Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  The passenger door slammed open, and Mindy jumped out. “Don’t hurt him! Please!”

  My eyes darted to Mindy, but I kept the .45 trained on Jimmy. “Stay where you are, and no one’ll get hurt. Just stay calm, and do exactly what I tell you.” I tucked my badge into the back pocket of my jeans and waved Jimmy toward me.

  “Put your hands behind your head, and face the car.”

  Jimmy did as he was told. I holstered the .45 and swung his arms behind his back, cuffing him with flexicuffs. Mindy watched us over the roof of the Corolla, worry in her eyes. I turned Jimmy around. In his eyes, I saw a strange mixture of anger and resignation.

  “Is there anything I can offer you?”

  I shook my head.

  He slumped against the car trunk, resignation beating out anger. “Didn’t think so.” Mindy rushed over to be with him, stroking his arm and muttering, “I’m sorry.” Watching them, I made two phone calls.

  The first was to Suzie Jensen, a deputy sheriff and my best friend. We’d joined the sheriff’s department together ten years ago, just a few years out of high school. She was still with them, a road supervisor now. I didn’t last two years.

  When she answered, I told her what I had and asked if she’d provide transport to Police Division Headquarters. She agreed. Of course she agreed. She’s my friend. Besides, she’d get credit as the arresting officer, help beef up her stats.

  While we waited, I made my second call, this one to Saul Rosenfeld. I told him I had Jimmy in custody and would be bringing him to Division shortly.

  “That’s great. Great news. What happens now?”

  I told him. Once we got Jimmy to headquarters, we’d take him in and let the desk sergeant know what we had. At that point Suzie—as the arresting officer—would escort Jimmy through the booking process. Photos, prints, the whole works. Then he’d be put in a cell and wait to be arraigned. He’d be re-charged, and if the D.A. wanted to play hardball, additional charges would be tacked on then.

  What I didn’t tell Rosenfeld was that while all that was going on, I’d be on the phone with Jimmy’s bail bondsman, making arrangements to have the bounty payment deposited into my account. This gig meant ten thousand dollars to my positive cash flow.

  “What about Mindy?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  She could be charged: aiding and abetting, conspiracy, harboring a fugitive. That would be up to the D.A. But I told her and Jimmy that if they stayed cool, I’d forget to report her involvement.

  “Good, good,” Rosenfeld said approvingly. “Kendra called. She told Mo’ about the studio’s offer.”

  With a held breath, I asked, “And…?”

  “Like I expected, he blew up. A lot of screaming and shouting, throwing things, making threats.”

  “What kind of threats?”

  Rosenfeld pooh-poohed it. “Words. A lot of yelling. Nothing more. Mo’s all bluster, no bite.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ve known Mo’ a long time. All talk.”

  “And LaKendra? She okay?”

  “She will be, but boy, did she go for broke. She cut Mo’ out completely. Told him the partnership, the marriage, all of it was over. A clean break.”

  I winced. “That hurts.”

  “I guess. Wasn’t much of a marriage to begin with.”

  “Still,” I said, “have his wife send him packing while she goes on to do a new album, leaving him teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Where’s the street cred in that?”

  “Yeah. Well, you’ve got Jimmy for him. That’s something. He could use some good news today. I’ll call him and let him know.”

  “No!” Damn it.

  Rosenfeld hung up before I could stop him, tell him that was a really bad idea.

  Deputy Suzie Jensen drove us up Ludlow Street to the back entrance of Division Headquarters. She pulled her cruiser up to the curb across the street. I sat in the back with Jimmy; Mindy followed close behind in the Corolla. Once we parked, Suzie flipped the emergency lights on, got out, and opened the back door, all the while scanning the street for problems neither of us expected. Old habits.

  I climbed out and did the same, then leaned over and urged Jimmy out. Cars lined one side of the street, and farther down, there was a parking lot full of cars and people milling around. The police lights piqued their interest. A few stopped to watch, hoping to see something exciting.

  “Let’s get him processed.” Suzie smiled, relaxed. “Then you can thank me with a drink at the Wooden Nickel. First round’s on you.”

  I smiled back. “Goes without saying.” To Jimmy, I said, “Watch your head.”

