“Danny—”
“I know. It’s just a crazy week.”
She sighed. “Okay.”
“I’ll make it up to you, babe. I promise.”
She paused. “How about tomorrow night? We haven’t been out in a while. We could,” her voice rose provocatively, “make it a date night.”
“Sure.” He paused. “I mean, I’ll try.”
She snorted on the other end of the phone. “Okay. See you whenever, then.”
“Wait—” But she’d already hung up.
Lying to Karen to keep her safe. Rationalizing Richard’s willingness to screw his workers as justification for ripping him off. Planning a kidnapping to protect the kid. He’d always dealt in shades of gray, but it was getting harder to spot the contrast.
Across the room, he saw a waitress set his order on the table, but he had another call to make. He slotted the coin, willing the guy to answer. Five rings, and then the familiar message, asking him for one good reason to care that he’d called.
Danny cursed, and waited for the beep. “Patrick, it’s Danny. I need your help. It’s—” He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. How much could he leave on an answering machine? “It’s about that thing we talked about. Look, just call my mobile when you get this, would you? Day or night.” He started to say more, thought better of it, slammed it in the cradle.
Then he went back to his table and ate his half slab in silence, trying to think of ways to tame the whirlwind.
In the dream he stood in a warehouse under bloody spotlights. Karen held the hand of a little kid in a rugby shirt, different from Tommy but the same. They both stared over Danny’s shoulder, slack-jawed in terror. He turned in agonizing slow motion, the movement taking years. Evan stood smiling, the gun raising as though of its own accord, like the pistol was moving his arm instead of the other way around. But instead of pointing at him, the gun fell on Karen and the boy. Before he’d seen the muzzle flare Danny had jerked awake, drenched in sweat, Karen a sheet-wrapped silhouette beside him, the digital clock reading 5:32.
He’d showered in a daze and tiptoed out, a ghost in his own life.
Now though, back in the Explorer, morning light bright and cold through his windshield, he felt better. Morning did that to him; he was a sucker for the promise of a fresh start. Evan might be a force of nature, but Danny knew his potential, could read the climate of his moods. As he turned into the Pike Street complex, some of his strange black hope even began to return. If this was to be a game, at least he knew the rules.
He slid the gate open — they’d left it unlocked so that Debbie could get out if she needed — and pulled the Explorer in, parking it next to a battered Ford Tempo, the back window covered in band stickers and duct tape holding the seats together. As he killed the engine, the only sound he could hear was the snapping plastic on the building.
He got out of the truck, a cup of coffee in each hand, and shut the door with his hip. As he walked toward the trailer, a motion in the window caught his eye, two fingers spreading a dark slit in the blinds.
The door opened and Debbie stepped out, her arms folded across her chest, shoulders huddled in against the cold. The look on her face when he handed her a cup of coffee was as close to glee as he’d seen in a long time.
“Bless you,” she said, holding it to her mouth to blow the steam off.
He nodded, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she’d closed the door behind her. “How is he?”
“Fine. He was scared at first, but he calmed down. We’re watching Cheers reruns. There’s a marathon on WGN.”
“Jesus, you didn’t take his mask off?”
“No. It’s not like you need to see to watch Cheers, you know?” She met his stare. “Weren’t we past the part where you thought I was dumb?”
He laughed. “Right. Sorry. He’s okay?”
She nodded, and something in him unclenched. He’d agonized over a way to knock Tommy out without hurting him, trying to think of every movie device, fantasies of tranquilizer darts and chloroform, but in the end, the stun gun had been the best and safest he could come up with. Police across the country used it because it was not only effective, but also assured there wasn’t any permanent damage. But still. “I’d been worried.”
She cocked her head and looked at him, an unblinking, New Agey gaze that made him uncomfortable. Her hair was parted in the center today, and fell straight past her shoulders. There was something kind of hippyish about her now and then. “You were, weren’t you?”
He nodded.
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Well, I guess I thought you’d be, I don’t know,” she said, “more like Evan.”
The comment surprised him, and he stared back, trying to read the meaning in her eyes. In a game like this, it could be tricky separating ally from enemy. He and Evan were partners, yeah; but if things went sour, they were competitors, too, and both of them knew it. He’d assumed she’d fall on Evan’s side of the divide.
“Tommy’s a tough little kid, though,” she said. “I like him. By the third episode of Cheers, the one where Cliff tries to get his mom to marry this rich guy? Ever see it? Good one. Anyway, by then he’d opened up, and hasn’t quit talking since. Told me about school, about his favorite band. Said his dad works all the time, doesn’t know he’s alive. He doesn’t seem too scared.” She brushed hair from her face. “But he said he saw a guy with a gun pointed at him. You didn’t use a gun, did you?”
She seemed sincere, but he’d seen the sharpness of the mind operating behind the façade. Unsure of his footing, it seemed easiest just to tell the truth. “I didn’t.”
“Evan?”
He shrugged and watched her eyes.
She nodded, but all she said was, “Can we talk in your car? I’m freezing my tits off.”
The inside was still warm, but he turned the key to get the heater running. She immediately leaned forward and flipped on the radio, scanning up and down the dial like she was searching for signals from space.
