This was not easy to follow. Maybe Consuelo was also having the same problem.
Her hand was over her chest again.
“But don’t they usually call medics Doc?” she said.
“If I’d wanted them to call me Doc, they’d have called me Doc.” His voice rose. I felt it through the floorboards. “Ever heard of human rights?” His eyes shifted, as though he were listening to something. A strange silence descended on the kitchen, not comfortable. Medic spoke again, but much more quietly. “Are we about done for the day?”
“There’s just the stretching exercises left,” Consuelo told him.
“I hate the goddamn stretching exercises,” Medic said, still softly.
“Then maybe tomorrow?”
Medic nodded.
Consuelo happened to look my way, catching me in mid-yawn—not sleepy, not bored, just simply yawning. Soon after that—in fact, right then—she left the house, possibly in a bit of a hurry.
Medic wheeled closer to the cooler, gestured at it with his chin. His voice got stronger. “If not beer, then what?”
“Open it,” Bernie said.
Weren’t we going to give Medic a chance to pat me before we got down to business? I went over to him.
“Look at the size of this guy.” Medic rubbed my neck. He had real strong hands and at the same time a soft touch—the kind of combo you dream about. “What’s he weigh?”
“Chet’s a hundred-plus pounder,” Bernie said. “Nailing down the exact number means getting him on the scale.”
Medic laughed, a loud, rolling laugh, like he was back to his normal self. “Any chance he’s hungry?”
There was every chance! I sidled my way toward the fridge. Medic laughed again—why, I wasn’t sure. Didn’t food come out of the fridge? Actually not in this case. Moments later I was in the corner, enjoying a Slim Jim. In fact, we were all enjoying Slim Jims. The world shrank down to this little kitchen and us dudes chowing down. Life is full of nice moments. You just have to be there.
* * *
Medic opened the cooler. He gazed inside, not saying anything. Bernie also said nothing. He gazed at Medic. I gazed at the cupboard where the Slim Jims were stored and considered various possibilities.
Medic cleared space on the table and began unpacking the cooler, piece by piece. The skull ended up leaning against the fruit bowl, the broken knife lying on the butter dish, not quite touching the butter. Medic went into gazing mode all over again. Bernie sat down, crossed one leg over the other. Soon his hand would pat his chest pocket, meaning the hand was thinking about cigarettes, of which there were none on Bernie, cigarette smell unmissable. I sat down myself, found a tiny scrap of Slim Jim way back in my mouth and tried to make it last.
Bernie’s hand was just reaching up to pat his chest pocket when Medic sat back. He rubbed his face, sort of smoothing it out—a human move I always like to see—and said, “Did you show all this to the ME?”
“Nope,” Bernie said.
“How come?”
“You’re better.”
“Did the fact of her being an official play into it?”
“There is that,” Bernie said.
Medic waved his hand at the stuff on the table. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Medic nodded. “One thing’s for sure—you didn’t kill him. You weren’t even born.”
“Dodged a bullet,” Bernie said.
Medic’s eyes got an inward look. “What is it about guys like you and me, Bernie?”
“How do you mean?”
“Do you ever get the feeling that the world is racing by the other way?”
“Yup.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m willing to listen to suggestions.”
“Came to the wrong place,” Medic said.
I rose. If we were in the wrong place, shouldn’t we hit the road?
Medic reached for the skull, placed it on his leg, the one that ended just above the knee, the other leg not as long. I sat back down.
“A Caucasian gentleman,” he said, “with some Mesoamerican ancestry, in his early twenties. Probably about five feet eleven when fully assembled, strongly built, no sign of childhood injuries, malnutrition, or serious diseases. He was stabbed in the head—very convenient to have a partial murder weapon, Bernie. You do good work. That’s the cause of death, practically instantaneous.” Medic gave the skull a little pat. I got a strange feeling on the top of my own head, not pleasant. “Way too young to die, as we say.”
He turned to Bernie. They exchanged a look. I knew it meant something, but that was as far as I got.
“Anything else?” Bernie said.
“Aside from the fact that the killer was right-handed and almost certainly a man, based on the force required? Not that I can think of,” said Medic. “What’s with your nose, by the way?”
* * *
Sometimes on a case like this, Bernie likes to swing by home for a quick shower and a change of clothes. I myself have only been in the shower once, and very briefly—although I took the shower with me, as Bernie always says when he’s telling the story—and for clothing I usually stick to my gator-skin collar, the black leather one being for dress-up.
“What’s this?” Bernie said, as we drove up Mesquite Road.
A long black car was parked in front of our place. Old man Heydrich was standing beside it, talking to the driver through the rolled-down window. Have I mentioned old man Heydrich already? For neighbors, we have the Parsons and Iggy on one side and old man Heydrich on the other. He has a thick and grassy green lawn that he waters morning, evening, and in between; is not fond of me and my kind; and collects Nazi memorabilia, whatever that is, exactly. Other than that, we don’t know much about him.
We parked in the driveway and got out of the car. Bernie looked at old man Heydrich. He didn’t stare or glare, just looked. Old man Heydrich caught the look, lowered his own gaze, said, “Pleasure meeting you,” to the driver, and headed toward his house. His sprinklers started up the moment he went inside.
The driver opened the door of the long black car and stepped out: a big suntanned man with a big strong chin, big strong nose, and a full head of white hair. I recognized him right away, meaning I was on my game, so on my game that I knew for certain his name would come to me sooner or later.
“Mr. Riggs?” Bernie said.
“Boomer, please. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Right! Boomer Riggs! The name had come to me already. What a day I was having! Slim Jims and now this!
“Or what, Boomer?” Bernie said.
Boomer laughed a big laugh, possibly the kind called booming. I came very close to making a connection. “Glad I caught you,” he said. “Been away?”
