Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 02 - The Hustle

by Rob Cornell

  “I’m sorry. From now on, I’ll tell you everything. Promise.”

  I shook my head. Already with the lies. The anger flushed out of me. Now I felt tired and heavy. It didn’t matter, though. He could lie all he wanted. I was done. “I don’t work for rapists, Eddie. It’s not good for the conscience.”

  “Jesus, you make me sound like some lowlife criminal.”

  “How unreasonable of me.” I backed off of him. “Have a nice life, Ed.”

  He lurched toward me, grabbed at my coat like a drunk trying to stay on his feet. “What about the killer? He’s killed so many people I care about. You can’t let him get away with it.”

  “That was a running theory. So far, I haven’t found anything to support it. Time to face facts,” I said, slightly aware of what I would say next, but not enough to stop myself. “Your dad went postal, and the only reason you’re alive to doubt it is pure dumb luck.”

  His wet eyes stared at me with an intensity I could feel clear to the back of my skull. “You don’t believe that. What about the sticker? The killer knows about that.”

  He kept pawing at my coat. I shoved him away. “For all I know, you’re making that stuff up to string me along.”

  He shook his head emphatically. “I’m not. I’m not.”

  I should have walked out at that point. I couldn’t trust anything that slithered out his lying mouth. Which rendered further conversation pointless. Unfortunately, like many investigators, I had the curiosity tic, the one that demanded pieces fit where it looked as though they were missing.

  “How could you do that to Amanda?” I asked.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. “What difference does it make? You’ve already made up your mind about me.”

  “All right. Think of it as me being curious how you’ll lie to me next.”

  “Fuck off. If you don’t want to help me anymore, I don’t have to listen to you judge me.” He turned back to me, a cold calm on his face. “You have no idea what I was going through.”

  Get out of here. He’s a lost cause. Doesn’t deserve your time. “Do you know Amanda’s forgiven you for what you did? She even thinks you might have had a good excuse.”

  He blinked the cold off his face. “She does?”

  “She told me you were distraught the night you raped her. Something was bothering you. You weren’t yourself.”

  He chuffed, rubbed his face with his hands. “That’s no excuse for what I did.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “You have to believe me, though. I’ve felt terrible since that day. Warren might have deserved what I did to him, but not Amanda. She was just…collateral damage.”

  “No, Eddie. She was your victim.”

  “I know that.” He drifted over to the worn spot of his carpet and paced. “I know. But she’s right. I wasn’t myself that night.”

  “Because everyone was about to explode.”

  He jerked to a halt and gaped at me. “How do you know about that?”

  “Amanda told me.”

  “Well, how did she know about that?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Because you told her. What does it mean?”

  He resumed pacing. “God, I don’t remember telling her that. I shouldn’t have told her that.”

  I skirted the sofa and coffee table, planted myself in his path. He turned at the end of one pace and drew up short when he saw me in the way.

  “You have one last chance at keeping me on.” I couldn’t believe I was saying that. My investigative curiosity had cleverly managed to short circuit my morality. “Tell me what ‘everybody exploding’ means.”

  “Nothing that has anything to do with the case.”

  “You should let the professional here decided that.”

  “Look, no offense, but it’s none of your business. You want to keep investigating for me, that’s awesome. But I’m not getting into any of that with you. It is not relevant.”

  Morality tried to get out from under curiosity’s claws, but curiosity kept its grip for another second. “What you did to Amanda is unforgivable, no matter what she says or what was going on with you. But if you can put things in context for me, maybe I can look past it enough to continue the investigation.” I would have to avoid mirrors for a few days, because I didn’t think I could stand looking at myself. But Mort’s advice rang like a struck tuning fork—find out the why behind the lie. Everything would follow from there. “Is that a fair deal?”

  He sighed through his clenched teeth, hunched his shoulders, and twisted from side-to-side at the waist as if deciding which way to walk. “I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re not going to get this out of me, Ridley. Drop it.”

  I stared at him for a moment. In that time, curiosity and morality swapped places. It was official. I was done with Eddie Arndt. Without another word, I left.

  Chapter 13

  Still no Hal.

  We were having a pretty good Tuesday, too. A lot of kids from the university—though they probably didn’t think of themselves as kids. I know I didn’t when I was in my early twenties. I thought surviving my teens meant I had all the answers. If I’d known then that eighteen years down the line I still wouldn’t have even a tenth of the answers, I probably would have broken down and drank myself to death with my freshly minted legal ID.

  I suspected I’d feel the same in my mid-forties. Age gave you perspective, but youth’s arrogance kept you alive.

  I thought I should call Warren, considering how philosophical I was feeling. But if we got into some theological argument, he would likely break one of my limbs. I kept my phone clipped to my belt.

  At least, until Led Zeppelin played to let me know I had a call. The caller ID showed me a number, but no name associated with it. My spider sense tingled. Somehow I knew who was calling.

  Three girls on stage belted “Brown-Eyed Girl” through drunken giggles. Not the best environment for taking calls.