“I shouldn’t stay out here long. I think Tommy needs to go to the Loop.”
“Huh?”
She giggled, told him how they’d worked out a system for the kid to go to the bathroom, how it was funny, even though he was twelve, he’d been ashamed to mention it at first because she was a woman. Held it till he was squirming.
“I told him to call it the Loop. That’s what my mom used to say, ‘Honey, do you need to go to the Loop?’ Don’t know if he knows what it means, but he gets a kick out of saying it.”
He laughed at that, told her he’d swing by later with some groceries, microwave dinners. Asked if she needed anything, and she shook her head, still working the dial. He had this feeling there was something on her mind, but he didn’t know how to get at it. After a few more minutes of conversation, he told her he should probably leave.
“Your construction job?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I ask you something?” She bit her lip. “It’s his kid, isn’t it? Your boss?”
He went cold. “How did you know?”
She turned back to the radio, hair swinging across to mask her face. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”
“Debbie.” His voice level. “How did you know?”
“I guess I have a confession to make.” She paused, one hand on the dial, still not looking at him. “I helped Evan. Before this, I mean.” She sighed. “He asked me to follow you.”
It came to him in a flash. That was why, when they’d met, he’d been sure he’d seen her before. She’d been in the zoo that afternoon he’d gone with Karen. She’d sat on the opposite bench while they talked about having kids, planned a future diametrically opposed to what he was doing now.
“I didn’t know you then,” she continued. “And you know, he and I…”
He nodded. “It’s okay.”
“Really?” An expression of girlish relief lit up her face.
“Yeah. It doesn’t matter
now.” He smiled. “Thanks for telling me.”
She smiled back at him, reached for the door handle. “So I’ll see you later?”
He nodded, and she hopped out and closed the door, headed for the trailer. He rolled down his window. “Hey.” He faltered, not sure how to say what he was thinking, not wanting to give her the wrong idea. Then, “I like your car.”
“Yeah?”
“It reminds me of you.”
“I remind you of an eighty-three Tempo?”
He laughed. “Just that at a glance, it might give people the wrong impression.”
She smiled, a friendly expression with no trace of game in it, and nodded.
Maybe he had more allies than he thought.
26
A Book in Reverse
There were things about being a detective that Sean Nolan loved.
The almost entrepreneurial sense of being his own boss, working a case the way his instincts dictated. The look of gratitude he sometimes saw from people he treated with respect, people used to mistrusting the Poh-lice. Those fleeting instants when he knew, with a certainty that most citizens never felt, that by doing his job he made things better.
But then there were days he had to haul floaters out of his river only to find he’d known the victim. And moments when he stood with his holster unsnapped, one hand on the grip of his weapon, not sure what he was about to walk into, but knowing he would walk into it regardless.
A low-bellied gray sky threatened to open up on the old gas station at any moment. The blue Ford was parked behind them, beside where the gas pumps used to be. Matthews stood a few feet back and off to one side, keeping an eye on the street. It wasn’t anywhere you’d expect someone to live, and Nolan would’ve assumed the address was bogus if he hadn’t snuck around back to peer through a window at a tall wooden dresser and an unmade bed.
Yesterday, before they’d left what passed for a crime scene — the river had played hell with everything — they’d noticed that Patrick’s back was a darker color than his front. When a victim’s heart stopped beating, gravity pulled blood to whatever side was down. If Patrick had been shot on the riverbank and rolled in, there shouldn’t have been a chance for the blood to settle so neatly. Which meant that he’d likely been shot somewhere else and dumped later.
It could have happened anywhere. But police work was about elimination. This defunct gas station apparently used to be Patrick’s home. They might well find a pool of congealed blood inside. Or a killer trying to clean it up.
That was the thing — you had to be up for anything. “Ready?” Nolan asked, feeling the edge of adrenaline. Matthews nodded, a hand on his own gun.
Nolan took out the ring of keys they’d pulled from Patrick’s pocket. A sodden gray thing that might once have been a rabbit’s foot dangled from them. Two keys looked about the right size, but the grooves on the first didn’t fit the lock. Heart loud in his chest, Nolan slipped the second key in one notch at a time until he felt it seat. Then, gently, he eased the deadbolt back. He took a last look at Matthews to confirm the man was ready to move, drew his weapon in his right hand, and with the left pushed the door open wide. Before it had even finished opening he was in, gun pointing low. Matthews moved behind him, his back to the wall to cover the opposite corner.
Venetian blinds strangled the light. The room was an open space dominated by mismatched recliners facing a TV. A poster hung above it, Telly Savalas as Kojak. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and sweat socks. Nolan turned, still in a shooter’s crouch. Canvas screens separated the back half of the room, where he’d seen the bed through the window, and there was a door on one wall. He nodded to Matthews, who crossed to the other side of the room, pistol up, as Nolan stepped quickly behind the partition. Clear. He spun back to the inner door. There was no lock. He yanked it open, staying low.
