Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  Footsteps sounded on the porch. She was transfixed. He knew this would be easy, easy. When the man came in, he was a little guy, but something wasn’t right. No newspaper. No surprise at the gun in her hand or at his presence. No, “Hello, dear.” Instead, “Good work, Sergeant Fletcher. We got every one of his words on the remote, loud and clear.”

  The two armed, uniformed policemen who had also entered the room encountered no resistance.

  The sergeant’s strained voice broke in, “You came in just in time, Lieutenant.”

  “Why do you say that? You obviously had everything under control.”

  “No I didn’t. I was just about to kill him.”

  TRIPLE PLAY

  Well, just about the time you figure things can’t get any worse, they get worse. Roxanne had known for some time her marriage was going downhill. Ned wasn’t even trying to hide his womanizing anymore, and his auto repair shop was failing fast. So, now what happens? Her unlamented ex suddenly shows up, after a six-year prison stretch for aggravated assault.

  Never any great shakes for looks, Lenny’s appearance hadn’t improved much during the intervening years. A missing front tooth and a broken nose that hadn’t been set particularly straight made him look the part of an ex-con. No prison pallor, though, and he’d actually lost weight. The old days of twenty-four hour prison cells and sedentary life had long ago been replaced with exercise yards and pumping iron. One quick inspection of him as he walked into the café convinced her that he was more dangerous than ever, and that this meeting boded nothing but ill.

  What was he after? Certainly not sex. Roxanne assumed, not unreasonably, that he had probably preferred the variety he’d engaged in behind the walls rather than any she had provided for him. Revenge? Hardly, since he knew that if she’d been willing to lie to cover for him, even the senile judge who had heard his case would have ignored her testimony. Money? Very possibly, but he was hardly likely to get any. Her part-time job as bookkeeper in Ned’s shop produced about enough for an occasional hairdo, and it was clear from his books that her worthless husband was telling the truth when he insisted he wasn’t even keeping ahead of the bills at the shop.

  Lenny had convinced her to meet over coffee and, as soon as they’d sat down, he moved on to the reason for the meeting while flashing his usual combination of silly and sly grin. It was money. Roxanne broke into a laugh. “You haven’t changed a bit, Lenny. You still expect the apples to fall out of the tree for you. Well, this time there aren’t any apples, no matter how hard you shake the tree. Credit cards, my bank account and the cash in my purse all together will buy you your cup of coffee and mine. That’s just about it.”

  Of course, Lenny didn’t believe her, but that didn’t matter. He really had no hold over her. Tell Ned he was Roxanne’s ex? Ned already knew about her past and, considering his current interests elsewhere, couldn’t care less about her past, present or future. Threaten her with physical harm? That was even more amusing. She wasn’t really afraid of Lenny, though she knew he was capable of just about anything. She also knew he wasn’t going to take any chances with her—not with a parole officer waiting somewhere in the wings. Surely, Lenny was smart enough to avoid another assault charge. Or was he?

  That was the moment when it occurred to Roxanne how Lenny could very well be the solution to her more pressing problem—a dead end marriage to a deadbeat husband.

  ***

  Lenny could hardly believe his luck. He’d never even considered the possibility of getting sizeable amounts of cash through his long-dissolved relationship with Roxanne. And now those six long years would also pay off. It had been just plain dumb of him to lose his temper and end up in the pen. Sure, the bastard deserved what he got. Damn near died, and should have, but the beating was pointless. No more of that meaningless, mindless behavior on his part. Now he knew who to contact, where to get a gun, and how to do a job that would bring in a tidy sum but wouldn’t leave him with a set of broken knuckles and prison time hanging over his head.

  ***

  Ned tried to size up this character who wanted to talk to him—privately. Looking for a job? There were no ‘help wanted’ signs in Instant Auto Repair’s windows, and there were more than enough jobs around elsewhere for anyone interested in working. If this joker was looking for work, he’d sure come to the wrong place. Possibly, he was figuring that Ned would handle some hot stuff. His visitor seemed to be more that type. Ned had delved into fencing and eventually decided it wasn’t worth it—especially when the police began nosing around. He wasn’t about to work that sideline again. But, what the hell, he had time on his hands, time enough to find out what this private confab was all about. It wouldn’t hurt to listen.

