Adrenaline

by Bill Eidson

  “You want a challenge, put the gun down.”

  Geoff shook his head. “You’re not ready. You were out cold just a few minutes ago.”

  “Let me worry about that.” Steve put the crowbar on the counter.

  Geoff kicked Steve in the chest. It was a high, fast kick that surprised Steve completely and knocked him off his feet. Geoff got in close and pressed the gun barrel right under his chin. “Listen. Maybe you do deserve the big desk at the big company. But in the game of life and death, you just don’t seem to be cutting it.”

  He stood up. “You lost round one. So I’ll be taking Lisa with me tonight. Don’t give up though—as long as you do what you’re told, you’re going to get another chance.”

  Steve was able to cut himself loose within half an hour, which was about how long Geoff had said it would take.

  Steve set about cleaning the kitchen.

  He washed the blood and brain matter off the walls, having to stop twice to run into the bathroom and vomit.

  He moved the rental car half a mile away and walked back. Then he rolled Alex and the other man into the sections of old linoleum that Geoff had told him he would find in the cellar. From there, Steve drove back to Charlestown in Alex’s truck and loaded the dive boat onto the trailer. He came back to the house, put both bodies onboard, and found a boat ramp in Hull.

  A part of him wanted the police to find him. A part of him desperately wanted to explain why he was covering up a murder—weighting the bodies and dumping them at sea. As the dark waves closed over them, Steve said a brief prayer.

  As he closed his eyes just before dawn, lying in his bunk in The Sea Tern, he told himself that the part of him that wanted to talk to the police—and to God—would just have to be silent for the time being.

  Because Geoff still wanted to play.

  Chapter 27

  “Want something to take your mind off not getting laid?” Bannerman said, as he sat down across from Lazar at the coffee shop on the corner of Columbus and Berkeley.

  “What’ve you got?” Lazar said. Truth was, his loneliness was a physical thing, a weight on his chest that sucked the breath and life out of him.

  It had been eleven months since Charlotte had moved out on him. Eleven months since she had become someone he didn’t know. Someone who said she wanted different things from life. She wanted to leave social work and go back to school. She couldn’t give any more at the woman’s shelter; she couldn’t worry along with other cop wives; she couldn’t worry alone at home another night. She had said she couldn’t—and didn’t—love him the way she once did.

  She had moved in with a girlfriend, saying she needed her space. At least for a trial period: a week or two. “Maybe, I’ll be back,” she had said, her voice tired. She hadn’t looked at him when she said it, but still he hoped.

  He had walked around like a zombie for five or six days until he finally gave in to a nasty little suspicion that had been growing in his head like a tumor. That night, he had waited outside her girlfriend’s place and then followed Charlotte as she drove into Boston. She had parked just off Columbus Avenue in the South End. It was an area that was undergoing gentrification: meaning poor blacks were being shoved out so the buildings could be gutted and rebuilt for rich whites.

  He had never cared one way or the other about being black. He knew he was supposed to, but it wasn’t something he really thought about much. But that night he was all wrapped up in a rage that swelled him, made him feel twice his size. And that night he cared as he watched her through the binoculars go up the stairs to this place with an overnight bag. He suddenly knew with absolute certainty that she had been screwing around on him, and he knew the type of guy it would be: some rich white guy who had bought up a string of these places and was turning them over for a fortune.

  That’s what all this shit is about, Lazar had told himself. Charlotte couldn’t stay with him because she had found someone better. Some white guy just trying out a black chick for a change.

  He could see how good she still looked, the bounce in her step as she went up the stairs, free from him and going to meet her new man. Lazar saw the button she pushed, and he knew he could find the apartment from there.

  He left his service revolver under the car seat and went in after her.

  He told himself he was going to talk it out with her. Confront her with words. Make her explain herself and say the things he needed to say. But as he strode up the stairs, he felt the rage about to burst, and knew he was going to be on the wrong side of a domestic for the first time in his life. Lazar had a black belt in karate, and when he kicked in the apartment door the crime scene flashguns were already bursting in his head, displaying the bodies like big broken dolls on the floor.

