by Hugh Dutton
He arranged the chairs like before, knowing how Pete liked routine, pleased when his friend sat without hesitation upon arrival.
“So, Pete, lay it on me.”
Pete grinned, took off his cap, and scratched his hairline. “I knew you’d figure it out. The old man says it’s time to shut her down.” He replaced his cap and sighed. “My fault, bro, I opened my big mouth and told him you didn’t think Lexy’s murderer was the same guy what attacked Sara. He didn’t like that, so he sent me to give you the axe. Sorry.”
Of course Big Leo would never go for that theory, Gerry thought, it kept his son in the suspect pool for the rape. Since sharing his opinion with Pete, Gerry had learned that Lexy’s clothes were removed after the fatal wound was inflicted. Blood spatter don’t lie. Nor did they find any conclusive sign of rape, which made sense with the blood evidence, though recent intercourse was indicated. None of this could he tell Pete, because the one sure way to lose access to police information was to repeat it. No matter how much you might trust someone, and he knew better than to trust Pete’s confidence where the Burgess family was concerned, anyway.
“It’s okay,” he said instead. “I’m sure the family has a lot more important things on their mind, losing a daughter like that.”
“You got that right,” Pete said. He shook his head and stared at his lap. “I can’t get over it myself. Man, I just keep remembering her as a kid, a teenager.” He looked back up, eyes blinking rapidly against his emotions. “But look, Gerry, just between you and me, I want you to stay on the rape case. Bad as I feel about Lexy, I don’t want what happened to Sara to slip through the cracks. I’ll pay you myself.”
Gerry cocked an eyebrow. Well, well, either Pete truly thinks Nick did it and wants to prove it, or he truly thinks the boy is innocent. “Not to worry, cops don’t let rapes slip through the cracks,” he said. “Besides, how can I stay on it when I was specifically told to not get started on it?”
Pete snorted. “Yeah, right. I know Gerry Terence better than that, unless you went and got yourself a lobotomy. Whaddaya say, will you do it?”
Gerry picked up a pencil and bounced it on its eraser a few times, undecided on which direction to blindside his friend from. He flipped a mental coin. It came up yes. “So you really think Nick Burgess did the rape, huh?”
Pete sat still and silent, turning white around the mouth. Bull’s-eye.
“The answer is no,” said Gerry, “to taking your money. We’ll spend what Leo already owes me. I don’t want to quit on it either, even though for the record I never started.”
Pete opened his mouth and Gerry held up both hands. “I don’t want to know anything you might know, okay?” Enough was enough. He’d planned on digging into his old pal’s brain, but now he knew what he needed to know. Whatever mistakes or guilt Pete was carrying, this was not a guy who deserved taking an obstruction rap. A licensed investigator had to stay clean with the law, and Gerry did not want to choose between risking his own ass and rolling over on Pete. He liked the inculpable position of truly not knowing what he might have to deny. Criminal statutes did not always deliver moral justice, he had learned.
Pete nodded, went through his hat-off, hair-scratch reflex again. “Let me say this, then. With Lexy gone, Nick is all Leo and Anna have got now. I guess it would be nice to not have any questions in my mind about him.”
“We both know he’s your Peeping Tom,” Gerry said. “No, don’t answer. That ought to be enough of a question for you there. It’s not going to magically cure itself.”
Pete nodded again, his face a picture of misery.
“I’ve got a line on the Zeletsky case,” Gerry went on. “One that could get Nick off the hook. You realize he’s going to get a walk on the peeping. Just about gotta catch him on film to make that stick.”
Pete made a fish mouth, started over, and found his voice. “Either way, I want you to do it. For Sara. You sure about the money?”
Gerry had to smile. “I’m sure, bro.”
Pete stood, tugged his jeans up, and adjusted his cap until he had it comfortably in its regular groove. “Send Leo’s bill to me, that way it’ll get done faster.” He moved toward the door, stopped, and turned back. “I ’preciate you, G.”
