Back on Murder

by Mark J. Bertrand

  “What are we doing here?” he asks, a baffled smile on his lips.

  Charlotte puts the keys in his open palm. “Dropping you off.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “This is your new place,” Ann says, adjusting the rearview mirror for a better look.

  “I’m afraid the insurance isn’t going to come through anytime soon,” Charlotte says, “so I had a talk with your father, and he thought it was best for you to relocate. You’ll like this place.”

  “It’s great,” Ann agrees. “Original fixtures and tile. And plenty of space out back for entertaining. The old lady downstairs is charming.”

  He turns to me. “Is this a joke?”

  In spite of everything, I feel for him. The occasion calls for a quip of some kind, but I have a hard time mustering anything, so an anticlimactic shrug has to suffice. Tommy sputters a few objections, only to find the sisters ready, swatting him down with ramrod charm. His things are already in the new apartment waiting for him. The first month’s deposit has been made. Charlotte digs through her purse, producing an envelope from the bank with his prorated rent refund in cash. That seems to clinch things. Fingering the stiff bills, he pops the door open and climbs onto the curb, waiting for the rest of us to get out.

  He seems to think we’re all going upstairs to have a look at the place, but Ann quickly disappoints him. Her foot punches the accelerator, slamming the passenger door shut.

  “Hey – ”

  I turn in my seat, watching Tommy watch us, the keys drooping from one hand and the envelope from the other. Charlotte bursts out laughing, her feet drawn up onto the seat like a girl’s, and Ann grins, proud at her achievement. She rights the mirror, then glances over her shoulder at me.

  “That’s how you solve a problem,” she says.

  The sisters exchange a high five. I sit quietly in back, reflecting on how differently problems are solved when you’re a lawyer instead of a cop. Tommy, impervious to hints and even subtle intimidation, has been a conundrum to me, a first-class irritation. Even after the hurricane offered deliverance, I allowed him to install himself on the couch. It never occurred to me to buy him off. Charlotte has spent no telling how much to bring about her long-awaited eviction, but now she has it and she’s utterly pleased.

  Not that Tommy was ever the real problem. It’s just that the real problem couldn’t be solved and never can be. This time next year, there will be another Tommy, because there always is. To move on, even temporarily, we need a sacrifice on the altar; we need to shed some metaphorical blood. Again, a hollow victory, but a necessary one. Yet another means to an end.

  Or maybe I’m talking nonsense. My wife is happy, laughing like she used to when we first met. Instead of overanalyzing, maybe it’s time to simply enjoy. I pass my hand between the seats, finding hers. She clasps it, drawing it onto her lap, sitting back with a heavy, satisfied sigh.

  It’s dark when Ann drops us off. Charlotte starts through the back door, dragging me by the hand, but I notice a light still burning in the garage apartment window.

  “You left a light on,” I say, peeling my hand free.

  “Leave it.”

  “It’s people like you causing the energy crisis. Go on in, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She goes inside, leaving me to bound up the stairs, fumble with my keys, and shoulder my way through the door. Already there’s a musty, outdoors stench to the apartment, conjuring fears of the dreaded black mold. Now that Tommy’s out, we’ll have to see to this.

  The neglected light is in the kitchen, reminding me of my conversation with Marta, the waitress from the Paragon. I pause with my hand on the switch, making myself a commitment not to return to that place, one I’ll probably break in time, though perhaps I won’t. To seal the promise, I turn off the light.

  “March.”

  The voice, coming suddenly out of the depths of the pitch-black living room, makes me jump. My hand slides under my shirt, reaching automatically for my off-duty piece.

  “Don’t do it. You can’t see me, but I can see you.”

  A pinpoint flashlight switches on at shoulder height, maybe fifteen feet away, blinding me, the kind of light usually affixed to a tactical firearm. Blinking, I struggle to make out the silhouetted figure behind the halo. But not because I haven’t identified the voice.

  “It’s not too bright of you, coming here,” I say.

  “That’s funny, under the circumstances. I never figured you for a wisecracker, so that’s good to know. Just keep in mind, if you go for that gun, it’ll be the last thing you do. And it won’t be hard for me, putting you down. I’d enjoy it.”

