Give Up the Dead

by Joe Clifford

  I affected an exaggerated laugh, but it only made me appear more hapless. “Why would you think I was here for me?”

  “You do know what this place is?”

  “Sure. It’s a fucking rehab. But couldn’t I be here for, like, a friend? A family member?”

  “Are you?”

  “Well I sure as shit ain’t here for me.” I pushed in my stool, erecting my back, taking the high road. “What makes you think I have a problem? You see my truck? That Chevy is new.” I’d upgraded. Same make, model, size. Tom had gotten a helluva deal on a repo, and his welcome-back gift to me came with a very reasonable low-interest loan.

  Alison’s eyes widened and she clamped her teeth, biting her lower lip, gaze cast askance, the way people do when they are embarrassed for you.

  “What?”

  “Honestly?”

  “I can take it.”

  “This is my job. I help run a drug and alcohol center. You do this long enough, you start to see patterns, recognize reoccurring looks. An expression in the eye.”

  “I have a . . . reoccurring look?” I scoffed, inviting commentary with a two-finger curl. “Okay, let’s have it. What’s my ‘look’?”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “You look like a guy who drinks every day. Mostly beer. So you don’t think it’s a problem. You look like a guy who set limits for himself. No more than a six-pack a night. Most nights he keeps that promise. Except sometimes he gets stressed, and then, fuck it. But that’s okay, because it’s just beer, right? You look like a guy who knows people who drink way more than he does, people with real drug and alcohol problems.” Alison glanced at my callused hands. “You work outdoors. Heavy lifting. In the trenches, man’s work. None of that cubicle bullshit for you, and out in the fields, men like you can handle their alcohol. Most of all, men like you don’t ask for help even when it’s beginning to affect their personal life.”

  “My personal life?”

  “I’ll go out on a limb and say you are divorced?”

  “Anything else?”

  “Since you asked.” There was that smile again. “Judging by the dark circles under your eyes, I’m guessing you don’t sleep too well, high strung, anxiety issues. You need something to relax, help you rest, sleeping pills, benzos, the occasional painkiller. But you don’t touch anything illegal. Anything you take, a doctor prescribes.” Alison smirked. “Am I close?”

  “Not even. I don’t touch painkillers.”

  “I noticed the limp, so I figured—”

  “You figured wrong.” I shook my head, incredulous. “It’s been a bad few years. But I don’t have a problem.”

  “Okay.”

  I turned to go, stopped, spun around. “How did you know about the divorce?” That one was downright creepy.

  “I cheated.” She wrinkled her nose and nodded at my left hand.

  I looked down at the faded band where a ring should be.

  “I don’t have a drinking problem,” I repeated. “But, yeah, I am prescribed medication for panic attacks. After I watched my brother shot dead in front of me.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea—”

  “What gives you the right to make judgments like that?” I tried to manufacture self-righteousness, summon spite and rage. It was hard to find. Because, one, she was right. I didn’t have a drinking problem, but she’d nailed the rest of it. The second reason was, well, she was really attractive, and I hadn’t misread the situation entirely. There was a little flirting, at least playfulness, going on. I wasn’t picking out the matching dining sets just yet, but it felt nice to be around a pretty woman, doing whatever we were doing.

  Then the door opened, and he walked in. One of those confident bastards who isn’t the least bit fazed to come home and find a strange man talking to his wife in his kitchen. I already knew they were married before he walked over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Richard Rogers,” he said, squeezing my hand with a self-assured grip.

  I gave my name, explaining I wasn’t joining their stupid program.

  Alison Rodgers got her husband a mineral water.

  “Okay, Mr. Porter, why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Someone? As in someone who might be receiving services from Rewrite Interventions?”

  “I’ve been hired by the father of one of your clients. He is separated from his wife, and would like to know his son is okay.” I made a show of looking around an empty house devoid of guests. It was just Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers here. “Wherever his son is. Wherever you stash your patients.”

  I wished I’d had business cards other than the ones I carried, an old batch with a goofy, thumbs-up cartoon character in a hard hat. Tom’s idea. I should’ve searched out a shiny make-believe badge. Making it worse, my number had changed so often, I’d had to pull the rookie move of scratching out the old number and handwriting the new one each time.

  Passing off a handyman logo didn’t project professional investigator. But it beat sticking my hands in my jeans and playing pocket pool.

  I put my card on the table. Alison placed the mineral water in front of her husband. He remained smiling, smug and disingenuous. I didn’t care about him. It was Alison’s expression that caught my attention. The change in her demeanor reminded me of how Jenny looked after she started dating the jerkoff. Except the roles had been reversed. Alison’s levity and ease with me, her smiling eyes and effortless sparring erased, replaced by cold indifference in her husband’s presence.

  “I think it’s time you go, Mr. Porter,” Richard Rodgers said, clinging to his agreeable demeanor.

  “Perhaps I could leave a message?”

  “You are free to leave anything you wish. But I can’t verify who has or has not retained our services. Nor can I promise any message will make it past that wastebasket.”

  “People can sign confidentiality waivers, a release.”

