Stories by Kiera Dellacroix

by Dellacroix, Kiera

  "Commander?" McNeely said sharply and she turned to find everyone lined up in the middle of the room.

  "Yes?"

  "We've already decided."

  "And?"

  Daly began to whistle and her eyes widened in recognition, a hand rising to cover her mouth as a group Cabbage Patch began.

  "Come all without. Come all within," they sang boisterously. "You'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn..."

  --------

  END

  * Quinn, the Eskimo (The Mighty Quinn) Words and Music by Bob Dylan © 1968, 1976 Dwarf Music * The Doppelganger Artwork by Eric Wadley © 2001 Archetypal Visions

  Fractured Tapestry

  All content is the property of the author. © 2002 Kiera Dellacroix

  Part One

  I

  I flipped up the collar of my coat to protect me from the cold and walked by the two uniformed bookends standing guard over the scene. They didn't look at me as I entered the house, and I appreciated the small gesture of respect. They closed ranks after I entered and cast denying eyes on the throng of journalists ecstatically congregating over the scent of fresh blood. Journalists. A fancy name for overeducated yet criminally ignorant, self-infatuated, ultra-liberal bottom feeders. Preying on the misfortunes of others so they could go home and jerk off over how good they looked during their last five-minute spot.

  Tonight, it was my misfortune, and the reality of that was beginning to weigh on me heavily as I traveled slowly down the hall toward the back of the house. I passed several people on the way, many of which stood aside to let me pass and nodded politely. A few even reached out to pat me sympathetically.

  Billy Winters, a good man and a family friend, was waiting for me at the entrance to the den. Pushing forty and wickedly smart with the appearance of an average slob in a wrinkled suit, he was the perfect cop. He lifted a hand to bring me up short.

  "Maddie, he was shot low. It ain't pretty."

  The words struck me painfully, and suddenly the weight assaulting me increased tenfold. There was only a meter or so between me and a corpse that lay in a pool of blood. The body of a man I considered my father. A man, who had traveled halfway around the world to provide me with a home, when his brother died. A man, who loved me unconditionally. A man who was there for me through thick and thin, always ready with a shoulder to cry on and, more often than not, equally ready to turn me over his knee. I smiled slightly as I recalled just how many times the latter had taken place. Gus never let me get too big for my britches. As early as yesterday, he only had to hint at the threat of a walloping to bring me back in line. The man could have his belt off in the blink of an eye, and he wielded it with the skill of a maestro. Considering what an ornery bitch I was and am, it was nothing short of miracle I had an ass left to fill out the back of my jeans.

  It dawned on me abruptly that never again would I have Gus to fall back on and the next time I needed him, he wouldn't be there for me. At this moment, I needed him in the worst way, and the knowledge that someone had stolen something as precious to me as he was life began to simmer hotly in my stomach. I drew strength from my anger.

  "Step aside, Billy."

  "You sure, Maddie?"

  I nodded and brushed by him to enter the room. My eyes tracking immediately to the fallen corpse of my Dad. With a violent resolution, I fought off the tears I felt forming. It was hard to see the man I fancied invincible lying dead on the floor. I knelt to lay a tender hand upon his cold cheek and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. It took a minute for me to acquire the detachment necessary to study the scene with professionalism, but I managed it. My eyes tracked carefully around a room that was at once alien and achingly familiar.

  "Anything been moved, Billy?" I asked.

  "Nope, forensics still enroute."

  I stood and felt my eyes narrow as a picture of events took shape in my mind. There was a wide hole in the back of Gus's chair and blood on the wall behind it. Whoever had shot him had done so while he sat behind his desk. From the angle, the killer had shot him from a seated position. Which meant Gus was at gunpoint when the killer entered or was comfortable enough to allow him entry and let him take a seat in one of the two chairs that faced his desk. Probably the latter, as Gus was no one to fool with. If uninvited and detected, the intruder would have a fight on his hands. With this conclusion, I knew the round that had struck Gus had come to him as a surprise.

