Damage Control

by Robert Dugoni

  “Fuck no, I don’t want to go back. I go back, I go back forever. I ain’t going back, and not for killing nobody. They’ll kill us for that.”

  “No,” the man said. “They won’t.”

  King shook his head. “News flash, Einstein. This here is a capital murder state. They’ll kill us. They’ll say we murdered him during the commission of a felony, and we’ll get the juice in the arm, and lights out, Martha.”

  The bullet ripped through the leather jacket without making a sound. King fell backward. The woman next door moaned.

  “Yes. Oh, yes. Yes. Yes.”

  The man removed the gun from his pocket and stood over King’s body. Blood oozed from the dime-size hole in his forehead. He pulled a watch from the envelope and dropped it onto the carpet next to King’s body. Then he opened the green plastic garbage bag and scattered blood-stained clothes about the room. Finished, he checked the door handle to the adjacent room and determined it to be locked. He stepped back and planted the heel of his black boot just above the lock. The cheap wood crashed inward, the force driving the doorknob through the Sheetrock on the other side. Two shots rang out from inside the room, causing the man to duck behind the doorjamb. He waited a beat, then swung the gun around the frame, his gaze sweeping the room.

  Cole sat with his feet dangling out the bathroom window. He fired another wild shot over his shoulder, dropped his shoes and clothes out the window, and jumped. The man hurried to the window. Cole rolled off the roof of a car onto the ground, looked up, and fired another shot before limping across the highway and disappearing into the darkness.

  The man turned from the window and hurried back across the motel, stepping over King and pulling open the door. The man who had been receiving sexual accolades from the woman in the room next door stood on the landing, barefoot, shirt open, struggling to zip his fly. His unfastened belt buckle dangled below a large, hairless belly.

  The gunman aimed head high. The man froze, hands on his zipper, eyes wide. The color rushed from his face, leaving him a jaundiced yellow from the dull glow of the landing lights. The gunman smiled, raised a finger to his lips, and shook his head slowly. Then he turned and walked toward the staircase at the end of the landing.

  11

  THE EIGHT CONCRETE stairs shook with each step. The handrail rattled in his grip. The motel was classic construction from the 1970s, when the building industry was booming and you couldn’t throw a hammer without hitting someone who claimed to be a framer. A two-story box with a flat tar-and-gravel roof, the building had been tagged with gang graffiti; the aluminum-framed windows were rusted and pitted, and the decking peeled and worn. At the top of the landing, Logan checked the intersection between the iron railing and the stucco wall. The large black bolt had wiggled free, creating a hole that allowed water intrusion. Probably dry rot. The handrail wouldn’t support a man’s weight leaning against it.

  The rooms were located off the landing, a staircase at each end. Room 8 wasn’t difficult to find—it was the only room with the door open and an armed police officer standing guard. Logan nodded to the officer and scribbled his name on the log before stepping in. Carole Nuchitelli knelt near a body, a man lying faceup on a shag carpet the color of a thick glass of Nestlé Quik.

  “You keep following me, Nooch, and people will think we’re dating.”

  Nuchitelli looked up with seeming disinterest. “I’ve been here an hour. I think you’re stalking me.”

  The room held the stench of soiled carpet and death. Logan looked down at the corpse. The man’s bowels had released. His eyes were open, his face pale and devoid of any emotion. But for the dime-size hole in his head, the man looked frozen. A dark halo around the back of his head indicated that the carpet had absorbed much of the blood. “Looks like a twenty-two,” Logan said.

  “Falcon nine-millimeter,” Nooch said.

  Logan pointed to the bullet wound in the forehead. “I’m not talking about the gun in his pants. I’m talking about the hole in his head. Looks like a twenty-two.”

  She shrugged. “Or a nine-millimeter.”

  “Or a nine-millimeter,” Logan agreed. He turned and studied the doorway. “What do you estimate the distance to be?” he asked, pacing it off.

  “Eight to ten feet.”

  “Eight feet,” he confirmed. He wiped sleep from his eyes. “Heck of a shot.”

