Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by Suzann Ledbetter

  "How long do we have to wait?"

  "The note I wrote said eight. It's nineteen minutes till."

  The cell phone in his T-shirt pocket cheeped. Jack nearly kneecapped himself on the steering column. "Private" flashed on the caller-ID display. "Yo," was his noncommittal greeting.

  "That you, McPhee?"

  He gulped down a howl of relief. "I knew I could count on you, McGuire."

  "Makes one of us."

  Jack scanned the perimeter. "Where are you?"

  "Fifty yards due southwest. Tucked up under a bush." Five seconds ticked by. McGuire chuckled. "Can't even see the whites of my eyes, can ya? Shades and natural camo, man. Can't beat 'em for night work."

  "I owe you."

  "Damn straight." McGuire dictated his cell phone number.

  "I dial you back and we're good, right?"

  "Affirmative. Clear."

  Jack punched the number, let it ring once and canceled the call. The first deep breath in an hour or more was taken and released. He slipped the phone in his pocket and returned to eyeball-and-eardrum patrol.

  "So you weren't coming here alone."

  "Was until you hitchhiked," he said, opting for diplomacy. "McGuire was a gamble, not a sure thing."

  "Promise you'll tell me when you see deHaven? I don't want to miss the arrest part."

  Unless a weapon was involved, McGuire wouldn't charge out of the foliage the instant deHaven showed himself. It wasn't illegal to stroll through a public park with or without a satchel containing a quarter million in cash.

  On the other hand, innocent people don't pay off blackmailers.

  Explaining the finer points of the extortion to Dina through clenched teeth wouldn't be easy. In silhouette, a motionless jaw and lips flapping and contorting signified another unseen occupant, a hidden microphone and transmitter, or serious mental-health issues.

  Like a verbal text message, Jack told her about the packet and blackmail note delivered to deHaven at his office. If he took the bait, Jack would hit Redial on his cell phone through his pocket, then stall his exit from the car until the display screen went dark again.

  His snug pocket T-shirt allayed suspicion that he was wired for sound. Oh, he was, but cell phones had become as innocuous as ink pens. An open connection to McGuire's cell-phone was a top-notch eavesdropping device, whether a tape recorder was nearby or not.

  "Now that is slick," Dina whispered. "Did you think of it, or McGuire?"

  "Old trick, kid. Done all the time."

  On purpose and by accident. Bump the cell phone, jostle it in a pocket, or a purse and whoever you last dialed could be listening in on your current, live conversation.

  No problem most of the time, other than burning up minutes on both phones. Very bad form if the spouse you called to tell about meeting a friend for dinner listens in on the hot date you're having with a lover.

  Jack slapped a mosquito whining in his ear. Patted the .38 in his lap. Reminded himself to inhale. And exhale. His gaze swept the full darkness, jerking at shadows, at faint moon winks through tiny tears in the clouds, at nothing, expecting something to materialize.

  Nocturnal birds sang and squabbled. A power line hummed a monotonous note. Rustling. Muffled snaps. Crunching. Squeaks. Poets who wrote of the night's unrelieved silence were out of their friggin' minds.

  Eight twenty-three. Screw punctuality. DeHaven had laughed his ass off feeding the packet and the note into a shredder. Or he was out there, watching Jack sweat like a Clydesdale. Waiting for him to lose his concentration. Drop his guard. Stare too long at one spot.

  By Dina's slow, even breathing, she'd dozed off. If the bugs weren't eating her alive, she was roasting in the airless nest behind the seat. Jack envied the oblivion with no relation to time. Missed her hushed voice. She made him think, made him laugh. Kept him honest.

  He smiled at the paradox. Only it wasn't one. Actions don't always speak louder than words, much less character. Would he steal to buy medicine to keep his mother alive? To ease her pain?

  Private again appeared on the screen.

  "Yo."

  "Duty calls." McGuire's voice intimated he was already on the run to his vehicle.

