Harry Dolan

by Bad Things Happen

  The minister was in her sixties, a gaunt woman with thick eyeglasses. She stood beside the closed casket with sprays of lilies at her back and rambled on about traveling and searching and coming to rest. Tom’s sister delivered a brief eulogy. His brother read a Kipling poem in a voice never far from breaking.

  Near the end of the service, a slim, well-dressed Asian man came in and sat next to Elizabeth. Loogan saw them leave together and later, at the cemetery, he saw them again. He watched them walk across the lawn of stones and leaves and grass. The Asian man turned aside to linger with the mourners, and Elizabeth joined Loogan by the black iron fence. She stood quiet beside him as the minister read psalms over Tom Kristoll’s grave.

  The crowd at the graveside was smaller than the one at the funeral home had been. Many of them stayed after the minister intoned a final blessing. They formed themselves into groups and talked in hushed voices. From the cemetery fence Elizabeth surveyed them curiously, and Loogan pointed out Nathan Hideaway and Bridget Shellcross. The two were talking with another man: medium height, fortyish, with short, thick hair and a closely trimmed beard.

  “What about him?” Elizabeth said.

  Loogan touched his temple absently. “He looks familiar.”

  “Where have you seen him?”

  “On the flap of a book jacket, probably.”

  As they watched, Nathan Hideaway put a hand on the bearded man’s shoulder and bent close as if to pass on a confidence. The bearded man glanced in Loogan’s direction. After a time, Hideaway turned to face Loogan and Elizabeth, sketched a bow, and took his leave, heading off at a slow pace along a row of stones.

  “What was that about?” Elizabeth said.

  “It’s like watching a show,” said Loogan.

  Bridget Shellcross and the bearded man had linked arms and were walking toward them across the lawn. Bridget wore a close-fitting tunic of black leather and a pair of black leather pants. Her eyes were hidden behind the black lenses of her rimless sunglasses. She removed the glasses as she approached.

  “David, may I introduce Casimir Hifflyn?” she said. “Cass, this is David Loogan.”

  The bearded man offered his hand and Loogan shook it.

  “And this,” said Loogan, “is Elizabeth Waishkey.”

  There were greetings all around. Hifflyn said, “Mr. Loogan, would it be presumptuous of me to offer my condolences for the loss of our mutual friend?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What did you think of the ceremony?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course.”

  “I found it . . . inadequate.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Hifflyn. “Words fail at times like these. The twenty-third psalm is the standard, I suppose. ‘The Lord is my shepherd. ’ But it’s overly familiar. If it had been up to me, I might’ve chosen something else.”

  Loogan looked up at the clear sky. “I might’ve chosen silence, and a smaller crowd.”

  “I won’t disagree,” Hifflyn said. “Grief is a fiercely private matter. I’ll let you be, Mr. Loogan. I only wanted to meet you, since I missed the gathering the other night. I hope we’ll have a chance to speak again.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’ll leave you then,” Hifflyn said. To Elizabeth he added, “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  Bridget stood on tiptoe and kissed both of Loogan’s cheeks, and then she and Hifflyn departed. When they were out of earshot Elizabeth said, “So that’s Casimir Hifflyn. The writer. He’s on a different plane from the others, isn’t he? His books are more highbrow.”

  Loogan leaned back against the cemetery fence. “Some of them are. He got his start writing literary crime novels. The Emperor’s Tailors. The Man Who Paved the Road to Hell. But he also has a detective series: Kendel’s War. Kendel’s Rumor. Kendel’s Key.”

  “What was that he said to you—about a gathering the other night?”

  “That was Tuesday,” Loogan said. “I was summoned to the Kristoll house. Laura was there, and Bridget Shellcross, and Nathan Hideaway. They offered me a job.”

  “Is that right?”

  “They asked me to take over as editor of Gray Streets.”

  “Did you accept?”

  “I haven’t given them an answer.”

