“You still working with that cop?” he asks.
“A bit.”
“Still think she’s going to tell you who killed Mike?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.” He motions for me to sit beside him. I hesitate just long enough to preserve my ego and then plunk my ass down beside him.
“I’m serious, Candace, you’re playing with fire here. Anyone finds out you’ve been running with this Malone, you’re going to find yourself on the outside looking in, with only me willing to watch your back. And I can’t always be around.”
I remember looking in through the office window from the outside and seeing the two detectives arguing at the cop shop.
“I saw Saunders yesterday,” I say. “And that guy, Wolfe. The one whose wife Dad was making it with.” Charlotte begins banging pots nervously in the kitchen.
“You see, this is what I’m talking about, Candace. All this police fraternization. It can’t lead to no good.”
“What do you think of Wolfe for it?”
“For what?”
“For killing Dad.”
“That fat fuck couldn’t have killed anyone. He couldn’t fight his way out of a dog’s vest with two cut peckers and a licence.” Now he’s definitely just making shit up.
“You know as well as I do that you don’t need physical ability or strength, just the element of surprise. Isn’t that what you and Dad always used to say?”
“Well, I’d be surprised as hell if that useless copper ever put one over on your dad. Besides, that whole thing with Doug Wolfe was years ago, Candace. If the man was going to slit your father’s throat, he would have done it when he found Mike’s face buried in his wife’s muff.”
“Rod,” Charlotte scolds from the kitchen.
He rolls his eyes.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Candace?” she says, coming around the corner wiping her hands on a dish towel. Looks like I’m forgiven.
I calculate how many drinks I can afford at The Goon tonight and how long it’ll take me to drink them. I guess I have the time. “Okay,” I say, “just let me wash my hands.” Rory was touching me with his turtle hands earlier. You don’t know what kind of deadly bacteria those amphibious buggers are carrying on them.
When I walk past Rod’s bedroom, I see it on the dresser. He doesn’t usually leave his door open, but Charlotte’s probably been in there fetching his dirty laundry. I walk out to the living room again with the Diamondback pistol dangling from one finger.
“What the hell is this, Rod?” He looks at the slim gun, so small it’s half the weight of most compact models but just as deadly. Charlotte does an about-face and retreats to the kitchen.
“I thought you and Dad never carried pieces.”
“I’m holding it for a friend,” he says.
“C’mon, Rod. That didn’t work when you and Dad caught me with a joint at fifteen, and it won’t work now.”
“Seriously, I’m holding it for John Castleman. The cops are after searching his place, and he’s not allowed to own a weapon on account of the terrorism charge.”
“What terrorism charge?” John Castleman is a two-bit hustler with no greater political affiliations than the occasional room at the Y.
“He and a few lads got some dynamite a few years back and blew up a pumpkin patch out on Post Road.”
“He’s a squash terrorist?”
“Took out a scarecrow and all.”
“Let’s eat,” says Charlotte, dropping a burnt offering on the round dining table. It looks more loaf than meat.
Rod walks up and takes the gun gently from my hands, putting it in the cabinet under the coffee table with his Stanley Cup playoff tapes.
“C’mon, girl, you could never leave well enough alone. Forget about Wolfe and this Malone and have some supper with us.”
I think about Dad showing me his Rolex with the moon face, pointing at the stars. And his bloated empty wrist when I saw him in the morgue. That’s the problem with a girl like me. I can’t leave alone some of the things that I should.
And what’s more, I can’t bring myself to forget them.
When I get back to my apartment, there’s an envelope from Malone pushed under the door. More useless paper for party hats.
Lachlan Reid is missing. If you know anything, you better call me now.
Shit. I told her not to take away his computer — that it would give him worse withdrawal than Rory had gone through in Rod’s basement.
I bring the paper over to the stove. Light one end of it with the burner then dump it in the sink. It crinkles and writhes like that guy the Daybreak Boys set on fire with motor oil.