  It was a few minutes shy of nine o'clock. Early for Friday night's gun-and-knife club to draw blood. Must be the heat.

  Paranoia raised the hair on the nape of Jack's neck. A bogus 911 to dispatch would decoy McGuire. "What's the beef?"

  "Stab 'n grab. Vic bled out before EMS arrived."

  Jack wiped away the sweat beading his forehead. Somebody died. A legit 10-19 shouldn't feel like a reprieve. And wasn't. "Be careful out there. And thanks again."

  "You hangin' in?"

  For another fifteen, was Jack's immediate thought. Were deHaven aware of McGuire's presence, he'd make his move. In full darkness. Out of nowhere. "Negatory," Jack said into the cell, then clicked it off.

  He keyed the ignition. He wasn't a hero or an idiot. DeHaven wouldn't leave any witnesses. But his vehicle in the vicinity would be damning to an extent.

  He dialed back McGuire, who confirmed no parked cars were on the southbound road. Jack would meander through the other three, for general shits and grins.

  "Blackmailing the bad guy," he muttered, "only works in the friggin' movies."

  22

  Jack shoved the holstered .38 under a suit bag in the trunk.

  Tomorrow, he'd disassemble it and scatter the pieces in Dumpsters all over town. Eventually the cops would release its registered twin. Whether returned to Jack or scrap-heaped after a trial's conclusion remained to be seen.

  He hoisted the .357 to add it to the makeshift armory.

  "Oh, no, you don't." Dina gripped the barrel like a baseball bat. "This is my dad's, not yours."

  "Well, it isn't going back in the house. A loaded gun lying around isn't protection. It's an accident waiting to happen."

  So was a driveway tug-of-war with a cannon for the rope, but Jack wasn't about to turn loose. Neither was Dina.

  "I'll unload it," she said, "after Mom goes to bed."

  "And from what you told me, she'll reload it before breakfast."

  Dina blew the hair out of her eyes, the better to glare up at him. "I don't expect you to understand, but to Mom, this stupid gun is my dad. As long as it's in the nightstand, just as it's always been, Earl Wexler is still here, still with her, protecting his family."

  Her chin trembled and there were tears in her voice. "I don't care how crazy that sounds. I can't—won't—take that away from her. I'll be damned if I'll let you do it."

  Safety and security were illusions. States of mind inconsistent with reality. Jack sincerely wished Harriet's symbol of them didn't have a trigger, but yeah. He understood. "Okay." He closed the trunk lid. "Annie gets her gun."

  He turned the butt toward Dina. "If Little Annie promises to unload it and keep unloading it until Harriet runs out of ammo."

  She laughed. "Think Phil will help me dig all those holes?"

  "I'll take over the disposal end of it." Which included renting a metal detector to minesweep the yard. One thing about the Wexler women. They were never boring.

  Harriet was shuffling around the corner from the kitchen when they walked in. Their faces must have told the tale. "No eye for an eye, huh. Pity."

  "Mother." Dina set her purse and the gun on the table, then went to disentangle the oxygen hose before Harriet tripped on it. "Jack wanted deHaven to implicate himself. He didn't want to kill him."

  Well, Jack thought, as he flopped on the couch, unless it was in self-defense. No, not even then. Dead murderers don't stand trial. They're spared the perp walk, the pretrial media feeding frenzy, the public humiliation. Couldn't happen to a more deserving guy.

  "Will you quit fussing?" Harriet shooed Dina away. "Go let that silly dog out. He's wiping dog boogers all over my drapes."

  Phil's head was craned behind the fabric, like Ichabod Mutt. Dina halted and looked at Jack. "Did you hear that?"

  He a
ssumed she didn't mean the back-to-school-sale commercial on TV. "Hear what?"

  She pushed aside the drapes and tugged open the slider. "For a second there, I thought Phil growled."

  "Nah. Probably something he ate is recycling itself."

