by Dan Taylor
I park in the driveway, and then walk to the entrance, where I find Phil and Gary holding a bed sheet, which seems premature, as Peter Hammer is still in the middle of the roof, but instead of standing, he’s sitting with his back to the chimney, his chin resting on his chest, looking dejected.
They see me coming, and say at the same time, “He’s on the roof.”
“I figured that. How’d he get up there?”
Gary says, “He climbed up. Pulled his scrawny ass up by the drainpipe.”
Phil says, “You going up there?”
“I am. You can put the sheet down, fellas. I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Gary says, “Mr. Balbone had clear instructions. Until he’s on terra firma, we’re holding this sheet.”
“Suit yourselves. Where are his keys?”
“Why?”
“I want to get into the garage.”
They look at each other, and then Phil says, “Try the door.”
They’re there, hanging from the lock, on the inside.
I take them and go back to the garage, open it. I don’t find a ladder at first, and then spot it hanging from the ceiling by two bike hooks.
I take it down, and go back to where Phil and Gary are.
I lean it against the building, check that it’s standing solidly, and then begin my ascent all the way up onto the single-story roof.
Nearest neighbor’s fifty or so yards away. It doesn’t look like they’ve spotted Peter Hammer, as there’s no one outside the property, watching the scene. Nor is there anyone outside the property in the neighboring home on the other side.
I go up to Peter Hammer. When I’m ten feet from him, he spots me, and says, “Don’t come any nearer.”
“Relax, I just want to talk.”
He raises his voice. “About what? How you killed my dear aunt today?”
“Keep your voice down, Peter. Let’s speak to each other like gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen?”
“Gentlemen. I’m just going to come over there and take a seat, look at the view with you for a while. That okay?”
He shakes his head, looks into the distance, snot dribbling from his nose and his stare empty.
I go over and sit down next to him.
After sitting in silence a couple seconds, he says, “Is she—?”
“In a better place? Yeah. Don’t worry. She didn’t feel a thing. It was over quickly.”
He says, “Shit,” and then starts to sob. “She had been getting a little forgetful, you know. I wasn’t just making that up to excuse it.”
“I believe it. When I rang her intercom, she’d totally forgotten that she was supposed to get a delivery today. Nearly didn’t let me in.”
He laughs, forgetting himself for a second, and then says, “That sounds like Aunt Margaret,” and then he starts sobbing again.
When he’s calmed down a little, he says, “How am I supposed to live with myself after what I’ve done?”
“You’re not.”
He looks at me, taken aback by my honesty.
I continue, “At least the next month or two. This pain will never go away, but you’ll learn to ignore it. You might even be happy from time to time.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. It’s human nature. No matter what bad shit we do, we always find a way to get over it. We’re inherently flawed like that.”
“I’ll never be happy again. I loved Aunt Margaret.”
“I know you did, Peter. But what happened was unavoidable. You know that. In time the pain will fade.”
He thinks a second. “There might have been another way. I could’ve sold this place, for example.”
“There’s no use thinking about the what-ifs. What’s done is done.”
Silence a second.
“Did Aunt… Was Margaret scared?”
“She was really brave.”
A pause.
“What are you doing up here?”
“I’ll be straight with you. Mr. Balbone wants to protect his investment.”
“And the goons down there? What are they doing here?”
“The same thing.”
“I thought they’d come here to whack me.”
“Now why would they want to do a thing like that?”
“It seemed logical.”
“If it makes you feel any better, they’re standing down there, holding a bed sheet. Nobody’s here to hurt you, Peter.”
“I wasn’t really going to do it, you know. I’m too much of a coward.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Took a brave man to make the business decision you made.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. Now let’s go down and get you a stiff drink.”
“I think I’ll just stay up here for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“Then I’ll stay here too.”
After a couple minutes’ silence, he says, “I’m ready to go down now.”
Peter goes first, tentatively climbing down the ladder.
When we’re both on the ground, I say to Phil and Gary, “You fellas can go. I’ll handle it from here.”
As though he isn’t there, Phil asks, “But is he gonna be okay?” and then raises both eyebrows, adding subtext.
“He’s going to be fine.”
Gary says, “If you’re sure, Elvis.”
They leave, handing the bed sheet to me.
Figuring my job here isn’t complete, I walk Peter Hammer into his property, my hand on his shoulder.
We go through to his living room and I tell him to take a seat. I fold his bed sheet and drape it over his sofa chair, and then I go over to his minibar, and ask him what he’d like to drink.
He looks up at me, looking in better shape. “I’ll take a brandy.”
“Nice choice, Peter.”
I prepare his drink and go over to him and hand it to him.
He takes it, almost smiles, and then says, “Thanks for this,” meaning the drink and everything else I’m doing for him.
I smile back. “No problem.”
29.
