“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” Hazelwood stared at me for a time and then produced several photographs from his manila folder. He laid them across the table, one at a time. They were of the forensic nature, and depicted Gracie in the trashcan, skull cracked open, all taken from various angles, and so vulnerably exposed. Her nakedness was the worst thing about them.
I suddenly felt the need to vomit, and so looked away. I might have said Oh my God. It was a ghastly series of holocaust like images that would probably never leave the playback button in my head. This wasn't how I wanted to remember her.
“I've seen enough,” I dialed my head away from Gracie's last portraits on this side of the cosmic curtain, as far away as not being an owl would allow for, despite the kind n my neck..
The door to my interrogation room opened up again, an answer to the prayer I'd never taken the time to make. One of the Bibeau triplets stood there. It might have been Elise, perhaps Desarae, nut more than likely Josephine, – the lawyer. Hazelwood, the tall one, he sighed in a miserable tone that spoke of intimate history. I sighed too, relieved to see her. But in the same token I actually felt sorry for them, now that she was finally here.
c
ELISE WAS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN I’d ever seen, whether at a party or in the church pews. But to be fair, Elise was an identical sister of triplets, which meant Desarae matched that beauty too, as did Josephine. Josephine was flawlessly dressed in a white blouse with broad triangular collars that dipped down over a slim two-button blazer and a pinstripe skirt, but perhaps most importantly, and to finish off her ensemble, a diamond necklace that could have kept disco in business long after Donna Summer. The smell of lavender and rose petals filled the room. I’d probably throw some sort of spices into the perfume stew too. But I recognized the scent. It was the enticing fragrance that attracted you to Josephine before she revealed her vampire fangs and clamped down into a vital artery.
“Bibeau,” Hazelwood's groan once more acknowledged that there had been a long and frustrated history between them, but I gathered asking him out on a bro-date at a later hour would be the way time to squeeze the juice box for details.
Josephine said: “Has my client been charged with anything?”
I looked around the room at who she might be referring to. After all, I didn’t want to assume. I think I may have pointed at myself too, and yet before Hazelwood or Mello were able to address those charges, I said: “Trying to kill Mello here with a cup of coffee. You might be able to get me off, but from what I hear, my dog is done for.”
“Shut up.” She pointed the barrel of an erected index finger at me. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you already penned a deal to have these Detectives write your memoirs.” Despite the slick suit and diamond necklace that probably cost more than my entire years’ salary, she looked pissed. Or maybe it was just the usual day-to-day order of business when dressing up as a lawyer. She took note of Gracie's morbid photo-session and turned to them. “Is my client being charged with anything?”
“Not yet,” Hazelwood.
“Then get out. And take that pornographic filth with you. I want to speak with my client alone.”
“She’s your lawyer?” Mello looked suddenly shorter and fatter and redder in the face, and more of a Muppet as he stood, casually sweeping each photograph back into his manila envelope.
“You can imagine my pain then, since she’s also my girlfriend’s sister.”
“Stay in touch.” Mello erected a finger of his own from the hall.
“But Detective Mello, I don’t have your number.”
“Thank the Maker. Don’t call us. We’ll call….”
Mello never finished his sentence, but I got the gist of it. We’ll call to set up a bro-date, maybe take a train to the Big Apple for a weekend of Broadway and shopping and private dinner reservations with the Rockettes or something. Josephine closed the door on his face despite the fact that I was clinging to the edge of my interrogation seat.
She sat down on the opposite end of the table, laid both hands flat upon it, sighed, and said: “I never have any boundaries when it comes to any of my sisters, and in this unique situation, as history continues to prove, you. Now I’m going to ask you once….”
“Good, because I’m terrible at Twenty Questions.”
“Did you know anything or have any part in the murder of Gracie Parker?”
I said:“Aside from giving Sean a ride to the airport under false pretenses, – No.”
“Have you told this much to the detectives?”
“No.”
