,” Kate said. “Please.”
“Sunday night,” he said, looking away.
“When?” I asked.
“Late, close to midnight.”
“Where?”
He fell back against his chair, dropping his hands in his lap, resigned. “Here. I was finishing up the inventory, what’s left of it. The bank wanted it last week, but I figured, what the hell, what are they gonna do if I turn it in late, you know what I’m saying?”
“Was he helping you take inventory, or did he just happen to show up while you were here?”
“I should’ve been home in bed, but I haven’t b
een sleeping much. Figured might as well get the inventory done. Beats the hell out of lying in bed, listening to my wife snore.”
“What was Brett doing here?”
He sat up, reddened again, gripping the edge of the table, spitting his words. “Money. He wanted the cash we use to start the day. Said there was no point in leaving it lying around on account of we were out of business.”
Kate reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. “You walked in on him, didn’t you? Caught him stealing the money?”
He ducked his head again and then lifted his eyes to meet hers, his face twisted, his voice thick. “Yeah.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“I asked him, ‘What’s the money for? Why didn’t you just ask me for it?’ But he wouldn’t tell me, just said he needed it, that’s all.”
“Did you let him have the money?” she asked.
He looked down and away. “No. I smacked him in the mouth and threw him out. Haven’t seen or talked to him since.”
“Did Brett ever talk about someone named Cesar Mendez?”
Staley spat. “Fucking greaser gangster.”
“You know him?”
“He comes in the store.”
“Where’s Brett live?” I asked.
“Shitty little rental house in Sheffield.”
I handed him the notepad I carried. “Write it down and give me a number where I can reach you. I’ll call you when I find him. Did he say anything about Roni, about buying her funeral dress?”
“Him and that damn dress! Worst thing that ever happened to my family was Vivian Chase getting herself shot. Ever since that night, the Chases and the Staleys been stuck with one another. Roni tell you about that?”
“She did. Said your father was the one who delivered Vivian’s funeral dress to the funeral home.”
“My old man,” he said, shaking his head again, “he’s what they call a real romantic. Loved to tell how he fell for Lilly Chase that night, right on the spot, but she wasn’t interested in him or any other man as far as that goes. But Pop kept after her, sending flowers, writin’ her poems, waiting for her after school until she took a shot at him one day and he finally got the message.”
