Theresa Monsour

by Cold Blood

  “Last thing,” Castro said after her. “Don’t forget to turn the damn thing off and save my batteries.”

  She gave him the thumbs-up and walked out.

  Trip had seen her red Jeep in Moose Lake. She didn’t want him to notice her driving down his block, give him time to close the shades and hide. Murphy took an unmarked car from the department fleet. A silver Ford Crown Victoria. She rolled out of the cop shop parking lot and steered the car onto the freeway, heading to the north side of the city. She saw the entrance to the trailer park from the highway. She took the exit ramp. Pulled into the neighborhood of narrow houses, narrow streets, narrow yards. Studied the street signs. Found the Trips’ street. Pulled over at the beginning of the block and shut off the car.

  Their trailer was at the other end; she could see Trip’s red truck parked in front. A fire engine. She dropped her keys in her purse. Checked her bag to make sure she had the invitation. There it was, ready to hand to him. Checked her Glock. Ready to go, in case. She pulled the camera out and put it in her jacket pocket. She slid out of the car, slammed the door shut, hiked her purse strap over her shoulder and started walking toward the Trips’ trailer. The wind was in her face. She zipped her jacket up to her throat and buried her hands in her pockets. Heard wind chimes tinkling but couldn’t see where they were hanging. While she walked she rehearsed in her mind. If his father came to the door: Hey, Mr. Trip. Remember me? Went to high school with Sweet. Got this reunion invitation for him. Is that coffee I smell? If Trip answered: Here’s that invitation. Hope you can make it. Sure had a nice time having dinner with you in Moose Lake. Is that coffee I smell? Once inside, she’d keep the conversation friendly. Avoid talking about Moose Lake. She didn’t want to scare Trip away from Saturday night’s gathering or make his father suspicious. She figured if Trip was hiding something, his father was helping him.

  She got to the front of their house. Their blinds were down and the slats closed tight. She took the Nikon out of her purse, turned it on, knelt down on the street in front of the truck, aimed the camera at the driver’s-side front tire. The image on the screen was sharp enough to clearly distinguish the tread pattern. She snapped the picture. Went in for a closer shot. Snapped again. Aimed at the front passenger tire and took a photo of that. Crouching down in the street, she went around to the back of the truck. Took pictures of both back tires. She kept glancing at the windows of the trailer and looking up and down the street to make sure no one was watching.

  WHILE Murphy was taking photos, Trip was frying his pa sliced hot dogs and diced potatoes for a late lunch. He spiced it up with some chopped onions, salt and a dash of Tabasco sauce. Exactly the way his pa liked it. Trip was frantically waiting on his old man. Keeping him happy. Keeping an eye on him so he wouldn’t pick up the phone. He’d even promised to clip the old bastard’s toenails. To soften them, he had his pa’s feet soaking in warm water and Dreft detergent. Trip sensed his pa picked up on the urgency in his son’s attentions. It seemed to convert the old man’s fear to contempt. Trip thought his pa was even enjoying it, taking advantage of the situation. He had Trip darting around the house for him like a pinball. Trip hadn’t even had time to clear the breakfast plates off the table.

  The potatoes were sticking. Trip scraped the bottom of the frying pan with a wooden spoon. “Better not be burning those taters,” his old man yelled from the front room. In the background, John Wayne’s voice boomed from the television set in Fort Apache.

  “Nothing’s b… b… burning,” Trip yelled back. Then in a low voice to himself: “Hope y… you choke on it.” He decided he preferred a fearful father to a contemptuous, bossy one. He shut off the range and dumped the potatoes and hot dogs onto a plate. Walked into the front room with it and set it on the TV tray in front of his old man.

  His pa took a pull off his cigarette. “Want me to eat with my fingers?” Trip went back to the kitchen and returned with a fork. Handed it to his pa. His old man jabbed a hunk of hot dog with it. “Foot soak’s getting cold.” He popped the hot dog into his mouth and chewed.

  Trip bent over and dipped his right hand in the tub, the square plastic one he usually used in the sink for dishes. “Water’s s… still warm.”

  His pa lifted a forkful of potatoes to his lips. “No it ain’t. Cold as ice.” He shoveled the food into his mouth. Stared at the television while he chewed. Grabbed the remote with his free hand and turned up the volume.