After he’d gone, Gerry went to the window and watched him cross the street to his truck. Seeing how troubled Pete was over Nick, and watching him talk around Leo’s involvement in his suspicions, had Gerry rethinking his client. Instead of just eccentric egomania, maybe the man was up to something that crossed the line. Tough thing about his daughter, but since when was that a license to control the investigation? As for smarmy-ass sick Nick, even if he got a free ride on the peekaboo act, Gerry hoped to have a surprise for him. Gerry just had to get his timing perfect on the bust he had promised the Vice guy.
Brady found a place to live, but no amount of pragmatic self-talk could blunt the embarrassment and alarm he felt at how far he had fallen.
His new residence was a weekly-rate motel beginning to slide off the edge of respectability. Its flat-roofed, single-story cinder block design did possess a certain quaint old-school flavor he actually liked, though, even down to the flamingo-pink paint job. Their advertising still tried to promote it as a family vacation resort, but who were they kidding? Day laborers, itinerant contractors, illegal immigrants, and drug dealers appeared to be the clientele. But the room looked almost clean, it had its own bath, and it cost two-fifty a week with no deposit other than a week up-front and a manual imprint of his maxed-out Visa.
What appalled him most about his situation was that the driving force in his life was fear. Scared of prison. Out of money and scared to apply for any position because of the reference he would get from Beach Haven, due to Burgess’s influence. Scared to chance it because he would quickly get the rep of tainted goods. A small community, the tech business, and he wanted a future if he ever got out of this mess. Scared to go elsewhere because Burgess had promised to swear out the warrant if he did, and Brady had always heard that flight was evidence of guilt.
Nor did he have any doubt that Burgess would know if he blew town. Guy apparently knew everything. Probably knew to the dollar how much Brady had to his name. That was why Brady’s promise of one week had amused the man. He knew he could cut off Brady’s only avenue of escape. So it had been a big joke to him.
Brady had found the connection, too. Maybe not proof, but good enough to convince him Burgess was behind the boot from Beach Haven. A few hours on the web was all it took, accessing the avalanche of information available to anyone and then sneaking into Beach Haven’s network and the county records site. Turned out the two properties Beach Haven was negotiating for sat on the same strand of beach. Guess who owned the surrounding land and the shoreline access between them? Burgess Investments, LLC, of course. Who had also sold other properties to Beach Haven in the past. Heck, the suits at Beach Haven would fire their own mothers for a chance at a mega-resort complex on that kind of beachfront acreage.
He burned the first hour of his new life as a motel resident by sitting on the floppy, musty-smelling bed and watching a news segment on Lexy’s funeral. The picture they showed of her alive and smiling gave him a throat-clearing moment. He still wanted to believe she would have come around. With her gone, there was no support for his story, just a bad check. Hell, with her gone, he was guilty. Open and shut, as they say.
The funeral coverage deepened his dismay when he saw the list of bigwigs and politicos attending in support of Leo Burgess. The power and influence of the man pounded home the point that Brady could not win. He had to find a way to get Burgess off his back, because no public forum would ever believe Brady over the pillar of the community they saw when they looked at Leo Burgess.
Finding work was an absolute must. Anything, even some anonymous manual labor, just something to pay the rent. He might make it a month at the motel on what he had, if he quit eating. Whatever the next step down from the Suncrest Motel would be, he did not thi
nk he could go there without blowing his brains out. Somehow that once-suffocating picture of Brady and Peggy reenacting Green Acres didn’t seem like such a bad future after all.
A chilling new thought surfaced, connecting flight, guilt, and the clout of Leo Burgess. Would sneaking away from the house and checking into a roach motel so soon after Lexy’s death make him a suspect in her murder?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Nick Burgess slammed the door as hard as he could, hoping the old man would hear it. Hoping it pissed him off. God, he could be so freakin’ mule-headed. All Nick had done was present the idea that Brady Spain had killed Lexy. After all, Spain was hacked off at her for sticking up for her brother. They had probably been doing the nasty, too.
