“The reason I’m calling is because I think I know who did it.”
“Really? That’ll make things a lot easier. Who?”
“Thomas Demille.” Black quickly explained the relationship and the scheme to defraud DNA.
“And what’s the motive?”
“To shut him up. Or maybe it was a lover’s tiff. How would I know? But that’s who did it. I’d bet money.”
“Really? How much?”
“What? What do you mean, how much?”
“A hundred?”
“Stan. What’s going on?”
“I typed in Demille’s name while we were talking, and he just turned up dead outside his home. Hit and run.”
Black was speechless. “Oh, God.”
“No, still Stan here. But you can call me whatever you want…”
“Stan. Listen. Then it has to be Zane. Zane Bradley. Look up that name.”
Black heard rapid typing. “I always wondered what kind of parent names their kid something like Zane. Guaranteed to mess with their head…”
“You got his record?”
“Yeah, I see the DUI and a pending in Vegas. Oh, that’s right. He’s your Sin City boy.”
“And he’s also who killed Demille and Gabriel. And the models…”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any proof, would you?”
“Pull him in and sweat him. He won’t have an alibi for last night or this morning.”
“I can’t just pull him in with nothing but your say-so.”
“Come on, Stan. You know you can do anything you want.”
Stan sighed loudly. “I can swing by his place and ask him a few questions. No promises, though. You’re lucky Demille’s death will land in this office. Otherwise I’d have no authority.”
“Stan, you’re a Godsend.”
“Yeah, yeah. Assuming he’s even at his place or his work. I hear a lot of mass murderers tend to take the day off after a big spree. Tiring, I guess.”
“Damn. You’re right. He could still be out there…I need to go.”
“What? Where?”
“There’s somebody else he’s really holding a grudge against. She could be next.” Black told him about Trish.
“Dude. Slow down. You’re going into overdrive, and you don’t even know if the guy was in church this morning or something. You really think he blew up the daughter and is now going after the mom?”
“Stan, trust me. Go get him. He’s your man. I’m headed over to Trish’s house. Call me once you know something.”
“All right, Kemosabe, but I think you’re off the reservation on this one.”
Black didn’t wait to hear more. He hung up and went into his office, opened the safe, and removed his gun. Roxie watched from the doorway.
“You think Zane’s gone frigging nuts?”
“Yup. He snapped. Or he’s doped out of his mind. Who knows? It’s the only thing that fits.”
“But why is he killing everyone?”
“Oldest motive in the world. Revenge.”
Black sped out of the office and took the stairs two at a time to the street. He called Trish’s home number as he jogged to the car, but it just rang. After glancing over his shoulder to ensure there was no traffic he did a quick calculation as he pulled away – he could be at her house in half an hour if he didn’t mind breaking a few laws.
The drive over the hill went quickly, and fortunately for Black, there were no Highway Patrol cruisers monitoring the stretch of road he was on. When he pulled off the freeway he exhaled in relief, and realized that his stomach was a knot of tense muscles. His phone rang as he eased to the curb in front of Trish’s house. Her truck sat in the driveway, no sign of anything amiss. He answered, tapping his ear bud to life.
“Hey, buddy. Thanks for nothing. You just had me waste half an hour I’ll never get back,” Stan’s voice boomed in his ear.
“What happened?”
“He was at the fur shop, which, by the way, is a little weird, but hey. Anyway, I drilled him, and he’s got an alibi.”
Black shut off the engine, thinking. “Impossible.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you would say, so we’re checking it out. But if he’s telling the truth, it’s back to square one. Listen. I’ve got to go, here. Call me later. I’ll do the same if I hear anything.”
Black stepped away from the Cadillac, lost in thought. None of it made any sense. He looked up at the sound of Trish’s front door opening. She walked out hefting two heavy travel bags, her purse over her shoulder. She spotted him and froze, and then her face broke into a smile.
“Why Mr. Black. What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I…I thought there might be a threat to you, Trish. By the way, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She looked over his shoulder, then back at him. “A threat?” she asked, sounding puzzled.
“Yeah. Turns out I was…wrong…” Black’s eyes drifted over to the truck, whose steel front bumper and passenger side fender were crumpled. “Going on a trip?”
“I can’t stay in this house anymore. It’s too much. Too many memories,” she explained, setting the bags down.
“I can understand that. Trish – what happened to the truck?”
“The truck?”
Black nodded as he unbuttoned his jacket.
Trish shrugged. “Oh, that’s nothing.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment that stretched uncomfortably long. Black began walking toward her, his hands held open just in front of him, like a tightrope walker trying to balance.
“Trish. Don’t do anything stupid. It’s over, okay?”
Their eyes locked and she tensed. Time seemed to slow as she reached into her purse and ducked into a crouch. Black got his Glock free and chambered a round as she whipped out an ugly-looking pistol and drew a bead on him. He fired a split second before she started shooting, and he threw himself to the ground as he continued firing, squeezing off shots as fast as he could pull the trigger.
Trish jerked back as a round caught her in the torso. Another hit her in the chest, and she dropped her weapon with a grunt and collapsed. Black lay on the sidewalk, gun trained on her, and fought for breath as he assessed whether any of her shots had hit him. He knew from his army days that often the wounded didn’t realize they’d been hit until after the shooting stopped.