  Trip sighed. “Pick up your f… feet then.” His pa lifted his feet and Trip slid the plastic tub from under him. Stood up and carried the tub into the kitchen. Dumped the water into the sink. Set the bucket on the counter. Turned on the tap and felt it. He’d love to scald his old man. Boil some water and dump it in. Set his feet in it. Hold them in. Hot enough for you, you old bastard? He looked at the stove. The teakettle was on top; they used it to boil water for instant coffee and instant oatmeal and instant anything else they could find on store shelves. All he had to do was walk over, turn the burner to high. Wait for it to whistle. Dump it in the tub with some Dreft. Slide it under his old man’s feet and leave the room. Apologize when the old bastard burned himself. Sorry, Pa. Should have tested the water. I feel terrible. He’d heard diabetics could start losing sensation in their feet. Maybe his old man wouldn’t realize the water was burning him until it was too late. Until the damage was done. Would it be enough to send him to the hospital and get him out of Trip’s way? Would it push his pa over the edge, make him call the cops? He couldn’t call if he was in a hospital bed, doped up. Trip shut off the faucet and walked over to the stove. Reached for the range knobs. Turned the one for the teakettle to high. Willed the electric coils to turn bright red instantly.

  A knock at the door. “Shit,” Trip said. “Who in the h… hell is that?”

  “Door!” his pa yelled from the front room.

  Trip tried to ignore it. Maybe they’d go away.

  His old man again: “Door!”

  Trip left the kitchen.

  “Door!”

  Trip walked past his old man to answer it. “I heard you the first two t… times. Ain’t d… deaf.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” said his pa. He picked up the remote and lowered the volume. Squinted to see who was at the door while sliding his feet into his slippers.

  Trip put his hand on the knob. What if it was a neighbor? Worse, the cops? He jerked his hand off the knob like it was a hot coal. Another knock. He turned on his heel and darted to his bedroom. Behind him, his father yelling: “What’s wrong with you? Answer it!”

  Hovering over his dresser, Trip inventoried the top. Picked out his sharpest yet easiest to conceal weapon. The switchblade. He slipped it in his right pants pocket and ran back out, shutting his bedroom door behind him. By the time he got to the front room, Paris Murphy was inside, talking to his pa. His old man was standing by the open door, leaning on his cane and laughing. He turned and glanced at his son. “Look who stopped by.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  TRIP STOOD NEXT to the couch. Put his right hand out and clutched the back of it for support. A homicide cop was standing in his trailer. In his front room. Steps away from a room with a freezer. Inside the freezer, a naked dead woman. His hand left the couch and reached down, felt the bulge in his pants pocket. He slipped his right hand inside and with the tips of his fingers, touched the edge of the folded knife. Her eyes met his and then fell to his right arm. Whistling, in the kitchen. He started and drew his hand out of his pocket.

  “Is that tea?” she asked, her eyes leaving his empty hand to take in his face.

  “Paris,” he said, his eyes meeting her gaze and then dropping. “What d… do you want?”

  She smiled. Took a couple of steps into the front room. Raised her right arm and extended a piece of paper to him. “I brought it by in case you couldn’t find yours.”

  He frowned. “My what?” In the kitchen, the whistling from the teakettle seemed to grow sharper and louder.

  “Reunion invitation
.”

  The reunion Saturday. He’d forgotten about it. “Thanks,” he said, and stepped forward to take the paper out of her hand. He wanted to get rid of her, chase her back outside.

  She lowered her arm before he could grab the invitation. “Is that the teakettle I hear? I’d love some tea.”

  He looked down at the paper and then at her face. Was she up to something?

  “Don’t stand there, Justice,” said his pa. “Get the lady some tea.” Trip’s eyes went to his old man’s face. Frank cracked a small smile and shut the front door. Tipped his head toward the couch. “Sit, Paris. Sit a spell while Justice gets us some tea.” He thumped over to the couch, sat down. Took the remote off the TV tray and turned off the television. He patted the seat cushion next to him with his right hand. “Sit. Tell us what you been doing all these many years.”

  Trip watched his father and thought: He doesn’t know she’s a cop. If he knew, he wouldn’t invite her to stay.

  Frank looked at his son. That small smile again. “Paris is a policeman. A pretty lady like this a policeman. Isn’t that something, Justice?”