The room beyond was the remnants of the service station garage, and the only part of this place that looked right. The concrete floor was pitted and scarred. A low-loader tow truck sat in the center, a red toolbox beside it. The space was large, with corners he couldn’t see from here. Time to step up.
“Police,” Nolan yelled, lunging into the open space with his gun leveled. “Don’t move!” His voice was a cop’s best weapon, more effective than the pistol. Aggressive behavior cowed people. They’d freeze before they had a chance to think about it. Matthews came in behind him, moving well, the two of them fluid, Matthews yelling just as loudly. Nolan stooped to look under the truck, checking for feet. He sprinted to the side and spun around it, then leveled his pistol across the hood and nodded. Matthews darted to the opposite corner to clear his lines of fire.
But apart from their echoes, the garage was silent. There was nobody here. Nolan could sense it, like returning home after a vacation, the way a place just felt empty. They went through the motions on the rest, checking the remaining cover: inside the truck, the small shop bathroom at the rear, the closets, but they found no one. Nolan’s nerves settled. He straightened and holstered his weapon. “You want this one or the other?”
“I’ll check the living room.” Matthews turned and walked back the way they’d come.
Nolan moved through the garage, careful not to touch anything. Tools lay strewn on the floor, a pile of tarps in one corner. There was a workbench with a Saint Christopher’s medallion hanging on it. He guessed you could take the man out of the parish, but not the parish out of the man. A radio on the floor, what they used to call a ghetto blaster back before things got politically correct. The bathroom was tidy, the toilet and tile clean. The floor had plenty of stains, but most of them looked like oil.
There was no pool of blood to be found.
He cursed quietly. Murder cases had infinite variations, but only two categories — those with witnesses and evidence, and those without. If you caught a break within forty-eight hours, then the first category had a good chance of being cleared. Unfortunately, this one was shaping up to be the latter. The body had been in the water about a week, invisible until the expanding gases in the belly brought it to the surface. That would have given a killer plenty of time to clean up his mess. The river also destroyed most physical evidence; about the best they could hope was that the medical examiner would pull a bullet they might be able to ballistics match. And with nothing at Patrick’s place, their likeliest crime scene had turned up snake eyes.
He sighed and walked back into the living room.
“You knew this guy, right?” Matthews was poking around with the tip of a pencil, lifting a newspaper from the coffee table. Normally they would need a warrant for all of this, but in the case of a body, the residence was fair game.
“A little.” Nolan moved to the small refrigerator by the bed, put on a pair of gloves, and opened it: a couple of take-out containers and a six-pack of Harp. Nothing smelled too foul — it hadn’t been abandoned long. “We grew up in the same neighborhood.”
“He run with bad people?”
“Last I heard he was small-time, a car thief. He got busted a couple years ago in somebody else’s Caddy.”
“He go down for it?”
“No.” Nolan turned in a slow circle. No sign of violence, no furniture knocked over, no broken glass. “Owner turned out to be dealing heroin out of an apartment in Uptown, and the whole thing fell apart.”
Matthews nodded. “So what now?”
“Interviews.” Murder cases were like reading a book in reverse. There was a personal drama that ended in a body. That was where the police came in. Without evidence, the thing to do was work backward, talking to family and friends, a boss if the victim had one. You were trying to figure out who saw him last, because that was the guy that dumped him in the river.
Matthews groaned. “We don’t find a witness, state’s attorney’s going to kick this back to us.”
“Yeah.”
“You ask me, the first squad on the scene should have thrown rocks at the body till it drifted back across the river. Let Area Four deal with
it.”
Nolan laughed. There was an answering machine on the dresser. He went to look at it. The old-fashioned tape kind. The message indicator was blinking, and he pushed PLAY.
“Paaaaaatrick,” a woman’s voice. “Where are you, my bad boy? David’s in Milwaukee, and I’m lonely.”
Nolan rolled his eyes at Matthews, walked over to check the bedside drawer. Condoms, a couple of motorcycle magazines. The woman went on for another minute, hung up without leaving a number. They’d have to pull the phone records and find out when she’d last seen him, work forward from there. Sounded like she was married — the husband could be a suspect.
After that were a couple of hangups, and then a male voice came on, blues thumping behind it. “Patrick, it’s Danny.” Nolan straightened, his fingers tingling. “I need your help. It’s — it’s about that thing we talked about. Look, just call my mobile when you get this, would you? Day or night.” The machine beeped again.
The detectives looked at each other. Nolan pressed REWIND and then PLAY, and the voice came back, the captured blues riff repeating behind it. He listened carefully, trying to filter out the noise behind the voice, the distortion of the crummy answering machine. “Huh.”
“What?” Matthews asked.
“I think I know that guy.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded. It made sense — if he remembered right, Danny and Patrick had been friends back in the old parish. Now Danny was running scared, with Evan out of prison and shaking him down. Maybe Danny decided he needed help. Maybe he thought back and remembered a name, a tough-enough character.
Maybe, just maybe, Danny Carter had hired Patrick to take Evan out.
It was thin. Way too thin for a warrant. But worth exploring.
“I think,” Nolan said, “we need to have a chat with a guy I know, claims he’s in construction.”
Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself - v4.0 Page 15
