The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  I had entered Barrie’s house with a live suspect and left with a dead one. Now to discover whether Darryl had been behind the attempted runover and if someone had been behind Darryl. I also left Jonathan’s with new questions about Emil’s original story. I toyed with the possibility that Blackhead had tried to use me to smear Jonathan about his relationships with Peter and Darryl. But Emil didn’t seem clever enough to concoct that idea. Or brave enough to pull it off.

  I sat in the car, my mind limping up and down the block. What had happened to the Lew Archer in me? That desire to manipulate the pieces of an incomplete picture? Right now, the only pictures I wanted to manipulate were on television.

  A surge of protectiveness for Melanie plowed through me. I fingered through the dashboard ashtray and found a fair-sized roach buried under the cigarette butts. I shook the dirt off my hand and lit up. When I finished I took off for the storefront. A decent roll-of-the-dice would put Mel there.

  One of the Harrigan sisters, the bigger one, stared at me as I walked through the door. “Damn, a regular after-hours party. Melanie ought to ask me to cover on Saturdays more often. She said she’d be here, but didn’t say anything about you.”

  “She didn’t know.”

  “Well, I hope you can lighten her mood.”

  “Janice. Must you constantly gossip?” It wasn’t a question. Margaret had stormed out from the back room to stand at her sister’s side. “Why does Melanie’s foul mood shock you? You’ve known her long enough.”

  Janice retorted, “Why does my talking shock you? You’ve known me your entire life!” I broke into their argument. “You go back a long time, don’t you?”

  Margaret said, “Of course, we’re sisters.”

  I smiled. “I meant the two of you and Melanie.”

  Janice nodded, glanced at Margaret and said, “All the way back.” “Was it as rough for you?” I asked.

  Janice shook her head, eager to fill me in. “Not even close. We were the lucky ones in the neighborhood. We had a family—no money—but everybody lived together. Melanie was much worse off. Her home was so lousy she couldn’t live there. She didn’t have anything, except maybe her brother Peter.”

  “You knew her when she was little?”

  Margaret piped up, “From a distance. We became closer after Peter died. Before that Melanie didn’t have friends of her own.”

  “But you knew them,” I prompted. “I guess you were shocked by Peter’s death?”

  Before anyone answered, Melanie’s voice ripped through the hall like the crack of a whip. “Everyone was shocked, Matt. Why wouldn’t they be?”

  I turned around with a start. Mel had entered the storefront without a sound. She glared at Janice as if daring contradiction.

  Janice shook her head. “Oh no. Don’t look at me that way, Mel. I’m not the least bit interested in catching your shit. Just thank us for covering and we’ll leave.”

  I noticed Therin slouched against the front door. I looked back at Mel, who wore a rigid smile. Her eyes glittered behind her round glasses, but all she said was, “Thank you, Janice. You too, Margaret.”

  Both women nodded and prepared to leave. I leaned against the wall while Melanie went inside her cubicle. Therin had a sarcastic smile on his face.

  Margaret walked over and stuck out her hand. “I hope we meet again under more pleasant circumstances, Matthew.” She said my name to let me know she had remembered. Janice strolled by, winked, and pumped her arm, Arsenio-style, as she walked out the door. Margaret shook my hand and followed. I felt foolish standing by myself in the hall so I was relieved, despite her sharp tone, to hear Mel call.

  I’d barely closed the partition door when she snapped, “How dare you come here and question people about Peter’s death? Don’t you ever stop lying? Why won’t you leave his accident alone?” Her jaw worked, and her fists opened and closed at her sides. She seemed a spit away from rage.

  “Look, nothing’s changed for me about Peter. I heard about Darryl and it’s hard not to be curious.”

  She drew her head back and bit down on her lower lip. “How do you know about Darryl?” I looked through the plywood wall toward the front desk. “Do you want to talk here?” Melanie put her glasses on the desk and instructed, “Come with me.”

  I followed her down the corridor into the empty, unlit back room. She closed the door behind us, sat down at a table, and flicked her hand toward the seat next to her. I picked the one across. What passed for light shone through a pair of dirty windows set high on the side wall. The gray shadows added to her already frayed look.

