“Do we have an agreement or not?”
She looked away, kicked at her bat.
“Emily, these are dangerous people. I don’t want you getting involved.”
She met his eyes and smiled defiantly, “How am I supposed to know it’s you coming back here and not one of those others if I don’t look inside?”
He had to admit she had a point. “Next time I come back here I’ll knock on your door first,” he said. “In the meantime, give me your key.”
“Damn it, Bill–”
“I mean it, Emily.”
Shannon stood patiently and waited while Emily handed over the spare key to his apartment. After he slipped it into his pocket, he asked her what she was doing with a Louisville Slugger. She grumbled that her pop had given it to her for protection when she left home.
“Not the best thing for that,” Shannon noted. “You hit someone with the wrong part of the bat and that handle will snap, leaving you holding splinters. If you want a bat for protection, you’re better off with something aluminum.”
“Can’t get myself to buy an aluminum one,” she said with a half-smile. “I’m too much of a traditionalist.”
Shannon got a laugh out of that, then turned serious as he warned her again about not getting involved. “These are people who’d just as soon cut your throat as look at you,” he said. “I’m not exaggerating. If they come here, keep away from them. Okay?”
“Damn it, Bill, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Just tell me you’re not going to do anything stupid like this again.”
“Alright, already, you don’t have to bite my head off.” She manufactured an injured look, added, “If you’d asked, you and Susie could’ve stayed at my place.”
“Susie and I both know that, and I’m sure she appreciates it as much as I do.” He hesitated, added, “It’s better that the two of us get away from here in case they end up watching the building.”
“I figured it was something like that,” Emily said, nodding. She gathered up her bat and grudgingly promised Shannon she’d behave herself. After she left, he finished packing then took out a couple of toys he had bought for his business—motion activated spy cameras. He set one up in the living room, the other in the bedroom. Satisfied that they were hidden well enough, he grabbed his suitcase and headed back to the hotel.
Chapter 8
They ate dinner at an Italian restaurant a couple of blocks from the hotel, Susan having the pan fried trout in garlic, butter and lemon sauce, Shannon the Linguini à la Puttanesca. It was a nice dinner, and for an hour or so Shannon was able to relax. Susan looked especially stunning. For long stretches he’d find himself lost in her large beautiful brown eyes, at times almost forgetting the day he’d had. There were even moments when she’d flash her dazzling smile and he’d forget how banged up he was feeling. Now that he was back at the dead students’ condo complex knocking on doors, he found himself again wondering why he was doing this investigation work, especially given the psychic cost and that he could’ve been spending the evening watching the Red Sox or simply meditating peacefully. His eye, jaw and cheek ached on his right side, and his lower back had started to go into spasms. He wasn’t sure what was causing his back pain—either the jabbing he took from the gun barrel, or maybe the muscles that had tightened along his chest were affecting the ones in his back. All he knew was that when the spasms came, they would suck the breath right out of him. Aspirin only helped a little and he’d already chewed on a dozen or so tablets. It didn’t help matters when he called Pauline Cousins and told her what Daniels had told him. She had the same thought he did about the cult putting someone up to masquerade as Melissa and became close to hysterical when she insisted on seeing him. He couldn’t afford to do that—one look at him with all his bruises and cuts would’ve pushed her over whatever edge she was clinging onto. After twenty minutes on the phone, he calmed her down and convinced her that he wasn’t going to give up on them. That somehow he’d get to Melissa.
Another back spasm stopped him in his tracks. When it passed and he could breathe again, he took the bottle of aspirin out, stared at it disgustedly, and popped a couple of tablets into his mouth.