After I strangle the life out of Peter Hammer, I smash his glass on the floor, and then cut his wrists with it, squeezing his forearms to get a decent amount of blood out. I then wrap him up in his bed sheet, go outside, drive my car into the garage, close the garage door, go back inside using the door leading into the main building, and then carry Peter Hammer’s body back to my car, where I place him in the trunk, pretzling up his limbs.
Then I take out my cell phone and phone Jimmy.
When he answers, I say, “He killed himself.”
“Who did?”
“Peter Hammer.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Elvis? I spoke to Phil two minutes ago, and he said you were handling the situation.”
“I went to take a leak, and when I came back out he’d slit his wrists.”
“You left him alone?”
“He had to be left alone at some point. If he didn’t do it now, he would’ve in the future.”
He sighs. “Four hundred grand I’m down because of you, Elvis.”
“Look, that guy would’ve gone to the cops. It was written all over his face.”
“Phil and Gary said he was scared for his life.”
“Phil and Gary weren’t up there when I spoke to him on the roof, speaking of the guilt he wouldn’t be able to live with. They especially didn’t hear how he said he’d nearly picked up the phone before they’d come.”
He pauses a second. “He said that?”
“He did.”
Another pause.
“Then why did you tell Phil he was going to be okay, implying you had a handle on the situation?”
“Phil and/or Gary asked that question in front of the guy. What am I supposed to say when he’s standing there? And what is this, some sort of interrogation?”
“No, Elvis. I just think it weird, is all, that the
guy killed himself while you were there. That he didn’t wait until he was in a bathtub, listening to his favorite song, and with a glass of red wine in his hand.”
“Sounds romantic, but I don’t know why we’re having this conversation, or what you’re alluding to.”
“I don’t know why, either. It just seems funny.” Jimmy, on occasion, can come close to being pragmatic, like now: “I guess I’m just super fucking pissed that I ever trusted that mouth-breathing idiot with all that money in the first place.” He pauses. “Anyway, good job, Elvis.”
“Thanks. Now is there anything else before I go and bury this guy in the desert?”
Without replying, Jimmy hangs up.
I look at the phone a second, thinking, and then put it away.
I then put those thoughts to the back of my mind and get in the car, start driving back to the hole that Hancock dug a couple hours earlier.
30.
Do I trust Hancock not to squeal? It’s irrelevant what I think, or what I think I know. Like I said before, hunches are for gamblers, and I’m not a gambling man.
I’m leaning towards him not saying a thing. I believed him when he said saving his own ass was more important than getting justice for some woman he didn’t care so much about.
So I bury Peter Hammer’s body in the grave Hancock dug. And a short distance from the body, I bury the shovel Hancock used to dig the hole, next to the place where Hancock buried his soiled underwear. I collected another shovel from the warehouse on the way, and I use this to cover the body and other shovel with sand, keeping my gloved hands away from Hancock’s fingerprints, avoiding potentially smudging them.
I know what you’re thinking, if I were forced to use that leverage, and get Hancock indicted on a double homicide—Margaret Hammer logically follows after her nephew—it’ll look like a setup. What kind of hare-brained idiot buries the shovel a short distance away from the body, and his soiled underwear? And even the investigators who handle the case, should I tip them off, would think it looks like someone’s framed him. You’d have to be a fool not to, and the investigators down at the Hollywood Police Station are no fools.
But they won’t do what they’re supposed to do, either. I’m not saying I’m relying on a bent cop or some other cliché; I’m just relying on any cop. Take your pick.
It’s romantic to think that a cop’s job is to seek the truth, to get justice for their victims, and even I’m naïve or hopeful enough to think that’s the case most of the time, but I’m not naïve enough to think some cop, any cop, wouldn’t take the slam dunk I’ve given them, start looking into who possibly framed him.
I’m willing to bet my retirement on that. They’ll find the body, the shovel, and the underwear, and ignore all the conflicting evidence, and definitely ignore Hancock’s story about some hitman having committed both murders, and just focus on the narrative that’s given to them. Hell, that’s what I’d do.
And motive? Hancock’s got bags of it. Every conflict he had with his neighbor, every time he played his music too loud and she came knocking on his door, was one more reason to take out his neighbor. Peter Hammer, her nephew, was just a bonus. Or whatever. Two homicides for the price of one. The cops will find a way to justify Hancock’s killing of Peter Hammer.
Killing Peter Hammer wasn’t as simple as wrapping my hands around his throat and choking the life out of him. There was the Jimmy element to think about.
He knows something’s up. Jimmy’s sharp. Don’t let his vocabulary fool you. He doesn’t know what yet, but he’ll get his hand on the thread, start unraveling the sweater, if he’s sitting reading a newspaper one day, learns that some guy called Jacob Hancock is indicted for the homicide of the guy I said killed himself. He’d pull that thread until he got to me, the collar, the thing at the center of it all, the thing holding the sweater together.
Which is why, when I meet Hancock a couple days later, in a diner of his choosing, I have no intention of actually informing the police of Peter Hammer’s murder. But I do intend to subtly let him know I’ve got leverage.
