Unmanned

by Lois Greiman

“Uh-huh.”

  “Only, old Daryl doesn’t always spend his nights at home.”

  I shook my head.

  “He gave them his contact numbers…home, cell, work, stupid sidekicks, girlfriend.” He had to stop and laugh. “Anyway, they got the numbers screwed up and asked for Kimmie instead of Daphne when they called his house.”

  “So his wife found out.”

  “Other girlfriend, actually. Daphne. Chick’s got legs up to her eyeballs. And…” He paused without me even threatening him. “Anyhow, she was way too good for old Daryl. And she’s got herself a temper. Still…” He looked almost serious, almost sad. “…. don’t know how she could bust out his windows like she did. Even a Chevy don’t deserve that.”

  “Tell me, Peter, have you ever heard the expression ‘Water will seek its own level’?”

  He glanced impatiently toward the kitchen. “If this little lecture is going to be as god-awful boring as I think it is, I’m going to get myself another drink. You want anything?”

  “I want you out of my house.”

  “Yeah, well, I wanna win the lottery,” he said, and disappeared from sight.

  I dialed 411 again, made my request, and wrote down the number.

  Pete stopped short, drink in hand as he headed out of the kitchen. “What the hell now?”

  “Daryl,” I said. “You’re going to call him, tell him you’re putting the check in the mail today.”

  “What check?”

  “For the damage to his car.”

  “There wasn’t no damage.”

  “Well, there’s going to be a good deal of damage,” I said, “if you don’t make things right. And if I remember my anatomy correctly, the patella doesn’t mend very well.”

  “Fuck,” he said, taking the phone. “I should have smothered you soon as you first come home from the hospital.” He dialed. “Ugly little shit anyway.”

  I smiled. “I hope your daughter’s just like you,” I said.

  He blanched a little at the suggestion.

  On the other end of the line a woman answered the phone.

  He jerked his gaze from me. “Yeah, hi. Is Daryl there?”

  I heard a mumbling but nothing distinct.

  He thought about that for a second. “Is this…” He waited, possibly thinking. “Kimmie?”

  More mumbling.

  He paced closer. “Pete. Pete McMullen.”

  “Petey?” The volume was rising.

  “Yeah.” He relaxed a little, maybe because she wasn’t swearing at him yet. It had to be an unexpected relief. “How you doing?”

  “Good. Good.” Silence. “Daryl’s pretty steamed at you, Petey.”

  “Yeah, sorry. That’s why I called. You know where he is?”

  “He just…he just stepped out for a few minutes.” Another pause, long and uncomfortable. “For cigarettes or something.”

  “You know when he’ll be back?”

  The volume was dropping again.

  “Can you tell him I called?” Another pause, then: “Thanks,” Pete said, and glanced at me as he hung up. “He’s not there.”

  I scowled. “Does Daryl have a criminal record?”

  “Daryl? Naw. Well, nothing serious. He likes to act tough, but he’s really just a white-collar pansy. Might have busted up a bar once, though. Some guys can’t hold their liquor.”

  “Uh-huh. And you thought he was a prime candidate for a little leg-pulling, did you?”

  “He was being an ass.”

  I nodded. “So he went out for cigarettes?”

  He shrugged. “Guess so.”

  “Is Daryl dumber than, say…” I glanced around, looking for a point of reference. “…my couch?”

  “What the hell are you talking about now?”

  “You said he had asthma as a child. How stupid would he have to be to smoke after spending his childhood with an inhaler shoved in his esophagus?”

  He was thinking again. I hoped he didn’t hurt himself. Kind of. “You think Kimmie’s lying?”

  “Was she jealous of Daphne?”

  “Huh?”

  I thought for a second. “What’s Daphne’s last name?”

  “Leifer.”

  “How about Kimmie?”

  He shook his head. “No idea.”

  “So her legs weren’t good enough to ensure her a surname.”

  “Do I want to know what the hell you’re talking about?”

  “I think Kimmie is worried that Daryl left her.”

  “What?”