  “I think you owe me an explanation.” There was more control, but no less anger. “I had a long conversation with Jonathan today.”

  “Jonathan?” A note of surprise shared stage with her fury. “He wanted me to look into Darryl’s death.”

  A flash of worry crossed her face. “I don’t understand.”

  I shrugged. “He’s having trouble accepting the official explanation.” She shook her head impatiently. “I thought we had settled that.” “You seem annoyed at him?”

  “I am.

  I waited, but there was nothing more forthcoming. “I’m surprised,” I finally added. “Why?” Her bright eyes probed my face.

  I felt confronted as if by police lights, but couldn’t find anywhere to retreat. “His response to both of them dying in the quarry is understandable,” I said carefully, steeling myself for a clubbing.

  Melanie gave a brusque nod of her head. “You sound just like him. I’m not blind to the similarities either, Matt. Do you think I’m always this much on edge? But it only makes it worse to create something out of nothing. Something out of a stupid coincidence!” She flattened her palms on the top of the table, leaned forward and said, “There are three or four drownings a year in that damn quarry.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “I don’t want anyone disturbing my past. Not Jonathan, not you, not me.” She picked my hand off the table, held it close to her lips, and stared blankly at my knuckles. “First you, now this. It hurts me to have all these memories keep surfacing. I’ve spent a lifetime getting them under control.”

  “That’s what I told Jonathan,” I said. I felt bad for her. For all of us. I walked around to Melanie’s side of the table and sat down. She turned her body slightly away, so I placed my hand on the top of her back. I felt her shudder as if she were crying. I couldn’t see her face and she was silent, so I grasped her shoulders and pulled her into me. She laid the back of her head on my shoulder. She chose the sore arm, but I kept myself from flinching.

  I looked down at her face; her eyes were squeezed shut. After a long moment she said softly, “I hope you convinced him.”

  “I don’t know. At least, he didn’t look like he was about to hit the street.”

  She pulled herself upright. Her eyes were clear and dry. “Are you going to ‘hit the street’ for him?”

  I stood, pushed the chair closer to the table, and gripped the back. “No.”

  It had been a mistake to come. Confused relationships, especially mine with Melanie, simply highlighted the emptiness that had built up inside me. “No, I’m not going to work for him. I don’t believe the deaths are connected. I don’t really think Jonathan does either. But Darryl’s death shook him and he’s grasping at straws.”

  I took a deep breath and rushed on. “After I left you the other night somebody tried to run me down. Or at least frighten me, with a 4×4. I think it has something to do with Emil and drugs, but I’m not sure. I can’t walk away without figuring it out. I told Jonathan that if I discover anything weird about Darryl’s death I’ll tell him. I also told him I had no intention of looking into Peter’s accident.” I listened to the fatigue in my voice.

  “Why do you think you will learn anything about Darryl?”

  She’d stood during my explanation and now moved close to me. I bent down and tried to wipe the look of defeat from her face with a light kiss. “I’ll know how to a
nswer that when I do a little more work.”

  Melanie closed her eyes again, and I silently debated another kiss. We were close enough to feel each other’s breath. Hers was shallow and rapid, though I couldn’t tell if it reflected excitement or anxiety. A part of me wanted to lose myself with her. To spend the day, the night, or however long it took to understand my attraction. To finally be able to understand this past, present, piece of my life.

  But most of me felt distant, too tired to spend time with anyone.

  The quiet was finally broken by the sound of Therin calling abruptly from the front, “It’s time to leave, Melanie.”

  She looked at me with dulled eyes. “I promised to spend time with Therin. I hope you weren’t…”

  I interrupted, “No, no, I just stopped by to see if you were okay.”

  She smiled sadly. “I’ll be fine. I have to be. But it was sweet of you to worry.”

  She tilted her head; this time our lips met. I could feel her tongue search for mine. Despite my weariness I felt myself respond. I broke the kiss and held her at arm’s length. A shine of tears glossed her eyes.