  But instead of finding Charlotte with her man, he found her with two little kids and their mama. They were obviously poor, the woman was probably part of the shelter. Lazar saw that Charlotte’s overnight bag held children’s clothes and books.

  After a moment of incredulous silence, Charlotte simply said, “You followed me? You followed me?”

  That had sealed her decision to move out to a new apartment. He had been too disgusted and ashamed of himself to put up an argument, and had stayed away when her brother helped her make the move. And then Lazar kept away. To her credit, she had never once thrown the incident back at him directly. Listening to her these days, it sounded as if their marriage was just something they had once done together for a short time. She said they really needed to move forward on the divorce. Last week, she had called and told him she was starting to date again. Her tone had been just the slightest bit defensive, letting him know she was being honest and didn’t expect to find him pounding down any doors.

  “Congratulations,” he had said and hung up.

  He felt the jealousy surge through him again, starting from his heart out to his arms, his stomach. He could feel it right down through his legs to the soles of his feet; it even flowed from his fingertips and lips onto the coffee mug. He wondered if they had enough soap back in the kitchen to clean it off. He was a goddamn health hazard. Customer after customer coming in and being infected by the jealousy in him, a middle-aged, black cop. Mooning over his wife behind a face as impassive as that of a statue.

  “What are you glowering about?” Bannerman said.

  Lazar realized he had been drifting. “My effect on people,” he said.

  “Huh. Well maybe this will take your mind off Charlotte.” Bannerman held out a manila folder.

  “Screw you,” Lazar said without any heat. “What is that?”

  Bannerman pulled the folder back against his chest. “You’re not going to waste our time, right? I’m only giving you this because you’d pound me if you found out I knew and didn’t tell you.”

  “Give.”

  Bannerman handed the file over.

  Lazar read it and shrugged. “Ball’s van parked over at that garage near the Wang Center. Back window gone, bullet in the dashboard. Big deal.”

  “That’s what I say.” Bannerman called for a cup of coffee. “Waste of time.”

  “Not a line on Geoff Mann when I ran his name. Or on the chick, Carly Duncan. That was a surprise—there weren’t any busts for soliciting.”

  “Yeah.” Bannerman looked mildly curious, then turned back to his menu. “She was a knockout, though. Maybe Jammer just has her out on calls.”

  Lazar swallowed the rest of his coffee and snapped his fingers at the waitress. “Ginny, make Bannerman’s coffee to go.”

  Bannerman protested. “Hey! I was planning on pancakes.”

  Lazar had to grin, amazed at how a little distraction could change his mood. Maybe he would find some woman for himself, get on with his life too. “Bannerman, you’re looking a little fat these days. So come on, before their shift changes. I want to see if the attendants can place Jammer at the garage that night.”

  “Yeah, sure. That’s going to happen. About a thousand people have been in and out since th
en.”

  “Damn right. Leave the pancakes before another thousand go through today.”

  Bannerman had called it.

  The three attendants had looked at Lazar as if he were an idiot. Didn’t he know how many people flowed through there every day?

  “What now?” Bannerman asked, as they left the garage.

  “Okay, so we lie to Jammer. Tell him he’s been identified getting out of the van that night,” Lazar said. “See what he says to that.”

  Darlene opened the door. “Haven’t seen him.”

  “How about the other girl, your roommate,” Lazar said. “Carly, isn’t it?”

  Over Darlene’s shoulder, the apartment looked a mess: pizza boxes and Chinese food takeout cartons in the kitchen area. A porno movie was playing on the television and a man with a big white belly wearing just his underwear came up behind her and said, “Just who the fuck are you? She’s on my nickel.”

  Lazar showed his badge. “Think there’s some time for us on that nickel?”

  The man mumbled, “No problem,” and hurried away.

  “He’s just a friend,” Darlene said.

  Bannerman made a face and shuddered. “Ugly friends, Darlene.”