  If dogs were eligible for belching contests, Phil would have a wallful of blue ribbons. The other forced-air function at which he excelled hadn't yet qualified as an event.

  The mutt backfooted from the door. He padded over between Harriet's chair and the dining area and sat down. Dina shut and relocked the patio door. "Maybe he's storm-phobic. It isn't thundering or lightning, but animals react to changes in barometric pressure."

  Jack patted the couch cushion beside him. "I think the pressure he's—"

  The front door burst open and crashed into the wall. Phil sprang forward. Teeth bared, he barked like a rabid Doberman.

  Jack leaped to his feet, colliding with Dina. She screamed as a golf club arced down and cracked Phil's skull. The dog crumpled into a heap on the carpet.

  "Quiet! Move away from McPhee." Carleton deHaven pointed a 9 mm Glock pistol at Dina. His hands were gloved; a finger curled around the trigger. "I said, move."

  Harriet's face was stark white. A quaking hand rose to her mouth. She stared at Phil, then up at deHaven, trying to comprehend what was happening.

  "You." He nodded at Harriet. "Take off the Medi-Alert device. Careful and drop it behind you. Very good. Now the cordless phone."

  The handset banged off the portable oxygen tank.

  "Now you, McPhee." DeHaven reached sideward. The five-iron probed at the narrow slot between the wall and the door. "Over toward the girl, where I can see you."

  Nodding, Jack crossed his arms and sidled nearer Dina. She, too, was ghost-pale. Tears streamed from eyes at once terrified, heartsick at the blood trickling from Phil's ear, and icy with hatred for Carleton deHaven.

  "Hold it. Close enough." DeHaven glanced away to leverage the door shut with the club.

  Jack's thumb pressed Redial on the cell phone in his pocket. Fingers tucked under his arms, his palm shielded the unit's lighted display. He prayed McGuire would realize it was a distress call. Prayed he'd answer, but not with a booming "McGuire."

  "Nice tuxedo, deHaven. Which restaurant is missing its maître d'?"

  "Very funny." The golf club clattered to the entry floor. "Tonight, the community opera is giving a special performance of Pagliacci in tribute to my unlamented, late wife."

  Phil's inert body was nudged out of deHaven's path. "A private, invitation-only performance. To keep out the riffraff."

  "Interesting choice of operas." Jack tamped his rage. He didn't have the luxury of indulging it. "The promiscuous Nedda represents Belle, no doubt. In your mind, anyway. Who plays you? Tonio, the fool? Or Nedda's husband, the clown that murders her in the end?"

  DeHaven smirked. "Unfortunately, by the intermission, I was overwhelmed by grief. I left my guests to the buffet and Cristal and retired to the manager's office to rest, until the second act."

  Tribute my ass, Jack thought. Glad Belle missed it. Buffalo wings, beer on tap and a shit-kickin' band were her style. There'd be a party in her honor, in this life or the next one, by God.

  "How did you know where the Wexlers live?" he said. "Or that I was here?"

  "And you call yourself a private detective? This is the twenty-first century. Pity you won't have time to adapt to modern technology."

  Thinking between the inferences, Jack knew the Taurus had acquired an extra piece of equipment under a fender well or the bumper. A Global Positioning System tracker could be bought on eBay for a few hundred bucks, plus shipping.

  "Sounds like you've finessed another almost perfect alibi. Except shooting us just adds three more homicides to the score."

  Dina tried to stifle a sob. "Please, don't do this."

  "Is that what Belle said when you aimed my .38 at her?"

  "Shut up, McPhee."

  "Four premeditated murders? Golden Boy, they're gonna put needles in both your arms."

  "The police have no evidence against me. That ridiculous blackmail scheme of yours—"

  "About the time that packet was delivered to you, I was with Lt. McGuire, laying out everything I sent you and more."

  Harriet's fingers slowly closed around the remote—a decent weapon, if thrown hard enough. Her other hand was braced against the edge of the TV tray. Jack hadn't seen her move at all. Neither had deHaven.