“And you had no prior knowledge to…”
“He didn’t do it.”
“I’m not his lawyer. And since I’ll assume that his daddy-in-law won’t be lifting the bill, your friend could never afford me.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask about the family rate. I’ve been kind of thin in the pockets recently.”
“You can’t afford me either. Now I’ll ask you again. Did you have any prior knowledge to the fact that Mancini’s daughter was murdered when you drove the suspect to the airport?”
“Come on, of course not.”
“Then I don’t care if he did or didn’t.”
Josephine stared at me, twenty, thirty seconds, maybe even three quarters of a minute, but it felt like an eternity measured in microwave time, never blinking. I tried the best I could not to blink back, but I was never very good at stare-offs either. In the end she won.
“Alright,” she finally said. “I believe you.”
“Can I blink now?”
“Is that going to beam me back to my meeting with the pastoral search committee, where I pleaded with them to consider you?”
“I’m not sure. Can you rephrase the question?”
“Then I don’t care whether you blink or freeze your eyes permanently like that. In the meantime, as it pertains to the murder of Gracie Parker or the fact that you drove that friend of yours to the airport, I don’t want you so much as opening your mouth to yawn unless it’s to say No comment….”
“I was kind of hoping Tom Brokaw might give me a call.”
“If Anderson Cooper calls you up for a personal interview and I hear you so much as sneezed to a yes or no question, I’ll personally murder you.”
“I didn’t exactly take my bar exam, but doesn’t the government usually frown on breaking the sixth commandment?”
“I’m the best small town defense attorney that’s ever been hired. I could saw your nuts off with a rusty butter knife and convince the jury it was an accidental self-inflicted paper-cut wound while you were wiping your butt with toilet paper.”
“Remind me to take my potty break before arriving at your house this Thanksgiving.”
“Which brings me to my next point,” Even Josephine’s entire tone shifted when she said: “I know you’ve been avoiding me. How’s Michael?”
“I’ve been checking up on him. But as you can tell, I’ve had some distractions of my own.”
“I hope this doesn’t sour your relations with Elise or me.”
“No, but the butter knife might.”
“Desarae’s always been…the wild child of us three.”
“It wouldn’t be family without one.”
Josephine looked at me for a time. For a moment I could have sworn it was Elise whom I was speaking with. She then said: “Do you know who the other man is?”
I sunk back into my chair, and said: “I could find out.”
“Yes, I know you could. And that’s exactly why I brought it up.” She spread her hands out across the table again. “Preacher, please don’t touch this. Just walk away.”
“You’re forgetting that I came here to pastor a church, one that you and your sisters attend. If Michael or Desarae is hurt in any way….”
“You and I both know we’re not referring to that. I put my neck on the line for you, convincing the church board that you were fit for the job. When you left New York, you promised my
sister and me, you promised that you were through with detective work.”
“I have full intention of putting my master’s degree to task, Josephine.”
“Promise me you won’t get involved.”
“I promise.”
“No, look me in the eyes and promise me you won’t get involved.”
I did just as she asked, and said: “Josephine, I promise.”
“I didn’t know Joe personally, but I’m sorry. When we heard you were in the North tower, we were all so worried. Myself. Elise. Desarae too.”
“That career ended when Joe died.”
“Good to hear, though I’m very sorry for the reason why. You need to understand, the people at play here are some very terrible men, and you have some people, Elise and myself again, Desarae too, who love you. I don’t want you getting in over your head.”
“My only association with Sean was trying to get him to church on time.”
“I’m not talking about that goose on the loose.”
“The Mancini’s,” I said.
Josephine slapped both palms on the table and stood. “That’s as far as this conversation goes. I’ve posted your bail. Now go home, Preacher.”
“Tell me about Sean’s involvement with the Mancini’s.”
“No more detective work for you.”
I said: “Thanks for playing lawyer,” and stood.