He’d already been at the condo complex a half hour and had talked to the people in the townhouse next to the murdered students. The setup was the same, one unit had the first floor, the other the second. The couple in the second floor unit had little to offer. They never had much to do with Carver or Gibson, never saw anything to make them think they’d dealt drugs, and neither of them saw or heard anything the night they were killed. The husband, a professor in civil engineering at the university, told Shannon that the firewall between the two townhouses was well constructed and had a fair amount of soundproofing material packed around it. He didn’t think he would’ve been able to hear anything from that unit unless windows were open in both his apartment and the students’. The investment banker who owned the lower level unit seemed more interested in finding out about the fight Shannon had been in than talking about the students. He made it a point to mention that he had a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and throughout gave Shannon a tough guy look as if he were going to challenge him to go a few rounds. Just about the only thing Shannon was able to get out of him was that he never saw anything that made him think the two students were involved with drugs.
Shannon waited until his back spasm eased before trying the next townhouse over. No one answered the door for the upstairs unit. He stood outside it for a while listening, but it didn’t sound like anyone was home. Noise from a TV came from the first floor apartment. He knocked, then after waiting a minute, knocked again. He had a sense that someone was looking at him through the peephole. When he knocked a third time, a woman shouted through the door for him to leave or she’d call the police.
“Ma’am,” Shannon told her, “I’m an investigator. I’d just like to ask you questions about the two students who were killed.”
“I don’t care who you say you are, I’m calling the police!”
“I can give you my cell phone number if you’d like and we could talk over the phone.”
“You think I’m going to fall for that?”
“No, ma’am–”
“I’m warning you, I’m calling the police! Right now!”
He heard the beeping sound of a phone being dialed. He apologized for disturbing her and left, moving like an arthritic old man from all of his stiffness. He had tried Maguire’s unit when he first arrived at the complex but got no answer and couldn’t find Maguire’s BMW out front. He went back to their townhouse and saw there was still no sign of the car. He knocked on the door and listened long enough to decide that no one was home, then tried Maguire’s cell phone. After the fifth ring Maguire answered, asking who the fuck was there.
“Bill Shannon. We were supposed to talk more tonight.”
There was a long pause, then, “Bill, my buddy from Boston. I’m sorry, Cambridge. How’ya doin’?” Maguire stopped talking as the sound of people cheering and feet stamping roared in the background. After the noise died down, he came back on. “Fuck,” he groaned. “Sox just hit into a double-play. They’re actually losing to this shitty Rockies team.” A couple of people yelled at him to go fuck himself, another asked why if his team was so fucking great they’re getting their asses whipped. Someone else commented that the Rockies were opening up a nice fresh can of whoop-ass on Boston. Maguire yelled back for them to have patience, that a baseball game’s nine innings not six. That elicited a few more jeers.
“Are you at the game?” Shannon asked.
“What? Fuck no. I’m watching it at a sports bar, one next to the Harvest House. Why don’cha come over and watch it with me? I can tell you about the amazingly shitty day I’ve had. And you can ask me anything you goddamn want to.”
“I was hoping to talk to your wife also.”
“Ha! Wait ’til I tell you all about that. Pretty fucking funny joke if you ask me. So what do you say? Keep me
company and show these punk Rockies fans what true baseball fans are like?”
“How much have you been drinking?”
“Not enough, brother, not nearly enough.”
Shannon told him he’d meet him. The sports bar was a five minute drive from the condo complex, and when he got there he spotted Maguire sitting alone at a table looking morose as the other patrons were up on their feet cheering. A glance at the screen showed a Colorado player in the middle of a homerun trot. A big guy with a large ruddy face and stringy black hair that fell down to his shoulders got in Maguire’s face and yelled, “Thirteen to one, asshole, thirteen to one!” Maguire had the same pasty, surly look that Shannon had seen on dozens of drunks over the years right before they’d throw their first punch.
The Colorado fan showed a big grin as he sat back down. He looked over his shoulder to leer at Maguire, then turned back to the game. Maguire started to push himself up, spotted Shannon and wavered as he lost his train of thought. As he squinted in Shannon’s direction, the belligerence in his round, red face faded to confusion. Then a light seemed to go on in his eyes.
