Dead On My Feet - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Konrath

  LaBeck didn’t have any pictures of children in his office, and a man like him would use them for every possible photo op, so I guessed him to be childless. His house was large, but not large enough for live-in servants. No dog poop or dog toys or dog house in the backyard. I was betting that it was just him, and the poor woman who married him.

  Would he have an alarm system?

  Unlikely. LaBeck was a hunter, and he had a very high opinion of himself. A guy like that would feel the guns he had on hand were all he needed.

  I left Pasha’s a little after eight. So it was probably close to nine. Sunday morning, the LaBeck’s were probably at church or sleeping in.

  In either case, it gave me the opportunity to get inside.

  I jogged up to the glass patio door, squatting next to the lock, deciding which of my bump keys would fit. I chose the smallest, slid it into the keyhole, and used Pasha’s spoon to tap it.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times was the charm. The lock turned, and I slid the door open, slipped inside, and shut it behind me.

  The house was quiet. But unlike Griffith’s home, it didn’t have a stale, empty vibe. People lived here.

  I reached inside my bag, pulled my Hardballer, thumbed off the safety. Then I walked slowly, planting each foot, distributing my weight evenly so there were no creaks or squeaks, stopping every few steps to listen.

  The kitchen led into a den, more of LaBeck’s mounted trophies lining the walls. Elk, deer, ducks, a moose. The bedroom was probably upstairs. If I was quiet, I could sneak up there and—

  My cell phone rang.

  Smooth move, slick, Earl said.

  I reached for the phone, trying to turn it off before it rang again, bobbling it around in my hands and doing a juggle, then dropping it to the carpet.

  It rang again. I picked it up and opened the clamshell, pressing random buttons to shut it off.

  “This is Bill! You stole my phone, you son of a bitch!”

  His yelling was almost as loud as the ring tone. I did the only thing I could do in a panic situation. I broke the phone in half.

  Then I waited, listening for movement.

  All I could hear was my heart, thumping in my eardrums.

  Maybe I’d gotten lucky. Maybe no one was home. Maybe—

  “Drop the weapon.”

  The voice coincided with the gun pressing into my back. A thick barrel. Probably a shotgun. Even if I tried to jump to the side, the spread would rip me in half.

  I dropped the Hardballer.

  “The bag, too.”

  I dropped the bag.

  “Hands above your head. Walk to the chair in front of you. Have a seat.”

  It was leather. Plush. I slid into it, facing my captor.

  LaBeck wore a red smoking robe. He held a double barreled shotgun, pointed at my chest. I tried to gauge his intent, and couldn’t. LaBeck knew I was with Jack, and probably thought I was a cop, so maybe there was a way out of this.

  I played it cool. Like a cop would. “Good to see you again, Dennis.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Troutt.”

  So much for cool. “You know who I am.”

  “I’ve known since my men arrested you the other day. Phineas Troutt. Petty criminal. Drug addict. All around loser.”

  Okay, time to try another tactic. I went for flattery.

  “Nice job, sneaking up on me like that.”

  “I once nailed a twelve point buck from three meters away. He never knew I was there. A clumsy junkie like you was child’s play. If you’d made any more noise breaking in, they would have heard you from the police station.”

  I hoped that was true. “So the cops are on their way?”

  “No.”

  We stared at each other. He looked extremely calm for someone who had just cornered a home invader. That wasn’t a good sign.

  “If you’re going to kill me, what are you waiting for?”

  “My neighbors, the Steinmans, get home from church at 9:15. I want them to hear the shot. The more witnesses, the better.”

  Ah… hell.

  “I don’t have a watch. What time is it?”

  LaBeck kept his eyes locked onto mine. “There’s a clock on the mantel to your left.”

  It was ten after nine.

  I came really, really close to wetting my pants. The only thing holding my bladder shut was the fact that LaBeck probably wouldn’t appreciate me soiling the furniture, and I’d die instantly instead of in five minutes.

  “So,” I tried to control the quaver in my voice, “you got me.”

