Death by the Book jsm-1

by Lenny Bartulin

  Jack casually swept the hair across his forehead, though he felt far from casual doing it. “No.” He shook his head to emphasise the fact. The detective looked at him, one eyebrow rising ever so slightly over his left eye. Or maybe Jack was imagining things. A primary school teacher once told the young Jack Susko that his imagination was too ripe and would ultimately get him into trouble. Maybe. He smiled at the detective and shook his head a little more and gave the detective the old Sorry I can’t help you look. But even as he shook his head and smiled his dumb smile, Jack knew that he should have come clean. He was lying to the law. The moment the word “no” had left his mouth he knew it was a stupid move. So what the hell was he doing?

  From the kitchen, somebody said: “Jesus, what a mess.”

  A toilet flushed. Ian Durst stepped out into the claustrophobic hallway again. “Excuse me,” he said, turning sideways as he passed between Jack and the detective. They both watched him leave.

  “You know him?” asked the detective, nodding in Durst’s direction.

  Jack’s face was firm, serious. “No,” he said. His second stupid “no” of the day.

  “Looks like you don’t know too many people, Mr Susko.”

  “I’m a bit of a recluse.”

  “Busy book-dealing.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You do a lot of reading?”

  “Just before bed.”

  “No girlfriend then?”

  “Not any I ever wanted to wake up to.”

  Detective Sergeant Glendenning gave his second smile for the financial year. One more and he would be eligible for a rebate. “Sounds like you’re too picky.”

  “I live in hope. But we can’t all be happily married men.”

  The detective looked down at his mobile again. The smile on his face went back to wherever it had come from. Almost in a whisper, he said: “No, we can’t.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and adjusted his round shoulders. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “And don’t leave the country?”

  No smile this time. “We know where you live, Mr Susko. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  He walked out of the hall and back into the living room. Jack watched him a moment and then followed. Celia was still sitting in the lounge chair, her face pale and puffy from crying. A half-glass of water on the coffee table told Jack that she had probably been given a sedative.

  Durst stood by a glass credenza full of Japanese dolls and smoked. Uniformed police officers moved back and forth across the room, all attention focused on the bodies in the kitchen.

  Detective Sergeant Glendenning and a female officer approached Celia. “That’s all for the moment, Ms Mitten. Officer Ivanovic here will help you through the rest of the investigation and assist you in any way she can. She’ll also organise a social worker and some trauma counselling for you. Don’t hesitate to ask her for anything else.” He glanced at the officer and then back down at Celia. “We’ll need to see you at the station in the morning. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Celia looked up at the detective and nodded, pressing her bloodless lips together into a sad half-smile. Glendenning reached out and touched her on the shoulder. Behind him, another uniformed officer came in from the kitchen and moved the coffee table aside. Then a couple of ambulance officers wheeled out one of the bodies. It was Kass: an arm showed from beneath the sheet that was pulled over him. There were ink-stains on his fingertips. Celia Mitten stared at the hand.

  Durst walked over from the credenza. “Can I take her away now?”

  “Yes,” replied Glendenning. “Does she have somewhere else to stay?”

  “She can stay with me.”

  The detective followed the stretcher out with his eyes. “She’s stayed with you before then?” He turned to face Durst again.

  A slight pause. “No.”

  “So you two aren’t together?”

  Durst looked down at Celia and put the cigarette to his lips and smoked. “Yes. We’re together.”

  “Good,” replied the detective and walked off. As he got to the front door, he turned around again and spoke to Jack: “You can go as well.”

  “Thanks.”

  The second body was wheeled out of the kitchen: the short shoplifter guy who had knifed Jack at Susko Books only three days ago. As he watched the body being manoeuvred through the lounge room, Jack’s brain started to tumble out some ideas; they tried to line themselves up into some kind of order. They were not having much luck. Jack rubbed his face. Better not to think about it too much right now. Thinking always had a tendency to get out of hand.

  He smiled at Celia, who did not notice, and followed the body out. He felt sorry for her. The ambulance officers paused in the hallway to tighten the belt over the dead man before descending the stairs. Jack waited and then followed. He went carefully down behind the trolley, step by step, until they reached the dim, damp lobby below. Jack was still not thinking too much. That was good.

  He watched the ambulance officers pass through the front doors of the apartment building. He felt an icy rush of wind from outside and then listened to it moan as the doors closed and squeezed it out. He wound on his scarf and buttoned up his jacket and then stepped out into the dark. The ambulance officers loaded the body into an ambulance and slammed the doors. Jack watched them drive off. Nobody else about: for a moment, the world was as cold and empty as an alcoholic’s refrigerator. Jack’s stomach sounded a thin, hollow gurgle. He wondered if it was appropriate to think about food at such a time.

  The frangipani tree near the entrance stood above him like some surreal candelabra wrought from shadows, faint against the city’s glow, its ragged candles snuffed and long cold. He stared at it and shivered and then started walking away. Christ. That was all he needed after a heavy day: a movie-size serve of gloomy symbolism.