  I held a protective hand out. When he’d fully emerged from the backseat, I took hold of his arm. Suzie slammed the door shut and did the same on his opposite side.

  “Ready?” Suzie asked.

  I said, “Ready.”

  But we weren’t.

  We spun, hearing the sudden screech of tires coming from a car fishtailing around the corner, spewing thick white clouds of smoke behind it. It was a black Maybach, a $400,000 luxury car made in Germany. The car righted itself, then slammed on the brakes, sliding to a stop a dozen feet from where we stood, leaving Suzie and me feeling a bit flat-footed.

  The driver’s door flung open.

  I can’t say I was surprised seeing Mo’ push his bulk up and out of the driver’s seat. What did shock me was the Glock in his right hand.

  Suzie shouted, “Gun!”

  We both drew weapons while Suzie pushed Jimmy down to the ground.

  I shouted, “Mindy! Get down!” Then I took a step toward Mo’. “You don’t want to do this.” I whispered to Suzie, “Stay with Jimmy; I can talk him down.”

  I stepped wide, circling away from Suzie and Jimmy, drawing Mo’s attention to me. I held my .45 in a classic Weaver stance.

  From my peripheral vision, I noticed a couple of cops a dozen yards back moving quickly toward us from the headquarters building, while several people in the parking lot surged to the curb eager to watch, to see something go down.

  “Motherfucker stole from me. He needs to pay.”

  Mo’ lined his pistol up on Jimmy, holding it sideways, gangsta-style.

  “You don’t want to do this, Mo’,” I said.

  “I can’t let ’im get away with dissing me. I can’t. He’s gotta pay.”

  Suzie crouched over Jimmy, her 9mm in her hand, tracking Mo’.

  “It’s not going to be Jimmy who pays, Mo’. Not if you do this.” I moved slowly, closing the gap between us.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking ’bout. Man fucked my rep. Needs to be put down like a dawg.”

  “You try putting him down,” I nodded toward Suzie, “one of us is putting you down. We can’t stop that, Mo’. Only you can. Now put the gun down.”

  He glanced over to the crowd gathering at the edge of the parking lot, watching us. It had swelled to a dozen people or more. I felt the presence of the cops moving up behind me. If I couldn’t talk him down soon, this was going to end badly. Very badly.

  From the crowd, someone yelled, “Hey, dat’s Mo’ Mac!” A young black man in cargo pants two sizes too big for him. “Can’t let ’em get away with that, dawg!”

  Jesus. My skin was prickly with sweat. “Don’t listen to that shit, Mo’. Jimmy’s going to pay for what he’s done. I promise he’ll be going away for a long time.”

  “Jail? That don’t mean jack shit.”

  Again from the crowd: “Give it to ’im, Mo’!”

  Suddenly another car wheeled around the corner. A black Beemer, coming on fast. The car stopped. Both front doors flung open. Saul Rosenfeld came out of the passenger side. LaKendra popped out of the driver’s seat.

  “Mo’ fuckin’ Mac! What the hell you doing?”

  Rosenfeld moved to the edge of the car door. “Kendra, don’t.”

  But she’d already cleared her door and was marching toward Mo’. Her hands on her ample hips, fisted. Her bitch full o
n.

  I called out, “LaKendra, stay back!”

  She didn’t listen.

  Mo’ had pivoted when the car first came around the corner. Now he turned full on. His gun aimed squarely at LaKendra. His pudgy face glistened with perspiration. His eyes were wide, jumping around. I wondered if he was on something.

  LaKendra said, “Put that damn gun down, fool. You ain’t shooting nobody. ’Cept your own damn self you ain’t careful.”

  Mo’ took a step toward her. His brow hooded, his anger palpable. And his arm rock steady holding the gun. “Who you think you is coming here, telling me what to do? You crazy, bitch. You gonna stop me from doing what’s right?” He waved a hand at Jimmy. “After the shit you pulled today? You gonna go stepping out on me”—he slapped his chest with his hand—“then come here and tell me not to cap this lowlife motherfucker here?”

  LaKendra’s paced slowed. Something in her face told me she wasn’t so sure about what Mo’ would or wouldn’t do. That maybe he had been pushed too far, pushed past his limit.

