Lovely, Dark, and Deep

by Frank Zafiro

“You’re lucky this is the boss’s home base,” he said in a low, deadly tone. “Or this kind of bullshit would have a higher price tag.”

  “I get it.”

  “You better hope you do.” He regarded me for a second. “I’m gonna hit you now,” he said. “You can try to stop me if you want.”

  I started to raise my hands. He lashed out with his left, catching me in the right eye. I saw stars. Another explosion of pain came from my mid-section. I stumbled forward into him and slid to my knees.

  “Now you’ve got a match for that other shiner,” he said.

  28

  That evening, I went back to the hospital. The charge nurse gave me a funny look when I walked in and checked to see if Monique was still in the same room as before. I realized that my face probably looked like I needed to be in a room and not visiting one.

  Truth was, my pride hurt more than my face or my gut. When I was on the job, I never lost a fight. But when I examined that thought further, I realized that it was a totally different world. I was an authority figure, with the weight of the state behind me. I had tools on my belt. I had back up officers coming. Most of the guys I fought were trying to get away more than they were trying to hurt me.

  Now, I was just another guy. And I was a decade older, too. Bracco’s thug, Joe? He obviously had some professional training. The way he moved, the force of his blows, those don’t happen on accident. Every red-blooded American male thinks he can fight. He thinks fighting ability is issued right along with his Y chromosome. The older I get, the more I think that it’s aggression, not ability, that comes issued stock. Ability is earned, and Joe had it. More so than me.

  I ran all this through my head, feeling more than a little sorry for myself, while I sat next to Monique’s still form. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like she had fewer tubes going into her, and she didn’t look as weak to me, either. But I was no doctor.

  What was I going to tell her when she woke up?

  What if she didn’t wake up?

  I sat next to her, and at some point, I took her hand. Later, I dozed off in the chair.

  “Sir?”

  I shook myself awake. A different nurse stood at Monique’s bedside.

  “Yeah?” I asked sleepily. “What time is it?”

  “It’s late,” she said. “And visiting hours are over now.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I know you’ve got rules, but this is my sister. I really…I need to stay.”

  “Sir, our policies—”

  “I won’t be any trouble. I promise.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “We have rules in place for a reason, sir. For the best interests of all our patients.”

  I pointed toward Monique. “I think having family close is in her best interest. Don’t you?”

  She hesitated, but I got the impression that she wasn’t weighing whether or not to let me stay. She was weighing whether or not to keep arguing with me or to call security.

  “Let him stay.”

  The voice came in a croaking, rasping whisper. Both the nurse and I turned in surprise toward Monique.

  Her deep brown eyes stared up at me, then at the nurse. “Can I have some water?”

  The nurse filled a small cup and helped her drink. Then she took the clipboard from her bedside and started asking her questions. Monique answered, her voice still fluttering and weak. After a while, the nurse finished with her questions and checked the readouts on the instruments Monique was hooked into. She double-checked her IV, then turned to us both.

  “Thirty minutes,” she said, then fixed her eyes on me. “But then you have to go.”

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded curtly and left the room.

  I pulled my chair closer to Monique’s bedside. “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “Like shit.”

  “Stupid question,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, and we both smiled a little.

  “I’m glad you’re awake.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  We sat in silence for a short time. I reached out and took her hand again, surprised at the emotion coursing between us. I felt almost as if I really were her brother. A lump rose in my throat. I tried to swallow past it.

  She must have read something in my eyes, because she smiled weakly at me. “You have a good heart, Stef. It’s full of guilt and shame and I don’t know what else. But it’s a good heart. You should let it sing.”

  “You sound like a philosopher. Or a self-help guru.”

  “I’m only speaking the truth.”

  “Did you get this insight while you were under general anesthesia? Because…”

  “Don’t make fun,” she said, her tone sharper. “I meant what I said.”

  I paused. “Well, thanks.”

  We sat for another few moments, then she made a strange sound. I watched her for a second. Then I realized she was laughing softly.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “You,” she said.

  “Me?”

  “You. Maird, but you look like a raccoon.”

  I put my hands to my face. Then I shook my head and sighed ruefully. “The worst part is, somebody different is responsible for each eye.”

  She stopped laughing. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny. Not really.”

  I shrugged. “It kinda is.”

  “You got hurt.”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t been in a hospital, fighting for my life. You had it much worse.”

  “What happened?”

  I sighed again, this time longer and deeper. “Basically, I’ve been stumbling around, making a huge mess of everything.”

  “Tell me.”

  I told her.

  When I’d finished, I figured the time the nurse gave us was pretty close to over. Monique sat quietly, thinking. I’d given her several sips of water during my retelling of events and she asked for another one now. I held the small cup to her lips and she sipped.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked her while I tossed the paper cup away.

  “Tell you what?”

  “That Tate was gay.”

  She smiled tiredly. “You think it’s that simple, huh? Gay or straight? Boys or girls?”

  “It always seemed pretty simple to me,” I said.