“Fuck, I’m glad to see you,” he yelled as he waved Shannon over to his table. “I need some help explaining to these hicks that one game doesn’t mean shit.”
“That so? Then why were you shooting your mouth off before?” a bald guy with glazed eyes and a thick mustache asked. Outside of Maguire, there were maybe twenty other bar patrons watching the game, most of them men in their twenties and thirties, a few women in the mix. A number of the patrons gave Shannon a hard eye as he joined Maguire, but turned away when they noticed his bruises and bandaged hand. One of them started laughing and mumbled something under his breath how it looked like another guy from Boston had gotten his ass whooped.
As Shannon’s condition registered on Maguire, he showed a wide, toothy smile. “Fuck,” he said. “You might even’ve had a worse day than me.” He picked up his glass, drained it, and signaled the barmaid for another draft.
“Wa’cha drinking?” He slapped his forehead. “Doh! That’s right, you don’t drink booze. So wa’cha want, water, ice tea?” He broke out laughing over some private joke.
“How many drinks have you had?”
Maguire wiped a few tears away from his eyes, his stomach still convulsing with laugher. “Don’t know,” he said. “Nine, ten. Lost count. All I know is I’m not even halfway done.”
“About talking to your wife…?”
Maguire’s laugh died in his throat. He sat motionless, then gave Shannon the type of dull-eyed stare that only drunks can muster. Smiling savagely, he told Shannon good luck with that.
“Why’s that?”
“Nancy left me today.” The pink faded from his cheeks. He stared down at his hands as he batted his empty beer glass between them. “What a fucking miserable day. Lost my wife, my job, and now the Sox are getting blown out by a team that shouldn’t even be allowed in Single A.” Raising his voice, he added, “And I got to listen to shit from a bunch of ignorant rednecks, none of which could probably even tell me what the infield fly rule is.”
That caused a few of the other patrons to turn his way, but other than some mumbling and one guy calling him pathetic, no one bothered to say anything.
“I’m sorry to hear about your wife and job,” Shannon said.
Maguire kept batting the empty glass between his hands, and as he did, he seemed to sober up. “I should’ve seen both coming. Eh, shit, probably did, just didn’t want to admit it.”
The big guy who had gotten in Maguire’s face earlier, leaned towards him and smiled sympathetically. “Hey man, lost your wife and job same day? That’s cold, man. I’m sorry about before, but you were just acting too obnoxious. But, shit, I don’t know what I’d do if I had your type of day. No hard feelings, okay?”
He held out his hand. Maguire stared at it coldly before taking it. “Your Rockies team still sucks,” he said.
The big guy pulled his hand away. “Fuck you. They’re still beating the shit out of your Red Sox.” His face turned even redder as he looked away from Maguire and stared back at the screen.
Shannon asked Maguire why he was looking so hard for a fight.
“You know what?” Maguire said, a thin smile showing. “That’s a good question ’cause I’d get my ass kicked if I got in one. I haven’t been in a fist fight since 5th grade.”
The waitress brought over another draft beer and took Shannon’s order for a club soda. Maguire lifted his pint glass to the light, studied it for a moment before drinking down half of it, then wiped his hand across his mouth.
“What happened today?” Shannon asked.
“Not much. Just your typical rotten, miserable day. I showed up at work this morning and found out I’d been downsized.” He shrugged, made a face. “The VCs forced my company to cut twenty percent of the payroll—if they didn’t they’d have their funding pulled. I think I was included ‘cause I didn’t show the proper dedication by taking last night off.”
Maguire lifted his glass, drank down the rest of the pint. He caught the waitresses’ eye to signal for another. Turning back to Shannon, he smiled wistfully.