  “Indeed, I have.”

  “Then this is the part where you tell me the whole plan.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really? Is that what I’m supposed to do?”

  “You’re going to kill me. Why not brag for a few minutes?”

  “Like some third rate James Bond villain? Maybe, instead of shooting you, I should put you in some convoluted trap with sharks and lasers.”

  I ignored the sarcasm and pressed ahead. “You’re working with Jimmy Mulrooni to drive Dr. Kapoor out of town. I assume you killed Dr. Griffith and his mother.”

  “Are you wearing a wire, Mr. Troutt?”

  Everyone in this town was worried about wires. “If I was, isn’t it too late? You already admitted you’ll shoot me in cold blood.”

  “I could have said that to scare you, so I wouldn’t have to resort to violence until the police arrive.”

  “I’m not wearing a wire.”

  “Take off your shirt. Slowly.”

  I did.

  “Jeans, too.”

  “Kinky.”

  “Drop them around your ankles.”

  I did. Now, on top of being terrified, I felt like an idiot.

  Because you are an idiot.

  “I have no idea what Mulrooni did with Griffith,” LaBeck said, surprising me with his candor. “I assume he won’t ever be found. He’d better not be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dead bodies aren’t good for the polls.”

  Interesting. “And how are two women’s clinics connected to an adult video store and a gentlemen’s club?”

  “And a tattoo shop. And two massage parlors. And… what are those places that sell marijuana paraphernalia, pipes and such?”

  “Head shops.”

  “Of course you’d know that. And a head shop. Have you figured out the connection yet?”

  A thought was forming in my head, but it kept getting chased away by gory visions of a shotgun blast to my upper body.

  “Conservative values, Mr. Troutt. Something you no doubt know nothing about.” He stood up straighter, like he was posing in front of an American flag. “Smut, drugs, abortion; they’re all part of the moral decay of modern society. But there are decent, hardworking citizens who long for the good old days. For when this country was great. Women took care of the children and the home, and that was enough for them. Kids could walk down the street without being assaulted by filth and drugs.”

  Personally, I liked filth and drugs. But I didn’t interrupt his rant.

  “I will be the mayor that cleaned up Flutesburg, Mr. Troutt. And then I’ll be the governor that cleaned up Illinois.”

  “And then the President who cleaned up the US of A.” I eyed the moose head on the wall. “I don’t think you’ll get the PETA vote.”

  “This is what the people want, Mr. Troutt. They may not know they want it. But deep down, they do. The liberals are riding a wave. But that fad will fade. We’ll get back to good, old-fashioned, American values. Right now we’re living in a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. Legalizing drugs. Gays marrying. Government programs paying for abortions. Pornography everywhere. The people will only take so much, and then they’ll take no more. And I’ll be there when that happens. I’ll be their candidate.”

  I glanced at the clock. 9:12.

  “I don’t think killing me will help your cause, LaBeck.”

  “Flutesburg
hasn’t had a single violent crime since I’ve been in office. At least, as far as the media knows. But there is nothing more American than a man invoking his God given right to bear arms and protect his home.”

  “I’m pretty sure the Second Amendment isn’t one of the Ten Commandments.”

  “In this country, it might as well be. You’re a low life who tried to murder me as revenge for your arrest. Killing you will make me a hero. You breaking in will be the best thing to ever happen to my political career.”

  Nice job, dumb ass, Earl said. You haven’t gotten a single thing right so far.

  “Why is Mulrooni helping you?” I asked. “Have you got something on him?”

  “When I become Governor, Mr. Mulrooni will make a great deal of money.”

  “He’s already rich. He owns a riverboat.”

  “He runs the riverboat. He doesn’t own it. The mob gets its cut, but big business runs things.”

  “You’re going to allow more riverboats.”

  “You aren’t thinking big enough, Mr. Troutt. That ship, so to speak, has already sailed.”

  I was no longer that interested in his dumb motive, but the longer I kept him talking, the longer I had to think of some sort of plan. “Casinos on land?”