He got unsteadily to his feet, the barrel of his pistol never straying from her, and slowly moved to where she was lying on the porch, twitching spasmodically. Her gun was lying near the smaller of the bags and he toed it out of reach as he gazed down at her.
“I told you not to do anything stupid,” he whispered. Her face was pallid. Her lips trembled, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. A bubbling, sucking noise emanated from the wound in her chest as she breathed, and he knew enough to know that sound wasn’t good. One hand clutched at her abdomen, and her eyes fluttered open at his words.
“She…she wasn’t…supposed to be…on the…bridge,” Trish managed, the last word ending in a groan that ended in a wet cough.
“Why, Trish? Why?”
Her eyelids drooped closed as she spoke, her life running out of her onto the hard cement slab, nothing anyone could do to stop it. “Other…girls…in Hailey’s…way…”
“Why Demille?”
“He…he and…my…baby…”
Black dialed 911 and described the scene in precise terms to the operator, and promised to stay on the line while she sent help. He set his pistol on the walkway so he wouldn’t be shot by an overzealous officer and waited for the squad cars to draw near. A seagull, too far from the ocean, seemingly lost above the concrete sprawl, wheeled overhead before flying west, back to a distant shore where fish awaited and the water was cool. A warm breeze stirred Black’s hair as he slowly sank to the ground and watched Trish pass from this world into the next, carrying with her the stain of her deeds as sirens wailed their approach to a sky the color of wet cardboar
d. A front had moved in from the ocean, bringing with it the cool first rain of winter.
Chapter 24
Black stared at his beer bottle, sweating next to the empty shot glass on the scarred wood table top of the Calypso Queen’s bar – a dark dive that perfectly matched his mood after the shooting that morning. Steel drums and acoustic guitars provided the background music, and haggard men with lean, hardscrabble faces etched with disappointment lines and stained with nicotine and despair, the company.
Stan finished his shot and elbowed Black. “Come on. Let’s get a table. Your date’s here.”
Black turned to where Sylvia stood at the entrance, a slab of mahogany fashioned from an old sailing schooner’s door, and grunted. They rose, and Stan held up two fingers to the bartender and pointed at their drinks. He nodded, his face permanently cast in a frown, and turned to the rows of bottles as they made their way to one of the small tables along the periphery of the gloomy room.
Sylvia approached, kissed Black on the cheek, and then took a seat next to him.
“Nice places you boys hang out in.”
“We’re classy guys. What can I say?” Stan offered.
“How are you?” Sylvia asked, putting her hand over Black’s.
“Not so great. I hear shooting a woman on her front porch will do that to you,” he said, not slurring yet, his voice gutted of emotion.
“She pulled a gun on you, boss man,” Stan reminded.
“That she did. And I killed her.”
The bartender arrived, and Sylvia looked at the bottles and smiled. “I’ll take one of those beers, please.” She returned her attention to Black. “She was trying to kill you. She killed all those people. Her own daughter. I’m not saying you should feel great about it, but I’m glad you’re the one left standing and not her.”
“She said that Hailey wasn’t supposed to be on the bridge. So she was trying to kill one of the other models,” Black said.
“Which is completely insane, in case you don’t realize it,” Stan said. “As is putting acid into makeup or any of the rest of it. Big sale on crazeee on aisle five. I see it all the time. A mom drowns her baby because it won’t stop crying. A husband kills his wife of forty years because she keeps leaving the bathroom door open when he’s asked her a million times to close it. Some people are just nuts. And those people, when they pull a gun on you, need to be put down like mad dogs.”
“I know that. But it still sucks, killing a woman.”
Sylvia studied his face. “Is that it? Because she was female? Okay, so would you still feel the same way if it had been a two-hundred-pound gang banger?”
“Well…maybe not.”
Stan shook his head. “Black. She was a mass murderer. She killed Demille this morning. Went berserk on Gabriel last night. You should’ve seen the photos of that one. Looked more like hamburger than a human body by the time she was done with him. Trust me, there has to be a lot of rage built up inside you to do something like that. You did the right thing, buddy. So have another shot, understand that’s how it is, and move on.”
“I wonder why she killed Gabriel?” Sylvia mused.
Black shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she discovered he was really working with Demille? That’s not the kind of secret that stays a secret forever.” Black paused. “You know, something she said as she was dying…I think Demille…was banging Hailey.”
“What? She was just a child,” Sylvia said. “He was, what, fifty?”
“Forty-something. But it doesn’t matter. It’s still sick. Maybe that’s why she was so…muted,” Black said. “What’s even worse is that Trish obviously knew about it, and was willing to let it happen. At least until the end. Makes you wonder what else she turned a blind eye to – how many boyfriends she had over time who might have…I don’t even want to think about it.”
“I pulled her CV. Trish was in the Army for four years. Artillery corps. Which explains how she knew how to work a howitzer,” Stan said. He downed his latest shot in a gulp and washed it down with beer.