  I slipped out of my booth and hurried to the stairwell that led up to my office. I closed the stairwell door, muffling the quote, singing, unquote, sat on the steps, and answered the call.

  “I’m sorry, Ridley.” Sheila.

  “You’re sorry all right.”

  “Listen to me, will you? I have something important—”

  “Wow. I feel like I’ve had this conversation with you before.”

  Her words took on the static of panic. “You’re in danger.”

  “Danger from what?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  Through the door I heard enthusiastic applause for the girls’ expert butchery of their selection. When it came to karaoke, taste did not have a seat at the bar.

  Sheila said, “It’s Hersch. I think he’s in Hawthorne.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Because I called him. I was trying to help you.”

  “You have his number? Didn’t occur to you to share that with me?”

  “I didn’t have it when we spoke last.”

  What the hell? This whole thing with Hersch grew more and more convoluted every time his name came up. “Okay. How did you get it?”

  “He gave it to me.”

  This was going nowhere at the speed of light. “Start from the top. What the hell are you talking about?”

  She cleared her throat. When next she spoke she sounded strung out and hoarse. “Hersch contacted me at the hotel. I don’t know how he found me. I guess he’s better than I thought.”

  He was good, I’d give him that. “What did he want?”

  “It’s just as you said. He offered to give me back the money he took from me if I helped him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course not,” she barked. “You have to stop second guessing me.”

  “You honestly think I can do that? Especially after you skipped out on me again when I thought you were going to help me.”


  A shaky sigh. “I left the hotel so he couldn’t find me again.”

  “But not before he gave you his number in case you changed your mind.”

  “Yes. Instead, I called him to try to bargain with him.”

  A cinderblock dropped into the pit of my stomach. “Bargain? Did you give him the names of Rice’s friends?”

  “You’re convinced I’m out to betray you.”

  In the background on her end I heard a voice over a loudspeaker. I picked up a few key words. Mainly, gate and flight. “Going somewhere?” I asked.

  “I’m flying out of here in an hour. I left Hawthorne for a reason. Surely, you of all people can understand that.”

  “The difference is, I came back.”

  “For how long? How long will your guilt keep you there before you finally can’t take it anymore?”

  “Don’t turn this back on me.” I gripped my phone a little more tightly. “What information did you bargain with?”

  “None. I offered Hersch more money.”

  “For what?”

  “To get him to stop all this.”

  Through the stairwell door I could hear the faint strains of a ballad, but couldn’t make out the song. Behind the music, a soft, yet powerful voice followed the melody, the actual lyrics obscured by the barrier between me and the singer. I didn’t need to hear the lyrics. The woman’s voice was enough to send a shiver down my back.

  “Are you there?” Sheila asked.

  I shook myself out of my trance. “I know you got a healthy cut of my parents’ inheritance, but I’m pretty sure you don’t have a million bucks lying around.”

  “In my account I have exactly one-million two-hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Two hundred grand won’t keep you in booze, let alone fancy hotels and limousines.”

  “I could sell my condo. That would give me a cushion until I could find work.”

  I stood up from the stairs, but clung to the railing, my mouth hanging open. Was she really willing to give up so much to help me? “What’s the catch?”

  “I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I just want to make things right.”

  A niggling feeling drove me to roll back over our conversation. I had missed a thread. Then I found it. “You said I was in danger. How does that tie in?”

  A pause, the sad sound of the ballad out in the bar filling the gap. “He didn’t accept my offer.”

  “He turned down a million dollars?”

  “He said he didn’t want it from me. He wanted it only from you.”

  I tipped my head to rest it against the wall. The drywall felt cool against my scalp. “What is going on?”

  “He has it in for you, Ridley. The way he spoke, it sounded personal. Like he’s trying to get back at you for something.”

  “I don’t even know the guy.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  I hadn’t recognized his voice on the phone, but that didn’t mean anything. With his dopey mouth-breather act, he had proven himself talented in the art of voice disguise. Shelia had described him to me, but I was no police sketch artist, so I had to do my best to picture him based on a vague verbal description. Besides, if he could disguise his voice, he could probably alter his appearance as well. I saw another enemies list in my future—my own. Mine would run a bit longer than Eddie’s.

  “This is getting weird,” I said, more to myself.

  “It’s more than weird.” Sheila’s voice shook enough to send some of her panic through the phone and down my spine. “He said one more thing to me.”

  I braced myself on the railing, ready for anything—or so I thought.

  “He said he planned on making sure you were committed to the race.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. But it sure as hell doesn’t sound good.” The loudspeaker chattered behind her again. “They’ve started the boarding. I have to go.”

  “I need those names, Sheila. Rice’s Club Med.”

  “Of course. I’ll email them to you.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for offering up all that money for me.”

  “Be safe, Ridley.”

  Chapter 14

  I found Hersch’s “motivator” when I returned home from the bar just after three in the morning. It started at my front door with pictures. Taped all over the door like a collage, pictures of me with Eddie. Pictures of me going into the prison to see Autumn. Pictures of me coming out of the prison. A picture of me standing in the hallway outside Sheila’s room at the hotel. Pictures of me outside the High Note. Even a few snaps of me inside the High Note.