  The blood trail on the hardwood floor started at the corner of the desk and led to where the body now rested. The chair in which the killer sat lay overturned on the floor. With a wound that began with a hole that could've been made by a drill and ended with an opening in his back that you could fit a can of beans into, Gus had risen from his chair. No doubt with the intention of reaching his assassin. He had managed to get around the desk before his strength failed and he fell to the ground. Rapidly bleeding to death, he pulled himself forward in a desperate attempt to crush his assailant, who surprised at his determination, retreated. The blood trail and the overturned chair told me the story as plainly as if I had been a fly on the wall.

  Yet the thing that got my dander up, the fact that left my throat thirsty for vengeance, was the comprehension that Gus had been shot only one time. The twisted fuck wanted Gus to suffer. Instead of firing another round to finish him, the killer was content to sit in front of the desk and watch him die from the slow and agonizing pain of a belly wound. It was the kind of death one inflicted on a hated enemy. A thought I would have to give careful consideration to later.

  "What do you make of it, Maddie?" Billy asked.

  "It was malicious."

  "I agree," he said. "Large caliber hollow point. Just one shot fired."

  "They wanted him to suffer, Billy."

  "We'll get the son of a bitch who did this, Maddie."

  "No, you won't. But I will."

  "You know I can't allow that."

  "You can't stop it either."

  Billy took a deep breath and gestured to the two uniforms in the room. "Take a break, fellas. Close the door on the way out." They did as they were told and I prepared myself for the impending lecture.

  "I'll yank your license, Maddie. I won't have you wandering around out there in a temper. Believe it or not, there are more than a few people in high places that would love to get a piece of you. I can't keep your ass out of the fire if you light a new one every five minutes."

  I almost smiled. "You just gave yourself away, Billy. I thought it was Gus that kept me out of prison, but it was you wasn't it?"

  He opened his mouth to protest but gave in with a slight nod.

  "Just give me some room, Billy," I asked. "I want this guy and I know you do too."

  He shuffled in place and I could practically see the debate warring furiously behind his eyes. I played my ace.

  "Please, Billy," I asked sweetly, begging him with my best puppy dog look.

  "Goddamn it," he shot back instantaneously. "That bullshit look didn't work with Gus, and there ain't one fuckin' reason why I should let it work on me."

  "You loved him, Billy. Just like I did. Prison just isn't enough and you know it."

  He caved. "Two conditions."

  "I'm listening."

  "One, you keep me informed," he said sternly, and I knew there would be no negotiating.

  "Done."

  "Two, don't let me live to see in you in the slam. I can't protect you on this one. Gus was a good cop with a lot of friends. Friends on every rung of the ladder. A lot of people are gonna be watchin'."

  "Point taken."

  "I hope like hell you mean that. You best tread lightly."

  "This means too much to me to fuck up, Billy."

  He spent a long moment studying me and finally turned to open the door, readmitting the uniforms and the overdue forensics team.

  "Who found him?" I asked as the men made their way into the room.

  "A patrolman I sent by when he didn't show for work," Billy said.


  "Gus had some people over last night. He asked me to come, but I couldn't make it. What time do you figure for time of death?"

  "Four to six hours," Billy said. "That's preliminary. Do you know who was on the guest list?"

  "No, but if it wasn't the regular guys, Woody will know."

  "Was he here last night?"

  "Gus said he was coming," I said. "I'll give him a call when I get home."

  "Alright," Billy replied. "I'll let you tell him, and I expect a complete copy of that list."

  I nodded to agree.

  "Who's making the arrangements, Maddie?"

  The weight on my chest reappeared with the words, and suddenly I had to leave. I needed a dark and quiet place. "Woody will, I gotta go," I said, my voice strained even to my own ears.

  "Maddie," Billy said softly. "You need anything. Anything at all, company, a place to stay, or just a sympathetic ear. You call me, understand?"

  "Yeah," I choked out gratefully. "I'll buzz you tomorrow, Billy."

  "You do that," he ordered and I mustered a small smile before striding quickly from the room.

