The thick sheet of plastic was slick with something oily. I smelled my hand. It stunk of pesticide, insecticide, and—I sniffed again—citronella.
The plastic was folded and tucked under his body and once I shifted him a bit it came open like a flower.
What the plastic revealed was a desiccated corpse. Not much face left to make a positive I.D., it looked like it’d been crushed in, but only after death since there’d been little bleeding. However, I could see that he’d had blond hair, long limbs, and had probably looked a lot like a Swede. No doubt in my mind, it was Law Addison, dead in the trunk of his own car. His daring flight from justice had never gotten off the ground.
There was more of him left solid than I would’ve thought possible after four months. But I saw a possible explanation. Like the outside of the plastic, the body was slathered with insecticides and citronella. It would’ve kept the flies away and retarded decomposition.
He was dressed in a blue shirt. The one wound I could see that had bled was in his chest near his heart. The dried blood splotch around it was black and flaky. There were other wounds, about a dozen repeated punctures in the lower chest, belly, and groin, strikes at all the major organs and intestines. But none of those had bled. All had been delivered post-mortem.
Like the insect poison, it looked like another measure to impede decomposition, by releasing the build-up of interior gases which so quickly aid in the corruption of flesh and the reduction of the body into sludge.
It all pointed to workman-like improvisation, but by an informed hand. Someone who knew what he was doing and didn’t want a stinking car trunk full of dead man soup. Instead he had something more along the lines of a modern mummy.
I poked around gingerly, looking for the bulge of a wallet on Addison’s body, but no luck. Shifting his husk, it felt like all his weight was concentrated in the middle, around his waist. He was wearing a brown leather belt. It looked wider than most belts. It had probably been snug back in May, but it was loose now, and I gave it a little tug. It was heavy. Heavier than leather and its brass buckle would explain.
I unhooked the belt and pulled it off him in one motion like someone starting a lawn mower with a ripcord.
Dangling from my fingers, it felt heavier still. Heavy as a deep-sea diving belt. I located a tiny zipper on its underside and opened it. It was lined with gold coins. Krugerrands. By quick estimate twenty of them. By quick arithmetic, over seventeen thousand dollars, if not more. I zipped it back up and draped the belt over my shoulder.
Law Addison had tried to make his getaway, was all ready to flee. But something had stopped him. Someone.
A lot of things made sense in a hurry. This discovery was like the last marble that tips the scale and starts the peppery march of a hundred other marbles cascading. A few minutes ago, I hadn’t even known what had happened. Now I knew what—and I also knew who.
The realization gave me a sickening lurch, like losing your grip while climbing a sheer rock face. Falling backward into utter nothing, a gluttonous void. In front of you, vanishing rapidly, is the view of your last good firm handhold, getting smaller and smaller as you plunge. All around, the air is whistling and just behind you, out of sight, growing larger and larger in the corner of your eye, lies the end of all suspense.
Chapter Twenty-one: ’TIL WHEN-NEVER
Two sounds brought me back to the now. One a sound like dragging and the other like a squeaky wheel. I tried to trace its echo in the desolate top level of the garage. My eyes fastened on the rounded concrete corner of the dividing wall, beyond which was the stairwell.
The dragging sound stopped briefly, but the squeaking continued. Then footsteps began, sharp and direct slaps bouncing off the concrete walls of the chamber. Getting closer.
I unpacked my gun, held it in my right hand hanging loose down by my thigh, and waited, watching that corner.
A thick shadow appeared and behind it a man.
“Payton? What the fuck?”
“Hi, Matt. What you doing here?”
I wasn’t trying to be funny, I guess I was just a little punchy, and he sounded so…normal.
“Oh. Trying to clean up your mess.”
“My mess?”
“Yeah, dickhead.”
He came forward, dragging something behind him like a laundry sack, but it wasn’t a sack. It was alive, it was Elena. Duct tape wrapped several times about her mouth, all around her head and hair. Her wrists and ankles were bound the same way. The squeaky sounds I’d heard were just her muted whimpers.