  “Yes, they can,” Richard said, not taking his eyes off me. “That’s my wife’s department. Honey, has anyone signed a release for us to talk to Mr. Porter here?”

  Alison tried to smile but only shook her head.

  Richard stood up. “I’m going to get changed.” He checked with his wife. “We have the DeWildt Gala tonight. Would you mind showing Mr. Porter out?” Richard Rodgers did not offer to shake my hand goodbye.

  Alison walked me to the front door.

  “Confidentiality waiver?” she asked. “So you have been through this process before. Then if not for you . . .”

  “My brother.”

  “The one who died?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Jay.”

  “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EXITING THE DRIVEWAY, I pulled across the street, same way I’d come in, engine idling, watching the Rodgers’ house through the rearview. My cell buzzed. Fisher. The call dropped before I could answer. In the house behind me, a curtain peeled open, then fell softly shut. I didn’t know who’d been watching me. But the thought that it might’ve been her delivered a rush. Also could’ve been him. I punched it in gear before Mr. Rodgers had a chance to call the cops. Although I doubted Rewrite Interventions’ avant-garde practices were winning many fans with the local PD.

  Couple miles down the road, Fisher called again. I answered to garbled static and another drop. He had one job. How hard was it to complete without me holding his hand?

  Driving back to Ashton, I ran through possibilities of where Rewrite Interventions housed their clientele. Nobody was staying in the house, unless inmates were chained up to boilers in the basement. Breaking you down to build you back up has its limitations. Alison had preached the AA party line, but I’d expected that; most rehabs lean hard on the Twelve-Step Model. I hated Richard on principal. He had a beautiful wife, elegant home, and thriving business. I was divorced, living above a gas station, and ate my dinner most nights from a can. Why hadn’t I taken Vin Biscoglio’s money on the spot? The same reason I’d turned dow
n Owen’s at the Mortenson sale. Because nothing in this life is free.

  Fine, Richard Rodgers was a jerk. But I didn’t see a kidnapper. Middlesex was a sprawling county, one of the most expansive in the state, making for some very good hiding spots. Phillip Crowder could be anywhere.

  Once I was out of the deepest cuts, Fisher’s call came through.

  “Dude! Why don’t you answer? I keep calling and you don’t say anything—”

  “I did answer! No one was on the other end. You know cell service out here sucks. What’s up? You make it down to the storage unit? Any luck with the computer and e-mail?”

  “Yeah. I made it down here. And so did someone else. Looks like they took a sledgehammer to the roll-up. Tried to break in.”

  “You’re shitting me. What’s it look like inside?”

  “Can’t open the door. They beat the hell out of the lock. Key won’t fit the tumbler. Gonna have to cut it.”

  “Any of the other units tampered with?”

  “Nope. Just yours.”

  “Let me call you back.”

  I rang the Ashton police and got Turley on the line.

  “No change,” he said, anticipating the reason for my call. “Critical but stable—”

  “I know. I stopped by the hospital before going to Middlesex.”

  “What were you doing in Middlesex?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Turley. I’m up to date on Tom’s health status. Had to deal with Freddie and her sisters giving me the stink eye, thanks to you.”

  “I didn’t do any—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I don’t want to hear any of that right now. Can you send someone to our warehouse on Lamplight, make sure everything looks all right?”

  “Thought you guys had that new space down in Pittsfield?”

  “I’m in the process of moving. Takes time. Can you have one of your men check it out?”

  “Why?”

  “Got a call from Fisher. He’s over at You Store, our temporary storage pod south of the Turnpike.”

  “Why do you need two places up here if you’re moving down there?”

  “Because we have too much shit to house everything in one warehouse. Which is why we’re getting the new space. What do you care?”

  “Fisher’s up here?”

  “I told you he was. He’s at our temporary storage locker. Says it looks like someone took a hatchet to the lock. No one else’s but ours was targeted. If someone’s trying to break and enter there, I want to be sure the warehouse is safe.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Jay. Probably one of the junkies on the strip attempting a smash and grab.”

  “It’s your job, man. Got a lot of money tied up there, and I can’t be two places at once. I don’t want Tom to wake up and find his life’s savings gone. Have a car drive by, make sure everything is cool?”

  Turley huffed and groaned.

  “Please?”

  “Sure, Jay. I can do that.”

  I hung up. Maybe Turley was right and I was being paranoid. Maybe the attempted B&E was totally random. My gut told me otherwise. The entire Mortenson sale was stashed in that pod. But five grand worth of furniture, however nice, paled in comparison to what the warehouse held. Why the pod? What was someone hoping to do? Lug a dresser onto a flatbed? My mind went to the hard drives. For obvious reasons. This wasn’t like when my brother was running around with Lombardi’s computer, and I wasn’t willing to entertain notions that Tom’s old desktop harbored dark secrets. History wasn’t repeating itself. Keep telling yourself that, little brother.

  Taking the one road out of Middlesex, I searched my phone’s Internet for You Store’s contact info. Tom had set all that up, and last I looked, he wasn’t talking. Took me twenty minutes to patch together enough cellular service to find the name and number for Yu Chen, owner of You Store. Called. No answer. Left a message.