  Darlene smiled slightly. “You know.”

  “So where’s Jammer?”

  “Haven’t seen him, honest to God. Or Carly. Couple, three days, anyhow. Maybe they took a trip. Try another time, okay?” She started to ease the door shut.

  Lazar put his foot in the door. “Who’s the blond asshole? What is he to Jammer and Carly?”

  “Huh?” She looked back over her shoulder.

  “Not the pus gut,” Bannerman said, disgustedly. “His hair is greasy black. We’re talking about Geoff Mann.”

  She shook her head. “I never had the pleasure, honest.”

  Lazar stared at her and saw only emptiness in her eyes. The little trace of humor he had seen in her before had vanished. He took his foot from the door. On the way down the stairs, Bannerman mimicked her, “‘Honest.’ How many times a day do we hear that?”

  “Let’s go ask Mann himself. Let’s see if he says it the same way.”

  “Why do you care? You’ve got two days coming to us, why do you want to screw around with this shit now?”

  Because I don’t want to go home to my empty house was what Lazar thought. What he said was “This is a rich kid. If we find out he’s involved in murdering Ball, think how the papers will snatch that up.”

  “I’m thinking instead how Mann made you look stupid, pulling those bananas out of the bag. I’m thinking maybe you just hate having a wiseass get away with something.”

  “Could be. But think of it this way: a sexy photo of that Carly, a headline about a handsome rich guy getting involved in murder, hookers. Would have gotten away with it if two smart cops didn’t track him down … it’s good stuff.”

  Bannerman grinned, knowing Lazar was playing with him. “Maybe you’ve got something there. The stuff of promotions.”

  I don’t keep tabs,” the super at Geoff’s building said. He had a thin face and a shock of gray hair even though he looked to be only in his early forties. They were standing on the front steps of the red brick building.

  “What can you tell us about him?”

  “Nothing.” He held his thumb in a book and was obviously impatient. “These are nice apartments. Privacy is one of the things you get with the rent.”

  Lazar and Bannerman’s eyes were now intent upon the man. “He thinks we’re wasting his time,” Bannerman said. “Don’t you hate that, you sit down with a good book and some schmuck shows up at your door trying to sell you something?”

  “I hate that,” Lazar said.

  “I wasn’t saying—”

  “The thing is, we’re not schmucks selling something,” Bannerman said. “We’re cops asking questions.”

  “Look, I don’t care—”

  “He doesn’t care,” Lazar said. “He doesn’t care if we waste our time, Bannerman. Our time screwing around with him doesn’t count.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Hey, I’m just a dumb cop,” Lazar said. “But my hearing is good.”

  “No, no.”

  Bannerman said, “I think you’re misunderstanding Mr. Calhoun here, Lazar.”

  “Oh, you got to explain this to me because I’m black, is that it, Bannerman? Is that it, Mr. Calhoun?”

  “No, of course not.” Calhoun looked nervously between the two cops. He edged closer to Bannerman.

  “Well, what’s so hard here?” Lazar demanded.

  Bannerman widened his eyes slightly. “How about it, Mr. Calhoun?”

  Calhoun took his finger out of his book and held his palm up. “Okay, let’s start over. I know you’re busy. It’s just that I have a lot to do and I don’t know why I have to waste my time on these things if Mr. Mann isn’t here to deal with them.”

  Lazar let his indignant expression fade away. Quietly, he asked, “What are ‘these things’?”

  “Well, I have no way of knowing if anything was stolen. And maybe it was a friend who took the car, but I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe who was a friend?”

  “Mann’s got a parking space out back and he’s got a BMW. Or he had one.”

  “And somebody picked it up?”

  “Yeah. Guy showed up, bold as brass. He had a key, got right in, and took off.”

  “And Mr. Mann wasn’t around to complain?”

  “Well, that was just this morning. Mann could have been back since the break-in. I left a note and just put a padlock on the door … but no, he hasn’t been by to ask for the key. So I suppose he hasn’t been around.”

