AHMM, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Rodriguez broke Sam's morbid reverie by moving across the living room to the small fireplace. Sam watched a pair of cop eyes soften as Rodriguez slowly scanned the photographs along the mantel.

  In the first set Sam was holding a young girl who looked a lot like him, brown hair going in all directions, hazel eyes set wide. Moving along the mantel she aged, each click of the shutter a year or more. Rodriguez chuckled softly when he saw himself smiling back from one photograph, his arm around Sam, their patrol caps askew. The girl was sandwiched between them, almost as high as their shoulders.

  "Sally grew up fast, didn't she?"

  Sam smiled but didn't say anything.

  Rodriguez moved along the row of photos, his eyes clouding as he found Marie. Sam's wife was always smiling, her warmth palpable even from an old photograph. And Sam looked more alive whenever Marie was in the frame, much younger than the man sitting on the couch, even though some of the pictures were only a few years old. Rodriguez turned toward his ex-partner slowly, feeling older himself from the weight of it all.

  "I still expect to see Marie every time I come over,” he said quietly. “Can't believe she went so fast."

  "Cancer's a lot more deadly than any bullet,” Sam said, rubbing his false leg. “It never misses."

  Rodriguez nodded. “I know it's been tough on Sally."

  Sam worked the muscles in his jaw. “She's still angry."

  "With you?"

  "With everyone,” said Sam. “Mad at the doctors. Pissed at me for not being able to save her mom."

  "Don't you think she's being a little hard on you?"

  Sam shrugged. “I was never around much."

  "Because of the job."

  Sam nodded. “But her mom made it okay when she was little—made me seem like some kind of hero or something. Told her stories about her dad at bedtime. Now her mom's gone, and she found out her dad isn't Superman after all, just Clark Kent. Can't say I blame her for acting out. No one should lose their mom like that."

  "Or their wife."

  Sam didn't say anything. The two men sat silently for a long minute, looking at the bottles in their hands. This always came up, no matter where the conversation started. And despite all the times Sam had wanted to talk to someone about Marie during those long, dark months in the hospital, he couldn't change the subject fast enough when someone else—even a friend—brought it up. He refocused his eyes and set down his beer.

  "You were telling me a story,” he prompted.

  Rodriguez took the hint. “It's a good one."

  "A good story about a pimp."

  Rodriguez nodded. “A dead pimp."

  "Someone we know?"

  "Remember Shortball?"

  Sam's eyes narrowed. “Bill Jackson."

  Rodriguez nodded. “His legal name."

  "The midget pimp."

  "A real scumbag—all three feet of him."

  "Worked the Mission District."

  "Yeah, kept a bunch of rooms in the dive motels, next to the Grand Cinema."

  Sam nodded.

  "Specialized in runaways,” continued Rodriguez. “Nice girls from the suburbs, looking for a little excitement. Local girls from the public schools, hooked on some shit they tried on a dare but can't afford anymore. Most of them no more than fourteen, if that."

  "The only good pimp...” Sam let his voice trail off.

  Rodriguez nodded but didn't say anything.

  "Where'd you find him?"

  "One of his dive apartments,” said Rodriguez, wrinkling his nose. “Been dead two days."

  "It's been hot lately—how'd he look?"

  "Like a dead midget pimp,” replied Rodriguez. “Body was bloated, the skin split in places. Looked like he was gonna pop, shoot across the room at any moment. I asked the M.E. if the cause of death was a bicycle pump."

  Sam smiled despite himself. They'd both told that joke a thousand times, but for some reason the medical examiners never thought it was very funny. The M.E.'s reaction was the best part.

  "Shot?” asked Sam.

  "Nah,” replied Rodriguez. “Overdose. Our man Shortball shot up one time too many."

  "Smack."

  "Yup. Right between the toes."

  "So it's not your problem,” said Sam. “It's not a homicide."

  "Maybe,” said Rodriguez. “See, he'd been worked over a bit."

  "You said he looked like a balloon."

  "Even so, there were signs."

  "What'd the M.E. say?"