“I should marry that girl,” he said. “No fuss, no arguments, no games, all she does is bring me beers when I ask for them. My wife, on the other hand, Jesus Christ. The last few days I really thought she was sick. It turned out to be nothing but an act while she planned her great escape. Before that, for a whole goddamn year, she does nothing but mope around and complain about how much she hates it here, how much she misses it back home and all the rest of that crap. As if there were anything I could’ve done about it. When I got home today after being laid off I found her note waiting there for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, not your fault.” He put a hand up to his eyes and rubbed them, then stared bleary-eyed at Shannon. “Not my fault either,” he said with a hard smile. “If I could’ve sold my condo a year ago I would’ve. But I bought at the top of the market, and condo prices dropped twenty-five percent since then. I would’ve had to bring eighty grand to the closing, money I didn’t have. Nancy knew that. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”
He shook his head, a lost look in his eyes. The waitress brought over another beer and a club soda. Maguire slipped ten bucks on her tray to cover the two drinks and a tip. As she placed the beer in front of him, he leaned in close and told her they should get married. She gave him a diplomatic smile, suggested they wait until his divorce finalized.
He nodded with a silly smile stuck on his face, waited until she left, then told Shannon that he had left a message with Nancy’s parents. “When I find out where she is I’ll give you her number and you can ask her whatever you want,” he said. “But I don’t think she’s gonna help you. She spent the last year too depressed and drugged up on sleeping pills to notice much of anything going on around her except how much she thought her life sucked.”
He lifted his glass and drained it about a third of the way down, then lowered it back to the table, pushed it away. “That’s it. I’m done for the night,” he told Shannon, his large round face shiny with perspiration.
Some hoots rang out from the crowd as the game ended. While several of the patrons glanced over at Maguire, none of them bothered to rub the Red Sox loss in his face.
“What a perfect ending to this day,” Maguire said, laughing sourly as he waved a hand towards the TV screen for emphasis. “How about you? You look like you were hit by a Mack truck.”
“Something like that,”
“Something like that? I bare my soul and that’s all I get in return?”
“I was in a fight with a couple of thugs.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“This over those murdered students?”
Shannon shook his head. “Different matter. What do you say I drive you home?”
“Hey, buddy, not necessary. I’m only a couple of miles away–”
�
��I think it would be better if I drove you.”
Maguire was about to argue the matter but shrugged instead. When he got to his feet and started towards the door, he moved with the slow measured pace of someone who was drunk but trying hard to look sober. After they got in his BMW, he told Shannon he wasn’t kidding the other night about doing PI work.
“I’m so fucking fed up with software development,” he said. “I’m not doing it anymore. No fucking way—not even if I could get another job. Shit, I think I’d rather get beat up by a couple of thugs than spend twelve hours a day beating my head in writing software. And for what? To get laid off when the company runs out of money. I’m sick of it. I’ve been sick of it for a long time.” He sniffed, rubbed a hand across his nose. “So what do you say,” he went on, his face pale in the moonlight. “You want an intern? You don’t have to pay me a dime. I’ll help out any way you want, and in exchange you teach me the ropes.”
Shannon laughed. “You’ll sober up. By tomorrow you’ll be looking for another high paying job.”
“I don’t think so.” Maguire slumped in his seat. “No, I don’t think there’s much chance of that. Fuck, I feel wiped. This whole rotten day must’ve just caught up with me.” Mumbling in a soft monotone, he added. “But I’m serious about the PI work. Sleep on it, okay?”
By the time Shannon got Maguire back to his condo, his eyes had closed and his chin had dropped to his chest. Shannon shook him until he opened an eye.
“Thanks, buddy,” Maguire muttered as he stumbled out of the car.
Shannon checked his watch, saw it was a quarter to ten. “If you want I’ll look things over in your apartment,” he said. “See if I can get an idea where your wife went. You can think of it as your first lesson in being a private eye.”
“Oh, man, I’d like to,” Maguire said, his shoulders stooped, his voice coming out as a low tired whisper. “Too fucking zonked. All I can think of right now is getting upstairs and lying down. How about you come by tomorrow and we do it then? I won’t touch a thing, promise.”
Bad Karma Page 13