This is getting way too involved. I thought it would be a slam dunk at the beginning. Play along with Malone. Pretend like I was trying to help. Wait for Tyler Brent to be written off as death by misadventure and collect my just reward. But if she didn’t buy the idea of a suicide pact before, she sure as hell wouldn’t now with Lachlan missing. I look out the window at The Goon, wondering if Marcus might be there. He’s good at tracking people; he used to do it as a Marine, running down terrorist cells overseas. If he could find Osama bin Laden, he’d be a good candidate to search for a snot-nosed kid who had his video games taken away. I might suggest it to Malone. More playing at helping.
But like Uncle Rod said, what’s the guarantee that Malone is even going to deliver the goods on my father? What’s with her anyway, involving me in all this? I know I’m taking risks here, but so is she. And I still haven’t figured out why. It can’t just be to find out who offed a useless waste of space like Tyler Brent. And after how many days of riding around with Malone in the back of that cop car, I’m no closer to finding out what happened to my dad or his watch. Rod may be in the clear now, but I still don’t know about Wolfe. And while I’ve learned way more about my mother than I ever wanted to know, the Mob doesn’t look like they cared enough to kill him, and Malone says they weren’t in town anyway. That’s if she and the rest of the police force would even have been capable of tracking the Scarpellos’ movements. She can’t even find Tyler Brent’s phone, let alone assure me that one of La Cosa Nostra didn’t slip in and arrange a hit while the cops had their fingers up their asses. The Mob has more plants than a fucking conservatory. It would have been easy to get a bent cop inside the force to make sure nobody saw anyone they didn’t want them to see.
All this is making my head hurt. I turn the TV on, pour myself a drink, and pop a few Aspirin. I still have a few wobbly-pop vodka coolers from when Shannon came over. It’s rare for liquor to last this long in my fridge. I must be getting soft on my hard drinking these days.
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days is on the late show. That Kate Hudson was more believable in Glee. A chick that looks like her couldn’t lose a guy if she put him in a maze blindfolded. Malone and I could teach her a trick or two. We’ve lost two guys in the last week. But, then again, I’m an expert at making people disappear.
CHAPTER 14
THE NEXT MORNING around eleven Majd knocks at my door again, this time with a hell of a lot more force. Malone’s on the blower. I think he’s losing his patience with being my full-time receptionist. The sun streaming through the window makes me want to bury my head under the pillow until it’s dark again.
“You’re starting to interfere with my beauty sleep, Malone,” I say once I get downstairs to the phone. This time I pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of booty shorts. Majd is still recovering from the last time, when my kimono fell open.
“Did you get my note?” she asks.
“Yes, I got your fucking note. And you got to quit coming around here. People are going to start noticing.” I don’t need some squealer across the street at The Goon telling everyone I’ve got a cop hanging around with me. Talk like that can be unhealthy for a girl like me.
“So, do you know anything about Lachlan Reid’s disappearance?” The bell jingles and the two meth heads I tosse
d from the store last Sunday walk in. They take one look at me and walk right back out. Smart boys.
“I get that you think I’m some kind of criminal mastermind, Malone, but my expertise doesn’t extend to finding kids on the side of milk cartons.”
“This is not a kid on a milk carton, Candace. This is Tyler Brent’s best friend. His father said he hasn’t seen him since the day we interviewed him.”
“Probably running scared. Or at an all-night rave. Jesus, Malone. Seventeen-year-olds make a career out of not coming home and worrying the shit out of their parents. Don’t you see the shares on Facebook?”
“For a person without a phone or a computer, you seem to know a lot about what goes on online,” she says.
“I worked taking travel agency bookings on the inside. Better than the laundry. There was a fair bit of downtime between taking people’s credit card information.”
“They let you take people’s credit card numbers?” Malone is horrified. As I’m sure many people who booked their all-inclusives with me to the Dominican would be.
“Listen, is there a point to this, Malone? Because if there isn’t I have a date with my pillow.”
“Yes, there is a point,” she says. “There’s been a development.”
“What sort of development?” I say, twisting my hair out of the way. It was getting caught up in the phone cord.
“The Corrigans’ house has been broken into. They ransacked Alice’s room. I want you to have a look at it with me.” Oh, man. That’s the last place I want to go today. Or any bloody day. “I’ll come pick you up,” she says.