  “He cheated on Daphne with her. Maybe she thinks he’s cheating on her with Daphne.” I squinted into the distance. “Maybe she’s right.”

  He made a face that suggested he saw my logic.

  I picked up the receiver. “Where does she live?”

  He shrugged. “Last I knew she was with Daryl. Who you calling?”

  “Directory assistance,” I said, but they couldn’t find a listing for Daphne. They did have a Harold and Evelyn Leifer in Naperville, however. I gave them a call. A wobbly female voice answered.

  “Hi,” I said, using my chipper tone. “Is Daphne there?”

  “Who?”

  “Daphne.”

  “Who’s this?”

  I tensed, excited. I didn’t usually hit pay dirt on the first dozen calls. “My name’s Karen. I’m a friend of hers from work.”

  “Oh? Where do you work?”

  I glanced at Pete. He shook his head, leaving me on my own.

  “Well…” I laughed. “…this was years ago—that we worked together, I mean.”

  “So you’ve known her a long time?”

  “Quite a while.”

  “That’s nice.” The phone went quiet.

  “Is she there?”

  “Did you say Daphne or Danny?” she asked.

  I scowled at the phone. “Daphne.” My voice was still chipper but it was wearing a little. “Daphne Leifer.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anybody by that name. Harry has a niece named Pamela, though. Isn’t that a lovely name? Pamela Fender. Beckinson now actually. She had to get married. Has two little girls. The oldest one’s kind of going to fat, but they’re both pretty in the face.”

  “Well, tell them hi,” I said, and hung up.

  Pete was staring at me like I’d lost my mind. “What now, Karen?”

  I ignored his facetious tone. “Do you think Daphne’s still living in Chicago?”

  He tilted his head. “Daphne or Danny?”

  “It’s not too late to shoot you, you know.”

  He laughed. “Her sister married a guy named Milt Oslo.”

  I was already dialing. “You couldn’t have told me that before?”

  “I could have, but then I would have missed seeing your Girl Genius act.”

  In a moment I was connected to Chicago, once again asking for Daphne. I waited for a rejection, but the man cupped the phone and yelled. I glanced at Pete. Maybe he was trying to look cool. But he seemed kind of fidgety.

  “Hello?” The voice on the other end sounded young and surprisingly sweet, considering her supposed temper.

  “Yes, Daphne Leifer?”

  “Who’s this?” She still sounded young, but a little suspicious now, too. I reminded myself that Daphne had been around the block. Nothing grows women up faster than finding out men are scum.

  “This is Officer Spencer. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

  “Is there some kind of trouble?”

  “Perhaps.” I paused as if checking my notes. “Do you know a Mr. Daryl Dehn, ma’am?”

  There was a heartbeat of silence, and when she next spoke the sweetness in her voice had been replaced by something sounding like fingernails on rusty metal.

  “Whatever he’s accused of, I’m sure he’s guilty,” she said.

  I blinked, felt my heart lurch, and improvised madly. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Dehn, ma’am?”

  “It was when I kicked him in the balls and busted o
ut the windows on his goddamn car.”

  Wow. “Do you know his current whereabouts?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care.”

  Okay. “We have reason to believe he’s in the L.A. area.” I paused, hoping she’d respond. She didn’t. “Do you know where he might be staying while in that region?”

  “With Dickhead and Nickhead.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’s got a couple of friends.” Her tone indicated she wasn’t any more fond of the friends than she was of her ex. “They might even be dumber than Daryl.”

  “And their names are—”

  “Richard Parker and Nick…somebody.”

  “And these two gentlemen live in L.A.?”

  “No. They live over in St. Charles. But…” She snorted and changed her tone to a kind of hillbilly chant.

  “…they’re skatin’ down the superslab, hauling go-go girls down to Shakeytown.”

  “Huh?”

  “What?”

  I cleared my throat. “I beg your pardon?”

  “They’re truck drivers. In other words, they’re sitting on their brains all day and staring cross-eyed at a white line, but to hear them talk, you’d think they’d invented air or something.”

  “You seem to know them pretty well.”