“What kills me is that I thought Zane was completely guilty,” Black said quietly. “I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
Sylvia squeezed his hand. “It’s over. Nobody else is going to die. You did it.”
“Hey, don’t say that. My job depends on people dying every day, young lady. You want to talk me out of a career?” Stan said.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it that way.”
“That’s better.”
Stan cleared his throat. “What about the model who overdosed in Mexico? Do you think she was behind that?”
“We’ll never know, but if you ask me, she was. I have no idea how she got into her room – I’m thinking Clarissa had a date with someone and left the door open, and when Trish saw that, she acted impulsively and went in. If Clarissa was out of it, that was probably too sweet an opportunity for Trish to pass up. That’s my hunch.”
“And the New York suicide?”
“Again. No way of knowing. But I could certainly see her scheming to get Daria alone and then pushing her off the building. Remember she was in the Army. She could have coldcocked her and dumped her over the rail. The trauma from the fall would have erased any evidence of a blow prior to her death.”
They sat for a quiet moment, listening to the slightly out-of-tune music and the dull hum of conversation from other patrons in the background. Black looked around as though waking up from a dream.
“It’s too dark in this damned place. What time is it?”
“Nine,” Sylvia said. “You getting hungry yet?”
“A little,” Black conceded.
Stan waved for the bill. “Dude, I’m not going to say you’ll be singing in the rain tonight, but you’ll get over this. It’s perfectly natural that you feel like hell. You should. If you can shoot someone and not feel bad, you’re part of the problem, not the solution. But this was a clean kill. You warned her, she drew on you, and you defended yourself. That’s pretty straightforward. Cut and dried. The only thing you’re guilty of is being a decent shot. God knows how you pulled that off. You never go to the range.”
“I also have a lovely singing voice.”
“I’ll take your word for it. So here’s my advice, for what it’s worth. Go have a nice dinner. Have another drink or two, but not too many more. Enjoy each other’s company. Make love, create something good and honest, cry if you want to, but put this behind you. It’s just another shitty thing that’s happened to you. There’ll be plenty more. Focus on the positives, not the negatives, because the world will rain those down on you plenty more times before you take the old dirt nap.” Stan finished his beer with a long swallow. “I’ve been there. More times than I like to think about. I know what I’m talking about. Beating yourself up about it won’t change anything, won’t make you a better human being, and is basically just wallowing in self-pity. So knock it off. Thus spake Stan Colt.”
Black hiccupped. “Sorry.” He regarded Stan. “You should do motivational speaking or something. You missed your calling.”
“I’ve been told that. I also write poetry and cry when I watch Meg Ryan movies.”
“She’s not that bad.”
“Kind of hot, actually.”
Black shook his head. “You’re a pig. You’ve got a Meg jones?”
“Hey. Let me at least have that, okay? Don’t kill all my dreams.”
Sylvia smiled. “Black, your friend is a wise man. I say we take his advice. Eat, drink, and be merry. Maybe roll around and pull some hair. Sounds like a plan.”
Black brightened. “I like the hair part.”
She patted his hand. “I figured that would get your attention.”
Black eyed Stan. “What happened with Ernest?”
“Let’s just say that the hot dog empire is back on track, and Ernest won’t be pulling that stunt anymore. On anyone.”
“You didn’t…do anything rash, did you?”
“Nah. I filed a copy of your cinematographic deb
ut with the disability boys, who take a dim view of being defrauded by scumbags. I also showed his attorney the footage and played him the part of the recording where he assures you he can handle the food bag when you offer to help. Which, by the way, you were a little too convincingly creepy at, no offense. I would have punched you.”
“Maybe he was curious?”
“Or maybe he thought you were cute,” Sylvia suggested.
“What do you mean, thought? I am cute. In a ruggedly handsome, he-man kind of way.”
“Come on. Let’s get out of here. Too much testosterone in the air for me,” Sylvia said, standing.
Black gave Stan a wan smile. “You heard the lady. Thanks for listening, buddy. I kind of needed that.”
“Any time, my friend. Any time.”
Chapter 25
Black lowered the top of the Cadillac and smoothed his hair in the cool morning light before setting his fedora firmly on his head so it wouldn’t blow off. He turned on the stereo and blared Little Caesar as he wrenched the steering wheel left and gave the big ride some gas. He eased onto the leaf-blown street as he reviewed his mental checklist on the way to the office.
He stopped at his favorite coffee bar for his morning shot of wake-up, and noted that his nemesis, the smugly arrogant barista, was holding court, smirking at his customers’ orders as he repeated them back in a tone that was both insulting and superior. Black locked eyes with him from over the shoulder of a short, older woman muttering on her cell phone in front of him in line, and steeled himself for the ordeal to come.
He stepped up to the counter and a wave of calm flooded through him, a transcendental peace like he was sure Samurai attained as they prepared for battle. After a brief study of the board, he cleared his throat and ordered a venti cup of the drip coffee of the day. The young man paused, as if savoring his possibilities, and then called the order back to his associate without engaging with Black.
“Will there be anything else?”
“A large chai,” Black said.
“You mean a grande?” the server asked, stressing the last syllable, making it sound French or Italian.
BLACK Is the New Black Page 22