  They adjourned up the rickety wooden stairs to Ned’s second floor office. He’d had it insulated against the noise of the power tools, compressors and the constant racket of the combined auto motor and body repair shop. The effectiveness of the insulation was nowhere near a hundred percent, but it did allow for a conversation to be carried on at a level only slightly above normal.

  Larry looked around at the shabby surroundings, and for the briefest of moments his optimism waned; then he decided to go for it. “I guess I oughta introduce myself first. I’m Roxanne’s ex.”

  Ned raised an eyebrow, taking some satisfaction from having detected a criminal quality in his visitor. He said nothing.

  This was going to be tougher than he’d originally thought, Larry decided as he went on to fill in the ensuing silence. “You know I’ve been in the pen?” The question in his voice prompted an answering nod. That in turn pushed Larry into taking the plunge. “I talked to Roxanne yesterday, and it sounds like she ain’t too happy with her current marriage. But she says a divorce won’t leave her nothing.”

  Ned was amused enough to mutter, “That’s for sure.”

  “But she did say you both took out big insurances when you first got married. Figured on raising a family back then.”

  Light glimmered. Ned’s eyes narrowed. So she was talking to an ex-con about an unhappy marriage. Huh!

  Both of the men suddenly achieved perfect communication with only a minimum of words. Roxanne was willing to pay Larry to get rid of Ned. Larry was now assuming that, at the least, there would be some reward coming for the information. Better yet, Ned might very well want to have the marriage terminated in a similar fashion and be willing to pay more for the convenience.

  Larry rushed on. “Yup. She said there was a hundred thousand dollars of insurance on you, and she was willing to split it with me.”

  “She lied. It’s a million. One on each of us.”

  Eyes opened wide. Pupils dilated. “That lying bitch. I knew she was lying. She always was a liar. But I didn’t think it was that much.”

  Ned had always been quick with figures, and now his brain was working at a frantic pace. Two million dollars—there was a double indemnity clause which needn’t be mentioned—would take him out of the red, put the company back on an even footing and even pay for that pearl necklace Nettie was drooling over and hinting at. Hell! He’d be able to afford a double strand. The thought of how she would treat him after opening up the gift produced immediate arousal.

  “How about double what she offered?” He could afford to make a generous offer.

  Larry’s smile was all that was needed to prompt further details.

  “I’ll set her up,” Ned went on. “Some convenient time and place. As soon as I have it worked out, I’ll give you ten thousand, the rest to follow once she’s dead.” That was just about what he had stashed away without Roxanne’s knowledge. Ten thousand in new hundreds in a safety deposit box. It was intended to be emergency money. He decided Larry’s payment would come under that heading.

  Ned was amazed at how quickly his fortune had turned around, and all because Roxanne had suddenly become greedy. And she really wasn’t very bright. Relying on a hit man opened one up to eventual blackmail. In this state, the employer could easily get t
he gas chamber on the basis of a confession by the hired gun, who would then serve only a few easy years as a reward for his song. That would not be a problem for Ned, however. He had worked out his final plans almost before Larry left the office.

  ***

  The second meeting with Roxanne was strictly business. Larry gave her his full attention as she outlined what he was to do, when and where. “I’ve been going over his books at the shop trying to straighten out some of the mess he and his crew made of them. As soon as I know he’ll be staying home instead of chasing after his latest skirt, I’ll alert you. In the meantime I’ll make sure the police know I’m working. Maybe I’ll call in about a burglar or something, so that will give me an alibi. As soon as the insurance company pays off, I’ll give you your share.”

  There would in fact be no share for Larry. She had long ago learned how to handle a gun, and so disposing of an ex-husband, ex-con, whom she would claim had threatened her, would be a simple matter.