  Nuchitelli shrugged, unimpressed. “Not that far.”

  “Not if you have time to aim.”

  She stopped what she was doing, sat back, and smiled up at him. “All right, go ahead. You know you want to.”

  Logan pointed at the butt of the Falcon. “That tells me the guy didn’t even see it coming. He was shot in the forehead so he was obviously facing his killer, but, he didn’t even have the chance to reach for his weapon.”

  “Maybe the guy surprised him.”

  Logan nodded. “Oh, I’m sure he did, but not the way you’re thinking.” He pointed to the front door. “No forced entry. So either he had a key or he was already in the room. Do we have an ID?”

  “You know I like them anonymous, Logan. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  “Murphy called. Said he had something for me.”

  She pointed at the doorway to the adjacent room and rolled her eyes. “He’s in there.”

  “I think he just likes getting my ass out of bed for kicks.”

  “You may be right.”

  As Logan started for the other room, he noticed a wad of bills on the floor, partially hidden by the body, as well as bloodied clothes. “His?” he asked, referring to the corpse.

  Nuchitelli nodded. “In his right-front pants pocket.”

  “Whose clothes?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know. His I guess.”

  Logan walked toward the door that separated Room 8 from Room 7.

  The door frame between the two rooms had been splintered. This was a forced entry. Maybe the killer had surprised him. Patrick Murphy stood with his partner, Debra Hallock, and a swarm of people inside the room. Murphy and Hallock worked out of the South Precinct. Murphy was a stereotype: Irish and looked it, with fair skin, ruddy cheeks, and freckles, and was proud to profess his heritage to anyone and everyone. Thin blue veins traversed a bulbous nose that revealed a penchant for happy hours.

  Murphy grinned. “Look what the cat dragged out late at night.” He parted his thinning hair in the middle to try to effect greater coverage. Signs of his age rolled over the waist of his pants.

  “I hope you have a good reason for getting my ass out of bed, Murph.” Logan offered his hand to Murphy while acknowledging Hallock. “Hey, Deb.”

  “Shit. I have to give you something to do in between rescuing cats from trees and playing with your pecker,” Murphy said.

  “Firemen rescue cats. And I’ve told you, it’s the Irish, not the Scottish, who play with their peckers.” He looked at Hallock. “Sorry, Deb.”

  She raised thin eyebrows on a not unattractive but unmemorable face, as if to say, “What else is new?”

  “So, what the hell am I doing here?”

  Murphy answered, “You had a murder in Green Lake last night—guy named James Hill?”

  Logan nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Come here.” Murphy led Logan back into the room with the corpse. Several pieces of evidence had already been bagged in plastic evidence bags and placed on the bed. “We found this near the body.” He handed Logan a bag with a watch. “Read the inscription on the back.”

  Logan turned it over and held it up to the single bulb in the overhead light fixture.

  To James Jr., Esquire

  6-22-90

  Congratulations

  Dad

  “We checked it out,” Hallock said. “Your James Hill was a junior.”

  Logan considered the watch, then the corpse. “So who’s the stiff?”

  “Laurence King,” Murphy said, grinning.

  Not sure Murphy was serious, Logan asked, “You mean like the talk-
show guy on TV?”

  “That’s Larry King,” Hallock said.

  “Career shithead,” Murphy offered. “Spent most of his formative and adult years behind bars mostly for burglaries. Held up a gas station seven years ago and did six at Walla Walla before parole. Been out about a year. Two-strike loser. His probation officer says he’s been working construction and keeping his nose clean. Guess not.”

  Logan looked down at Laurence King’s feet. He wore work boots, the kind that would make a size-twelve imprint like the one in the mud outside James Hill’s back door. “Not a murderer, though?”

  Hallock shook her head. “Not until last night, apparently”

  “So the blood on those clothes could be James Hill’s?” Logan mused.

  Murphy shrugged. “Could be, but why would they be covered in dirt?”

  Logan thought about it. “Send one of the boys outside to look for a hole in the ground.”