  “Then go ahead. If you’re expecting me to beg, you’ve got another 358 think coming.”

  The bravado in my words surprises me, but I’m pleased, too. You fantasize about this situation – when the time comes, how will you go? On your feet or on your knees, that kind of thing. And I’ve always wanted to think of myself as defiant right to the end, a man who won’t snivel when the time comes to take his bullet, who’ll fight if the opportunity presents itself, not clinging too tightly to life.

  “I hope you’re proud of yourself,” he says.

  “Good. I am.”

  He snorts with derision, the light dipping slightly. “I’ll bet you are. You know something? I’ve never understood you, March. From the very beginning. It’s like you picked me out of the air, picked me at random, and decided to do everything in your power to ruin my life.”

  “You started it. You made me look dirty.”

  “What, snatching that gun? Your shooting was clean and we both knew it. What I did, it didn’t harm you. I wouldn’t have let that happen. If you think that, then you don’t know me at all.”

  “I know you, Reg. Believe me, I do.”

  “You don’t know a thing.”

  “I know you popped Joe Thomson. What kind of cop – what kind of friend – does a thing like that? You worked with that guy for years. That’s cold-blooded. Don’t say I don’t know you, man, because I know your type. I always have.”

  “I never could figure you out,” he says. “Back in the day, I saw some real promise in you. The way you handled yourself under fire, I was impressed. And even later, after you had me in your crosshairs, I still used to think you could be salvaged. When I heard what happened to your kid, March, I was genuinely sorry. And then the way you used it, wringing a confession out of that wife murderer. Man, that knocked me over. You want to talk cold-blooded – ”

  “I didn’t use anything. That’s not how it happened.”

  He whistles impatiently, unimpressed. “Thomson? He was as dirty as they come, and you would’ve let him walk just for testifying against me. Isn’t that right? The irony is pretty rich when you consider it was him that lit up that girl.”

  “The girl on the bed? Salazar said that was you.”

  “No doubt. He also said I pulled the trigger on Joe, which is a lie. He was the one. He’s your rogue cop. If I’d had any idea what was going on under my nose, I would’ve done something about it, but instead of coming to me – ”

  “Is that your story? That’s why you’re here? You’re holding a gun on me to tell me you didn’t do it? Get a lawyer then and let’s go to court. I’d love to see you try to wiggle out of this.”

  He tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a hiss. “He stitched me up good, him and you. There’s nothing a lawyer can do . . .” His voice trails off, like even he’s losing confidence in the innocence ploy. Whatever his reason for being here, it’s not to enter a plea. “And I was almost out, March. All you had to do was wait and I would’ve handed over my badge and gone into retirement. Nobody had to die . . .”

  “Tell that to the girl.”

  “We tried to save that girl,” he sniffs. “That’s the crazy thing. It was all running fine until we put the white hat on.”

  The tactical light lowers a bit more. I can almost see him, at least that’s what I tell myself. My body brea
ks out in a cold sweat, my hands tremble, my thoughts race. Do I stand here and banter until he decides to pull the trigger, or do I draw, risking an early demise? There’s a chance, there’s always a chance, that he’ll miss and I won’t. Or I’ll be wounded but still able to get off a shot. If the roles were reversed, though, I wouldn’t fancy the other guy’s chances.

  “I have to tell you,” he says, his voice different, talking more to himself than me, “a turn of events like this, it’s enough to make you think. As long as we did our thing, you wouldn’t believe how easy it was. Everything went like clockwork. Believe me, we’re only losing the war on drugs because we aren’t fighting it, not on their level anyway. It was beautiful. Candy from a baby. But the moment we try to be the good guys, it all blows up. I should have left her there. I knew that. We should have stuck to our thing. We hadn’t planned for that, so we should’ve walked away. But we didn’t. Instead, we went in there, guns blazing, like the cavalry coming to the rescue, and that one . . . pure . . . instinct, that’s what destroyed us.”

