Unknown Remains

by Peter Leonard

  “You remind me of frat boys talking about a cheerleader. You all wanted her, but Jack got her. What a lucky guy, huh?” Diane said, glancing at her husband. “All we’ve been through, I hope she was worth it.”

  “Myself, I always thought you were the keeper. And I like your new look,” Cobb said, moving next to her, pressing the barrel of the shotgun against the small of her back, moving down her butt, caressing her with the hard steel. “I was hoping for a shot at you.” Cobb glanced at Jack when he said it. “She thought you’d kicked and still wouldn’t fool around. That’s devotion, my friend.” Cobb paused. “Now here’s the deal. Jack, you don’t fetch the money, and I mean quick, I guarantee I will pull the trigger and never think about it.”

  “It’s outside,” Jack said. “I buried it.”

  Cobb shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Think I just fell out the hayloft?” He racked the slide. “I don’t know if I’ll be doing you a favor, or you still want her, but she’s gonna be all over this wall you don’t start talking.”

  “Come out, I’ll show you.”

  Cobb nodded. “Well, all right. Ruben, why don’t you keep Lady Di here company till we get back.”

  Diane said to Ruben, “I’m going to make myself a drink. You want something?”

  “I don’t know it’s a good idea.”

  “That’s right. You better keep an eye on me. I’m going to try to get you drunk and take off.”

  Ruben smiled and followed her into the kitchen, which had a half wall separating it from the dining room. There were fifths of booze on the counter: Stoli and Maker’s and small bottles of mixers.

  Diane said, “What do you want?”

  “Vodka.”

  She opened the cupboard, took out two lowball glasses, opened the refrigerator, and filled them with ice and his with Stoli, and handed it to him. Diane filled hers halfway with Maker’s and took a sip.

  Ruben was somehow different. Maybe it was the island clothes. He didn’t seem as tough, didn’t seem as hard-edged in the guayabera shirt, blousy pants, sandals, and black socks, the outfit reminding her of German tourists she’d seen on holiday in Rome.

  Diane said, “How’d you get involved in this mess?”

  “After I stop fighting I needed a job. I was a bodyguard for a few years, working for a rich Cuban in Miami.”

  “What does a bodyguard do beyond the obvious?”

  “Take the man’s wife to the beauty parlor, wait while she get her hair done. Take her to the club, wait while she eat lunch. Take her shopping, wait while she try on outfits.”

  “I can see how that would get to you, particularly if you’re not patient.”

  “You know me a little, uh? What do you think?” He sipped the vodka and put the glass on the counter.

  “After chasing me through the supermarket and breaking into my house, I have to say no.”

  Ruben smiled, and for the first time, she noticed a diamond pattern on his front teeth. “Yeah, I have to scare you.”

  “You did a good job.” Diane sipped her bourbon, thinking this lunatic who’d terrified her seemed kind of normal now.

  Ruben drank some vodka. “You gonna stay with your husband?” he said, changing the subject.

  The question surprised her. “I don’t know. Things are pretty screwed up right now. Jack’s in a lot of trouble. He can’t go back.”

  “So you start over. How many people would go for that, uh?” Ruben picked up his glass, drank his drink. “Is the same for me. I can’t go back.”

  She wasn’t expecting that. It sounded as though he was confessing.

  “What happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What’s San Marino Equity?”

  Ruben grinned. “Is nothing.”

  “Was Vicki Ross really in debt to a loan shark?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So Jack does owe the money?” Diane paused. “Something tells me you’re working for yourself. You’re not going to give the money to the Italians, are you?”

  “You figure that out, uh?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it’s yours. You know Jack won’t say anything, and I won’t either.” She sipped her drink. “Where you going? No, I don’t want to know.”

  “Why, you gonna come visit?” Ruben grinned, showing his glitzy front teeth again.

  Jack led Cobb across the sand path behind the cottage to a wide stand of high shrubs, sea grape, dogwoods, and palm trees that separated the beach from the house.