  “A hole in the ground? You think King buried them?” Murphy sounded skeptical. He shook his head. “Then why the fuck would he dig them back up?”

  Logan reconsidered the watch and the cash.

  Hallock directed an officer to search around the outside of the building for a hole. “You think the other guy set King up and left us this stuff so we would think King killed Hill?”

  “I don’t know. Make sure we get an imprint of King’s shoes,” Logan said. “Don’t suppose we have any witnesses?”

  “The guy at the front desk is doing a ‘see no, hear no, speak no’ routine at the moment, but he’s just being a tough guy,” Murphy said. “He’ll talk when I tell him he’s gonna have a patrol car parked up his ass from here to eternity and he can kiss his customers good-bye.”

  “Anybody else that was here took off,” Hallock added. “The guy at the desk said King and another guy came in about midnight yesterday and rented Room Eight.”

  “Did he give a description of the second guy?” Logan asked.

  Hallock looked at her notes. “Nothing to rival Hemingway. Five-six to five-eight. Slight build, long hair.”

  Logan reached down and picked up a pair of jeans, considering the waist. Then he looked at Laurence King. “These would never fit him,“ he said. “Could be our guy.”

  “Guy at the desk said King came back in about six o’clock and asked to rent Room Seven as well.”

  “Did he say why?” Logan asked.

  Hallock shook her head. “This place gets a lot of business. The prostitutes hang out near the bars down the street. The guy says he assumed King and his pal were getting a couple of visitors for the evening and didn’t want to ‘tag-team them’ in the same room. His words, not mine.”

  “You want my two cents?” Murphy said. “King and his pal have a dispute over the money, and the guy shoots him. Bang.” He pointed at King and imitated the kick of a handgun with his hand. “Then the guy spooks and leaves behind some of the money and the watch and the bloody clothes to make us think King is the guy who killed and robbed James Hill.”

  Logan considered the theory. “I don’t know a lot of guys on the run to leave behind a wad of cash—or clothes that could implicate him in the murder.”

  “Shit, we ain’t talking about a fucking Ph.D. Ten bucks says he’s a loser like King. Only now he’s running scared because he killed someone and he ain’t thinking straight. ”

  “Detective?”

  All three detectives turned. One of the technicians stood between the two beds, near the headboards. When they approached, she pointed with a pen, indicating a bullet hole near a framed photograph of Mount Ranier. The hole was partially camouflaged by the mosaic pattern of the wallpaper. The technician pointed to a second dime-size hole several feet away. The bullet had nicked the edge of the picture frame before embedding in the wallboard. Judging by the size of the hole, it, too, had been either a 9mm slug or a .22.

  Logan pointed to King. “He never got the Falcon out of his pants, and the guy who shot him had to be standing near the front door. Not even a blind man could have missed this badly. Right, Nooch?”

  Nuchitelli looked up. “Not even a blind man,” she said.

  “Shit, you should be a detective,” Murphy added.

  “Please, not with the money my parents spent on my education.”

  Logan suppressed a laugh, turned to consider the trajectory that would have been necessary for the bullets to embed in the wall, and deduced the shots had to come from the adjacent room.

  “King’s pal was in there,” Hallock said, noting his gaze. “That’s why they got the second room; he was supposed to be King’s backup.”

  “So whoever shot King then likely kicked in the door to go after him,” Logan said.

  “What are you saying?” Murphy asked.

  Logan walked back into the adjoining room, Hallock and Murphy in tow. “I’m saying I think King’s pal was inside this room and is either a terrible aim or was just firing at random, panicked.” He faced the damaged door frame, stepped back, and bumped up against the bathroom doorjamb. Turning around, he noticed an open window, walked in, and leaned over the tub to look out the window on a dirt lot, careful not to touch the sill. It was a long fall, but not too long if someone was shooting at you. He walked back into the room where King’s body lay. Nuchitelli stood and removed her gloves. Two men were preparing to put the body in a yellow body bag and zip it closed.