  The room grows quiet. In a moment, wondering where I am, Charlotte will venture outside. She’ll call up the stairs, or even ascend them, and I’m not going to let that happen. My hand is damp. I wipe it against my pant leg. I don’t want anything to ruin my move, no glitch in the cycle of muscle memory, my hand flashing, pistoning forward, firing blindly into the light.

  “March,” he says. “Don’t be stupid.”

  I relax my hand, biding my time.

  “I’m not here to punch your ticket, man. Not yet. It’ll happen one day, believe me. When you least expect it. Blah, blah, blah – you know the speech. But I’ll do it now if you want, and I’ll go down there and put a bullet in your wife, too. It’s your call.”

  “Then why are you here?” I ask.

  “Good question.” He laughs dryly. “Call it pride. Arrogance, maybe. But I wanted you to know I could do it. I wanted you to know you didn’t win. Trust me, March, I’m gonna land on my feet. I have other irons in the fire, my friend. There are people in this world who will pay gladly for the kind of skills I have to offer. You got lucky, sure, but it wasn’t your great detective work that brought me down.”

  “I realize that. It was your own people, Reg. Thomson’s conscience. Salazar keeping that gun around to use against you.”

  “No,” he says, the light bobbing. “It wasn’t that. It wasn’t you. It was fate.”

  Before he finishes, the light disappears, leaving a ghost image behind on my retinas. I hear him moving. I shuffle backward, deep into the kitchen, drawing my pistol as I slip on the linoleum floor. Steadying myself, I raise the muzzle, but there’s nothing but darkness to focus on. My vision adjusts and I see the lighter darkness of the open door. I edge forward, gun at the ready, peering around the doorframe and down the stairs. The back door of the house, illuminated by a mosquito-swarmed bulb, is shut tight. Outside the cone of golden lamplight, nothing stirs.

  I edge my way down, puzzling over the rapid exit. The stairs creak under me. When Keller left, I didn’t even hear the descending footfalls. Wait a second . . .

  Back in the apartment, I switch on the overhead light. The bedroom door stands open, the tarp flapping gently in the night breeze. Moving slowly, leading with my weapon, I approach the threshold, sweeping the room until I’m sure it’s clear. I feel around for the bedroom light, but nothing happens when I flip the switch. The closet light works, though. Once it’s on, I can see the gaping hole in the bedroom wall where the roof and window collapsed under the tree’s weight. The tarp is folded back, revealing a stretch of windowsill.

  As I advance, the top of a ladder is visible. It leads from the bedroom window down to the neighbor’s yard. On the far side of his property, the wooden gate stands open. Tires squeal on distant pavement, the sound of a nemesis making good his escape.

  Arrogance, he said, and he must be right. What else would drive him to put everything at risk like this, just to let me know he’s not finished with me? Just to issue an empty threat. The funny thing is, I could see myself taking the same risk for the same pointless gesture. That’s rivalry for you.

  I let myself into the house, shutting the back door and locking the dead bolt. The stairs give off an odd glow. Investigating, my gun still in hand, I find a row of candles flickering upward, one every couple of steps.

  At the top, Charlotte stands, her legs bare, her body swathed in one of my white dress shirts, the collar turned. Her eyes sparkle in the candlelight.

  “I thought you’d never get back,” she says. “What took so long?”

  I slide my off-duty gun back in the holster, slump down on the bottom step, and bury my head in my hands. Behind me, I hear her weight on the steps, her bare feet padding down, and then her hand touches the back of my neck, cool and dry, her fingers sliding upward through my hair.

  CHAPTER 30

  The sheets drag away from me, Charlotte rolling in her sleep, and I wake up, staring into the dark, feeling the fan’s cool breeze on my skin, listening to the blades revolve. A thought surfaces, a memory, a yellow string knotted around my imaginary finger, and I turn to the nightstand in dismay, where the clock reads a little past midnight. I was supposed to phone the Robbs. Is it too late to bother them?