  Instead of the front door, I changed course and slipped out the back. Skulking through the yard to avoid the media vultures waiting out front. I made it to the shitbox I laughingly called my car and managed a clean getaway. The tears started a block away from home and I ran up the stairs, hoping to get safely inside before I shattered. It was a close call.

  ----------

  I spent the rest of the day and night sitting up on the floor between my bed and the wall, practically mummified in a comforter. It was a long night. When I was twelve, I said goodbye to a father that didn't care and having no memory of the woman known as mother. Nineteen years later, I cried for my father's brother. A man who had made room in his life, without hesitation or regret, for a niece he never knew existed. I cried until I fell asleep.

  I awoke before dawn and spent the early hours coming to terms with the course of action I was soon to embark on. I needed suspects, and it occurred to me that I was only one of many who loved Gus. He was a bear of a man who made friends easily. He could be accused of many things, but even those he confronted on the other side of the law would be hard pressed to call him unfair. All who knew him, respected him. He was the kind of man you wanted as a friend and feared as an enemy. But who could hate him enough to watch him suffer? I was dying to know the answer.

  As the new day dawned, my first one without Gus, I made a promise. A promise to myself. Justice would be done. It wouldn't be the kind of justice dispensed from the courts. There would be no flower power attorney endeavoring to persuade a jury with sob stories of broken homes and extenuating circumstances. No ridiculous accusations of racial bigotries or bullshit insanity pleas. Fucking lawyers. They were just a step below journalists on the evolutionary scale. No. The soon to be dead bucket of monkey spunk that shot my Dad would know how it felt to die by degrees on the floor with their guts on fire.

  It took longer than I thought to pick myself up and head for the kitchen. I needed a hot shower and a cup of coffee, lots of coffee. I had a moment of sheer panic when I opened the cupboard and found an empty box of coffee filters, but a few moments of rummaging through the trash produced one I could easily reuse. I got the java started and dug a cigarette out of my jacket as I relieved myself of my clothes.

  I soon found myself standing naked before the mirror in my bathroom, and I placed the smoke carefully on the edge of the counter. I was lonely and it wasn't just because I lost Gus. That only made it more unbearable. I had long been suffering from the effects of a complete lack of companionship. I needed a lover.

  Now don't get me wrong, I needed a lover for all the right reasons. I didn't need sex, although that had a certain appeal. Sex could be easily had, and I thought more of myself than to just hop in bed with the first slut that happened along. I couldn't take anything away from a one-night stand that I couldn't get from a finger or a modestly sized vibrator that, in occasional moments of self-induced passion, I called Stephanie. I wanted more than gratification and had wanted it for far too long. It bothered me that at thirty-one, I was still waiting for the right person. What was the hold up?

  I was attractive. Hell, I was fuckin' gorgeous. Despite a face made puffy from recent tears, I had pretty pale green eyes and long, rusty black hair that I always wore in a tail. I stood five-five and wasn't at all hard to look at. I mean shit, if I was me, I would want me. I had tits that would make the lactose intolerant beg for buttermilk and my ass could give the Pope a holy boner. Not for the first time, I concluded that my marital status was due in large part to my personality. It needed some tuning.

  I spared a moment to feel sorry for those who would never know the pleasure of my company before I threw my smoke in the toilet and climbed into the shower.

  ----------

  After my coffee and three more cigarettes, I picked up the phone to call Gus's son, my cousin Woody. It was a difficult conversation and his words haunted me long after he disconnected.

  "We're the only Ledoux's left, Maddie."

  It was true and I decided to make more of an attempt to ease relations with my often infuriating and overbearing older cousin. Gus had long been peacemaker between us, and I knew it would make him happy if I put in a little more effort. It wouldn't be easy; Woody was a lawyer. Worse yet, Woody was a civil rights lawyer. Hypocritical, treasonous, draft dodging, pot smoking bastards! I honestly believe that if you asked a civil rights attorney who wrote the U.S. Constitution, three out of five would say racists and the other two would say Adolph Hitler. Obviously, making nice with Woody was going to take a lot out of me.