  “The break-in?” Lazar repeated.

  Calhoun told them about the man who had run by with the sledgehammer and mask.

  “Did you report this?”

  The super shrugged and didn’t meet their eyes. “Stuff happens. I have no way of knowing if anything was stolen. I called in to his apartment, nothing looked that messed up.”

  They pressed him for details, but he couldn’t come up with much other than he thought the thief was probably white, fairly big.

  “And you haven’t heard from Mann in how long?” Bannerman asked.

  The super looked at the calendar on his watch. “Two days ago.”

  Lazar said, “Mr. Calhoun, did you go through Mann’s apartment, go through all the rooms?”

  Calhoun looked indignant. “Of course not. I called out and he didn’t come to the door. I simply put on a padlock. He’s got to pay for a new lock himself, a real one, and I want him to select the kind before I go to the expense and trouble myself.”

  Bannerman and Lazar exchanged glances. “Would you have a key to that padlock, Mr. Calhoun?”

  Calhoun brought them up to the third-floor apartment reluctantly.

  “I mean it,” Bannerman said. “We can go away. We’ve got nothing definite saying the guy is in trouble. But really, you should have looked in the bedroom. What if the guy bashed in Mann’s head with that sledgehammer?”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “Uh-huh. But look, if you smell anything really bad, you know, like when a mouse or squirrel gets stuck in the walls? Well, maybe you could just look in then, and give us a call.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Calhoun said. He unsnapped the padlock and stepped back. “Just stick your head in and if he’s not there, you’ve got to leave unless you get a warrant, right?”

  “Right,” Lazar said.

  Bannerman made a face. “Holy shit. Smell that, willya?”

  Calhoun backed further off, looking a little green.

  The two cops hurried into the apartment. “Jesus, is it in here?” Lazar said.

  “I don’t smell anything,” Calhoun said from the doorway.

  Lazar and Bannerman took in the place fast. It was nice, with high ceilings, light wood furniture in the foyer, a clean, well-laid-out kitchen.

  Bannerman whistled, looking into the
living room.

  “Christ,” Lazar said, opening the bedroom door.

  Photos of the man were all over the place. Sports scenes, enlargements of Geoff Mann caught at the height of action: skiing off the edge of a rocky cliff, fifty feet in the air; doing a high jump; boxing; motorcycle racing; running for a touchdown; pole vaulting, hang gliding; windsurfing; sailing; parachuting … the detectives laughed out loud, playing the game of finding the suspect in every photo.

  And the sports equipment: skis, fencing gear, a compound bow and hunting arrows, a punching bag, boxing gloves, two bicycles, tennis rackets, a weight set, rock climbing rope …

  “Look at this,” Lazar said. A kayak hung from the ceiling in the bedroom.

  Bannerman waved him back to the living room. “Check this out.”

  An ice axe was imbedded in the wall. Plaster was strewn about the floor. “Temper, temper,” Lazar said.

  “Maybe the guy with the sledgehammer,” Bannerman said.

  A huge television sat in the middle of the living room, and there were at least a hundred videocassettes in the rack.

  “Stroke stuff?” Lazar asked.

  Bannerman looked at the titles. “No. Action flicks: Eiger Sanction, Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Pulp Fiction.”

  Calhoun stepped into the room. “There’s no smell here. What are you two talking about?”

  “Hope you got a damage deposit,” Lazar said, jerking his thumb at the ice axe, as he and Bannerman brushed by the super on the way to the bedroom.

  Bannerman opened the closet. “Hey, Lazar, check this out.” He held up a white karate uniform, a gi. Around the coat hook hung a black belt. He reached in and pulled out a nunchaku, two pieces of hard wood attached by a thin chain. He threw it over to Lazar.

  “That’s Mr. Mann’s property,” Calhoun snapped.

  Lazar whipped the nunchaku over his shoulder. The handle slapped into his palm, and then he made it whistle through a fast backhand; snapped it around his back and caught it behind his ear before tossing it back to Bannerman.