  Impossible. Wouldn’t I have noticed someone taking photos of me in my bar?

  That drop of panic Sheila had passed over the phone swelled inside of me. My nerves crackled. My skin grew tight and cold. Colder than the winter night.

  I stood, stunned, on my porch, staring at the photographs until my face turned numb against the cut of the wind and my legs quaked in a struggle to stay warm. When I finally broke out of my stupor, I yanked down each photo and jammed them in my coat pocket. Then I turned in a slow circle, scanned my surroundings. The snow laden trees. The white dusted street. The shadows collected around the front yards and facades of the neighboring houses. I was looking for him, but I saw no one.

  The last shred of warmth completely drained from my body, the winter drove me inside.

  This is where I found part two of Hersch’s taunt—a trail of my clothes stretched end-to-end like a cloth line down a highway. Only this highway led from the foyer to the stairs. Up the stairs to my bedroom. From the doorway of my bedroom to the bed.

  On the bed—a gold chain with a huge, shiny medallion. It took me a couple of seconds to recognize the gaudy piece of jewelry, it was so far out of context. Then the image floated up in my mind’s eye like the shimmering form of a swimmer coming up for air.

  Wide collar, unbuttoned to expose a hairy chest and a gold medallion. The swaying hips. The broken voice.

  Hal.

  It didn’t mean anything. Hersch could have purchased a similar medallion as the one he saw on Hal. After all, he had obviously been in the bar. He could have marked Hal as a regular and taken note of his extroverted appearance. Then went out, bought something that looked like what Hal wore, then left it on my bed as a threat like a severed horse’s head, a la The Godfather.

  None of this explanation covered Hal’s mysterious absence of late. I could try to pass it off as convenient coincidence. Even as Hersch taking advantage of the change in Hal’s routine to make it look like he was responsible for it.

  Then again, I would be hard-pressed to find an exact replica of Hal’s famous badge of poor taste. Not unless I asked Hal where he got it from. Even then, who knew?

  Hersch did, that’s who. And whether the medallion on my bed was the original or a copy, he had proven himself burrowed into my life’s flesh like a tick. The more he fed, the more dangerous he became.

  I retrieved a pair of driving gloves, put them on, picked up the medallion, and dropped it into a zippered plastic bag. I didn’t know if I could get Palmer to pull a string or two and see if he got any prints off the medallion. I wasn’t sure it was even worth the effort. Hersch had consistently walked two steps ahead of me. I doubt he left any prints.

  But he had.

  Just not his own.

  I looked at the couple sheets of the printout Palmer had handed me over his desk. My eyes burned from fatigue. I’d only managed a few hours sleep after finding the medallion on my bed. I gave up on sleep when the sun came up and I still lay awake, watching the minutes tick by on my alarm clock. That’s when I had climbed out of bed, had a coffee breakfast, and had called Palmer to set up a time to meet at his office.

  Now, he stared at me intently through his black-framed glasses while rubbing his stubbled head. “You know him?”

  I nodded. The top sheet had a large reproduction of Hal’s driver’s license. The photo of him stared back a
t me, almost unrecognizable. He had a haggard, unkempt look to him. Mussed hair, sunken eyes, deep grooves cut into his skin. The pic looked more like a mug shot than a license photo. I didn’t get it. He didn’t look like the Hal I knew. I recognized him, but I couldn’t reconcile the differences. Then it occurred to me that I seldom saw him out from under the stage lights, except when he sat in the dark of the bar waiting for his turn back at the mic. I saw him up close even less often.

  Maybe he put on some make-up to go along with his karaoke duds. I wouldn’t have put it past him.

  More interesting than his photo was Hal’s full name—Harold Fennimore Zelinski. Even more surprising? His address. A north side address. Not one of the posh neighborhoods, but definitely upper middle-class. I don’t know why, but I had always assumed Hal came from more working-class roots.

  The next thing I noted on his license was his birth date. The guy was pushing eighty. Even his rough-and-not-so-ready driver’s license picture didn’t look like he was that old. Had I tried to guess while he was at the bar, I would have placed him in his mid-sixties, late sixties max. His picture made him look more worn, but not really much older.

  “He’s the guy who’s missing?” Palmer asked.

  “Yeah.” I flipped to the second sheet. This one made all previous surprises look positively mundane. “He’s got a rap sheet?”

  “That’s how we got the hit with his prints.”

  I scanned the list. All his pops revolved around burglary or attempted burglary. It hit home how little I knew about a guy I saw nearly every day for the last three years. Some folks knew more about their penthouse doormen than I did about Hal. Maybe that’s how he could afford to live on the north side.

  I looked up at Palmer. “I appreciate this.”

  “Don’t make it a habit.”

  “Trust me. The looks I got on my way in? I’ll be lucky enough to make it out of here alive, let alone come back.”

  He slid his hand back and forth on his shaved head, the sound like sandpaper on wood. “You can’t exactly blame them.”

  “Why not? They blame me. Fair is fair.”