  “Maybe you should,” Elizabeth said. “A job like that would occupy your time. It would keep you out of trouble.”

  Loogan stared down at the withered grass around his feet. “Have I been getting into trouble?”

  “You tell me. Why did you go looking for Michael Beccanti?”

  “Oh. Is that going to get me into trouble?”

  “It might. Why did you do it?”

  “Tom mentioned his name once. Said he was a burglar.”

  “You think he might have had something to do with Tom’s death?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I thought it would be worthwhile to talk to him.”

  Elizabeth put on a serious expression. “You’re not a detective, Mr. Loogan. This isn’t a story in a magazine. You’re not investigating the murder of Tom Kristoll.”

  “I know.”

  “You asked Beccanti’s girlfriend if she had a picture of him. Why?”

  Loogan shrugged. “I was looking for him. I thought it would help to know what he looked like.”

  “What would you have done if you found him?”

  “I guess I would have improvised. Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “That necklace you’re wearing—the beads are made of glass, aren’t they?”

  The question caught her off guard. “Yes. Why—”

  “The last time I saw you, you were wearing another necklace. Similar, but not the same.”

  “My daughter made them both. Why are you asking me about them?”

  “I’ve wanted to ask you since I saw you this morning,” said Loogan. “And here we are in a cemetery. Cemeteries remind us that our time is short. We shouldn’t put off doing what we want to do.”

  Elizabeth looked at him sideways, the hint of a smile forming on her lips. “Mr. Loogan, I think you’re trying to charm me.”

  Across the lawn, groups of mourners were drifting toward their cars. At the graveside, Laura Kristoll was engaged in a muted discussion with her sister and father. She waved them away and turned to walk toward Loogan. Loogan left the cemetery fence to meet her halfway. Elizabeth trailed behind.

  There was a scattering of yellow leaves at the place where Laura stopped. Leaves rustled under Loogan’s feet.

  “Well,” Laura said. “That’s done.”

  “Yes,” said Loogan.

  “They’re telling me I should go home.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “I’ve got a house full of guests. People want to look after me.”

  “Sure.”

  She looked over her shoulder. Her father and sister were still at the graveside. The funeral director hovered nearby.

  Turning back to Loogan she said, “You ought to come. I’d like to have you there.”

  “I will if I can,” he said. “There’s something I need to do.”

  “All right.” She nodded to Elizabeth, who stood a little distance away. “Detective,” she said. Then she left Loogan and headed back.

  He watched her join up with the pair at the graveside, watched them move off toward the cars with the funeral director in tow. There was no one left now at the grave, nothing there but a low metal framework that surrounded the opening and a mound of earth half-concealed by a tarp.

  From behind him Elizabeth spoke in a low voice. “You don’t have to be circumspect for my sake.”

  Loogan turned toward her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “There’s no reason you shouldn’t go see Laura Kristoll. It’s not really the business of the Ann Arbor Police. I’m not going to write it up for the file.”

  “That’s good to hear. But I meant what I said. There’s something I need to do. Someone I need to
find.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “I thought we had that settled, Mr. Loogan. You’re not a detective. You’re not going to go looking for Michael Beccanti.”

  Loogan offered her a fleeting smile. “Not him.”

  “Then who?”

  “I can’t tell you his name, but he’s the caretaker, the groundskeeper”—Loogan made a sweeping gesture with his arm—“whoever’s in charge of this place. When I find him I intend to question him at length. He’s going to tell me how this works.”

  He tipped his chin in the direction of the grave. “I have an idea of what happens next. I think they lower a steel enclosure into the ground, over the casket. Then they shovel the dirt on top of that. I’m not sure if they’ll do it now or later. I aim to find out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I intend to help bury Tom.” He looked into Elizabeth’s eyes. “That probably sounds ridiculous.”

  “No,” she said. “But I’m not sure you can do it.”

  “I know how to work a shovel.”

  “I’m not sure it’s allowed.”