  My mobile, still in my pants pocket on the floor, displays a string of missed calls. At dinner I’d turned off the ringer and never switched it back. Gina Robb is listed, and so is Carter, calling from his cell. He left a message just a minute ago – it was the buzz of notification, not Charlotte’s movement, that must have wakened me – speaking in a breathy whisper, mentioning an apartment complex in Sharpstown and giving me a unit number, telling me to meet him there right away. I redial his number, but the call goes straight to voicemail.

  “What are you doing?” Charlotte asks as I pull my clothes on.

  “I’ve gotta go.”

  She’s been married to a homicide detective long enough to accept sudden departures. She rolls back over, then grabs my pillow to shore her head up.

  “Since you’re leaving,” she says.

  Past midnight the landscape of Houston changes, which is another way of saying there’s a lot less traffic. I roll the window down, letting in a blast of humid air, my foot heavy on the accelerator, my heart tight in my chest. The blocks fly past and I’m racing down Interstate 10 until it melts into the Loop, the lighted glass and steel buildings along Post Oak and the towers hedging the Galleria all shimmering in the hazy night. I exit onto Highway 59, impatient in spite of the brisk driving, a sense building inside me that I’ve overstepped. That the error I planted by enlisting Carter Robb will reap a black harvest.

  When I reach the address – a modest, drive-up affair with tiny fenced balconies on both levels, perhaps a dozen units in all – I find to my surprise a red logo-covered van from Cypress Community Church parked on the curb just a block away. The man knows nothing of subtlety, but then who would suspect a church van of containing a set of watching eyes?

  The complex is not one of the access-controlled empires favored by the gangs, but just a brown, run-down and rusted rental property dating from the 1970s, the kind of place I would have driven past without notice if I hadn’t been looking for it. And if there wasn’t a church van out front. One thing I’m sure of: this address was not on our list.

  The number Robb gave me is upstairs, so I ascend the metal steps, keeping my footfalls light, not knowing what to expect. A dusty, spider-webbed grill sits next to the door. The bulb in the fixture beside the entrance is burned out, but the peephole glows dimly, letting me know somebody’s home. I draw my pistol, tucking it down beside my hip, then give the door a light rap.

  It opens slightly, straining against a security chain, and I get a glimpse of Carter Robb’s face, pale, damp with sweat, eyes bulging a bit, before the door slams shut. He releases the chain and throws it open wide. His skin has a noticeable pallor, as if he hasn’t eaten in a long time and might be feverish. He wears dark jeans and a b
lack T-shirt that reads VIVA LA REFORMACION in red letters, with a posterized man dressed like he’s going to the Renaissance Festival taking the place of Che Guevara.

  “You called,” I say, casting a wary glance over the apartment.

  The living room is filled with matched furniture straight out of a thrift shop, upholstered in nubby, synthetic-looking blue tweed. A stack of magazines, mostly checkout counter fare, is centered on the coffee table with the TV remote on top. Posters tacked on the wall. In an armchair, a basket of laundry consisting of towels and socks and T-shirts and women’s underwear, still waiting to be folded. Plastic cups are discarded everywhere, some of them empty, others still with liquid stagnant inside.

  Robb wobbles on his feet, taking a step back to steady himself. I reach out, then notice what’s hanging from his left hand.

  “You want to give me that?”

  He blinks, then glances down at the Ruger .22 caliber pistol, almost as if he didn’t realize it was there. With the barrel down he hands it over. I strip the magazine out, ejecting a round from the chamber, then tuck it into my waistband for safekeeping.

  “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I better show you,” he says.

  He points down the hallway, toward the bedroom presumably, and I see there’s blood on his hand, and more wetting his dark shirt. His knuckles have the bruised and scuffed look of a man who’s thrown some punches without knowing how. We walk toward the hallway, Robb pausing over the laundry basket. He lifts a wadded shirt, leaving a smear of blood on the fabric.

  “This was Evey’s.” He turns it this way and that, then lets it drop. “I was just about to leave, like you said, and as soon as I turned the engine on, there he was. He knocked on a door – not the one from your list – and talked to some guy. They exchanged something. I think he sold the guy drugs, because he had a wad of cash in his pocket. I followed him, and this is where he went.”