Matt stopped advancing about eight feet away. He dragged Elena up beside him in one pull, his hand wrapped around the back of her blouse.
He said, “I had it all settled so neatly, things were finally fine. Then you start nosing into it. You’re as bad as Owl was.”
I gestured—with my left hand, not the one holding the gun—at the open trunk of the car and Law Addison’s body in its chrysalis of plastic sheeting.
“How did this happen, Matt?”
“I did my job. That’s all. Metro was brought in by the bailsbond agency. We were supposed to keep an eye on Addison, in case he got antsy. Which he did. Unfortunately, he slipped our tail—the assholes I had watching him lost him. Better believe I fired their asses on the spot. Same way I fired you five years ago. Remember?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I remember.”
“So then I had to track this Jethro down. And that’s what I did.
“We didn’t know about the ‘L. Andrew’ apartment down on C, but we did know about the junkie girlfriend. Easiest thing in the fucking world for me to roust her connection and let him know he was looking at a federal beef unless he called me immediately the minute she got in touch. Sure enough, she phoned him up, looking to score a stockpile before going away. And he called me like the good little pusher he was. He told me when and where, I went in his place, and when she got there, instead of her delivery she got me, reading her the riot act.”
“I heard about that,” I said. “From her husband. You bum-rushed her out of the city and got her tucked away in a rehab clinic upstate. Same place you went for your detox treatment, I bet, that place you said your cousin runs.”
“Not bad, Payton. I shouldn’t have let that slip. But you get under a guy’s skin, y’know.”
“De nada,” I said. “But explain this to me. You hid Michael Cassidy away and pumped her for info—fine. She spilled to you where Addison was and you staked out his hidey-hole—fine. But how’s all that end up with him in the trunk and you owning this place?”
“Well, this place is where Addison ran to when he finally made his move,” Matt said. “I was getting ready to bust him—swear to God, I was maybe two hours away from kicking in his door and putting the cuffs on him—when he walked out with three suitcases in tow and jumped in a cab. Of course I followed him, I figured he was making a run for the airport. But instead he came here. Took the elevator up with his luggage. I took the stairs. When I got here, he was over there—”
Matt nodded toward the car behind me, but I didn’t turn and look.
“He was loading his bags into the trunk, getting ready for his big escape. Kept looking at his watch. I guess he was still waiting for his girlfriend to show. It was pathetic what a drop I had on him.
“So I shouted, Hey, Addison! Might as well take ’em out again, you aren’t going anywhere. I was sick of this asshole and all the trouble he’d made for me. All I wanted was to cuff him, deliver him to the cops, go home and take a fucking nap.
“But instead of just takin’ it like a man, he starts in blubbering, begging me to cut a deal. Payton, you don’t know what it was like. This big dopey Jethro on his knees, offering one of his suitcases up, telling me there’s a million dollars inside. A million dollars cash, Payton. And all he wants me to do is give him a head start.
“But I knew it would have been a waste of time—his head start maybe would’ve bought him a day or two but they’d have caught him just the same. And
then you’d better believe he’d’ve turned me in—he’d have done any damn thing he could just to save his neck.
“And as I stood there with my gun drawn and the son of a bitch kneeling and whimpering, I realized that the only fucking thing that was keeping me from taking him up on his offer was that he was going to get caught, and that meant I’d get caught, and that meant I’d lose my job, I’d lose my kid, I sure as hell would never see the million bucks.
“But I’m looking down at this poor fuck’s pleading eyes, feeling pity, and I start thinking maybe there is a way it could work. If I coached him every step of the way. Got him out of state and stashed away for a few months until the hunt died down. Got him a new identity, and fucking drilled into him every day how to stay under the radar—because it wouldn’t be just his safety and liberty at stake anymore, it’d be mine, too, my liberty, my family’s safety, and—
“Ah, fuck,” Matt said. “I shot him.”