  "The heroin killed him. It was nasty, cut with some kind of antifreeze or something."

  "So?"

  "So maybe he got beat up by an angry john."

  "One of his girls more likely."

  "You got a point.” Rodriguez shrugged. “He was a little guy."

  "So maybe he got beat up, was depressed, and then shot up."

  Rodriguez nodded. “But this time he crossed the line."

  Sam saw the look in Rodriguez's eyes. “But maybe..."

  "Maybe someone helped Shortball shoot up."

  "What's the captain say?” asked Sam.

  "Captain says we've got a dead pimp with no family,” replied Rodriguez. “Says our closure rate sucks, and I should leave it alone. We start an investigation and I come up empty, it looks like an unsolved homicide."

  "Guess things haven't changed so much since I was on the job."

  "Still got the same mayor.” Rodriguez flashed a cynical smile.

  Sam nodded. It was all over the papers. The mayor was young, good looking, and a magnet for the press. His latest crusade was fixing the “dismal” rate of homicide closures. Never mind budget cuts that slashed the size of the force. Forget that most of the deaths were gang-related shootings in parts of town the city council had turned its back on. There were too many suspects, no help from the courts, and no witnesses. The local residents didn't trust the cops because the force was spread too thin to have any real presence in the neighborhood.

  But those were cop problems, not the mayor's. The press took the bait like sharks to chum, and now the police were second-guessed on every investigation. Under a microscope until a case was closed. It was the one part of the job Sam didn't miss.

  "It's only gotten worse since you retired,” said Rodriguez. “Our balls are getting squeezed by that pretty-boy, so a messy case just means more pressure. And I must tell you, my friend, my balls can't take much more pressure."

  Sam nodded again. “But if you go with the overdose story—"

  "No case, no pressure, no problemo.” Rodriguez drained his beer, stood up, and walked back across the open kitchen to grab another. He looked over his shoulder. “You mind?"

  Sam shook his head. “That's why I buy them."

  Rodriguez came back and sat heavily on the chair facing the couch. “So you see why I wanted a drink."

  "So you left it alone?"

  Rodriguez smiled. “Not a chance."

  "You're looking into it?"

  Rodriguez broadened his smile. “Already did."

  Sam's eyes widened. “And?"

  "I found the perp,” Rodriguez said triumphantly.

  "Already?” said Sam. “What did the captain say?"

  "Haven't told him yet,” replied Rodriguez. “Just put it together last night, and I'm still checking my facts—I did this under the radar, called in a couple of favors. Got the boys in the labs to do a couple of tests. Now I gotta see if I can do it by the book."

  Sam nodded. Unless the lawyers would buy it, there wasn't a case. If Rodriguez couldn't back it up, it would be worse than if he never went digging in the first place.

  "So the perp's still out there?"

  Danny shrugged. “For now; he's not going anywhere."

  "You sure it's the guy?"

  Rodriguez held up his hand. “Let me break it down for you."

  "It's your story, but I need an intermission.” Sam drained his beer and pressed down hard on the arm of the couch, getting the momentum behind his good leg. He wal
ked down a short hallway past his bedroom to the bathroom beyond. When he came back, Rodriguez handed him another beer.

  "Thanks,” said Sam. “So what happened next?"

  Rodriguez leaned forward, obviously pleased with himself. “I figured a scumbag like Shortball, he's got lots of enemies."

  "Plenty of suspects."

  "Too many,” replied Rodriguez. “So instead of looking at Shortball, I decided to look at his girls."

  Sam nodded his approval. “Smart."

  "I thought so,” said Rodriguez. “I asked around, finally connected with a girl named Molly, who used to work for Shortball before going solo. She hooks me up with one of the girls in his stable, Sadie."

  "And she saw something?"

  "I wish,” replied Rodriguez. “But I got a lead on a girl who doesn't belong there."

  "How so?"

  "She's supposedly a runaway, but she's not the type, according to Sadie. She tells me a guy came around last week looking for this girl—an older guy."

  "Private dick?"