But Pops had shaken his fat-ass daddy finger at Nick and said: “I will not discuss Alexandra’s death with you. I will see to it the proper steps are taken to answer for it, and I do not want you to speak of it again.”
When he told him that Brady had packed his shit and hit the road, Pops said, “Very well.” Just like that.
Nick pressed his case. “Don’t we want to find him?”
“I am not interested in talking to Mr. Spain until he is ready to talk to me,” the old man answered. “He will not leave town, I assure you.”
Nick didn’t like getting blown off, said as much, and Pops had gotten a little red around the neck. “Remember our agreement, Nicolas. You stay out of this affair. I am handling it. We need none of your juvenile strong-arm fantasies. If it comes to it, an accomplished attorney can expose Mr. Spain as a hostile witness who bears a grudge against you and is using a family tragedy as an opportunity to renege on his original statement. Now, I have work to do.”
So Nick busted out of there wishing the glass in the door had broken when he banged it. The old man was just wrong. Spain needed someone to lean on him. You could just tell how smart-ass the punk was, with his George Washington “I cannot tell a lie” bullshit. Without Lexy to swear that he was with her, couldn’t Pops see how important this shit had gotten?
He decided to skip the Porsche, walk down to Cameron’s. His stash wasn’t low, he didn’t need a buy; he just wanted to hang out with somebody cool. Somebody who treated him cool. No blow, no getting wired, just burn a little weed and drink a few beers, mellow out.
Bet Cameron could come up with a way to put a hurt on Spain without the old man knowing. It looked like the smart move to Nick, but the thought made his stomach knot up. The old man would for sure cut Nick’s nuts off if he found out, and he seemed to find every damn thing out.
What he could not understand was how come Pops didn’t treat him better, more like an equal. Nick was the oldest, the only son. Now that he was the only child, shouldn’t he be getting the respect Lexy always got? Something had to change. Nick was ready to start making the decisions. So, sit back and fire up some Jamaican, sip on a few cold ones, and get Cameron to help him come up with a plan of attack. He liked the sound of that, a plan of attack.
On the last day of the month, Brady made a final trip to the house on Mangrove Street, one more walk-through to collect anything personal he had missed. Sadly, the bed would have to stay, as would the one and only table he had been able to afford. The two chairs already sat in his motel room, and he had decided the television could survive in the Jeep for a while. With so little time or means to acquire much, the rest of his possessions fit easily into a few cartons, also already divided between the motel and his Jeep. Never know, maybe he could reclaim the big stuff later if he ever got out from under the Burgess steamroller. Might mention that to Pete, should he ever come across him outside of Heron Point.
He was standing in front of the open refrigerator, mulling over a suitable transport container for the milk jug and four leftover beers, when he heard a tapping at the front door. He spun around and craned his neck to peer through the glass without exposing himself, his skin crawling like a nest of centipedes. Somebody short and blond was all he could see, which did not match any Burgess he knew of. Nor Frank or Art, the merry hoodlums. He sidled up to the door and swung it open while standing off to one side.
“Brady? Is that you?” asked a voice he didn’t recognize, female, friendly sounding.
He stepped out and knew her then. Air rushed from his lungs and he felt the prickles on the back of his neck subside—Maggie, his boozy rescuer from the hired goon fiasco. But not quite the same Maggie, he noticed. Stone-cold sober, this Maggie, and not just a day’s worth of sober. Eyes clear as those of a child, her skin losing some of the grainy slackness of the whiskey queen. Wow. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her voice.
“Hey, Maggie, how are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” She leaned to one side, eyeing the bare interior of the house. “Moving, huh?”
“Uh, no, I just haven’t picked up much stuff yet,” he said. Great, all I need is a gossip-hound right now.
She cut her eyes at him. “Whatever. I won’t tell anybody, Brady,” she said, and then laughed at his expression. “Really, I won’t. Mark and I are moving, too.”
“Oh? Well, I’m sorry or glad for you, depending on why. What brings you by? I don’t have any muggers for you to chase off today.” As starved as he was for any amiable interaction with another human being, he didn’t know her well enough to trust her motives. His memory of the obvious overtures she’d made on thug day loomed as an uncomfortable possibility.
