Murder by Moonlight

by Vincent Zandri

  I recall the point that Ferrance tried to make about one man holding one of the Parkers down while another man did the axe work. Maybe I’ve run the lone axe-man scenario over and over in my mind, but that doesn’t mean I’m still not working out other possible scenarios in my head. One of those scenarios being, what if Chris didn’t act alone when his parents got hacked up? What if someone else did, indeed, help him?

  Question is, who?

  But then the more important question is this: Does it matter if someone helped Chris kill his father, attempt to kill his mother?

  The answer is simple.

  No, it doesn’t. Because either way I can’t help but believe the kid is guilty of murder in the first, and I just helped him get out of jail.

  Back home inside my loft, I gather the stuff to make a spaghetti simplici. I also crack a beer, take a quick sip along with two anti-inflammatories. I haven’t forgotten about my little pass-out episode this evening or my little incident with a junkyard pit bull. My doctor would tell me to get off this case, that I’m pushing things, risking what life I have left. But then, don’t I always. That clearly in mind, I check the bottom of my pant leg. Sure enough, two little holes exist where the wild animal’s fangs pierced it.

  I keep a small television on the counter, shoved under the cabinets in the far corner of the room. I turn on the local twenty-four-hour news, wait for a car insurance commercial that features a talking gecko lizard to finish up. Then a story about a downtown hotel acting as a house of prostitution and yet another story about a deadbeat kennel owner who didn’t bother to feed or take care of his dogs. I wonder if any angry pit bulls lived there. Finally, the news I’m interested in hits the cable network.

  “Tonight, alleged axe murderer Christopher Parker is freed on two hundred and fifty thousand dollars bail,” the pretty anchorwoman announces. “Sources close to the ongoing investigation said Parker’s neighbors chipped in to come up with the bond money on behalf of a young man they claim is incapable of carrying out the violent axe attack that left his father dead and his mother severely wounded in the early hours of September 15th.”

  A video feed follows.

  There’s Christopher, looking worn and thin, being led out of the Albany County clink by Kindler on one side and his towhead brother on the other. All wear happy family smiles painted on their faces.

  All except Chris.

  The camera zooms in on the teary-eyed would-be axe murderer as he breaks away from Kindler and his brother, makes a mad dash for his dear mother. Despite her fragile condition, she hugs her son and weeps like a Madonna.

  Back to the anchor.

  “In a related and shocking development today, the lead detective assigned to the Parker case was found dead in his car in the parking lot of the Bethlehem Police Department.”

  Another vid feed. This one of Bowman’s Buick as those same forensic techies I spoke with earlier work it over. Only something’s different from the scene I witnessed a few hours ago. There’s another man standing near the car. He’s not a part of the forensics team. He’s a big, red-faced, white-haired man whom I recognize right away. It’s APD Chief Daly, Bowman’s half brother. He’s standing near the car in his uniform blues, his eyes locked on his dead sibling. He’s neither crying nor smiling. He’s simply staring into the car with a face best described as expressionless.

  “Sources close to Bowman claimed the thirty-year veteran had been growing more and more despondent as of late, especially over recent developments in the Parker case, the most damaging of which is a rumored accusation that the detective made an illicit cash payment to Dr. James O’Connor, a member of the Albany Law School faculty, in exchange for expert testimony. Thus far, the professor has refused comment regarding a situation, which, when pressed by reporters, Albany prosecutors called both damaging and disturbing. But it’s in light of these developments that defense attorney Kindler was able to make a case to the Supreme Court of Appeals for the release of his client, an unusual circumstance for potential capital cases. In other news…”

  I turn the television off wondering if, in the end, Chris’s case will be tossed out of court altogether. My built-in shit detector is shouting Mistrial! even before the trial is set to begin.

  The plot thickens and the pot boils. I toss some spaghetti into it. Then I grill some tomatoes, onions, and black olives in some virgin olive oil. When the spaghetti is done, I strain it, add the grilled vegetables, some salt and pepper and grated parm for some added protein. I set the plate on the counter, sit down, and eat it along with another cold beer. But what I really want is a shot of Jack. Maybe six shots of Jack.