  “I imagine it isn’t,” Loogan said in a quiet, weary voice. “But what is and isn’t allowed might not matter when it’s just me and a work crew and I ask them for a favor.”

  A breeze pushed the yellow leaves over the grass.

  “Someone’s going to bury him. I don’t see why it should be strangers.”

  Carter Shan was waiting in the car—a black Crown Victoria. Elizabeth got in on the passenger side. Through the window she could see Loogan standing alone by Tom Kristoll’s grave.

  “What’s he doing?” Shan asked her.

  She found herself reluctant to answer. What Loogan was planning was his own business.

  She said, “I suppose he’s doing whatever people do. Saying good-bye. Saying a prayer.”

  “You talked to him a long time.”

  “He introduced me to some writers. He acknowledged that he went looking for Beccanti. Did you find anything out?”

  “Adrian Tully never showed his face. Not at the funeral parlor, not here.”

  “What else?”

  “I talked to Sandy Vogel. She was the one who revealed that we were investigating Tully. I don’t think she meant any harm. She told Laura Kristoll.”

  “That fits. We assumed that Laura Kristoll got Tully his lawyer.”

  “It also lets Valerie Calnero off the hook,” Shan said. “She didn’t warn Tully. She’s still one of the good guys.”

  “You seem pleased about that,” said Elizabeth.

  “I’ve always gone for redheads. She’s got nice legs too.”

  “God, Carter.”

  “Well, she does.”

  “You didn’t hit on her at a funeral, did you?”

  Shan turned the key in the ignition. “I know better than that. I’ll wait for another time.”

  In the distance, David Loogan was striding across the cemetery lawn.

  Shan’s fingers drummed the steering wheel. “Do you want to stick around, see where he goes?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter 14

  THAT NIGHT THE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF DAVID LOOGAN DREAMED in the darkness of his rented house. In his dream, Tom Kristoll was alive. The two of them were in the clearing of the woods of Marshall Park, with the grave of the thief at their feet. Tom weighed the silver-gray pistol in his palm and dropped it into the earth. But in the grave something stirred. Loogan glimpsed a pale hand closing around the pistol’s grip. He heard the sharp knell of gunfire. Two shots.

  The shots woke him. He stared at a black shape like a grave and couldn’t move. He panicked for a moment, until he realized he was staring at the open doorway of his bedroom.

  He rolled onto his elbow, swung his legs off the bed. His pants rustled against the sheets; he had fallen asleep in his clothes.

  Down the stairs in his sock feet. He turned on the light in the kitchen, sipped tap water from his cupped hand. There on the floor his shoes were coated with the dust of Tom Kristoll’s grave. On the table was a Mont blanc pen that had belonged to Tom, a token that Laura Kristoll had wanted Loogan to have.

  Leaning against the counter he looked into the dimness of the living room and felt a chill. He listened for a sound of movement, but there was nothing. Slowly he pulled open a drawer beside him.

  He made his way to the living room armed with the longest knife from the drawer. He sorted out the black rectangles: one was the opening of the fireplace, one was the doorway of the history professor’s home office. He switched on a lamp and felt the chill again. The air grew colder as he approached the window that looked out on the front porch. The sash was raised about an inch. There was a screen on the outside. There were two long cuts in the screen, corner to corner, forming an X.

  Loogan heard movement and felt sure someone was behind him. He spun around, slashing with the knife. The blade whistled faintly in the air. It struck nothing; there was no one for it to strike. He lowered the knife until the blade pointed at the floor.

  Just then the figure of a man seemed to materialize in the doorway of the office.

  Elizabeth woke on the couch, a quilt twisted around her, the muted television tuned to a late-night talk show. Her daughter stood over her, holding the receiver of the phone.

  “Call for you,” said Sarah. “It’s Carter.”

  Elizabeth yawned. “Tell him I said hello.”

  Into the phone Sarah said, “She’s loopy, Carter. Give her a minute.”

  Sitting up, casting off the quilt, Elizabeth took the receiver. “You’re calling me on the wrong phone,” she said.