  A flying remote, the cluttered table toppling over—she'd distract deHaven. Startle him. Draw his fire. Sacrifice herself. Jack couldn't let that happen.

  "You're bluffing," deHaven said. "If that were true, the police would have arrested me by now."

  Then the tracking device wasn't on the car when Jack met with McGuire. The damn packet had set off deHaven. By no means, as Jack had planned.

  He lowered his head, slowly shaking it, catching Harriet's eye. Don't, he telegraphed. Not yet. Get ready.

  "What's this?" DeHaven backed up a step. His eyes and the Glock never wavered from Jack as he groped around on the dining room table for Earl Wexler's revolver. He pointed it at Dina. "This yours?"

  She stiffened, but didn't respond.

  "Well, I doubt it's McPhee's. But it better serves my purpose, regardless." He pocketed the 9 mm pistol. "It'll provoke fewer questions if Mrs. Wexler kills her daughter and her daughter's lover with it, then turns it on herself."

  "Are you insane?" Dina shrieked, starting toward him. "Nobody—"

  DeHaven thumbed the hammer. "Stop right there."

  Jack grabbed her shirt and yanked her behind him. Two sharper jerks disguised his finger pointing at Harriet. If Dina saw it. Turning to face deHaven, Jack glanced sideward at Harriet. Set.

  Phil's rear paw twitched. A halo of blood darkened the carpet above his head. The dead don't bleed. Nothing to pump it, when the heart stops. Hang on, buddy .

  "It's your dear mother who's insane, Ms. Wexler," deHaven said. "The pharmacy bags in your car this afternoon and a telephone conversation with a chatty clerk were most informative."

  Jack chuckled, waving a time-out, edging nearer, as if one motion impelled the other. "I don't know what you're smokin', but I want some."

  "Elder rage, they call it," deHaven went on, spellbound by his own genius. "Tragic, when it occurs. Two of her medications can induce paranoid delusions. Another accelerates senile dementia. Anxiety. Pychoses."

  The toe of his shoe prodded Phil's haunch. "Just look what your mother did to this poor, defenseless animal."

  Phil snarled—twisted toward deHaven.

  Harriet yelled, "Go!"

  The tray table crashed to the floor. The .357 went off like a bomb. Jack slammed into deHaven, pile driving him into the dining room wall. The window shattered. Another shot squeezed off.

  Jack pounded deHaven's wrist against the casing. "Drop the gun—drop it!" A hand clamped his face, pushing, fingers clawing, gouging. He ducked, clenched his jaw. His head snapped up, ramming deHaven in the windpipe.

  The heavy gun hit Jack like an anvil and fell to the floor. He cocked a fist and hammered deHaven square in the gut, doubling him over. A knee uppercut his chin.

  Golden Boy smacked the wall again. Sliding down it, he sprawled at Jack's feet. Blood poured out deHaven's nose, the glove shredded by the window glass. His mouth hung open, convulsing like a fish out of water.

  Panting, the acrid gunpowder haze as thick as fog, Jack scooped up the .357. The Glock was wrenched from deHaven's pocket. The floor suddenly heaved, tilted, rocking him backward.

  He staggered into the living room. The patio door was shattered. The ottoman lay canted on its side. In front of the glider, Dina and Harriet were huddled over Phil. Blood smeared their hands, their clothes. Dog blood.

  "Jack! Oh, my God."

  At least that's what he thought Dina said. His skull felt as if it were wrapped in a mattress. It'd be nice if he could stretch out on one. Just for a minute. So damn tired—

/>   McGuire and two patrolmen gangwayed in the front door, guns drawn and leveled. McGuire's lips moved. Why was everybody whispering?

  "Party's over, man," Jack said. "Where the fuck you been?"

  The uniforms glanced at Dina. She pointed, still whispering. They rushed past Jack into the dining room. Absently, he wondered how he could stand still while the duplex revolved around him.