  She held up her hands. Her voice suddenly soft. “Mo’, listen, no…”

  Behind me, I heard Suzie. She saw it, too. “Grace…”

  I took off running. “Mo’! No! Don’t!”

  Mo’ Mac turned the Glock straight up and down in his hand, now properly gripped to shoot. I shouted again, still running, close now. The two cops behind me were charging hard. I leaped.

  He pulled the trigger. The recoil lifted Mo’s hand.

  The bullet struck LaKendra in the stomach. She staggered back, clutching at her gut. Blood leaked through her fingers. She looked up, wide-eyed.

  I crashed into Mo’. His large puffy body fell forward. We hit the ground. The Glock flew out of his hand and skidded across the pavement. One of the cops dropped down beside us. He grabbed Mo’s arms and pushed me away, flipped Mo’ onto his stomach. He wrenched Mo’s hands up and back, his knee grinding into Mo’s back as he cuffed him. He wasn’t gentle doing it.

  I climbed to my feet as the cop hauled Mo’ to his.

  The other cop and Rosenfeld were on the ground beside LaKendra. The cop was shouting into his shoulder mike for a bus. Rosenfeld gripped her hand. She coughed. Blood bubbled up out of her mouth.

  Suzie came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

  I glanced behind her, saw more cops had arrived. Two of them were walking Jimmy Dolens toward Division Headquarters, Mindy in tow, crying.

  The cop with me held Mo’ by the arm, firm. The ambulance sirens were already in the air, getting closer. The cop with LaKendra was doing CPR. There was nothing I could do.

  Mo’ had a confused look on his face. He was staring at LaKendra, watching her die. I stared at Mo’. “What were you thinking? Now you’ve lost everything.”

  Hearing my words, he turned to me. His expression shifted. From confused to serene.

  Then a smile spread across his face. “I didn’t lose nothin’. I fixed it.” His smile grew wider. “I finally fixed it.”

  It was my turn to be confused. “Fixed it? How?”

  Mo’ didn’t say. It was the crowd that gave me the answer. It had grown to twenty, maybe twenty-five people. Young people mostly. Blacks wearing their baseball caps sideways, their britches low, to expose their boxers. And Latinos in their wife-beater T-shirts and their plaid work shirts tied around their waists, and a few Latinas and a couple of young Asians.

  “That was righteous, bro’.”

  “Yo, you rock, dude.”

  “Way to put that bitch down, man! That was wack.”

  “Mo’ Mac! You the best.”

  “We loves you, Mo’.”

  I stepped back, shaking my head. But Mo’, he was grinning.

  “You hearing that? That’s what I’m talking about.” A second cop joined the first. They pulled him away from me, but Mo’ kept shouting, “I gots it all going on now, dawg! Who’s da baddest nigga on the block now!” To me, he called out, “You watch. See how much my records be selling now, bitch!”

  And the crowd cheered.

  MURDER IN THE SIXTH

  BY JOSEPH GOODRICH

  Paris, Graves told me, was the finest city he’d ever seen. It had the best coffee and the most beautiful women in the world—and he considered himself a connoisseur of both. But to enjoy either of them, to really enjoy them, required the kind of money he’d never had and never expected to have… until the Durands changed all that.

  Graves had been in Paris for six months by then. His French was, to put it charitably, imperfect. Anything beyond the rudimentary imperatives of food, directions, and toothpaste was a locked door, a linguistic barrier he despaired of ever crossing. The chatter in the street and in the Métro, in the cafes and tabacs, made him feel isolated and awkward and ashamed.

  He was lonely. Desperately lonely.

  And toward the end of July of that year, he was just about broke.

  By then, he was down to one meal a day. He still had his room at the Palace Hotel, a narrow rectangle of faded carpet and peeling wallpaper, but he couldn’t expect the management’s patience to last forever. Madame Isabelle, the concierge, still had a pleasant word for him when he dropped his key off in the morning and picked it up again at night, but Monsieur Claude was another matter. A native of the Auvergne, he had the suspicious nature of a provincial. Poor Madame Isabelle was torn between her feelings of compassion for one of life’s orphelins on one hand and her husband’s dour officiousness and absolute faith in cash-in-hand on the other. And Graves was caught in the middle. So as August’s rent approached, he spent as much time away from the hotel as possible.