  “Too well. Dick’s my cousin.”

  I wasn’t sure condolences would be appropriate. “Do you happen to have Mr. Parker’s phone number?”

  “Yeah, I could probably chase it down, but it wouldn’t do you any good. Janine says he’s been gone all week.”

  “Janine?”

  “Dickhead’s sister.”

  “Could I get his number anyway?”

  She paused. Ratting on the guy who’d cheated on her was one thing, but family ties are strong, even if you’d like to sever those ties with a butcher knife and run like hell. Just ask me.

  “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

  I squirmed a little. “Officer Spencer.”

  “Well, Officer Spencer,” she said, “if Daryl’s doing something stupid, it was his idea and he’ll drag the Heads along with him.” She paused. “And he’s always doing something stupid.”

  She hung up a couple seconds later. I turned toward Peter John.

  “She thinks he might be with Richard Parker.”

  “Who?”

  “Richard—”

  “Oh, shit!” He scraped his fingers through his hair. “Dickhead?”

  Hmmff. “You know him?”

  “Nickhead and Dickhead! They’re truckers.”

  “Do you think they’d assist Daryl if he was bent on revenge?”

  “You kidding? If Daryl declared himself king, those two clowns would buy him a crown.”

  20

  I’d love to go out with you, but I’d hate to deprive some village of its idiot.

  —Emily Atkinson, one of Peter McMullen’s more sensible acquaintances

  THE DOORBELL RANG. Harlequin went into hyper-squirrel mode. It was late. Well into the wee hours of the morning. I’d been talking to Pete for a lifetime…or at least a couple of hours. I’d also called Richard Parker, aka Dickhead, but I’d gotten his answering machine, which had spouted some trucker gibberish I couldn’t quite decipher. I was tired, grouchy, and smokeless, but took a deep breath and opened the door. Rivera stood on the stoop, looking even grouchier than I was. We stared at each other for a good five seconds.

  “Decided to try something new and tell me the truth?” he asked.

  I opened the door wide. I hadn’t told him much on the phone. Just that Peter John was in some trouble and ready to talk. “You want to come in or just stand there doing your Terminator impression?”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw, but he stepped inside.

  Pete shoved his hands into his back pockets and shuffled his bare feet. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea of coming clean to the LAPD. Neither was I. It meant Pete would probably be around for a while.

  As for Rivera, he leaned his shoulder against the wall in the living room and watched us.

  “You want something to drink?” I asked.

  He turned his gaze slowly toward Pete. “You got something to tell me?”

  “Listen.” Pete was scowling. “I didn’t do nothing wrong. Just a little practical joke, is all.”

  “So you think grand theft auto amusing?”

  Pete opened his mouth, thought better of speaking, and shifted his gaze from Rivera to me.

  I shrugged one shoulder.

  “Want to tell me about the Corvette?” Rivera asked.

  Pete scowled, a petulant expression that should have been left behind in the ’80s. “It can do zero to sixty in six-point-five seconds.”

  Rivera straightened. “You find that out after stealing it from William Springer?”

  Pete glanced at me again.

  “I ran the plates,” Rivera said.

  “I need a drink,” Pete said.

  “Then get it,” I suggested.

  Pete snorted, but took the opportunity to leave the room. Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks. Maybe that goes without saying.

  Rivera turned his simmering attention toward me. “Is now when you tell me your brother’s really a good guy?”

  “My brother’s an über-dunce,” I said.

  He stared at me.

  “I’m running out of names. Suffice it to say, he’s a moron.”

  “Gotta tell you, McMullen, you’re not looking all that brilliant, either.”

  I was just about to figure out a way to deny it, but he spoke first.

  “Why didn’t you tell me he’d stolen the Vette?”

  “I didn’t steal it…exactly,” Pete said, reentering, beer bottle in hand. I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t deny being a moron. “Bill owed me a favor.”

  “I don’t believe Mr. Springer was aware of that.”

  Pete looked a little pale. “You called him?”

  Rivera remained mute.