  I did, however, receive a list of guests who had graced Gus's home on the night of his death. More than one of the names raised an eyebrow, and I dialed Billy's number, hoping to get the skinny on the people I didn't recognize.

  The conversation lasted through another cup of Joe and I hung up the phone with a destination in mind. A starting point. Gus had invited seven people into his home, excluding Woody, and all but one were suspects until I got proof that said otherwise.

  I left a smoke burning in the ashtray while I slipped into a pair of jeans and an olive button up; a pair of boots and a leather half trench completed my ensemble. I took one last drag from my cigarette and reached for my cell phone and gun. The weight of the .45 on my hip always provided me comfort and this time was no different. Why a .45? Because I don't go in for plastic pussy pistols or Euro trash double actions, I was made in the USA and .45 was the caliber of champions.

  A pair of Vuarnet's found a home on my face when I emerged onto the street, and, if you didn't count the gun, they were the most expensive part of my wardrobe. Actually, the sunglasses were more expensive than my car.

  The vehicle I refer to was once a Buick, but for the last ten years I just referred to it as a piece of shit. A homeless wino, in the midst of a blizzard, would pass up my car to take refuge in a newspaper someone had wiped their ass on.

  The shitbox started on the third try, and I zipped up my jacket because turning on the heater would only kill the engine. When my hands stopped shaking from the cold, I consulted my list. The first two people I wanted to talk to were ones I knew only by reputation. Two people I would've never figured Gus to give a squirt of piss about, let alone invite over to dinner. It was a thirty-minute drive to the upper crest part of suburbia, and I hoped to arrive before hypothermia set in.

  ----------

  The home of Sidney and Tish Binkowski offended me on sight. In the middle of a painstakingly manicured lawn there resided, to my complete horror, a family of plastic lawn animals. I knew several things immediately. The Binkowski's were either Democrats or Baptists and if both, I could guarantee that they would lie to me. Lawn animals were always a dead giveaway. Fake animals meant fake people. I knew in my heart that somewhere deep within the homes of Rosie O'Donnell and Al Gore, one would find a plethora of plastic animals. That is, if Rosie hadn't broken down by now
, dipped them in cake frosting, and eaten them.

  I pulled into the driveway and parked in front of closed garage doors, going over in my mind what I knew about the Binkowski's. The howitzer-like backfire of my shitcar didn't distract me, I had long since gotten used to it.

  Sid was an old money banker and a small time launderer who liked to fancy himself part of Organized Crime. It was true he had connections, but he was only thrown enough action to keep him feeling important. A dope on a rope. An outsider that served the dual purpose of unrelated resource and potential patsy.

  The dish on Tish was that she was an ex-blowjob ho that lucked into a sugar daddy. After they hooked up, they bought an upper class home in a respectable neighborhood and tried hard to blend in with the rich and pretentious. I wasn't fooled. What I couldn't figure was why Gus would give these two the time of day. I intended to find out and waited less than a minute for the door to be answered by, of all things, a butler. If he had an English accent, I might just laugh.

  "Yes?"

  No accent but I'd be willing to bet his name was Igor. "Sidney and Tish Binkowski, please."

  "And you are?"

  "Maddie Ledoux, I'm a private cop."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Identification, please."

  "But, of course," I said, letting him have a split-second glance at my credentials.

  "I'm afraid neither of the Binkowski's are available," he said with refined insolence.

  "So you're telling me that if they heard you screaming out on the lawn, neither of them would respond to your pleas for help?"

  He caught his smile before it bore fruit, quickly appraising me and realizing I was serious. Lucky thing, although I was disappointed. I was cold and wiping that grin off his face would've warmed me up a little. "Please, follow me," he said with a sarcastic gesture of gallantry.

  I was led into a spacious den that was encircled by overflowing bookshelves. Igor excused himself, and finding myself alone, curiosity forced me to choose a book at random. Upton Sinclair's 'The Jungle', the title surprised me. Lawn animals and classic literature seemed a contradiction. The book opened with a creak, the spine so stiff I could tell it had never been opened. Fake people. I put the book back just as the door opened and I smiled at my own cleverness.