  The snow was really coming down by the time I pulled inside the You Store lot, whipping winds and blizzard conditions. Didn’t see Fisher’s car. Didn’t see any vehicles but the moving vans. Who’d be out in this weather anyway except lunatics like me? I curled my shoulders, braving the alley, fighting off gusting ice shards with the wall of my coat. I found Fisher sitting on the hood of his car, which he’d driven right up to the pod’s door, despite a dozen posted warnings saying to leave cars in the lot and use the dollies. What is so hard about playing by the rules? Rules are meant to be followed. That’s why they are called rules and not suggestions.

  I was smoking, seething, stalking with the driving snow. Fisher hopped off the hood when he saw me. I bypassed the fist-bump or whatever the fuck he was doing with his hand. I bent to inspect the damage done to the lock. At least whoever it was hadn’t been able to get inside. For a two-bit, small storage unit off the Turnpike, the doors were seriously fortified.

  “What the hell?” I said, turning around.

  “Beats me. Found it like this.”

  “I mean your fucking car. Can’t you read? You’re supposed to use the dollies. You’re blocking the whole walkway.”

  “Who’s coming out in this weather?”

  I scanned the area, searching for signs to back me up. That’s when I noticed the cameras. At least two of them had a partial view of our door. I hadn’t noticed them before. Whenever Mr. Yu Chen rang back, we’d have a decent snapshot of our would-be intruder. Better still: there might be footage from the day Tom was attacked, and I’d be able to prove I was working here all day long and couldn’t possibly have bludgeoned my boss.

  Who’d want in our pod this bad? Had to be some stupid junkie. Unless another buyer realized he’d missed out on a score? The Mortenson sale had been chock-full of rare finds. The inventory played like a greatest hits package. Maybe in his zeal to scam that French Chaucer dresser and sideboard, Owen had overlooked a painting or something, and sent one of his underlings to snatch it from under our noses. Or maybe someone really was trying to steal sensitive data from those hard drives.

  I pulled my padlock key.

  “Already tried that,” Fisher said. “Tumbler is damaged. Key won’t fit.”

  He was right. Thing beaten to shit. Like trying to get laid in high school, couldn’t even slip in the tip.

  “We need bolt cutters. Don’t suppose you have a pair?”

  “Sorry, Porter. I don’t go around with bolt cutters in my trunk.”

  “I don’t have any either.” Ironically, I was pretty sure there was a pair of bolt cutters inside the unit. “Guess I’ll head down to Eagle Hardware. If they haven’t closed because of the storm. Wait here.” I’d begun walking back through the mounting drifts when I saw the strobing cruiser lights. I heard a door slam in the distance.

  And here came Turley, hitching his giddy, strutting our way, wide-brimmed lawman hat donned proud. I didn’t care if he was Ashton’s head honcho. Turley would always be a dork to me. It’s hard to shake high school reputations.

  “Hey’ya, Fisher,” he said. Then touching the brim of his cap like I were a southern belle and not someone he’d recently accused of attempted murder. “Jay.”

  He squatted at the door, inspecting the lock. “Yup, looks like someone went to town on this bad boy.”

  “No shit, Turley. I already told you that on the phone. Did you have someone check out the warehouse?”

  Turley creaked to his feet. With that expanding waistline, the strain on his knees had to be considerable. Hurt my back just watching him. He nodded. “Locked up tighter ’n a drum.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You have bolt cutters?” Fisher asked.

  Turley’s roly-poly bat face pinched up in thought. “Think so. Why?”

  “Um, to make sure everything’s cool?” How did this guy get to be sheriff ?

  “No one got in there.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I have to get in there. Something I need.”

  “What?”

  “What do you care?”

  “Can you drop the atti
tude, Jay?”

  “Can you drop the implication I had anything to do with Tom’s accident?”

  “You think Porter had something to do with Tom’s accident?”

  “No, I don’t.” Turley paused, panning between the two of us. We’d all been the same age in high school. I was living in Concord at the time, but I’d see Turley and Fisher when I came home, which was almost every weekend, at the house parties and bonfires by the lake. Here we all were, seventeen years later, waiting for the calendar to flip over into December, a bunch of boys playing grown-up. “You tell him about the letter?” Turley asked me.

  “Why would I? And why would you bring it up?”

  “What letter?”

  “Tom Gable wrote a note,” I said. “A last-minute will, leaving me the company should anything happen to him.”

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When did he write the letter?”

  “Morning of the accident, I guess.”

  “Looks bad, is all,” Turley said.

  “Ya think? Can you get the fucking bolt cutters? Please?”

  Turley sloughed back to his squad car, its swirling, silent lights splashing bright colors against white walls.

  “Give the guy a break,” Fisher said. “He’s just doing his job. If I remember right, he saved your ass up on Echo Lake a few years back.”

  “I don’t know why he gives me such a terrific pain in the ass.” It was true. Turley had always been nice enough to me. Nicer to me than I was to him. He bugged me. Same as Fisher bugged me. Same as everyone bugged me.

  When have you ever been happy, Jay?

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the letter?” Fisher asked.

  “Why would I? It has nothing to do with this.”