  ~15~

  Another day. Jack was tense, stiff in the neck and aching, like he had been wearing a long wet coat all week, with anchors in the pockets. Last night he had dreamt that all his teeth fell out, that he had spat them into the palm of his hand, an endless mouthful. When he woke he had run his tongue over them a couple of times, to make sure they were still in his head. Now he sipped his coffee. He smoked a cigarette. He was sitting in the Eames chair with the heater pulled up close and his feet resting on top of it, trying to concentrate. Lois was curled up on a cushion on the floor. He was going over connections. Unchecked, he knew this type of mental activity often led to lunacy. But right now, it was all he had to work with. He was nervous about the connection between himself and the killer. But more than that, it was the question of who else was connected to the dead shoplifter — and why — that was making a vein in his temple pulse.

  Two men dead because of half-a-dozen morbid poetry books? Not to mention the stitches in his gut.

  A knock at the door. Jack groaned and got up out of the chair like a man whose woman had run off with his best friend. Maybe it was the cops. Maybe it was Detective Peterson, round for some early morning fun, having heard about the murder yesterday afternoon from his colleague. But when Jack opened the door and saw Annabelle Kasprowicz standing there, his low mood fizzed and dissolved like an aspirin.

  “It would have been easier if I’d walked,” she said. Her face was bright with cold. “I ended up parking closer to my place.”

  “Maybe it’d be easier if you just moved in.”

  Annabelle rolled her eyes and stepped into Jack’s apartment for the first time. He closed the door behind her while she looked around. Nothing seemed to hold her attention for too long.

  “It’s warm,” she said.

  “Make yourself at home.”

  She was wearing a knee-length, jersey wrap dress with a 1970s paisley print in brown and turquoise. It did not look like it would be too difficult to remove at the end of a hard day. Her legs were held secure in tight, knee-high navy leather boots that would probably require a little more effort. The long, turquoise fine-wool scarf around her neck would po
se no problem at all. A little jewellery, a little make-up, a puff of perfume. She sent every sense nuts, including the sixth.

  Lois stood up, stretched and then miaowed. She sauntered over to Annabelle and turned some lazy figure eights through her legs.

  “I didn’t pick you for a cat lover,” said Annabelle.

  “Neither did I.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Lois.”

  “A girl? Maybe I should leave?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s an open relationship.”

  Annabelle removed her scarf. She crouched down and stroked the cat. Lois began to purr. Jack moved the heater into the centre of the living room.

  “You’ve heard,” he said.

  Annabelle looked up, continued stroking the cat. “Ian called me last night from the police station.”

  So they had taken Durst to the cop shop. Jack extinguished his cigarette. “You don’t seem too upset.”

  Annabelle turned to the cat again. “I’m shocked by what’s happened, of course, but …” She stopped, rubbed Lois’ nose. “You know my family, Jack. You know it’s fucked. I might have passed my uncle in the street and not even recognised him.” She looked up. “I’ve never really known him. What else can I say?”

  “Have you told your father?”

  “He’s not due back until tonight. I can’t get him on his mobile.” She paused. “I can’t just leave a message.”

  “Sure.”

  Annabelle stood up, brushed cat hairs from her hands. “So Ian caught someone breaking into the place?”

  Jack nodded.

  “What happened exactly?”

  “Exactly, I don’t know. When I got there with Celia, the door was open, Durst was wearing a blood-splattered shirt and holding a gun, and there were two bodies in the kitchen. All that was missing were lights and a camera.”

  “Who was the other man?” Annabelle sat down on a red, corduroy two-seater couch.

  Jack hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t the police say anything?”

  “The police never say anything.” He picked up his cigarettes from the coffee table. “What about Durst? What did he tell you?”

  “Not much. The man who broke in had already shot Edward. Ian caught him going through his pockets.”

  Jack put the cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. “So Durst’s definitely with Celia.”

  “Looks that way.” Annabelle smiled — a second later it slipped from her face like an icicle.

  “It looks a lot of ways,” muttered Jack.

  Annabelle reached across for his cigarette. “Poor Celia. She doesn’t know Ian. Though maybe she deserves him.”

  “You don’t think it’s love, then?”

  “That’s not even close to being funny.”

  “You think he’s using her?”

  “Ian can’t help himself. It’s the way he was born.”

  “Why? Just to get at you?”

  She shrugged, smoked.

  “I thought he wanted you back?” said Jack.

  “My ex-husband is a very childish man.” Annabelle tapped the cigarette in an ashtray. “He probably thinks it will make me jealous. And my father angry.”

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “He’s always hated Ian. He wants to see him disappear. No money from the settlement and no Louisa. His lawyers are very good. Poor Ian doesn’t have much to fight with.”

  “Why would seeing Celia annoy your father?”

  “He owns Celia’s business.” She drew on the cigarette, blew smoke up to the ceiling.

  Jack frowned. There was always something around the corner with these people. And it always seemed to be Hammond Kasprowicz.

  “Don’t look so confused! Silly little games are how the world turns.”

  “Your old man owns Celia Mitten’s business?”

  Annabelle nodded. “Sometimes guilt can work with him. Or at least it used to. Celia possesses her own unique talents. I told you not to believe anything she said.”

  “Your ex-husband goes a long way to be a pain in the arse.”