  She gave me a long look, then shrugged. “It is for some people. For others, it’s less rigid. It’s more of a spectrum.”

  “So he slept with you, even though he was gay?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “In the beginning, he said he wanted me to cure him. Somewhere along the line, I think he figured out that he didn’t need to be cured of anything.”

  “But you didn’t tell me about it.”

  “What did it matter? He wasn’t killed because of who he loved or slept with.”

  “That’s not what the newspapers will say.”

  “And they always tell such a pure truth, don’t they?”

  I dropped the issue. Instead, I said, “The guy at the restaurant had straight blond hair to his collar. Flattened nose. A fishhook-shaped scar under the eye.”

  “It was him,” she said.

  “The one who assaulted you?”

  “Yes. The description is perfect. It’s him.”

  “Good.”

  “So what happens now that you’ve found him?”

  Before I could answer, the door swung open. “Time for you to leave,” the nurse told me.

  “Five more minutes?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, her voice firm. “I’ve already made an exception. She needs her rest. It’s time for you to go.”

  I thought about pointing out that Monique had been sleeping for days, but one look at the nurse told me there was no more room for negotiation. Besides, when I glanced back at Monique, the weariness was plain in her face. She would probably be asleep minutes after I left.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” I told her. “We’ll talk then.”

&n
bsp; “Good.” She smiled.

  I gave her hand a light squeeze, and left.

  29

  So what happens now that you’ve found him?

  I thought about Monique’s question on the drive home. What happens now?

  One thing was certain. My work for Rolo was done. I knew who beat Monique, and why. Bracco sent his goon to shut her up about Tate. That connected Bracco to Tate, and the most likely connection was through Beurkens. He had to be the one bribing Tate.

  The truth was, though, I didn’t know for sure was whether Tate was really murdered, and if so, who actually killed him. I couldn’t put Monique’s questions to rest, even if I was finished with Rolo’s job. I could go and tell the big pimp what he needed to know, but my business with this case wasn’t done.

  Unfinished business didn’t sit well with me. Or maybe I just didn’t know when the hell to leave well enough alone.

  Either way, I stopped by my apartment and picked up something I needed. Then I looked up an address and headed that way.

  It was something that Clell had said that gave me the idea. Last year, I’d done a job for a hockey player. It didn’t turn out so well for either of us, but I solved my part of the problem with a miniature tape recorder. On my drive over to Lyle Beurkens’ house, I tested it.

  It worked fine.

  My plan was simple. I would talk to Beurkens. I’d press, goad, accuse, whatever it took to get him to admit to his association with Bracco. That, coupled with Lara Monroe and Monique’s testimony, ought to be enough to break the case wide open. I could take it to Detective Browning on a silver platter.

  Beurkens lived on the South Hill. I wasn’t surprised. That was where money lived in River City, though usually older money. But Beurkens didn’t live in the palatial mansions district of the South Hill. He lived in the older section, where the houses were large and well built, but still four and five to a city block. Beurkens hadn’t completely outgrown his blue collar roots.

  I cut my headlights around the corner from his house. I turned the corner and slid to the curb half a block away. The night was dark, but the street was well lit. I killed my engine and looked down the street, figuring out which house belonged to Beurkens.

  His house was the largest one on the block, on the corner. The porch light was on, but most of the lights inside were off. I glanced at my watch. One thirty in the morning. Most of the houses on the block were just as shut down for the night.

  I reached for the door handle, then stopped. The front door to Beurkens’ house opened and a solitary figure exited. The man didn’t look left or right. He casually closed the front door, stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and strode down the walkway. I couldn’t see his face, but his easy, confident stride made me think of someone.

  Bracco’s thugh, Joe.

  My pulse quickened. What was he doing here at this time of night? I guess he could have been delivering something for Bracco, or picking something up. There was plenty of room under that bulky jacket for a small package.

  Somehow I didn’t think that was it.

  Joe turned right at the end of the walk and started down the sidewalk, headed away from me.

  My next thought was that I should call the police. But what was I supposed to tell them? Some thug ex-boxer that works for a mobster just left a respected contractor’s house?

  Yeah, I’m sure they’d run lights and siren. Maybe even call out Major Crimes.

  Right.

  No, I had to check first.

  I waited until Joe was out of sight. Then I got out of my car and walked toward Beurkens’ house. My shoes padded lightly on the sidewalk. When I reached the front door, I rang the bell. My right hand gripped the recorder inside my pocket. When he answered the door, I’d turn it on. Then we’d see what we could see.

  No one came to the door.

  I rang again.

  No answer.

  I experienced a sinking feeling in my gut. I reached out and tried the knob.

  Unlocked.

  Shit.

  I stood there for a moment, waiting. But in the end, I knew what I had to do. I’d come this far, and even though I knew something bad had happened, I didn’t know for sure.

  I turned the handle and went in.