  “I tried your cell and got kicked to your voice mail,” said Carter Shan.

  She picked up her cell phone from the coffee table and flipped it open. “The ringtone’s off. I shut it off for the funeral.”

  “I’m glad we got that settled,” Shan said. “I’m taking a drive to the country. North Territorial Road. Thought you might want to come.”

  “What is it?”

  “Body in a car. White male. Gunshot wound to the head. I think you’ll be interested.”

  “Who is it, Carter?”

  “Can’t be sure yet, but the car belongs to someone we know.”

  The man was slim and shy of six feet tall and dressed in black. His face was a pleasant oval framed by dark, tangled hair and three days’ growth of beard.

  He stepped into the living room and said, “I have a gun.”

  “Do you?” Loogan said. “Let me see it.”

  “I don’t really. But I thought it might make you think twice about using the knife.”

  Loogan had brought the blade up automatically. His fist was clenched around the handle.

  “You’re not going to need it,” said the man dressed in black. “If I wanted to hurt you I could have done it already. I’m here to talk. I’m—”

  “Michael Beccanti, I know,” Loogan said. “I saw the damage you did to my window screen. Cutting an X instead of a Z—I suppose that’s the equivalent of a disguise.”

  “The Z was what got me into trouble,” said Beccanti. He gestured at the sofa and chairs. “Maybe we could sit.”

  Loogan made no move. “How long have you been here?”

  “Maybe an hour. You were asleep.” Beccanti looked at his watch. “You turned in a little early for a Friday night. It’s barely one o’clock.”

  “I’ve had one of those days.”

  “The chair in the office is comfortable,” Beccanti said. “I almost dozed off. But I’m glad you woke up. I thought I might have to wait here till morning.”

  “You didn’t think to wake me?”

  “Some people react badly when you go into their bedroom and start shaking them. Some people, you break into their house, they get hysterical. You’ve handled things pretty well, apart from the knife. Tom said you were a levelheaded man.”

  Loogan’s breath caught in his throat. “Tom talked to you about me?”

&
nbsp; “Sure. He was always talking about his friends. Didn’t he ever mention me?”

  “Just once. Do you have any ID? A driver’s license would do.”

  “Why?”

  “Did Tom ever tell you I was in the circus?” Loogan said. “I was a knife-thrower.”

  Beccanti chuckled and took out his wallet. He flipped his license through the air and it landed at Loogan’s feet. Carefully, Loogan picked it up. The name was right: MICHAEL ERIC BECCANTI. The photo was a good likeness.

  He ran his thumb along the edge of the license, considering what to do. The sensible thing would be to call the police, but he had stopped being sensible quite a way back.

  He thought of Elizabeth Waishkey and the conversation he’d had with her earlier that day.

  Why did you go looking for Michael Beccanti? she had asked. What would you have done if you found him?

  I guess I would have improvised, he had told her.

  Beccanti stood expectantly with his arms at his sides, palms forward. Loogan tossed the license back to him and decided to improvise.

  “Tom mentioned you once. He told me you were dead.”

  The patrolman stood in the road and tapped a flashlight against his thigh. His breath was visible in the night air.

  “Couple of teenagers called it in,” he told Elizabeth and Shan. “Boy and a girl. They drove up behind the victim’s car and couldn’t get around it. Honked like hell, trying to get it to move. Eventually the boy got out and walked up to the driver’s side—and saw what he saw.”

  Shan had picked up Elizabeth and they had taken Route 23 to North Territorial Road. After five or six miles, they had turned onto a narrow side road that ran between stubbled cornfields. A patrol car and an M.E. van were already on the scene.

  “Teenagers,” the patrolman muttered, shaking his head. “You can imagine what they were doing out here. Maybe that boy’ll think twice before he takes some girl cruising again, this time of night. Anyway, he saw what he saw and he backed out of here fast. Took the girl home and called 911 from her house. I’ve got their names.”