  "Maybe,” replied Rodriguez. “Or maybe the dad."

  Sam nodded. “You get a name?"

  "Not right away,” said Rodriguez. “Nobody uses their real names anymore. Sadie was probably Betty Sue back home—you know how it works."

  "So?"

  "So the lab guys come back with something from the autopsy, give it to me on the q.t.,” replied Rodriguez. “Narrows the field. I do a little follow-up, I come up with a name."

  "And?"

  "Turns out I know the guy."

  Sam's eyebrows moved up an inch. “The killer?"

  "Yeah, a guy I met when I worked the neighborhood, back when I was on patrol."

  "You still knew where to find him?"

  "That was easy."

  Sam nodded. “Always is, once you got a name. So what did you tell the captain?"

  Rodriguez looked disappointed. “Wouldn't be much of a story if I just ran it up the flagpole, would it?"

  "What did you do?"

  Rodriguez took a deep breath, pausing for dramatic effect. “I'm so paranoid these days, I decide to take it a step further on my own. I visit the perp at his house and lay it out for him."

  "No Miranda, no arrest?"

  Rodriguez shook his head. “Mano a mano."

  "And?"

  Rodriguez held up his hand again, not wanting to rush his narrative. He was clearly enjoying himself.

  "At first we're just talking, like I'm talking to you now. I ask him how he's doing, tell him I'm working on a case in the Mission, thought maybe he could help out."

  "Nice and easy."

  "Reminisce about old times, tell a few jokes, like that."

  "He didn't get jumpy?"

  "Not so much at first. Just listens, you know. Then, maybe half an hour into it, he starts asking questions."

  "He knows that you know,” said Sam.

  "Or maybe he just wants to talk."

  "Get it off his chest."

  "But you never know. So I wait till he leaves the room, then I loosen my gun in its holster.” Rodriguez reached down and patted his Glock, sitting on his right hip in a black leather clip-on holster.

  "You think he's packing?"

  "He might be, right? I know this guy from way back, and he always had a piece.” Rodriguez shrugged. “And he's moving around the apartment during our chat, ‘cause I want to keep it casual—it's not like he's always right in front of me."

  Sam nodded. “Can't be too careful.” He shifted on the couch, moving his weight back to his good leg. “So you brace him?"

  Rodriguez shook his head. “I decide to let him make the next move."

  "Didn't you once tell me a guilty man always runs?"

  "Not always,” replied Rodriguez. “Remember that kid Mikey, the one they called The Fly?"

  Sam smiled. “Climbed up walls, broke into houses hanging upside down on a rope—guy was right out of a comic book."

  Rodriguez nodded. “They bust down his door, wake him up, tell him that his ass is arrested, and what's Mikey do?"

  The two men spoke in unison. “Mikey goes back to sleep."

  Both men laughed. Sam shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. Rodriguez waited for his friend's smile to fade before draining the last of his beer and standing up.

  "How you gonna sleep tonight, Sam?” he asked.

  Sam looked at his ex-partner.

  "Like a baby, Danny,” he said. “Just like Mikey."

  Rodriguez nodded. “I told you the guys in the lab found something?"

  Sam nodded back. “The needle wasn't clean?"

  "Wasn't just smack in there."

  Sam didn't say anything.

  "It was insulin,” said Rodriguez.

  Sam rubbed his prosthetic leg slowly, digging his fingers into the knee where the metal clasps wrapped around the plastic. “You think the killer would use his own needles?"

  "He might have improvised at the scene,” replied Rodriguez. “I would."

  "Maybe Shortball was diabetic."

  Rodriguez shrugged. “It's a possibility.” He nodded at one of the photos on the mantel, the gangly girl beaming as she stood between two smiling policeman. “That picture right there of Sally—she's a couple years older now, but she still looks the same."

  Sam worked his jaw. “I guess she does."

  "Absolutely,” said Rodriguez. “Anyone would recognize her."

  Sam looked at the picture but remained silent.

  "You gave me a copy,” said Rodriguez. “I still have it."

  "Did I?"