  30

  Light from the front porch and the streetlights streamed in through the breaks in the curtains, but the living room was full of shadows. I thought about turning on a light, but rejected the idea. Nothing like announcing a burglary like turning on lights.

  I guess what I was doing was technically trespassing more than burglary, but I’ve seen more than a few trespasses stretched into a burg in my time on the job. And someone like Beurkens had enough status in this city to make sure that happened.

  Besides, how many cops were still on patrol who knew me? And of those that did, how many would enjoy the opportunity to slap cuffs on me, after everything that happened?

  I shook my head and focused.

  Maybe Beurkens had gone to bed. But if Joe’s visit was a legitimate one, there was no way he’d be asleep yet.

  If everything was legit, and I called out, I was probably going to jail. But if I got caught skulking around this guy’s house, I was definitely going to jail. Or getting shot. Beurkens seemed like enough of a hothead to shoot first and maybe ask questions about it afterward.

  I opened my mouth to call out, then changed my mind. Something in my gut made me stop, and the times I haven’t listened to my gut are the times I’ve gotten hurt the worst.

  I shuffled across the dim living room, through a door and into the kitchen. Beyond the kitchen was a dining room and a great room. All empty.

  I came upon a closed door at the back of the house with a strip of light showing underneath. An office or a library, I figured. Maybe Beurkens was in there, poring over his ledgers. If he was, when I burst in, the situation was going to get ugly fast. I’d have to get him talking, and hope he didn’t just call the police. Or shoot me.

  Shit. This was stupid.

  I turned the knob and stepped quickly through the door.

  Empty. The walls were lined with pictures of Beurkens catching fish and killing game. There was one small section with a few books. A large desk sat in the middle of the room with a laptop computer.

  I thought about stealing a glance at his computer files, but I was no Adam. As soon as I hit the first password request, I’d be done. Besides, there was still house left to search.

  Something about one of the pictures on the wall brought me back to it. As soon as I took a few seconds to look at the shot of Beurkens and a companion next to a Marlin as tall as he was, I realized what had caught my attention.

  Standing next to him was the man from the Rocket Bakery. The missing part of the exchange between Beurkens and Tate. He smiled out of the picture as the two of them stood next to the trophy fish with the easy stance of a long friendship.

  I took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and left the office.

  The stairs to the second floor were wide and sweeping and just off the main entry. Upstairs there were three bedrooms. The first two had probably been children’s rooms at one time, but were obviously guest rooms now. The third bedroom was the master.

  The light was on. The bed was unmade. A wallet and a large-faced watch were on the single nightstand next to the clock. The plasma television hanging across the room on the wall was on ESPN with the sound muted.

  He’d been in bed when Joe came.

  But where was he now?

  I left the bedroom and headed back downstairs, looking for a basement door. I found it off the great room and took the stairs down into the pitch black. Steeling myself, I turned on the light.

  All I saw was huge recreation room, complete with a pool table and a wet bar.

  I checked the doors off the main room, but only found a laundry room and a television room with a massive TV and surround speakers hanging on the walls.

  When I walked back into the rec room, I realized what I’d misse
d.

  Nothing to do with a woman in the entire house. No female touch to the décor. This was a bachelor’s home and had been for some time. Was Beurkens divorced? Never married?

  Maybe he was a client of Rolo’s, I thought wildly. Or he used one of Rhonda’s girls. How would that be for six degrees of separation? Or maybe he was gay.

  Beurkens’ living situation didn’t matter. No wife or kids in the house made this easier, anyway. No loose ends. Just him and me, talking, man to man.

  If I could find him.

  I went back upstairs and walked around some more. Without turning on the lights, it was more difficult to figure out where another door might be, but after a while I found it just down a short hallway from the kitchen.

  The garage.

  I tried to remember how the garage door faced the street. This was a corner lot. Did the garage door open onto the street I’d parked on, or the other? Could he have met with Joe, then jumped in his car right away and driven away without me noticing?

  Maybe. He could have pulled out onto the other street and taken a right. I would only have been able to see the reflection of lights leaving. I didn’t remember seeing that, or hearing a car, but I was more focused on the house. I could have missed it.

  But I knew I didn’t.

  I swung the door open slowly. The heavy metal creaked on its hinges, almost screeching my arrival. It was pitch dark in the garage, too. I fumbled around for a light switch to the side of the door and found it. I flipped it on.

  I blinked at the harshness of the light.

  Then I blinked again at what I saw.

  Lyle Beurkens hung from a rope against the wall. His face was a deep purple and blood coated his lips. His engorged tongue stuck out his mouth. He did not move.

  I walked slowly toward the body. The rope was attached to a large hook mounted in the wall. There were several others. He’d probably used them for storing skis or his kayaks or fishing poles.

  The stench of him hit me after just a few steps. It wasn’t rot. He’d lost controls of his bowels and bladder and the smell of his waste filled the air. My stomach clenched, threatening to bring up my last meal, but I fought it down. This would be a crime scene soon. The last thing I needed to do was leave my DNA all over the place.