“Have you seen the news?” she asked, biting her lip.
“No, why?” The crawling sensation returned to the back of his scalp. Had to be bad news. About him or someone else?
She glanced around as if she expected people lurking in the bushes. “Look, can I come in for a minute?”
“Sure.” He moved back, wondering why the cloak and dagger act. As yet, he picked up no come-on vibe from the sober Maggie, so maybe not that. “Though, as you guessed, there’s nowhere to sit.”
She smiled. “That’s okay. We can sit on the countertops and pretend we’re at a cocktail party.”
He led her to the kitchen, charmed by this different Maggie. “I can even offer you a beer to complete the picture, but it’s all I’ve got.”
“Thank you, but no, believe it or not,” she said with a wry grin. Then her expression turned serious, kind of urgent-looking. “This is a really stupid question, and I can’t think of a good way to say it, but I’ve got to ask. Did you kill Lexy?”
“Huh?” He couldn’t have been more dumbfounded if she had asked if he ate babies for breakfast.
“I didn’t think so,” she said, visibly unwinding. “But I couldn’t just assume it, you know?”
“I guess I’m glad a simple ‘huh’ gets me off the hook,” he said, his surprise shifting into irritation.
“It’s not the ‘huh,’ it’s my years of being around people who lie all the time that gets you off,” she said with an impatient wave. “Obviously I didn’t think so before I asked, or I wouldn’t be alone with you.”
“Do I get to know why the hell you would ask that?”
“You need to watch the news,” she said. “Channel Seven, local segment. I’m not even going to try to explain it, just watch it, okay? There’s more to why I came, though.”
“Well, I’m going to take a wild stab here, and guess that it can’t be any worse than that murder question,” he said, guessing at what the news was going to drop on him. Police in a manhunt for fugitive Brady Spain? Did Burgess file his charges? Dear God, was he wanted for murder?
She crossed her arms and ankles, propping her weight against the counter. “Look, Brady, even if I hadn’t seen the news, and you’ll see what I mean, I know you’re in some kind of jam with Leo and Nick.” She smiled when his eyebrows went up. “You have to understand, Nick’s got a really big mouth.”
“Say you’re right. That doesn’t make it my favorite cocktail party topic. And if I am, what of it?” Where was she going with this? Sent by Leo to keep tabs on him?
“Let’s just say that I
had a father just like Leo Burgess.” Her eyes clouded up, lost in her own past. “Well, maybe not quite as rich as Leo, who is? But he was the exact same kind of man.”
Brady waited when she paused, sensing that she needed no response yet. He propped his hips against the opposite counter, in a posture mirroring hers.
“First, I want to tell you something.” She looked down at the floor and then up at him, her face hot pink. “I had a thing for you, I’m talking fantasies and crazy stuff, so I just want to apologize if I got weird or anything.” She hugged herself with the crossed arms, her color darkening to a dusky rose.
Brady felt his own face reddening, feeling as awkward as if he’d walked in on her undressing, despite having already surmised something along those lines. “No need to apologize, you were cool, and hey, you might’ve saved my life for all I know.” Realizing that his awkwardness had to be about like an ant on a battleship compared to hers, he added, “And just so you know, I think it’s one hell of a compliment.”
“Thanks, nice guy.” She nodded as if he was a student who gave the correct answer. “I know this is embarrassing but it’s something I need to do, talk about my own embarrassing stuff instead of everybody else’s.”
Her eyes focused into the distance again, and she shook herself like she wanted to escape it. “Anyway, you’re too nice a guy to understand Leo Burgess. All that matters to a man like that is money and prestige. And the power that comes with it, I guess. Trust me, that’s all he cares about, believe me, I know. So if you plan on fighting him, you’ve got to hit him in the wallet or the image.” She reached into her back pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to him.
Brady took the note. Grant Thibideaux, it read, followed by a telephone number. Handwritten, feminine, presumably by Maggie. “So who is this?” he asked. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