  As we walked slowly toward the front she asked, “You have to continue, don’t you?” I nodded.

  But she held my arm. “I’m afraid to let you go.” “I’m not in any danger.”

  We had arrived at the front to find Therin looking daggers, his feet up on the desk. I had a sudden impulse to lean down and slap his shoes. Instead I kissed Melanie on the cheek, and walked out the door.

  I aimed the car out of The End, feeling a rush of fresh breathing air once the neighborhood’s squalor sat squarely in the mirror. What had begun as a bridge to my past had somehow trapped me with Boots crying at her door, and Melanie crying in The End. About what? Her long-dead brother? Jonathan? Me? The past had become indistinguishable from the present, but the bridge had a two way toll. I only wished I knew the cost.

  Driving through the cold, quiet city, I almost looked forward to my talk with Lou. So much of my life seemed up in the air that a resolution of any kind might be a relief. I didn’t think we could settle things, but we might get around to the real questions.

  Which explained my disappointment when I walked into an empty apartment. Lou had departed a day early. He left a note explaining he could see I was too tied up in my work to deal with him. He asked that I give him a call when I finished the case. That he was fine and knew we just needed the opportunity to settle things between us. His lack of recrimination only fueled my guilt.

  I threw the paper into the garbage and debated driving to the airport. I retrieved the note but he hadn’t left departure details, so I threw it back into the pail and walked through to the office. The room was spotless, Lou’s bed a sofa. I flopped down at the desk, remembered my stash was in the bedroom, got it, and rolled a fat one. As guilty as I felt, a part of me was relieved to have the television and couch to myself. I lit the joint and pulled the phone off the hook; it was going to be an ugly night and I preferred to do ugly alone.

  I awoke the next morning with a strange burst of energy. I thought about smoking a little dope with my coffee, but decided against. If I took to the couch I’d be trapped into thinking about Mel, Boots, and Lou.

  Instead, I spent the day thinking about Emil and The End. Up until now I’d been stumbling around with my hand out, waiting for information to drop in. Or, I’d been trying to bully my way to the truth. Maybe it was time to remember that real detective work had nothing in common with working a mall.

  I transferred myself to the office, swung my feet onto the desk, and jotted down the things I needed. If I didn’t know what to do about my personal life, I sometimes knew how to be a detective. Sometimes.

  I wasn’t sure why I waited until evening to begin the stakeout. Maybe I was a romantic. Or maybe I wanted to identify with the lumps behind the storefront. In any event, I had enough food, dope, cigarettes, and coffee to get through an uneventful night. Except for heat and television, it was just like home.

  I knew Blackhead was too secretive to invite customers into his apartment, so I expected it to be a while until he led me to them. That was okay. I had nowhere else to be. But, as usual, what I didn’t expect was what I got.

  At five A.M., Emil left his apartment building and loped up the block. Oblivious to everything around him, he kept to the middle of the road until he came to a rusty old Chevy wagon. The lilt in Blackhead’s step suggested an enjoyable journey: it would make him happy to turn a buck.

  I was surprised he used a car for his business. At least I hoped it was business that had him up and out. After a few fruitless attempts he finally got moving, leaving behind belching trails of oily exhaust. I waited until he had turned the corner, then followed.

  I was even more surprised when he pulled onto the Expressway and away from The End. The roads were deserted so I stayed a good distance back. The kick of adrenaline melted the stiffness from my uncomfortable night. It felt great to work.

  Blackhead finally turned off the Expressway. I followed as the wagon hiccupped across town and pulled onto Route 9. The sky was still dark, hiding, I believed with all my heart, another overcast day. Occasional lights heading toward town flashed on the other side of the highway. If the drivers raced into center city, they could arrive in time to watch the hookers leave for their condos in the suburbs. These early morning commuters were the start of the day shift.

  We continued up Route 9 until Blackhead turned into the parking lot of the mall where I’d been working when we met. My jaw dropped but I snapped it shut, killed the lights, and pulled in very slowly. I took the gun from my holster and put it on the seat next to me.