For a while all I could hear were Elena’s muffled sobs and the whistle of her breath through her nose.
I cleared my throat.
“Yeh,” I said. “All that would’ve been a lot of work.”
“You shittin’ me? No way. And wherever he went, sooner or later, he’d blow it. Or someone would spot him from America’s Most Wanted—that show goes worldwide these days. How’m I suppose to live with that hanging over my head, my family’s head?
“One shot…and it all went away. The money’s mine, not just one mil but all of it, and no Jethro to worry about screwing everything up. And you know something, Payton, when you step out of bounds like that? It’s a shock when the earth just doesn’t open up and swallow you. But it doesn’t. The world goes grinding on. I tell you, I felt good. I felt peaceful.
“I popped open one of those suitcases and there was nothing inside it but money. Wads of used U.S. currency packed sideways, neat as sardines. Well-thumbed fifties and hundreds. The other two bags were the same. Would you believe, he hadn’t even packed a shaving kit? Guess he figured he could always buy one.”
He lowered his head and laughed into his chest.
“But I didn’t make his mistake. I looked after practical matters. Getting rid of his body. Over the years, you hear of so many guys and that’s what trips ’em up. They get caught transporting it or disposing of it. And I thought, out of the blue, then don’t touch it, leave it where it was. Let it ride. Wasn’t until later, after I’d counted up the money, I got the idea of buying this place.”
“But first you had to prep the body,” I said. “I saw the Raid and Black Flag shower you gave it to shoo the shoo flies.”
“Yeah, had to do that right away. I knew it would mean some coming and going, and there was the fucking garage attendant to deal with. But I’d slipped him a twenty on the way in, when I was following Addison, and I got the impression his palm would stand a bit more greasing.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Jeff.”
He nodded. “He was more than willing to look the other way—if that’s all he had to do—as long as the price was right. And I made sure the price was right.”
“Seventy thousand bucks plus free rent and board for him and his girlfriend,” I said. “Pretty generous, Matt. But that’s where things started to unravel. It was just your bad luck his girlfriend was an old friend of George Rowell’s. And that Owl happened to be visiting her when Michael Cassidy showed up at the apartment. She was running scared after that botched attempt on her life by your drug dealer friend. She ran to Addison’s old hideout on Avenue C.”
“Jesus Christ,” Matt said. “Owl made her right away, I’ll bet.”
“More than that—he got her to spill her story about the kind-hearted private investigator who cut her a break, sending her off to rehab instead of letting her get collared with Law Addison. I’m sure you didn’t give her your real name, but somehow he must’ve guessed it was you. Addison was a Metro job after all.”
Matt shook his head. “Can you beat that? The one guy I take in to make it work for me, and ends up his girl knows Owl. That’s fuckin’ New York for ya. What’re the fucking odds?”
“Astronomical. Too bad no one made book, got a little money down on it.”
Matt leaned his head back and stretched his neck with little rotations. “Yeah, well, I did have money down, a load. In fact, I still got a fucking load riding on this.”
“How much, Matt? How much did it all finally come to? What was the tally? I’m curious.”
He brought his head back in line. His gray eyes pinned me.
“You’re curious. You’re curious. You’re curious. Shit, Payton, you don’t need to tell me you’re fucking curious. I get it, already. I know you.”
“Let me rephrase the question,” I said. “How much, and is it worth all that you’ve done to keep it?”
Matt’s eyebrows rose in baffled innocence, furrowing his brow.
“What? What have I done? C’mon, really?”
“You killed eight people.”
“Eight? That can’t be right.”
He started counting them off on the fingers of his left hand. As I watched him, I realized I could raise my gun and shoot him now, that I should shoot him now. But I didn’t. I watched him.
His thumb was Law Addison stuck in the car trunk.
His forefinger was George Rowell, pushed into traffic so he couldn’t put me on the case.
He didn’t count Craig Wales’ O.D., because that had been an accident, the hot bag meant for Michael Cassidy alone. I didn’t argue the point.
His middle finger.