  ***

  “Perfect,” Ned exclaimed over the phone. Let’s figure on next Wednesday. I’ll meet you at Lomie’s Café at noon. I’ll know for sure by then what time she’ll be at the shop. Probably around six. I’ll give you the down payment at lunch, and you can head out there that evening and watch for her. It will be quiet in the warehouse district by that time of day. Just go in and up to the office. Make it look like a burglary. I’ll be out with some of my friends at the Alewife. Give me a call when you’re finished.”

  ***

  Roxanne was so intent on the books, so caught up with plans about what to do with the business once Ned was gone, that she didn’t at first hear the footsteps on the creaky stairs—in spite of the office door being open. The area around the building was so deserted that Larry really didn’t much care whether she heard him or not. Gun drawn, it would all be over in a matter of seconds.

  For Ned, crammed in the rear of the Isuzu Trooper, it was important not to make any noise as he slipped out of the car, snapped on the cigarette lighter and waited for the sound of the shot. When it came, it took only a moment for him to throw the Bic into the puddle of gasoline he’d earlier poured under the stairs. Without waiting to see the effects of the toss, he spun around and ran for the outside door. But the “whoosh” behind him made him turn. The fire inspector, the previous week, had given Ned two weeks to clean up the gasoline, propane, oil, paint thinner and other flammables casually strewn throughout the shop. The inspector had said at the time that the place would go up like an inferno if a stray spark or cigarette ended up in the wrong place. He hadn’t been far off in his estimate.

  The stairs were already a column of fire when, suddenly, a figure holding a gun burst from the office, only to be enveloped by the flames. Ned didn’t really see the gun. He didn’t hear the first shot, or the second one. He did hear a loud explosion—and that was it.

  ***

  “So what do you figure?” The homicide lieutenant was asking the coroner as they surveyed the devastation. A firefighter still suited up and wearing an air bottle, helmet and mask was using an extinguisher on a stubborn, smoldering two-by-four wall stud. On the roof, others could be heard prying up the metal roofing looking for any additional remnants of the blaze. The Incident Commander who had been in charge was standing nearby and taking off his helmet and heavy bunker jacket. Water was inches deep on the concrete floor, and more dripped down from the efforts overhead.

  As the coroner packed up his satchel, he answered, “The woman upstairs had a bullet hole smack in the middle of her forehead. She must have heard him coming up the stairs though, because her desk drawer was open, and there was a loaded gun sitting in it. He was too fast for her, I guess.

  “This guy,” he waved a hand at a corpse by the entrance, “had two in the chest. The body outside the office is charred some, but the explosion is what did him in. That’s preliminary, of course. They could have all died from poisoning, for that matter. I won’t know for sure until I’ve got them on the slab.”

  The lieutenant turned to the IC. “Any idea how it started?”

  “It could have been just about anything. A cigarette butt, for instance. It might even have been a flash from the gun that corpse upstairs is still holding. It doesn’t take much of a spark to set off gasoline vapor. We’ll investigate, of course, but we’ll probably never find out what caused it.”

  “Well, you folks did a great job putting out this blaze. From the looks of the place, I’m amazed you kept it and the whole block from going up.”

  The IC wiped the sweat from his forehead and grinned. “Thanks, but we just lucked out. There was a propane tank under the stairs. The fire got so hot, the tank blew up and put out most of the fire. I’ve heard of that happening, but it’s the first time I’ve actually seen it. That’s why we keep our people away from those tanks in a blaze. Incidentally, the woman in the office and this guy,” he indicated the body by the door, “were husband and wife. I was in here last week ticketing them for fire violations.”

  Before the officer could comment, the IC went on. “This should be an easy one for you, Lieutenant. It sure looks like a burglary gone awry, though I can’t see why any burglar would have picked this place. I can’t believe there was much in here worth stealing.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “I can’t see why he would have picked any place to rob.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He had ten thousand dollars in one of his pockets.”

  TWO FLOORS UP

  I was glad I’d brought along a map of the floor plan, because it struck me how Lefty—that’s what he called himself—wouldn’t have been able to find his way around a phone booth without one. He looked like an advanced case of some rapidly wasting illness, not much taller than my five-ten, but probably weighing fifty pounds less, and I’m not carrying around any excess baggage.