  “Not with a democratic mayor in Chicago. Cook County wants to keep gambling out. But there’s a new bill on the table. The Video Gaming Act.”

  I thought of the video poker manual in Griffith’s house, and the painting of dogs playing video poker in LaBeck’s office.

  “You’ll push it through. Then people won’t need casinos. There could be video poker machines on every corner.”

  9:13.

  “Once again, Mr. Troutt, you’re thinking too small. Every bar. Every strip mall. Every convenience store. The lottery brings in over a hundred millions dollars a year. Taxes on video poker will bring that in per month. Just the taxes. Imagine the gross.”

  “And Griffith found out. And he was blackmailing you.”

  He shook his head. This James Bond shit really worked. “Not me. Mulrooni. What kind of idiot tries to blackmail the mafia? He should have taken his payoff, and gone away. Like that dot head doctor bitch should have done.”

  “I don’t think I’d like to live in your America, LaBeck.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to. Neither will your incompetent friends. Mulrooni sent a team over to the clinic. The Indian, that stuck-up cop, the private eye idiot with that terrible TV show… I wouldn’t be surprised if they were already in a landfill somewhere.”

  Anger momentarily overrode my fear, and I was about to take my chances and rush the blowhard when I saw movement, behind him. His frumpy wife, in a night gown, partially obscured by her husband. She wore an expression somewhere between fear and curiosity.

  “Good morning, Mrs. LaBeck,” I said. “Your husband is planning on murdering me. Are you okay with that?”

  LaBeck went from grandiose to curt. “I told you to stay upstairs, Peggy. Call the police when I tell you to.”

  Peggy had an odd posture. Her right shoulder was lower than her left shoulder.

  I shifted, slowly, so I could see her full body.

  Peggy had a handgun. A big, nickel-plated one, at her side.

  “He made me take off my clothes, Mrs. LaBeck. But you know what a pervert he is.”

  “Peggy, go upstairs and wait for me.”

  “Or we can ask his secretary.” What the hell was her name? “Eva. We can ask Eva. I bet you two could swap some horror stories.”

  Peggy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re sleeping with her.”

  “Of course I’m not, Peggy. He’s trying to confuse you.”

  9:14.

  “This is your chance, Peggy. For a fresh start. Your husband is insured. You can blame it on the burglar. I’ll help you.”

  “Peggy, what is this idiot talking—”

  Then Peggy put the gun to the back of LaBeck’s head and showed him what this idiot was talking about. “Is it true, Dennis?”

  For a moment, LaBeck lost his politician swagger, and I saw a flash of fear. Then the bravado returned.

  “Peggy, put the gun down. Now.”

  “Tell me if it’s true.”

  “Of course it isn’t—”

  She pulled back the hammer. LaBeck’s eyes got wide. Nothing like hearing a gun cock next to your head to make you reevaluate some life choices.

  “Not much fun having a gun pointed at you, is it Dennis?” I asked.

  “Are you sleeping with that whore?”

  “Peggy. I love you. I love only you. I’ve stayed faithful to my marriage vows.”

  9:15. The Steinmans would be home any second.

  “He’s a politician, Peggy. He lies for a living. You know he’s cheating on you. How many times does he get phone calls that he has to take in another room?”

  “Those are business calls,” LaBeck insisted. But he didn’t sound convincing.

  “Does he let you see the credit card bills? Of course not, because of all the things he buys her.”

  “Mr. Troutt, stop filling her head with nonsense.”

  “You never let me see the bills, Dennis.”

  “That’s because you take care of the home, Peggy. I take care of the bills.”

  “How about his clothes?” I said. “You’ve smelled perfume on them, haven’t you?”

  I saw her face change. The anger take over.

  “Peggy, that isn’t—”

  The gunshot was deafening, and Dennis LaBeck’s last thought painted the wall next to me, witnessed by me and the glass eyes of more than a dozen animals he’d shot.

  Thank you, Second Amendment.