That comment hurt. I could see it in her eyes. And I was immediately sorry that I said it.
What she said next hurt her too (it hurt the both of us). “Let’s just hope you can play your part as pastor. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
c
“DON’T FORGET YOUR DOG, PREACHER,” Officer Hurley said. Hurley was medium-height, about my age, and his mustache looked as if it had been a borrowed prop from the Village People.
Prison bars clanked open and the hound jumped off the bottom bunk. I bent down on one knee to stroke his ears, which he took kindly to, and said: “I hope you didn’t tell these small town police officers anything.”
“Oh, he talked, Preacher. He gave us enough dirt to light you up in Columbia.”
To the hound I asked: “Did they feed you?”
“We were starving him into submission,” Hurley again.
“You animals,” I said.
Hurley leaned up against the bars and crossed both arms. President George W. Bush was smiling at us from a picture frame. “So what’s the story on that hot lawyer you got in there, – you two dating?”
“Not quite. I’m seeing her sister.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure I saw you out on the town the other night, and the two of you were getting cuddly.”
“The lawyer is Josephine. I’m dating Elise. She’s the fashion police. Along with Desarae, they make up a team of triplets, and identical ones at that.”
“Well, I’ll be darned. I couldn’t tell them apart.”
I shrugged, “I can’t either most of the time.”
“Then how do you know you’re dating the fashion expert, – what if half the time you’re going out with the lawyer?”
I thought about that one. He had me stumped. My only conclusion was to tell President Bush: “Well, I’ll be darned.”
c
THERE WERE TWO PORCELAIN URINALS in the men’s bathroom at police headquarters, one of which was occupied. The only available urinal was designed for children and mounted as one might expect, closer to the floor. I slid up next to that one with no complaint, yet couldn’t help but wonder if there was a history of Kindergartners with criminal records in this town.
I was whistling the theme to Mister Rogers Neighborhood, with the hound staring rather uncomfortably at my stuff, when the man standing next to me said: “You do realize that’s the children’s urinal.”
My peripheral vision announced that he was only a couple of inches taller than five feet, as measurements go, which made his entire comment rather ironic, seeing as how I’m an inch short of six. What bothered me most of all was his voice. It wasn’t exactly high-pitched, just it nasally enough so that he squealed. His noggin was rather square in proportion, the stem of his nose far too small, and brow-raising crinkles were creased several times through his mountain-esque forehead, large enough to carve a president on.
I said: “At the risk of boasting, I don’t like to drag.”
“Funny stuff. Funny stuff.” He cocked his head back and made some sort of an attempt at deep-bellied laughter, but managed to give me the chills instead. “You’re a funny man, aren’t you?”
“Thanks for noticing. My mother seems to think so.”
“Hey, I’ve seen you around.” He swiveled his pee into the dish laid out before him, but wasn’t very good at coloring within the lines, because some splashed out and landed on my shoe. “You’re that dude I’ve seen in the news.”
“A lot of people mistake me for Al Roker.”
“Funny man. No, really, you’re that guy I saw in next weekend’s headlines. Local get wacked for helping that murderous thief escape and hide from his collectors. What was his name again….Sean….” He switched hands with his ding-a-ling so as to snap fingers. “Sean Parker.”
Creepo proceeded to stare at the wall in front of him for a time, whistled the very tune that I’d attempted, Mister Rogers, and then casually added, without any hint of emotion: “I wonder what it felt like for the girl when that hammer cracked through her skull and lifted up the gooey part of her brain, don’t you?”
Creepo waited for a response, but when it was clear I wasn’t offering one he continued: “I guess it’s not very funny then, ain’t it?”
“No, it’s not. Sean was a good friend of mine. And I take personal insult at whoever did this to Gracie.”
“You know what else ain’t funny? You, hiding Sean from his other friends,” he whined.
“I take it you’re not with the police.”
Creepo shrugged: “You should be careful. Questions like that will end you up in places far worse than a prison cell.”