  “Dust that ledge for prints and send them over along with prints from the victim. I want to have them compared with any prints found in James Hill’s house.” Logan turned to Murphy and Hallock. “I’m meeting Hill’s sister at his house tomorrow. We were going to go over items that might have been stolen. That doesn’t appear to be too urgent anymore.” Logan looked at his watch and let out a tired sigh. Morning would come too early. “I’ll ask her about the watch and if her brother would have much cash in the house. If anything else is missing we’ll get out a list to the local pawn shops.”

  “Shit, like that will do any fucking good with those thieves.” Murphy grinned. “We solved your murder, Logan. Even bagged him for you.”

  Logan stared at Laurence King’s body, now encased in the yellow bag, and sucked in air through the small gap between his two front teeth. He didn’t think so.

  12

  DANA COUNTED THE panels on the front door of her brother’s home. Twenty-four: four panels across, and the six panels down. Twenty-four. Simple math. No matter how many different ways she considered it, the end result was always the same. She wondered why her brother had painted the door red—a sharp contrast to the pale green siding, which stood out even more now, like a bloody reminder of what had happened inside.

  She couldn’t recall having ever truly considered the exterior of James’s home. Her brother had often invited her to dinner or to stop by after work or on the weekend, but she rarely did and never stayed long. She was always late picking up Molly from day care, or getting the dry cleaning, or heading home to cook dinner, or trying to finish a rush project Marvin Crocket had sprung on her. James had never complained. He’d never made her feel guilty.

  “Maybe next week,” he’d always say.

  But next week never worked. Now next week would never come. And that wasn’t going to change either, no matter how many ways she tried to consider it.

  She felt herself slipping again into the dark gray vortex of despair and dug in her heels to stop the momentum. Now was not her time to grieve. She needed to get through the details. She retreated from the mist to the shelter beneath the pediment and leaned against the clapboard siding, physically and emotionally spent. She had rushed from the funeral parlor after choosing a simple forest-green casket for her brother’s body. Her next task was gathering his personal papers from his home and determining for the detective what had been stolen. She checked her watch and the tree-lined street. With no sign of the detective, she closed her eyes, seeking a respite, but instead recalled the reception following her father’s funeral. The catered leftovers had been wrapped in cle
ar plastic, the tables and chairs folded and stacked, the guests and relatives gone. Dana and James had sat in the den, James staring at the blue and yellow flames in the brick fireplace.

  “I’m leaving the practice of law,” he’d said without looking at her. “I haven’t been happy for some time.” He sipped a beer from a red plastic cup and sat back, looking up at the painting of a three-masted schooner above the fireplace. “I wouldn’t do anything about it with Dad alive; I was too worried about what he would think. Practicing law was the only part of my life he ever took an interest in.”

  She did not take her brother seriously, believing his emotions to be the product of their father’s unexpected death, a jolting reminder of their own mortality, and that time was the most precious of all commodities. “Take a couple of months, James. Now is not the time to be making life-altering decisions. You’ve been through a lot these past four days. You’re not seeing things clearly.”

  “This is not a spur-of-the-moment decision.” He sat forward, speaking with greater urgency. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I don’t have a life. I’m at the office sixty hours a week, and when I’m not there, I’m still there—managing my cases, considering trial strategy, dreading what fires will ignite to ruin my weekend. Look at me.” He pulled his hair. “I’m thirty-two years old and I’m losing my hair. What’s left of it is turning gray. I’m not married. Hell, I don’t even have a steady girlfriend.”

  “You’re up for partner next year.”

  “That’s what really scares me. Half the shareholders at the firm are divorced. They make four hundred thousand dollars a year, but their mortgages and child support are killing them.” James picked up his beer and sat back, shaking his head. “I’m not going to die at my desk like Dad.”

  A part of her wanted to tell him that work had not killed their father, far from it, but as angry as she was at her father, telling her brother the truth would only be cruel. Boys put their fathers on pedestals and considered them heroes. Girls had the unfortunate experience of growing up and getting their hearts broken by men. They knew their fathers’ flaws and weaknesses. They knew they weren’t heroes, often far from it.