  Paris Murphy isn’t the sneaky one, thought Trip. His pa was the person trying to pull something.

  “Tea sounds wonderful,” Murphy said. She walked over to the couch, unzipped her jacket and sat down with her purse in her lap. Her eyes went from the son to the father and back to the son. The whistling in the kitchen continued, but Trip wasn’t budging from his spot. Stood in the middle of the front room. A tall, pale statue. “Why don’t I make the tea?” she said. “I’m pretty handy in the kitchen.”

  She started to stand up and Frank grabbed her jacket sleeve. Pulled her back down to the couch. “Justice can wait on us, pretty lady.” He glared at his son. “Did you forget where the kitchen is all of a sudden?”

  Trip started to cross the front room to head for the kitchen.

  “Wait,” said his pa. He lifted his plate of potatoes and hot dogs. “Take this slop with you.” He leaned into Murphy’s left ear and said in a low, conspiring voice, “Justice ain’t much of a cook. Some days, I swear he’s trying to kill me.”

  Trip yanked the plate out of his old man’s hand and went into the kitchen. Slammed the plate on the counter. A few minutes ago his pa didn’t think it was slop. A few minutes ago, the bastard was inhaling the stuff. His old man was putting on a show for Paris Murphy and Trip wasn’t sure why. That crack about his son trying to kill him. Was his old man trying to plant that idea in her head—that Trip could murder his own pa?

  The kettle was still whistling, the noise drilling a hole in his head. Giving him a headache. Trip went over to the stove and turned it off. He picked up the kettle and moved it to the counter. Opened the cupboards over the counter. All their usual coffee cups were dirty. He reached in back and pulled out three dusty mugs they hadn’t used in a while. Two with Far Side cartoons on them. A third with some other cartoon on the outside and a dead fly on the inside. He tipped the bug into the sink. He scanned the food shelves. Pushed around some canned goods. Found an ancient box of Lipton tea bags still sealed in cellophane. He set it on the counter, clawed off the wrapper, tore off the cover, took out three tea bags. He dropped a bag in each of the cups and poured hot water over them. He stared at the steam rising from the mugs. Thought about how he’d almost poisoned her with those pills. Should he give it another try? No. Not here. Too chancy. They weren’t in a restaurant this time. She’d know to blame the tea if she got sick. What if he put enough pills in so she died? Bad idea. She’d probably told the other cops at the police station where she was going. No. No poison. At least not now. That reunion offered plenty of possibilities, however. All those people. Old classmates. Old grudges. Jealous of each other’s success. Still trying to get an old girlfriend or former flame in bed. Any one of them could be suspects.

  He was glad she came by with the invitation. Another opportunity to get back at her. Plus like she had said earlier, the reunion would give him a chance to show off his hero status. How had she put it? Wave it in their faces. That’s what he’d do. Wave it in their faces.

  IN the front room, Murphy sat on the couch next to Trip’s father. She breathed through her mouth as much as possible to avoid smelling the booze and cigarettes. Another smell, too. Urine? She wished she could plug her ears as well as her nose so she wouldn’t have to listen to Frank Trip’s lame ramblings as he tried flattering her and flirting with her. “I always thought you were the nicest out of that whole crowd… . You weren’t homecoming queen? I’d have sworn you were… . Your folks must be so proud of you… . Bet you’re the prettiest police officer on the force… . What color are your eyes? They’re Liz Taylor eyes.”

  He’d wave his hands around when he talked and then bump her left thigh with his hand when he set his arms down. As if it was an accident. It reminded her of the crap he pulled when he was a janitor at her school. He’d yell a warning and then roll his bucket and mop into the girls’ bathroom. Feigned embarrassment when he caught someone still sitting on the toilet or standing in front of the mirror. It got to be a joke among the girls. When they heard him coming, one of them would lean against the door so he couldn’t open it. Whisper a warning to the others. Hurry up, the perve is here! No one ever wanted to use the bathroom alone.

  She was actually relieved when Trip walked into the front room. He balanced the mugs of tea on an old cookie sheet. He held the tray under his father’s nose. “Justice,” said Frank. “Serve our guest first.”

  “Oh, s… sorry.” He held the tray in front of Murphy, his eyes down.