“I’ve got a couple of friends outside, Detectives Mello and Hazelwood. Perhaps we’d like to sit down, all four of us in the interrogation room, and have a chat.”
Before I could finish Mount Rushmore had already made like a tree. I zipped up my pants, but I’d forgotten to tuck my valuables back into the barn, so the zipper collided with God’s gift to men and I seethed air through my teeth until I managed another unzip and re-zip, thereby avoiding any further close encounters with the third kind. I ran both hands through the sink, liberally adding soap and opened the door with a paper towel protecting the crime-saturated knob from my fingers. Only the sound of clapping keyboards and a choir of ringing phones filled the hall. From where I stood, George W. was smiling down at me, but my bathroom buddy was nowhere to be found.
c
I CHANCED TO LOOK OVER MY SHOULDER on the short walk home, almost everything worth visiting was within a hop and a skip in this town, and spied a second creepo about two dozen yards away. He was wearing a leather duster, feathered with what looked to be actual bison fur. Long blond hair hung past his shoulders, and his skull was crowned with a cowboy hat.
A car screeched to a halt. It was a Lamborghini of some sort, rather classical in symmetry, with four doors instead of the typical two, which really stood out to me, especially for a custom made automobile, and the engine purred. The glow of brake lights corresponded with the simultaneous opening of its back door. A short stubby man pushed his head out from the curbside window and said: “Get in.”
“My mother said never to climb into cars with strangers, especially if it’s Italian made.”
The man who’d been following me, for reference purposes I’ll call him Tatanka, slid his duster jacket up against my back. I felt what might have been a gun protruding into my thigh, or maybe he was just happy to.... oh, never mind. Probably a gun.
“This isn’t a suggestion, dipstick,” Stubby said. “Get the fork inside before we crack your frontal lobe. Put the dog in the t
runk.”
Only he didn’t say fork.
I did as he asked and slid into the back seat. Tatanka wrestled with the hound. He howled like a mad man. The hound did too. But Tatanka won in the end. The hound wailed and the trunk thumped shut. He then lowered his head and wedged in, thereby assigning me as the deli meat in what would probably prove to be a mob sandwich.
“No candy?” I looked to the two men seated in the front. One of them was driving, and neither turned around to look at me.
“Come again?” Stubby said.
“I just thought if you had a Snickers bar or something, it might be nice. I always have this irrational fear that I'm an undiagnosed diabetic.”
“What the fork are you talking about?” I thought his head might have hurt.
“Nothing.”
“Then shut your trap. Look, our little business meeting is going to be straightforward and simple. You give us what we want to know and we’ll let you out at the next stop. Play smart-ass and we’ll keep driving all the way to the pig farm.”
“I don’t care what you wrap it with. I’ve never been much for bacon. They’ve introduced these bacon sundaes now at PANCAKE HOUSE. Can you believe it? If there are two things that don’t go together, I don’t care what anyone says, its bacon and ice cream.”
“That’s strike one.” Stubby erected his thumb. “Two more and we’ll be making a quick layover at the dentist's office, have your teeth removed.”
“The name’s Giorgio.” The man in the front passenger seat turned around and extended a hand. I was stunned. He was tall and skinny, and his face was rather small and oval looking, but his doe-like eyes and nose was an exact match to Gracie’s. There was no doubt in my mind that I was staring at one of her siblings.
I raised five fingers to accept it.
“Are you looking at me? Did you just look at me?” Giorgio turned to Stubby on my left. “I think your hitchhiking guest just looked at me without an invitation, Dino.”
“What the hell? Did you just give my cousin eye contact without an invitation?” The short stocky man, whom I presumed now to be Dino, slapped me. “You’re my guest. You’re with me. Don’t get any ideas about looking Giorgio in the face again unless you’re thoroughly invited to. Do you hear me?”
Some We Run From (Preacher Book 2) Page 3