  Rodriguez moved his right hand to his hip, wrapping his fingers around the contours of his gun.

  Sam looked up at him. “You always were a good cop, Danny."

  Rodriguez moved his thumb across the safety strap and snapped it home, securing the gun. His hand came away from his waist and dangled loosely at his side.

  "Still am,” he said simply, bending to pick up his empty bottle. “Thanks again for the beer."

  Sam looked up at his ex-partner with a curious expression. “You didn't finish your story."

  "Didn't I?” Rodriguez frowned.

  "This guy you think killed Shortball,” said Sam. “What did you say to him?"

  Rodriguez leaned down and put a hand on Sam's shoulder.

  "Be more careful next time, partner."

  Rodriguez turned and set his empty bottle on the kitchen counter. Without turning back he crossed the small foyer to the front door and silently let himself out.

  After a few minutes Sam leaned forward and eased the snub-nosed revolver from the small of his back. He stood awkwardly and crossed the room slowly, pausing to set the gun on the kitchen counter. Checking his watch, he pulled open a drawer, dropped in the gun, and pulled out a set of car keys. School was over at three, and he hated being late.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Tim Maleeny

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  COUNTRY MANNERS by Brendan Dubois

  Being the only woman private investigator within a fifty-mile radius in a rural county in upstate New Hampshire, one would think that business would be sparse. Maybe so, and maybe I was lucky, but I always had enough work to pay the bills, sock some cash away every year in my IRA, and still have enough free time to canoe the local streams, do some stargazing, and pretty much stay out of trouble.

  And staying out of trouble was something I always try to do. So no deranged boyfriends looking to find their girlfriends, no young ladies looking for creative ways to eliminate their parents, and nothing else equally shady ever made my client list. Which is why I should have cuffed my visitor that late morning, tossed him out onto the sole sidewalk of Purmort, New Hampshire, and then taken the rest of the day off.

  But maybe I'm getting older, or bolder, or something, for I didn't sense trouble when he first came in.

  My office is small, with a desk, phone, three chairs, computer, and two three-drawer filing cabinets with good solid locks. The walls have a framed print of
Mount Washington, my framed license from the N.H. Department of Safety, and an award I received in a previous life from the New England Press Association. The window behind me overlooks a set of abandoned B&M railroad tracks and some marshland, and the front glass door gives a nice view of the Purmot grass common, once you get past the gold leaf lettering that announced K.C. Dunbar, Investigations. Next door, in the same building, is an Italian restaurant, the Colosseum, which is run by a second-generation Greek family, which is typical for New Hampshire. But don't ask me why.

  So the door opened up that morning and a man came in, slim, late thirties, short, dark blond hair. He was wearing a nice black suit, light blue shirt, and red necktie, and carried a slim, black leather briefcase. I looked at him and he looked at me, and I thought, lawyer, out of town, looking for something or another from the local talent. Said local talent being me. Still, I opened the center drawer of my desk and waited. Yeah, probably just a lawyer.

  And in a way, I was correct, but only correct in the manner of stating that if you loved ice, the maiden voyage of the Titanic was a brilliant success.

  "Miss Dunbar?” he asked.

  "The same,” I said.

  He put his briefcase on one of the two polished wooden chairs in front of my desk, held out his hand, which I promptly shook. “Stewart Carr.” And then he put his hand inside his coat, pulled out a thin leather wallet, and popped it open in front of my face. “Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

  I looked at the photo and the accompanying detailed information card, and then looked up at him.

  Perfect match, of course.

  "Gee,” I said, knowing I sounded awestruck but hoping my expression said something else.

  "May I sit down?” Carr asked.

  "Of course,” I said, my first mistake of the day.

  * * * *

  He sat down with a smile and looked over at me and said, “Just to clear the air, Karen Christine Dunbar, I'm not here about any of your clients or past cases. So we can get past the whole client confidentiality issue."

  I leaned back in my chair, conscious of his nice suit and my own faded jeans and T-shirt advertising last year's Purmort Old Home Days. “All right. Consider it passed."