  Peggy LaBeck looked okay for a woman who’d just killed her husband. Apparently she’d been thinking about it quite a bit. Maybe even planning it. Instead of the shock I expected, she seemed giddy with joy as she pointed the gun at me.

  “He deserved it,” I told her. “Now I can help you make this work.”

  “It already works. A burglar shot my husband. I shot him.”

  “Wait!” I held up my hands. “If you use that gun, they’ll know you killed him. Both bullets from the same weapon.”

  “I could have gotten the gun away from you.”

  “Without a mark on you? If we fought for the gun, there had to be a struggle. You need, uh…” What the hell did you need? “DNA! DNA under your fingernails.”

  “I can scratch you after you’re dead.”

  She’s a lot brighter than her late husband.

  “Defensive wounds!” I helpfully suggested. “You need to look like there was a fight, to make it seem real.”

  “I can hit myself in the head with a pan.”

  “It won’t look the same. The police know all about angles. They’ll know you did it yourself.”

  She chewed her lower lip. “Okay, stand up.”

  I stood.

  “Get dressed.”

  I got dressed.

  “Come over here.”

  I took a few steps toward her. She pointed the gun so the bull’s-eye was my heart.

  “Stop there. Now hit me in the face. Not hard. Just enough to bloody my nose.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “Too hard, and you’re dead.”

  “It won’t be too hard.”

  “Just enough to bloody it.”

  “It won’t be hard. You ready? On three. One—”

  And then I hit her so hard it spun her around.

  She went down. The gun went flying. And I grabbed my bag and got the hell out of there, sprinting across the lawn, and the Steinman’s lawn, just as they were pulling into their driveway. I had no idea if they’d seen me or not, but I had bigger concerns.

  Pasha. Jack. Harry.

  I needed to get to them.

  I’ve run for my life a few times. This felt different. Less instinctual, more emotional. I was out of breath by the time I reached the hole in the fence, but I still had some anaerobic fuel left in the tank. Each
slap of a foot against the pavement sent shockwaves of pain throughout my body, and I wondered how I could have let myself get into such sorry shape.

  Oh, yeah. Cancer. And drugs. And getting the shit kicked out of me on a daily basis.

  By the time I reached the Bronco, the hemisphere was titling on a wonky angle, and once I was behind the wheel I had to force my head down between my legs so I didn’t pass out.

  How do you think this is going to end? Happily?

  I started the truck, jammed it into gear, and laid down two meters of rubber as I shot into traffic.

  Does anything ever end happily in your life?

  For a second I lost my bearings, not sure which street was which, and then I noticed the adult video store, which confirmed I was heading the right way.

  What’s the hurry? I thought you didn’t care about anyone.

  I blew a red light, swerving to avoid a collision, standing on the gas pedal and white knuckling my way around a corner.

  You know they’re already dead.

  Only a few blocks to go.

  Pasha trusted you. And you dragged Harry and Jack into this, and your incompetence killed them all.

  Gunshots. Ahead. Coming from the clinic.

  You might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.

  I mashed the brakes, fishtailing, skidding past the clinic storefront, and time slows…

  Two men in ski masks, on street, armed with semi-automatics, firing at the clinic.

  Harry, out on the sidewalk, raising up his Magnum—

  —and taking several bullets to the body.

  He pirouettes, slamming to the ground, as Jack comes up behind him.

  She fires four shots.

  My Bronco thuds against the curb.

  One assailant goes down, trailing streaks of blood.

  The other shoots back.

  Jack tucks and rolls, comes up, squeezes off two more rounds.

  Six rounds. She’s out of ammo.

  I look for my canvas bag with my guns, can’t find it, no time, then I push myself out of the driver’s door.

  The gunman takes aim, fires as Jack dodges left.

  I yell, waving my arms as I run over.

  The gunman turns toward me.

  I’m seven steps away.

  Jack swings open the cylinder of her revolver, hitting the ejector rod, spent brass tinkling onto the sidewalk.

  The gunman fires at me, a shot whistling past my right ear.