  I soon rated his mental baggage as a cut below his physical appearance, but then I couldn’t really be choosy. It had taken the better part of six months for me to find someone who would do the job for me, and even then he wasn’t a local. Lefty had just recently come to Hawaii from the mainland, but he had been vouched for by some of his acquaintances here, if you can picture a criminal ever being vouched for.

  Since his responses to my explanations had been mostly grunts, I decided to go over the whole thing once more, one step at a time. God knows, it wasn’t complicated. All I needed was a second-story man who could pick a lock that wouldn’t have resisted a paper clip, but Lefty was rapidly giving me the impression he couldn’t pick his nose without at least some outside help.

  “There are over twenty desks on that floor, all in one room, so be sure to get the right one. The money is in the lower right drawer. When you pick the lock, scratch the hell out of it so it will be obvious someone didn’t just use a key. The bills are in a metal box—three thousand two hundred and sixty-one dollars. My share is two thousand, you can have the rest. There’ll be some change in there too. It’s yours if you want it, but it doesn’t amount to much.”

  A grunt.

  I handed him the floor plan of the office. He unfolded it and examined it. “I’ve circled the right desk so you can’t miss it,” I commented.

  Carefully refolding the map, he handed it back to me.

  “Won’t you need it?” I asked.

  Another grunt and a shake of the head. I stuffed the map back into my suit pocket.

  “Are you sure you can pick a lock that goes with this key?” I held up my desk key for his inspection, prepared to offer it to him if he needed it.

  “Piece a cake.” I was enormously relieved to find out he could talk.

  “And you won’t have any trouble making it up the drain pipe?”

  A dismissive shrug.

  It was about then I realized his lips were moving each time I spoke, while his small black eyes were riveted on me. “Maybe he lip-reads,” I thought. Deafness was something else to add to what by then I was beginning to assume was a creature headed full tilt to
ward disaster. But it was too late for me to back out now. I was just thanking God I’d been careful to remain anonymous.

  I would never have cooked up this scheme if hadn’t been for lazy, arrogant, obese, incompetent, Chester Blakely, who was my boss and who masqueraded as the head of Auto Licensing and Registration for the County of Elima. God, how I despised the bastard! And the worst of it was, the County administration thought he was God’s gift to the Finance Department. Every new idea he came up with brought “ohs” and “ahs” from the powers-that-be. The office set-up was one of his pets. No walls. No cubicles. Just the bunch of us clerks jammed into one room. It all had something to do with “social facilitation,” and the “new look in the workplace.” Ugh!

  You would never believe the fuss made over him because of his stupid idea. His head started to swell so much he volunteered to give a lecture on office management to the local high school senior class. He even had a transparency made of the floor plan so he could flash it up on the screen with the school’s ancient overhead projector, while he lectured to those poor, bored kids.

  And then he had the guts to toss the transparency onto my desk, saying, “The junior high school principal thinks he might want his classes to hear about this, but my schedule’s too crowded to give another lecture. So, when he calls, you can take my place. I’ll OK your time sheet so you won’t be docked pay for the time off.”

  Time off! To heap praise on his stupid scheme in front of a bunch of kids who couldn’t care less! Not on your life. I stuffed the transparency in my desk and planned to throw it into the wastebasket the minute his back was turned. I never did get around to thrashing it though, and it’s a good thing I didn’t.

  Meantime, Blakely gets even more praise because he sets his desk right in the middle of the room, to show he’s just one of the regular work crew. Which wouldn’t be so bad if his desk weren’t next to mine. The only redeeming feature is he spends most of his daytime hours riding a golf cart or out someplace swilling martinis. He shows up, first thing in the morning, every morning, and makes a big show of opening up the office so everyone will think he’s utterly devoted to his work. Then he disappears, “off on committee work” and usually doesn’t appear again until the final bell to make a big deal of being the last one out and locking up the place for safe keeping. What an ass!