  “I’m going to return it,” Pete said.

  Rivera snorted. “Like hell.”

  We stared at him.

  “The department’s funny about allowing people to stay in possession of stolen property.”

  “It’s not stolen. It’s—”

  “Is he in L.A.?”

  Pete shifted his gaze to me.

  “Springer,” Rivera said. “Is that who was here tonight?”

  “He didn’t ask for the keys.”

  Rivera turned his scowl on me as if I could intrepret the native language of the morons. “We think it might be a man named Daryl Dehn.”

  He waited.

  So did I. After my illuminating conversation with Daphne, everything had seemed perfectly clear. But now, with Rivera staring at me as if I were a few smokes short of a full pack, I wasn’t so sure.

  “He’s a friend of Peter John’s,” I said.

  “The kind of friend who accosts your sister on her doorstep?”

  My knees felt a little weak, remembering. “Maybe.”

  Pushing away from the wall, Rivera pointed at my La-Z-Boy and glared at Pete. “Sit down,” he said.

  For a moment I thought Pete would refuse, but he didn’t. Rivera sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, tips of his dark fingers pressed together. “Talk,” he said.

  And Pete did. Starting with how he and Daryl had been on opposing baseball teams and ending with the smoke bomb episode.

  Rivera didn’t look any happier at the tale’s end.

  I refused to fidget.

  “And you think that was enough to bring Mr. Dehn all the way to L.A. from Chicago?”

  “He was pretty pissed.”

  “But you said there was no damage.”

  “Tell him the rest,” I urged. So Pete finished up the story by telling how Daphne had found out about Kimmie.

  “Any other friends you think might want you dead?” Rivera asked.

  Pete opened his mouth, but I didn’t really think we need
ed all the McMullen laundry aired at once.

  “I called Daphne,” I said.

  Rivera turned his midnight gaze on me and waited.

  “After, ummm…” I cleared my throat. “…after Kimmie said Daryl wasn’t around.”

  “And?”

  “She thought Daryl might be with a Richard Parker and a Nick somebody.”

  “Dickhead and Nickhead,” Pete added.

  The edge of a feral grin lifted Rivera’s mouth. “Hard to believe you wanted to leave Chicago, McMullen.”

  I gritted my teeth. Yes, I had been raised by a redneck subspecies, but damn it, who was he to talk? We may be a bunch of half-conscious Celts, but I’d met his family, and they weren’t going to be immortalized in the Sistine Chapel anytime soon.

  “Daphne said Dick’s been gone all week,” Pete said.

  “Gone where?”

  I rubbed my forehead. It was beginning to throb. Maybe I needed another quart of Nyquil. Or maybe I was just sick to death of stupid. “Skating down the supersub, taking go-go girls to Frisco?”

  “Are you drunk again?” Rivera asked.

  “I don’t know what the hell it meant,” I said. “I have a Ph.D. I don’t speak—”

  “Superslab,” Peter corrected.

  Rivera and I glared at him in tandem.

  “They’re skating down the superslab…the interstate. Hauling a load of livestock to San Francisco.”

  I blinked. Rivera stared.

  Pete scowled. “Frisco’s only—what?—couple hundred miles from here?”

  “You think they came here?” Rivera asked.

  I shrugged. “Could be. I don’t think it was Springer,” I said, remembering the Vette’s owner.

  “It wasn’t,” Rivera said.

  I opened my mouth to ask how he knew, but Pete spoke first.

  “Joey said it wasn’t him.”

  Rivera turned his slow gaze on my brother. “You put a bomb in his car, too?”

  “No.”

  “Steal his car?”

  “Listen—” Pete began, but this time I spoke first.

  “He and Joseph Petras had a…misunderstanding.”

  “Yeah?” Rivera turned his gaze from me to stupid brother number deux. “What did you misunderstand?”

  “Regarding a woman,” I said. “But Pete spoke to him earlier. I don’t think he’s involved.”

  “That your professional opinion, or did you divine that?”

  “Don’t be a smart—” I began, but it was Pete’s turn to interrupt.