“That guy at the Crystalview.”
He didn’t remember his name.
“Paul Windmann,” I told him.
“Saw his address on your desk, when I was still looking for Cassidy, I thought it was where she was stashed. I only went there to sniff around. But I knock on the door and next thing this guy’s waving a gun in my face. It was over before I even knew what happened. Idiot pulled the trigger, shot himself. I just went over there to ask a few questions and he freaked out and got himself shot.”
“Another accident then?” I asked.
He kept his middle finger up.
I said, “Then there’s the kid you shot over in East River Park, after your play with the drug dealer went bust. Why did he have to die so bad?”
Matt said, “That little cocksucker, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I didn’t believe he had it in him until he fucking showed me. He stopped me when I was coming out of your building. Skidded his skateboard in front of me, then flashed his cell phone up in my face. What’s the picture of, but me with my hands on Owl’s chest, pushin’ as the black car rounds the turn. Before I could grab the fucking phone, he was off in a shot. Like he just wanted me to know what he had on me. I guess he was planning to shake me down. But Homey don’t play that.”
He flicked up his fourth finger, his wedding ring finger.
The pinkie was for Michael Cassidy.
Matt said, “Can’t believe she was over at that hotel all the while. By the time I got there, she was flying so high, she just let me in the room when I knocked. There was a gun on the bed. She made it so…easy. I mean after trying so hard to hide. And then there she was all sort of laid out for me, ready, almost comatose. It should’ve been easy. Just pick up the gun and badabing. But I couldn’t do it at first. Maybe ’cause she was a woman, I don’t know. But then I thought of Jeanne and the baby and what this woman could do to us, and I shot her in the head. Very final, that is. Very final.”
But it wasn’t final at all. It wasn’t over.
I asked, “And where’s Jeff? He went off to meet you more than an hour ago, and here you are, but no Jeff.”
Elena had stopped her sobbing, suspended it long enough to strain and listen for his answer.
But his answer was wordless. Matt stuck out his other thumb.
He said, “That’s the lot. See, I told you.”
My chest heaved out a short laugh-sob, like I was
gagging on ash.
“Okay, six then,” I said. “But shit, when you’re counting off victims on your fingers and have to move to the other hand, it’s time to admit you got a problem. You may have stopped drinking, Matt, but you’ve turned into a murderaholic.”
As soon as I’d said it, I regretted it. I noticed for the first time a distinct drunken cast to Matt’s expression. Not that I thought for a moment he’d been drinking—I didn’t—but there are such things as dry drunks, who can be just as dangerous and erratic as the regular sort.
Matt said, through a ragged smile, “You may be right, pal. But I can kick it. Same as I did with drinking. Cold turkey. Except maybe…one more for the road?”
He looked down at Elena, on her knees, as he held her by the scruff of the neck, propped up against his thighs.
I said, “You’re overlooking something, Matt.”
I raised my gun and waggled it at him, just to bring it into play. I’d forgotten how heavy it was with a full clip.
He frowned and shook his head.
“What are you going to do? Shoot me?”
“The thought has been trapezing through my mind.”
“You won’t. I know you, Payton.”
“Don’t be so sure about that.”
“Oh, wanna see how sure I am?”
He was surprisingly fast for such a big guy—or maybe just, as usual, I was too slow. I didn’t even see where it came from, but suddenly he was holding a gun.
Blue metal. It looked like the old .38 he’d always kept in his desk drawer at Metro. I’d only ever seen him crack walnuts with it. But now he cocked it, angled it down at Elena’s head.
“Drop your weapon, Payton,” Matt said.
“Or what, you’ll shoot her? Come on, Matt. How stupid do you think I am? If I drop my gun, you’ll shoot us both. But if you shoot her, I’ll drop you.”
“Then do it. Shoot me now. Go ahead. I told you, that’s your only play, Payton. Anything else is just me fucking talking you into putting your gun down. And I will. Because I know you. Oh yeah. Better than you know yourself.”
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