  He walked mostly: through the marvels of greenery in the Jardin de Luxembourg and the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont; along the ancient gray streets of the Latin Quarter and the twisting, downhill spiral of the rue Mouffetard; beside the Seine, where he’d linger at one of the bookstalls and page through books he couldn’t read; anywhere, really, fate and his feet led him. And when he wanted to rest—away from the noises and voices—he’d turn to the sculpted silences of the cemeteries. He particularly loved the Cimetiére de Montparnasse. The feeling of peace that came to him there was something he found nowhere else in Paris. He drank from the well of the dead and was refreshed.

  He wasn’t the only one. He began to recognize the cemetery’s regular visitors. The young woman in section twelve, making notes in a broken-backed cahier; the old woman in the faded Chanel suit, perched on a bench near the crematorium, fingering the strand of pearls around her neck and gazing at the apartment buildings that loomed above the graveyard walls; the old man with the withered arm, forever keeping the rusted tin containers at the base of a war monument full of fresh, bright flowers—Graves knew them all and others, though not a word had ever been exchanged; and they knew him. After a while, he told me, he began to think of them as friends—almost, really, as family.

  But they never spoke. Never.

  Until the day a large, immaculately tailored older gentleman rose from his habitual bench, walked slowly past Graves with a slight, courteous nod, and collapsed on the path.

  THEY SAT ON the terrasse of the Faucon d’Or.

  “I’m very glad you were there,” the old man said in stiff but serviceable English. “In this heat, you know, a man of my age and… stature must be careful.”

  Graves silently agreed. The old man’s face was a flabby, sallow white with dark purple pouches under the eyes; he was too heavy for his own good, regardless of the weather, and older than Graves had thought at first. It was obvious the old man had money. The expensive suit, the Cartier watch on a thick wrist, the rings on the plump fingers testified to that. The old man gestured at the glasses on the table.

  “My friend, another drink—yes?”

  Graves hesitated, calculating the strain on his wallet.

  “You must allow me,” the old man said. “I wish to express my gratitude.”

  Graves quit calculating. “Well… all right, yes… thank
you.”

  “Thank you, my friend.” He turned to the patron. “Monsieur!”

  THEY TALKED AND drank for hours. Little by little Graves opened up, and eventually words were pouring out of him faster than the alcohol was pouring in. He felt fine and fuddled and expansive in the afternoon sun. The old man was the first person Graves had spoken to—really spoken to—in God knows how long. The old man nodded sympathetically, asked the right question at the right time, was never shocked. For the first time in months, Graves didn’t feel as if he was being judged—by others or by himself. He’d always felt, he told the old man, like a witness called to testify in the case of the world versus himself…. A hostile witness, at that. Disappointment and remorse would inevitably arrive with the hangover, but for the moment all was well. He looked at his reflection in the rusting mirror over the sink in the men’s room and laughed at the blurred and smiling face he saw there.

  DISAPPOINTMENT ARRIVED SOONER than he’d expected, for when he stumbled back to their table, the old man was gone. The café was deserted. Had the old man ever been there at all? He must have been. Who’d paid for the drinks? Well, the old man had paid—or had he?

  What if the old man hadn’t paid?

  “Monsieur?”

  Graves swung around woozily.

  “The lady ask me,” the patron said in heavily accented English, “that you should have this.”

  “… The lady?”

  “She say this is for you, monsieur.”

  Graves took the rectangle of colored paper. When he unfolded the thousand-euro banknote, a smaller paper rectangle fell onto the bar. He picked up the calling card with clumsy fingers. He focused his swimming eyes and read the words engraved in fine black script: M. Serge Durand, 11 rue St.-Sulpice, Paris 75006.

  On the back of the card someone had written: “We show mercy to God when we show mercy to his creatures—P. D.”

  HEAD SPLITTING, NAUSEATED, he lay wrapped in his dirty bedsheets. God, had he been drunk! No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember what he’d told the old man or how deeply the old man—M. Serge Durand—had probed. He kept to his room for the rest of the week, waiting to see if there’d be any repercussions from his meeting with M. Durand.