“That, Malone, is something you won’t do.”
I tell her where to meet me. Another street corner. I go upstairs and find something clean to wear. The starched underwear chafes at my crotch as I brush my teeth. When I spit, there’s blood mixed in with the toothpaste. I probably just brushed them too hard, but I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Davidson, my dentist, just in case. He takes care of my teeth, and I take care not to mention he supplies laughing gas for swinger parties. I hope it’s not gum disease or a cavity. I’d really like to avoid that damn drill. I never should have watched Marathon Man with my dad at such an impressionable age.
The underwear isn’t the only thing irritating me, as I put on my sunglasses and pile my tumble of hair up under a New York Yankees baseball cap. I’m getting tired of being at Malone’s beck and call. This thing better wrap up soon, or I’ll have to do some of my own drilling.
Kristina answers the door again, this time looking like a wasp flew into her yoga pants. As if Malone and I were the ones who broke into her house and tossed Alice’s room, inconveniencing the hell out of her. Turns out she actually does.
“Are you responsible for this? Because if you are, my lawyer will eat your badge for breakfast.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Corrigan, we are not responsible.” Kristina looks at me, none too sure of my lack of responsibility when it comes to a break and enter, but lets us inside anyway.
“Take your shoes off,” she says. Malone removes her Doc Martens. I keep my shit kickers on. She notices, but she doesn’t say anything.
“They got in over here,” she says, leading us into a kitchen bigger than four of my apartments put together. Recovered barnboard counters — where the barn must have housed a sacred cow — gleam in the track lighting. Pots and pans hang from a wooden ladder in the ceiling. I look at the name on the bottom of one. Jamie Oliver. They look like they’ve never been used. Kristina walks over to a sliding door leading out to a deck with a well-swept outdoor fireplace and a built-in barbecue.
“They broke the lock,” she says, flicking the useless latch with a polished red fingernail.
Malone inspects the lock. Really, what did the Corrigans expect from such pathetic protection of their home? Most of those latches will pop open if you jiggle the glass door up and down a few times. And forget the security bar. With a crowbar you can lift the one frame of glass off the runners entirely. My advice to people with sliding doors is to brick them up and use a window to get in the backyard.
“Anything missing?” Malone asks.
“Not that I could determine. My jewellery is all there. We keep the finer pieces in the safe and it hasn’t been compromised.”
“But you mentioned Alice’s room was out of sorts,” Malone says.
“Out of sorts?” Kristina shouts. The wasp must be cruising right up her butt crack now. “They tore the place apart. Her duvet, her vintage beanbag chair, the hand-painted abalone-inlay jewellery box her father brought back from Japan.”
“What the hell is abalone inlay?” I say. Then I remember I don’t want to talk to this woman.
“It’s made from the spiral shells of abalone, or sea snails,” she says, turning to Malone. “I thought you could have told her that.” Kristina the WASP has decided that Malone should know about anything that comes from Japan because of the shape of her eyes. Despite her being born here. And despite her mother being from China and not Japan.
“We really should have a look,” Malone says with a sour face.
“You’ll just use it as an excuse to go through Alice’s things. For your investigation,” she says, getting all snippy.
“Someone has already gone through her things,” I say. Krisitna gives me a questioning look. I reply with an imperceptible nod. Might as well give Malone what she wants. She’ll be easier to handle that way. Besides, the blonde isn’t stupid. She isn’t about to leave anything around that could link the two of us.
“Fine,” she says, making it clear that it’s anything but. “Make sure you don’t make more of a mess. I have Consuela coming in at three to clean it all up.”
Malone and I sift through the levelled contents of Alice Corrigan’s room. It looks like a bomb hit it, but a bomb wouldn’t have this kind of precision. Someone has sliced open the mattress of the canopied bed and pried off the velvet lid insert of the abalone-inlaid jewellery box. All the drawers of the white lacquered desk and matching dresser have been thrown out on the floor and emptied. A stack of stuffed animals with the guts ripped out of them lie on the floor like plush toy victims of Freddie Krueger.