  I’m tired. It’s dark out. It’s cold. And I feel dirty inside.

  The wind is picking up along the river and blowing against the big windows. Kindler is having a party celebrating Chris’s bail. Since I helped a little in getting him out, maybe it’s only right that I show up. Besides, I told him I’d be there.

  I stare at the little piece of plastic that came out of the dried puke that’s presently stored in my freezer. I’m not sure why I’m hanging onto any of it anymore. I think about Erin, and what she revealed about Chris making goo-goo eyes and playing grab-ass with Doc Robinson, and Bowman doing the wild thing with Joan Parker. Chris must have known about the affair. It must have made him furious. Peter might have known, too. Maybe Chris was angry with his dad for not having done anything about it. Maybe Bowman knew that sooner or later, Chris would take out his vengeance on him, one way or another. Maybe when he saw the opportunity to lock Chris up, he jumped at it, and then got O’Connor to back up his efforts with a cash payment. Maybe…

  In any case, when all this comes out in a court of law, you can bet the judge will scream mistrial, and Chris will be a free young man.

  Guilty or not guilty.

  I gaze at the digital clock on the microwave. Six-thirty. I wonder what Aviva’s doing. Maybe she’ll just show up and change my mind about the party. Show up in her fur coat and nothing else.

  I wait until I finish my beer. I drink it slow.

  She doesn’t show.

  When the can is empty, I get up, grab my leather jacket, and head back out into the cold, dark night.

  Kindler’s house is located in a posh neighborhood of brand-new McMansions that occupy about a thousand acres of once pristine pinewoods. Now storm sewers sit where cushiony deer beds were made; driveways where bunny rabbits made their dens; swimming pools where ponds provided aquatic respite for sunfish, birds, and bullfrogs. Destruction of green spaces by the rich and infamous. What they call “progress” in Albany.

  Cars are parked in the driveway. Nothing too expensive, which tells me the party isn’t for Kindler’s friends but his poorer clientele. Let them eat bread. Kindler probably parks his Mercedes in the attached garage. No one likes a showoff. Especially one who charges $350 per hour.

  I thumb the doorbell.

  An ominous gong rattles the home. After a few seconds, Kindler himself opens the door. His eyes light up under his glasses when he sees me. The man’s got some serious social graces because, after all, how glad can he be to see me?

  He’s red-faced; the ball of his tie pulled somewhere down around his sternum, his shirt collar wide open. He’s holding a highball in his hand and he’s more than a little drunk, which is OK by me. I’m not sure what I’m doing here anyway other than to maybe tie one on myself, and maybe get a little behind-the-scenes face time with Joan. I’ll start out with something light and airy like, “When did you first decide to fuck Detective Bowman?” Then I’ll finish with something stronger like, “Are you going to attend the dead dick’s funeral? And if you do, are you going to cry and make a spectacle of yourself?”

  On second thought, perhaps it’s better I stay only long enough to lay my honest two cents about the Parker case on Kindler. After all, I’ve had my own share of affairs. I’m no better than Joan. No better than Bowman. Only difference between him and me is that I survived the self-inflicted bullet to t
he brain.

  Kindler steps aside while mumbling a high-ball-tainted hello…No, scratch that. He stumbles to his left to make room for me as I step inside. Ever the polite host, he asks if he can take my jacket. I tell him I’m OK. My black leather is my security blanket. But I open my jacket to show him the 9 mm tucked away in the shoulder holster.

  “Of course,” he says and smiles.

  “I won’t be staying long. I just want five minutes of your time.”

  “Sure, sure. I’m all ears. But lighten up a little and have some drinks and then you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

  There’s lots of loud talking and laughing coming from deep inside the big home. I follow the lawyer through the vestibule, down a long hall, and into a parlor that’s maybe four times the size of my loft and twice the size of dad’s old funeral parlor. On three sides are wide window walls. When you look out you can see the entire Hudson Valley and the blue mountains of Massachusetts silhouetted in the distance. Lavish and opulent. Clearly, Kindler has chosen the right business.