  “Don’t even think about trying to get away. I’ll go back in there—”

  “You’re not gonna do anything,” Jack said, cutting him off. “I’m gonna give you the money, and you’re gonna leave here and we’re never gonna see you again.”

  “Where do you get your confidence at? A shotgun in your face, you’re telling me the way it is?”

  Jack ignored him, found the spot and knelt in the sand, Cobb standing a few feet away as he started digging, knew it was right in this general area, about five feet from the palm trees. He knifed the sand with his fingertips in different places, but didn’t feel anything. He was thinking about Vicki. He was gonna give her the cashier’s check the night she was shot.

  After she was murdered, he ended up depositing the money in the Pompano Beach bank. A week and a half later, he tried to withdraw it. The manager said no customer had ever taken out that much. The bank didn’t have enough cash on hand, had to order it from the Federal Reserve, and it would take a couple days. The manager also said it was dangerous to carry that much cash and suggested Jack hire armed security.

  Marquis Brown had stopped at the vacation rental agency on Sanibel Island and was told the house he was inquiring about had been rented for the week. “Who rented it?” Marquis asked the office manager, a foxy Hispanic babe about his age, said her name was Carmen.

  “Due to a citizen’s right to privacy, I’m not at liberty to give you that information.”

  “Not at liberty, huh?” Marquis took out his detective shield, flashed it at her. “Somebody’s life’s at stake. You want that on your conscience?”

  “Oh, it’s a police matter; that’s different,” the woman said. “The house is on Captiva Island, the main road, ocean side. We rented it to a Mr. Richard Keefer.”

  “What’s the address?”

  It was dark when Marquis arrived at the rental house. He parked on the side of the main road. There were two cars sitting on the hard-packed sand and trampled sea grass in front of a thick wall of vegetation. Could be Mrs. and her man reunited, or someone entirely different. If it was the McCanns, Marquis believed Cobb and Ruben would be close by.

  He walked along the north side of the house, catching glimpses of the beach and ocean, another wall of green separating this property from the neighbor’s.

  Looking around the back corner of the house, Marquis felt the wind and heard waves breaking on shore. He thought he heard voices, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. Thought he saw something move, and yeah, there was a dude on his knees digging in the high shrubs behind the house about twenty yards away.

  Marquis walked straight toward the ocean, went left around the vegetation, ducked behind palm trees, and saw another dude holding a sawed-off shotgun. Then a third dude appeared, slid the screen open, and stepped out on the deck. “Man, what you doing out there?” This one had a Spanish accent. Had to be the PR, who else?

  “Says he can’t find it.”

  The PR said, “Want me to come out there, help you?”

  “You just watch her. I’ll handle this.”

  A couple minutes later, Marquis saw the digger pull a gym bag out of the sand like a magic trick. The digger stood up, gripping the strap. It was Jack McCann. The dude holding the sawed-off walked McCann to the deck, and they went in the house.

  Marquis crouched on the outside of the deck railing. The sliding door was closed and the blinds had been pulled down. He went around to the south side of the house, looked thr
ough the window into the kitchen, and beyond it into the main room and saw them all: Mrs., Jack, Ruben, and Cobb. He walked around the house to the front door and drew the Glock.

  Diane was surprised when Jack said he hid the money, and thought it was a ploy to get away from Cobb and call the police. She was more surprised when he came in with the black nylon bag still covered in sand. Jack placed the bag on the wooden dining table, which had three chairs on each side. Ruben was next to him, Cobb across the table, and Diane stood at one of the ends, everyone staring at the bag as Jack unzipped it.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Cobb said, pointing the shotgun at Jack, motioning him away from the table. Jack took a couple steps back, and Ruben moved closer, unzipped the bag, reached in, and took out a banded stack of bills, fanning the end. Cobb was grinning, took his left hand off the shotgun, and grabbed a couple bundles of cash like he had just won the lottery.

  “The surprises keep on coming, don’t they?” Diane said, directing the question at Jack. “This is what he embezzled from one of his clients, an old woman who can’t think straight.”