  Annabelle stared at the cigarette in her hand. “He used to be fun. Once.”

  “Memories are wonderful things.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Who? Me?” Jack got up and went into the kitchen. He wished he had cracked Durst one back at Kass’s apartment. He came back with a plunger of coffee and a clean cup. Nobody spoke. Plumbing thrummed in one of the walls. It seemed to go with the mood.

  “I know who the other guy was,” said Jack. The words came out by themselves.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The guy who Durst shot, who killed your uncle. I knew him.”

  Silence. Then: “Who?”

  “This guy.” Jack lifted his T-shirt, exposing the stitches just above his hip. He looked down at the wound, but not at Annabelle. Then he let go of the T-shirt and sat down in the Eames chair with his coffee. He waited for her to say something.

  Annabelle continued to stare at him. “Did you tell the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Jack turned and watched Lois yawn. “Because I want to know who the hell he was working for.” He thought he might feel better for telling Annabelle. Instead, a kind of nausea drifted through him.

  “You shouldn’t play games with the police.”

  “It’s how the world turns, isn’t it?” said Jack, irritated. “Durst acted like he’d never seen me before.”

  “So what? He’d just shot a man! And he’s only seen you once.” Annabelle thought about it: the effort pressed faint lines into the corners of her eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing,” he snapped. Maybe he was thinking too much again. Maybe the connections were all just slipknots. Maybe soon enough they were going to cut off his circulation.

  Annabelle went over and knelt in front of him. She cupped his face in her hands. They were warm, soft hands. “You look tired,” she said.

  “I have to get ready for work.”

  “I’ll drive you. Does that give you more time?”

  Jack looked into her eyes, grabbed a handful of hair at the nape of her neck. She was beautiful, crazy beautiful, and he clenched his jaw and tightened his grip around the glowing hair in his fist. “Time for what?” he said.

  Annabelle half closed her eyes. She rolled her head around in a small circle, slowly, while Jack pressed his fingers into her neck. A soft sigh parted her lips. Then she put her hands on his knees and pushed herself up. She tilted her hip a little and reached around her side. She began to untie the straps on her dress.

  “I didn’t have time for a shower this morning,” she said. “I feel dirty. Do you mind?”

  “All I’ve got is a bath.”

  Annabelle began to slip the dress off. “Better let the cat out then.”

  The Concise Oxford English Dictionary was still on the counter at Susko Books where Jack had left it the day before. He put his bag down and stared at it. He put his hand on the front cover and thought about Annabelle Kasprowicz. Then he closed his eyes, flipped the book open and stabbed a finger at the page:

  poignant/ • adj. 1 evoking a keen sense of sadness or regret. 2 archaic sharp or pungent in taste or smell.

  Jack closed the OED and returned it to its place in the reference section. Next time he would try another book.

  He turned on the heat, the lights, and slipped the float in the cash drawer. He took a bite of the croissant he had bought on the way into the city and drank from a small bottle of orange juice. The shelves needed dusting. The floor needed sweeping. Jack wondered how much it would cost to employ a regular cleaner. He thought about how much he would get stung for the rear door. He wondered how long the day was going to take getting to 5.00 p.m.

  When the phone started ringing, he was sure it was the police. Worst-case scenario, it would be Peterson. He answered with a tight hello.

  “You going to pick thes
e books up or what?”

  It was Chester Sinclair. It was the first time Jack did not mind hearing his voice.

  “Mr Sinclair. And how are we this morning?”

  “Yeah, great. So when do I get my money?”

  “That’s wonderful. The wife, kids?”

  “Have you dropped a tab, Susko?”

  “Mum and dad?”

  Chester paused. “Jesus.”

  “And how’s business?”

  “Two hundred and seventy-five dollars down. I’d like my money today. Now, fuck it.”

  “What’s the rush?” said Jack. “Hot date and you need money for a nose job?” He noticed the edginess in Sinclair’s voice.

  “The books you wanted are here. As agreed.”

  “And?”

  “Come, pay, leave.”

  “That’s not a sentence, Sinclair. There are laws, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. They’ve already been here.”

  “What?”

  “I want nothing to do with it, so just come and get your books and that’s that. Man, I had a feeling about this deal in the first place.”

  Jack watched somebody peek through the glass of the front door. They had a look and then walked back up the stairs. “Who’s been there?” he asked.

  “The fucking police, that’s who!”

  Jack let it sink in. “Why?”

  “Because your fucking poet’s been shot, that’s why. They were waiting here for me this morning.” Chester lowered his voice. “I want these books out of here.”

  “Why would they come and see you?” Jack’s tone was cool but his blood pressure had started to climb.

  “Because my fucking message was still on Kass’s machine!”

  “What message?”

  “I rang to see if he would be interested in selling his personal copies. If I’d known the fucking police would be round here …”

  “Just relax, Sinclair. Your walnut might pop. What did they ask you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jack shook his head. “I mean what did the police ask you?”

  “Hey, don’t come at me all smart-fuck-son-of-a-bitch! I’m allergic to the goddamn police. They make me come out in a rash and I can’t shit for a month.”