  I scan the crowd. There are a few people I don’t know who I take to be drinking buddies of Kindler’s. Neighbors, maybe. Jonathan Parker is standing to my left by a bookcase. He’s looking tall and fit. He’s got a bottle of Saranac lager in his right hand. It’s half empty. He eyes me, sneers, and nods. I’m almost bowled over by his warmth.

  To my right, Joan sits on a brown leather couch. There’s an aluminum walker situated beside her. I didn’t notice her using one when she first stepped into my office only a few days ago. Seated on the couch, so close he’s pressed up against her, is the prodigal axe-man himself, Christopher. He’s holding her hand. Or she’s holding his, as if never again letting go. Maternal bond, unconditional love, blind love. The kind of love that will make you do anything for your child, even if it means lying about the murder of your own husband, the attempted murder of yourself.

  Approaching them, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. I wonder if I did, in fact, make a deal with the devil when I signed on for this thing. Or maybe my spaghetti just isn’t sitting right.

  Chris goes to get up.

  “Don’t bother,” I tell him. “Stay close to your mom. She needs you now. Been a rough day for her, now that Bowman is gone.”

  Joan looks up at me quick. The reflexes are still there.

  Chris doesn’t appear the least bit affected. “Crying shame, Mr. M.” Shaking his head. “What a crying shame. Life is too precious. Isn’t it, mother?” His adoring baby-blue eyes on her.

  She nods, stares at me, like she’s still thinking about my Bowman comment. Women’s intuition. Or perhaps a sharply tuned built-in shit detector as infallible as my own, despite our separate brain wounds.

  Chris holds out his hand. I take it, shake it. It’s wet and cold.

  “Mr. Moonlight,” he says. “I can’t thank you enough—”

  “I didn’t do anything. I asked a few questions, raised a few possibilities, chased after a couple of hunches.”

  Joan reaches into a purse that’s stuffed between her hip and the end of the couch. She pulls out a sealed envelope, hands it to me. “I’m sure this will meet with your satisfaction,” she offers, speech slow but deliberate. “I will assume our professional relationship is concluded.” An icy smile. “As of right now.”

  The “now” is blunt and to the point. It’s also loud enough to make the room go as quiet as a church. Yup, she knows that I know that she was sleeping with Bowman, and that to go public with it would open a can of worms not even Jesus H. Christ himself would be able to close.

  I feel eyes drilling into my back. I turn, see Jonathan staring at me. Exactly as I suspected.

  Kindler approaches Jonathan, takes him by the arm, like the lawyer is sensing the bad vibes. “I ever show you my collection of antique handguns, Jonathan?” he poses.

  Jonathan peels his eyes off me as if his vision is somehow duct-taped to me. Sneers at Kindler. “You would be one of those little-dicked gun collectors,” he barks, not without a laugh. “Let me guess: they’re just for show. Never fired one of them, I bet. You don’t have the balls.”

  “Come on, then, Jonathan.” The lawyer does his best to drag the sailor into a den at the far end of the room.

  I turn back to Joan and Chris.

  “It might be a little premature to be celebrating,” I advise. “The prosecutor took one to the chin today. So did the Bethlehem cops when Bowman put that pistol in his mouth and squeezed the trigger. But that doesn’t mean both parties won’t pursue every avenue in seeing Christopher locked up for good.” My eyes planted on Chris. “To be honest, kid, you got off on a technicality. I wouldn’t count on being off for good.”

  I don’t mince words. But Joan doesn’t flinch. I guess that when you’ve been through what she’s been through and survived, everything else kind of seems a little insignificant. Everything except my knowledge of her illicit affair with Bowman. That broke through to her, all right. Her eyes on me are sharp and bright and cold as blue ice.

  I look back at Chris. He’s just looking at me, into me. Not saying a word. I have to wonder if he’s swallowed a sedative. Maybe a Valium.

  “For now my son is free,” Joan whispers. “And that’s all that matters.”

  I slide the envelope into my jacket pocket. Blood money. “I understand,” I lie. “By the way, you have nice neighbors. Especially Maxwell Okey.”

  Now it’s Chris’s turn to react. He swallows his Adam’s apple. Clearly, I’ve struck yet another chord. Moonlight, the nefarious.