  Cobb glanced at Ruben. “Put it back in the bag, will you?” Aiming the shotgun at him now.

  “What is this?”

  “Change in the plan,” Cobb said. “Should’ve done it a while ago. I don’t need a partner, and this seems like a good time to sever ties and move on.”

  Ruben, no expression, dropped the money in the bag and stared at the shotgun. In Diane’s mind, it was all over for everyone except Cobb until she saw Detective Marquis Brown come into the kitchen with a pistol in his hand. So unexpected, it seemed as though she was hallucinating.

  “Drop the sawed-off,” Marquis said.

  Cobb turned, fired, and blew a hole in the cabinet where Marquis had been standing.

  Diane went down on the floor, ears ringing. She heard Cobb rack the shotgun again, but couldn’t see him.

  “Throw out your weapon,” Cobb said.

  Now she saw Marquis rise up over the counter, aiming the Glock, squeezing the trigger: Bam, bam, followed by the boom of the shotgun, and Marquis was blown off his feet. She could see him on his back on the kitchen floor. Cobb was feeding shells into the shotgun.

  Diane scrambled on hands and knees into the kitchen, picked up Marquis’s Glock from the floor next to him. He opened his eyes and looked at her. His sport coat was spread open across his chest, and the top two buttons of his bloodstained, buckshot-puckered dress shirt were undone. She could see the outline of the vest beneath it.

  Cobb racked the shotgun and came around the counter. Diane was on her knees, two hands on the Glock the way her father had taught her. “Put it down, Duane.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Cobb grinned. “Think you can play with the big boys?” He held the shotgun barrel pointed at the floor.

  Diane felt her hands shaking, finger on the trigger, fifteen feet from Cobb, who was grinning. “Ever shot somebody? Ain’t like shootin’ at a target. Now drop the gun, you might live to tell about it.”

  She centered the site on Cobb’s chest, trying to steady her hands.

  “You don’t have the nerve.” Cobb brought the shotgun up, aimed it at her, and Diane fired twice. Cobb went down on the living room floor and didn’t move.

  She stood over him, a look of surprise on Cobb’s face, eyes open, two holes in his chest, blood soaking his yellow golf shirt and white pants. She crouched and picked up the shotgun, walked into the kitchen, and rested it on the counter. Diane was surprised to see Marquis sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinet doors. He tried to get up.

  “Easy now, sure you should be doing that?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, you could’ve fooled me. You might be fine after we get you to a hospital. You’ve been shot. You’re probably in shock.”

  He was unsteady trying to stand, back sliding up the doors below the counter, and then resting elbows on the granite. There was blood on his collarbone above the vest.

  “I’m all right.”

  “You don’t look all right. You look like you’re going to fall over. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  “Relax.” Marquis smiled. “You can shoot. Man, can you shoot. I’m not surprised, girl as tough as you. You can give that back now ’less you’re gonna shoot someone else.”

  “I think I’m all done for tonight.” Diane handed the Glock to him, and he slid it in the holster on his hip. “Still think I had something to do with Vicki Ross’s death?”

  Marquis Brown shook his head. “You been cleared.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Shooter worked for Frankie Cheech.”

  “You come all the way down here to tell me that?”

  “Cobb and Diaz are wanted for murder. I figured, I find you, I’m gonna find them. Remember, you told me you liked Captiva, told me where you stayed, said you could even live here part of the year. Remember that?”

  Yeah, she remembered. It was when he asked where Jack might go. “Well, here he is.” Jack came over and stood where the carpet and linoleum met. “Jack, this is Detective Brown, New York Police Homicide.”

  “Found him, huh? Knew where he’d be. That was the plan, I gotta believe.”

  “There was no plan. It happened the way I told you.”

  Marquis seemed distracted, looked through the kitchen into the living room. “Where’s Diaz?”

  Now Diane looked too. Ruben was gone and so was the black nylon bag.