  She picked up a mug. “Thank you.” She looked at what was painted on the side and inhaled sharply. Struggled to hide her shock. She felt as if all the blood were draining from her body, being replaced with ice water. A Flintstones cartoon showing Betty and Barney standing in front of a cave. She felt under the mug. The one she’d given Denny had a chip on the bottom from bouncing around the car. She held the mug by the handle with her right hand and ran her left index finger in a circle around the bottom. She found the chip. The only way Trip could have that mug was if he took it from Denny’s car. He’d been inside Denny’s car. Why? To steal a mug full of coins? When had he taken it? She had seen it in the car days before the accident. Another cold wave washed over her. Trip had tampered with the car. Caused the crash.

  She didn’t want to give away her horror and anger. She tried to put on a calm face and voice. She blew on the hot tea and pretended to sip. No way would she ever drink anything Trip gave her. She studied her own hands. Felt reassured they weren’t shaking. She tried to think of something to say. She glanced around the front room. “You keep it pretty neat for a couple of bachelors.”

  Trip’s father picked up a mug. Trip took the last one. Set the cookie sheet down on the floor. Eased his tall frame into a recliner across from the couch. “I g… guess so.” He held the hot mug between his hands.

  She imagined herself taking out her gun and shooting Trip in the forehead. A clean, wide target. She could see the hole as she watched him. She blinked and turned to his father. “This reminds me of the layout of my houseboat.”

  Frank set his mug on the TV tray, picked up his cigarette, put it to his lips. “You live on a houseboat, do you? How big?” He took a drag and exhaled.

  “Smaller than this. At least I think it is. I’d have to see the rest of your place to judge. How many bedrooms you got?” She took another pretend sip. Stifled a cough from the cigarette smoke.

  Frank set his cigarette in the ashtray. Stood up. Leaned his left hand on his cane and bent his right arm at the elbow like a wing. Smiled down at her and winked. “Take my arm, pretty miss, and I’ll give you a walking tour of our Graceland. Free of charge.”

  Murphy stood up, reluctantly set her mug on his tray. She wanted to take it home with her, but it could be evidence. She threw her purse strap over her shoulder. Looked across the room at Trip. His hands were locked motionless around his cup and his mouth was hanging open.
Eyes as big as saucers. His father’s suggestion of a tour obviously horrified him. Trip was hiding something. She looped her left arm around his father’s right elbow and grinned. “Do you have a jungle room, too?”

  Frank threw his head back and laughed. “Closest we got is Sweet’s room. You could call that a jungle.”

  Trip bolted out of his chair, spilling tea all over the front of his legs. “Godd… dammit to h… hell.”

  “Son. Watch your language in front of a lady.”

  Trip ignored him. Ran into the kitchen with the mug, set it on the counter and grabbed a towel. Returned to the front room with it. Wiped his pants legs while he talked. “Pa. Wait. This ain’t such a g… good idea. Bedrooms are a m… mess. A regular d… d… disaster area.”

  “Speak for yourself, son. My room is fit for a lady.” Frank paused and smiled suggestively at Murphy. “I mean fit for a lady’s eyes.”

  Murphy wished she could knock his cane out from under him. She grinned at Trip. Thought her face would crack from the effort. “You should see my place. Regular pit, and I live by myself.”

  “Not married?” asked Frank.

  “Separated,” she said. “Getting divorced.”

  Frank started to cross the front room floor and headed to the kitchen with Murphy on his arm. “So you’re available.”

  Trip suddenly remembered the mess on the kitchen table, and in the middle of it, the peach purse. He dashed ahead of Murphy and his pa, plucked the purse off the table. He opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the wastebasket. Tossed the purse into it. He looked up. Murphy and his father were stepping into the kitchen. He snatched a dirty plate off the table and scraped the leftover bacon and eggs into the trash and set the plate in the sink. He needed more garbage to hide the purse. He saw the bowl of congealed oatmeal on the table. Picked it up. Tipped the gluey mess into the trash and tossed the dirty bowl in the sink. Looked into the wastebasket. Still saw edges of peach material. The hot dogs and potatoes. He took that plate off the counter and tipped the scraps into the garbage. He looked down again. Perfect. No peach peeking out. He kept scraping food scraps into the trash and setting the dishes in the sink. Picked up the remains of glass from the broken booze bottle and chucked those into the wastebasket.