I walk into Vine and Dine and find him sitting in a booth, looking a little shady, ostensibly reading a newspaper, if it weren’t upside-down.
I sit opposite him, and he lowers the newspaper, folds it up.
He says, “You look different.”
“Have you found him?”
“No small talk first?”
I don’t say anything.
A second later, Hancock pulls out a folded piece of paper, hands it to me.
I look at it.
He says, “It’s an address.”
“I figured that.”
“The address of the place he works at. He wipes old people’s asses for a living.”
I tell him thanks, and put it in my pocket.
Hancock isn’t a conman, or at least that isn’t his sole profession; he’s a private investigator. Rebel Black told me. Most private investigators are ex-cops, Bob Lamb types who are sticklers for not finding people clients might have ill will against, which is why I needed Hancock to do this job.
Hancock says, “So, should we order breakfast, for old time’s sake?”
“Why not.”
“Really? I was just being polite, and a little flippant.”
“Breakfast sounds good.”
“Okay.”
He looks at me a second, thinking. Then calls over a waitress. She knows him by name, and he’s a little flirtatious while we order breakfast.
She asks who his buddy is, and Hancock says, “This is my girl’s brother, Kevin. He’s an MMA fighter, an amateur, but a good one.”
She says to me, “Nice to meet you, Kevin,” and then walks off.
Hancock says, “That’s Mindy.”
“Nice girl.”
We sit in silence a second.
Then Hancock says, “This guy, why’d you want me to find him?”
“He’s an old friend of the family.”
“Who you wanted me to find? You know what, I don’t want to know.” He pauses a second. “The funniest thing happened. Rebel Black, my girl’s ex-husband, hasn’t turned up to open the diner the last couple days. One of the waitresses phoned her, asking if she knew where he is.”
“Rebel who?”
“Black. Remember I told you about him? Slapped her around. A real piece of shit.”
“Oh yeah. I think I remember you saying something about him.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about his disappearance, would you?”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
He lowers his voice. “Well thanks, anyway.”
“For what?”
“Having breakfast with me.”
We sit in silence a second. Then he says, “So I’m all set, to move away.”
“Where you headed?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“What’s your definition of all set?”
“Bags packed, told my shrink she’ll have to find another narcissist to talk back to health. And I’m putting my apartment up for sale. I just need to find a realtor I trust. You know any?”
“I’ll put some feelers out for you.”
“Thanks.”
Silence a second.
Then I say, “How’s Bob?”
“Haven’t spoken to him since we saw him that day.”
“Has anyone been to visit your neighbor?”
“No. And I haven’t invited anyone. I decided to let nature take its course. The smell they won’t be able to get out of the apartment might drive down the price of my unit, but it’s a hit I’m willing to take in order to stay off the persons-of-interest list.”
“Do you think that’s wise? Moving away and not reporting it?”
“Now that I think about it, it does seem a bit dumb.”
“Want my advice, go around in a couple days, let yourself in with the keys she gave you, and then there’s a decent reason for your having been in there, at least forensically speaki
ng. You were worried; you hadn’t seen her the last week.”
“And I hadn’t seen her since I borrowed sugar, right when she got her cuckoo delivered.”
“Right. Shows you two were familiar with one another, if the keys don’t. You could say something less clichéd, like an ironing board.”
“I own an ironing board.”
“You might, but the police don’t know that.”
“I’ll wear a crinkled shirt that day.”
“Or whatever. Just make sure it sounds like you didn’t google an excuse.”
Mindy comes with the food.
We eat in silence.
I think about how I can subtly imply what I’ve got over Hancock, and he sits there, thinking.
Then he says, “I’ve been thinking about that hole I dug. More importantly, why I dug it.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah. There’s something occupying it, right?”
“What makes you think that?”
He lowers his voice. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that you’re a—” he looks around “—hitman.”
He pauses, then says, “I can’t decide who I’m more disappointed in: myself, for being so dumb, or you, for taking advantage of me.”
“It’s nothing personal.”
He cringes. “Jesus, I only suspected it.” He shakes his head. “At least drive me out there so I can get my underwear. They find it someday, I can handle being the wrongly incarcerated murderer, but not the ‘The Skid Mark Killer,’ or whatever headline the rags would use. The embarrassment would be too much, not to mention a nickname like that might get me more than my fair share of attention in the showers.”
“I never hear from you again, directly or indirectly, no one will ever find out about your big boy pants accident.”
“That makes me feel a little better. Not great, but better.” He gets up. “Time for me to leave. I’ve got a neighbor I’m worried about, and a new life to begin.” He holds out his hand. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, Peyton, but well, it hasn’t. Sorry about busting up your nose.”
I shake his hand.
Before he leaves, he says, “If I’m ever in Hollywood again, we should meet up and catch up.”
“Say hi to your lady for me, Hancock. And good luck.”