  Marquis moved slowly past Jack into the living room, glanced down at Cobb, drew the Glock, crossed the floor and went in the bedroom, Diane behind him, seeing the open window. Marquis walked over and looked out at the darkness. He smiled and slid the Glock in his holster. “Listen, you’ve got to get out of here.”

  “You’re not going to arrest Jack?”

  “For what?”

  “I should stay and tell the police what happened.”

  “You don’t think I can do that? Now take your man and go.”

  They drove in silence to the end of the island, Diane picturing Cobb, eyes open, dead on the floor. Why did it have to end this way? She could feel Jack staring at her. He finally broke the silence. “You all right?”

  “No, I’m not all right. I’m not close to being all right. I just killed someone.”

  “Who was going to kill you, who was probably gonna kill all of us. You didn’t have a choice.”

  Hearing that made her feel a little better. The tires whined as they went over the bridge. Jack, still staring, said, “What do you want to do?”

  Diane pulled over in the deserted beach parking lot, looking at the ocean.

  It was hot, stuffy in the car. She put the window down and felt a warm breeze and heard waves breaking on shore. She turned in the seat and faced him.

  “Let me say something.” Jack paused. “Look, I screwed up, I can’t change that, but I can tell you it won’t happen again.” His eyes held on her. “If that sounds like I’m giving you a line, I’m not. I mean it. You’re gonna have to go with your instinct on this. Either I’m worth another chance, or I’m not.”

  Diane had made up her mind. “It isn’t going to work. I don’t know you anymore. I don’t trust you.”

  “You’re gonna throw away twelve years of marriage just like that?”

  “You already did, remember?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get out of the car.”

  “Come on. We can work things out. I know it.”

  “I would always wonder about you, and I don’t want to live that way.”

  “I do love you,” Jack said, giving it one more try, but there was no sincerity or emotion in his voice. He sounded like he was recommending a mutual fund.

  “You’ll get over it.”

  Jack got out. Diane pulled away, left him standing in the parking lot and knew it was the right thing, the only thing. She got on the road to the mainland and never looked back.

  FORTY-THREE />
  Ruben shaved and poured cologne in his hand, patted his face, and felt his skin sting a little. He picked up the Cuba Libre and, in a white hotel robe, walked out on the balcony, staring at the dark ocean in the distance, feeling the breeze and listening to the night sounds of San Juan below him.

  He put on a crisp white shirt and the new linen suit. It was nine forty-five. Ruben would start at Club Brava and go from there. He would drink rum and the local men would come up to him and say, Ruben, hey man, how you doing? I saw you fight so-and-so. Man, you knock him out in the . . .

  He would meet a woman, dance, and bring her back to his wonderful luxury room that had a bathtub and a shower. For the first time in his life, Ruben had money and nothing to worry about. La vida era buena.

  When he finished dressing, Ruben stood in front of the full-length mirror admiring himself in the white suit. He thought he heard a door close and saw a man appear behind him holding a gun, and he knew he should’ve been more careful.

  “Where is the money?”

  “In the closet,” Ruben said. With what he had saved and what he took from Jack McCann, there was more than eight hundred thousand.

  “Vincent Gallo sends his regards.” The man raised the pistol now and shot him in the back, the bullet going through his body, coming out his chest, and shattering the mirror. Ruben, not sure how he was still standing, looked at himself in the fractured slivers of glass. There was a hole in his suit jacket, the white fabric turning red. Ruben dropped to his knees and fell backward, the man standing over him aiming the pistol again.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A week before my father passed away, he was at my house for dinner. Elmore was telling me about the book he was writing called Blue Dreams. He paused, smoking a Virginia Slims 100 and said, “How’s your book coming?” I said, “I’m in the middle of act two.” Elmore said, “What’s your title?” I said, “Unidentified Remains.” He brought the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled, glanced across the room, blew out smoke and said, “How about Unknown Remains?”

  I want to thank my agents Andrew Wylie and Jeff Posternak for connecting me with Counterpoint, my new publisher, and for getting Unknown Remains in the hands of editor Dan Smetanka. Dan is extraordinarily good at keeping a story moving, hitting on all cylinders.