  The Chevy kept driving though the huge almost deserted lot, still seemingly unaware of my presence. I hung further back and watched as he pulled around the massive concrete wall separating the shopping mall from the movie theater. There were empty parked cars dotted throughout the dark, quiet lot. I killed the engine, grabbed my gun, and used the wall and darkness to dodge from car to parked car until I was kneeling between a Volvo and the side fence. He couldn’t see me; but I could see whether he’d keep going, stop, or set up an ambush.

  I’d lucked into the best of all possible. Blackhead had parked his car in an open area, and was sitting on its heated hood, hands in jacket pockets, a cigarette dangling from the middle of his hairy face. He kept anxiously peering toward the far exit of the mall’s lot. It didn’t look like he was here to watch the sunrise.

  I thought about slipping the gun back into its holster but decided not to. I twisted into a position between the car and fence that left me well hidden though uncomfortable. I watched him smoke and lusted for one of my own.

  Either Blackhead was an early freak, or whoever he waited for was late. My body remembered how uncomfortably it had spent the night, and complained bitterly about the added insult. My knees ached and the ribbed wooden fence pressed indentations onto one side of my butt. And I thought it was good to work?

  Just when my lungs and nerve endings were on their knees begging me to steal back to the car for a smoke, I heard an engine die. For a moment I tried to tell myself I’d imagined it: I really wanted that cigarette. But possibility quieted my complaints. I watched intently as Blackhead angled his face toward the small alley between the theater and the bank. Neither of us was disappointed.

  A medium-built, thin-haired man with an expensive perm walked slowly into view. He wore a well-cut suit under his open London Fog. As he moved carefully out of the alley he looked thoroughly around the parking lot. When his eyes landed on Emil, he stopped dead in his tracks, gave a short angry wave of his hand signaling Blackhead off the car. Emil nodded, flipped his cigarette, and slid off the hood. When the Perm gave another angry wave, Blackhead opened his car door and got in. The man waited, then walked directly to the Chevy. There was no missing the disgust on his face as he climbed in the passenger door.

  I prepared to scurry back to my car if they drove away, but Blackhead kept his engin
e shut off while he talked animatedly to the gray curls. I saw him throw another cigarette out his window, and wondered if there was any way to crawl over and pick it up. My body was numb and I seriously questioned my competence. I couldn’t hear anything and could barely see. If I were a modern PI, I’d be monitoring their conversation from my apartment. But I was the guy who wouldn’t buy a fucking answering machine.

  Finally the Perm opened his door. Blackhead acted like he still wanted to talk, but the guy wasn’t buying. He walked to the front of the Chevy making shove-off motions with his hands. Blackhead stuck his head out the window. I couldn’t see his face, but his tone was beseeching and I could hear him clearly. “Come on, man. I’m telling you I can do the job. I swear, I won’t fuck it up.”

  The Perm’s face turned ugly and he slapped the hood. “I told you to keep still!” His voice sounded like a mean Rod Steiger’s. From my hidden position I could see the neat little hip holster that flashed when he banged the hood. “If I want to see you I’ll get in touch.”

  Blackhead’s nasal voice began to whine. “But how am I gonna get my regular stuff? He…” “Be quiet, Emil! And stay that way! It’s time for you to go home.”

  “But…?

  The Perm moved up to the driver’s window and slapped Blackhead’s face. Emil turtled his head and quickly started the car. The man leaned closer and said something I couldn’t hear. I saw Blackhead nod; as soon as the guy stepped away, the car began to move. The Perm shook his head disgustedly, carefully checking the lot to see if anything moved.

  Satisfied, he started back into the alley. I stayed low and uncomfortable until I heard the sound of a motor, then ran to my car.

  I almost flooded the engine, but it caught. I drove slowly around to the front of the mall where I saw the ass of a black 750il drive onto the highway. Since there were no other cars on the access road, the Bimmer was mine.

  I allowed a couple of pre-rush hour cars to roll between us. Unless he pulled a To Live and Die in L.A. I wasn’t going to lose him. I felt excited as I lit my long-awaited smoke. I’d gotten a better break than I thought possible. I had expected Blackhead to lead me to grunts.