  “Yes, sir,” Chris says in that Mickey Mouse Club manner, “Mr. O. was very generous to help collect all that money.” He bites down on his bottom lip.

  “Sure was,” I say. “He put up a sizeable chunk on his own. Heard Doc Robinson pitched in a pretty penny, too.”

  The kid nods. Lovingly. But the mood is shattered when an abrupt slam comes from out of the den.

  “Jonathan!” Kindler screams. “That’s not funny.”

  I turn. “Excuse me.” I do a fast walk through the crowd of the now-silent houseguests. Enter the den to find Jonathan holding two of Terry’s antique six guns. Something Wyatt Earp would carry. One in each hand. He’s holding them up to Terry’s face, the hammers cocked. The tall navy man is laughing hysterically.

  “Please put them down, Jonathan,” Terry pleads.

  “Do a dance for me, lawyer man,” Jonathan sings. “Do me a fucking dance.”

  Terry’s face is even redder than before. But it isn’t from the booze. He’s afraid, and he’s embarrassed. His den has become a schoolyard and Jonathan is the big bully.

  “You heard what he said, Jon,” I say. “Put the guns down.”

  He turns fast, stares me down with those steely blue Parker eyes. Shifting the pistol that’s gripped in his right hand, he maneuvers it like the turret on a tank, planting a bead on me. He’s got one pistol pointed at me, the other at Terry. He’s still laughing. Outside the open door, the guests have gathered. Someone gasps, says something about backing away before someone gets killed. Oh my.

  “Put it down, Jon,” I repeat. “You’re drunk, those aren’t toys, and your mother is sitting in the next room. You’re a military man. You could go to the brig for this.”

  “Don’t call me Jon, Moonlight. It’s Jonathan, and I want you to put your hands up. Fuck the brig. Who’s gonna tell them—you?”

  The den is one big library with overstuffed bookshelves for walls. There’s a mahogany desk and a glass cabinet like you might see in a museum. The glass lid has been pulled open. Terry stands before it, trembling, the ice in the highball glass rattling against the sides.

  “Those loaded, Terry?” I pose, the words spilling out the corner of my mouth.

  He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t think so.”

  I don’t hesitate for another second. I cross the floor, pull the gun out of the kid’s right hand, shove my left fist into the soft spot just under his rib cage. He drops instantly to his knees. Th
en I steal the other pistol.

  I hand them back to Terry. “Lock these up, for Christ’s sake.”

  He proceeds to set them inside the case, closing the glass, locking it.

  Jonathan is reeling from the pain in his side. But I know he isn’t about to let it go. When he lunges at me, I give him a short, sharp left hook on the chin and that’s all it takes to put him out cold. I’m feeling the adrenaline fill my brain, but I’m careful to breathe slow and steady. I don’t want to risk passing out again. Not here, not now.

  A pregnant quiet overwhelms the place. Shock and dismay will do that. Or is it shock and awe?

  Chris shoves his way through the people and comes to his brother’s aide.

  “Jonathan, big bro,” he says, dropping to his knees, patting his brother’s face gently. “Are you OK?”

  “He’s OK,” I offer. “Just had a little too much to drink.”

  Terry takes me by the arm, leads me out of the den, past gaping-mouthed suburbanites. “Maybe you’d better go,” he suggests.

  “Maybe you’d better not invite Jon Parker to another one of your parties,” I suggest.

  On the way through the parlor, I take one last look at Joan. She’s still seated at the end of the couch. She’s looking down at her feet. For a moment I think she must be asleep. Until she raises her head, looks up at me. Eyes me with no expression at all, her face a scarred and patched reminder of what she’s suffered at the hands of a madman.

  Terry pulls me through the long hall to the brightly lit vestibule and to the front door. “She pay you?”

  I pat my chest pocket. “You know Joan was sleeping with Bowman?”

  He yanks even harder.

  “Did you?” I press.

  “This is Bethlehem, Moonlight. Let’s just let it go.”

  “You think Chris knew about the affair?”

  “Let. It. Go.”

  “Where is the son of a bitch!” Jonathan’s scream comes from all the way inside the parlor.

  “Please just leave,” Terry insists, that highball glass still in his hand. “I’ll be in contact soon. We’ll talk.”