“Wow, they really worked this place over,” Malone says, picking up a Care Bear with his rainbow belly hanging open like a stupefied lip. We both have our latex gloves on again. Malone starts laying down some aluminum flake to dust for prints, but I know she won’t find anything of interest.
“The only prints you’re going to find are the Corrigans’, and maybe Consuela’s. This is a professional toss, Malone. They would have worn gloves.”
“I know that,” she says. “But the public gets pissed if you don’t dust for prints after a break-in. I’ll do just the desk and the sliding door downstairs to get Kristina the shrew off my back.”
“Don’t you use one of those fancy lights to find fingerprints nowadays?” I pick through a drawer of jumbled tank tops.
“Only the forensic team gets to use those. Lowly detectives have to do it the old-fashioned way.” When she’s concentrating on lifting one of the prints with adhesive tape, I grab a nice pink tank top from a drawer and stuff it into my jacket.
“Just wondering, why didn’t you show that letter Alice wrote Tyler to her parents?” I’ve been meaning to ask since we interviewed the power couple.
“I’m holding that back,” Malone says. “If anything is going to get me an extradition order from Spain, it’ll be that letter. Let me know if you see anything with Alice’s writing on it. We can get the lab to compare the handwriting.”
I half-heartedly start looking through the other rifled drawers, which are all lying right side up. That means whatever the intruder was looking for, it wasn’t flat or small enough to be taped to the bottom of one.
“What exactly are we looking for besides that, Malone? That the person who did this didn’t find already.”
“You never know,” she says, still lifting prints. “Sometimes people don’t know what they’re lo
oking for, even when they find it.” She sees a shoe on the floor, one of those German sandals that are supposed to mould to your feet. I guess they were too sensible to take to Spain. “Pick that up and tell me what size it is,” Malone says, concentrating on the dusting.
“It’s got that weird European sizing,” I say, turning it over in my hand.
“What’s the number?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“That’s size nine U.S.”
“For a small girl, she’s got pretty big fucking feet.”
“I’m size nine,” says Malone, bristling a little. Jesus, try having canoes the size of mine and you can earn the right to be sensitive about the size of your shoes.
“Well, it’s still not the same as the tracks you found in the zip line shack. Those were a seven.”
“You never know. I’ve managed to cram my feet into a friend’s seven and a half when I needed high heels for a party,” says Malone. “Keep looking.”
I inspect some more shoes. They’re all size nine. When I get bored with that, I decide to look through Alice’s jewellery box. Maybe I’ll find something else in there I’d like to take with me. The design on the outside reminds me of my pink kimono, cranes and pagodas and other stereotypical stuff. There are some beads inside and a ring with a skull on it the size of a golf ball. I pull at the velvet-covered insert and tug it away from the lid. Little specks of white powder line the hidden side.
“What’s that?” Malone says, looking over my shoulder. Shit. She reaches out with her gloved hand, dabs a gloved finger into the powder, and starts to bring it to her mouth to taste it. I grab her by the wrist so fast she winces a little.
“Don’t do that, Malone.”
“Why the hell not? It’s quicker than the lab. I know what cocaine and heroin taste like.”
“It’s heroin,” I say. “And my guess is it’s probably laced with W-18. So unless you want to be a hundred times deader than Tyler Brent, I’d give it a pass.”
We didn’t find anything with Alice Corrigan’s writing on it. Which I thought was strange. Young girls are always writing things down in diaries or in the margins of notebooks. But there weren’t any notebooks in Alice’s bedroom. Her mother had said she had taken all her schoolwork to Spain so she could continue her studies online. That also explained why when Malone searched Alice’s locker at school she didn’t find anything but a granola bar wrapper and a copy of Isben’s A Doll’s House that didn’t even have a drawing of a penis in it. We’re at the lab now, talking with the technician who is going to analyze the white powder we found in Alice’s jewellery box. He’s also the one who told us the orange threads on Tyler’s neck matched the chest harness provided by Daisy Chain Adventures. The boy had been hanged with it, he said.
The Starr Sting Scale Page 13