Bernie shrugged. “Coming and going.”
“Not according to your neighbor’s log,” Boomer said. “He says you’ve been gone for two days.”
Bernie glanced over at old man Heydrich’s house. “The son of a bitch keeps a log on us?”
“Not just on you—the whole block,” said Boomer. “Mr. Heydrich has a spreadsheet on his iPad. He was just about to show me when you drove up.”
“God almighty,” Bernie said.
Boomer laughed again, came forward, shook Bernie’s hand. “Have a nice trip?”
“Not bad,” Bernie said.
I caught a whiff of something in the air and was suddenly very glad to see old Boomer.
“Work or play?” he was saying.
“Why do you ask?” said Bernie.
“No reason.” Boomer reached into his pocket. “Almost forgot—can Chet have one of these?” He held up—yes!—a white truffle–infused Kobe beef jerky treat!
Bernie … sniffed the air? How strange! Then, even stranger, he said, “Nice of you—but he just had his treat for the day. I can keep it for him if you like.”
“That’s all right,” Boomer said, repocketing the treat, which smelled just like t
he last one. “If this works out, there’ll be other treats from me in his future.”
“If what works out?” said Bernie.
“You made it clear you wouldn’t join Western Solutions as an employee, but we didn’t discuss contract work. I’ve got a three-month job starting in a day or two, pays sixty K plus expenses.”
Bernie shook his head. “We’re busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Working a case.”
“Mind telling me what case?”
“I do,” Bernie said.
“Totally understood,” Boomer said. “I like how you work, Bernie. You remind me of myself when I was young. But if it’s still the Lotty Pilgrim matter, word is she’s pleading guilty tomorrow morning. Meaning your case is over.”
“But the arraignment’s not till next week,” Bernie said.
“They moved it up to tomorrow.”
“How do you know?”
“I happened to be having drinks with the judge,” Boomer said. “Pure coincidence.” He took out an envelope. “Here’s our standard three-month contract with all the details of the case, plus an on-signing check for thirty grand.”
“I’m really not—”
“At least look it over.” Boomer’s eyes got a little twinkly as though he was smiling inside. “The case just came up—urgent and right up your alley, which is why I’m here.”
“Right up my alley?”
“It’s about a dog fighting ring operating in a number of southeastern states.”
Bernie took the envelope.
* * *
They said goodbye, Boomer heading toward his car and Bernie toward the house. I was kind of trailing Bernie, still keeping an eye on Boomer in case some private arrangement with the white truffle–infused Kobe beef jerky treat was in the cards. It turned out not to be, but I did catch one of those human double-takes: Boomer noticing the spade and shovel sticking out of the Porsche, and then re-noticing them for a little longer. As for why I didn’t get my treat, I had no clue. I’d already had my treat for the day? When was that, if I may ask?
Twenty-nine
The phone was ringing in the house. Bernie picked up. A voice I knew—male, old but not weak—came over the speaker.
“Bernie? Myron Siegel here. Anything to report? I’m getting anxious.”
“Nothing to be anxious about,” Bernie said. “I don’t normally report until there’s a final result.”
Myron’s voice rose, at the same time sounding thinner and less powerful. “There’s plenty to be anxious about. I’m missing Oksana.”
Oksana? I remembered how she’d raised her beer mug: Here’s to this beautiful creature. Am I the type who forgets my fans?
“I don’t understand,” Bernie said.
“I’m missing her because she’s not here,” said Myron. “I sent her away for her own safety.”
“Have you been threatened?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Speed up a little, Bernie.”
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Bernie said.
* * *
Myron wasn’t poolside at his condo, but indoors with the curtains closed and a few lights on. That’s something that makes me uneasy in the daytime.
Myron led us into the living room. He opened a tiny gap in the curtains and peeked out. Golden dust specks buzzed around in the narrow gap. “Are you armed?” he said.
“Yes,” said Bernie. “And you?”
“Too old to take up gunslinging.” Myron closed the curtains and the dust specks vanished in mid-buzz. “And don’t ask where she is. Somewhere safe—that’s all I’m telling you or anybody.”
“Fine with me as long as you’re sure she’s safe,” Bernie said. “What happened, Myron?”
Myron raised his voice, again sounding older. He also looked older, his face all shadowy in the dim light. “What happened? Two nights ago a thug broke in here—well, he got in somehow. There was actually no damage. But the point is he waved a gun in our faces—we were in our bed!—and threatened our lives unless we quote ‘dropped the Lotty Pilgrim matter.’”
“What did you do?”
Myron shook his head. “I made a stupid reply, the first thing that came to mind.”
“Which was?”
“‘Fuck you.’ I forgot that my inner self is pretty much disconnected from my outer self these days—something Oksana likes about me, for what it’s worth.”
“And then?” Bernie said.
“He walked up to Oksana’s side of the bed and stuck the gun in her mouth. I could have killed him.” Myron hung his head. “Except I couldn’t, of course. Instead I told him I’d do as he asked. He warned me not to call the cops—he said if I did he’d know right away—and then he left. I got Oksana out of here within the hour.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No,” Myron said. “I believed him on that.”
“But why didn’t you call me?”
“Because I had no intention of dropping the case,” Myron said. “I don’t like getting pushed around.”
“Have you switched out the locks?”
Myron nodded. “Plus I put in deadbolts.”
“What did this guy look like?” Bernie said.
“Huge,” said Myron. “NFL-lineman size. Well-spoken, obviously educated, wore a suit. When I call him a thug, I mean morally.”
A big guy in a suit? I hadn’t been listening my very closest, but that little detail slipped into my mind. It bumped into another little detail that was just waiting there, namely the image of the hair-gel dude. What a pleasant bump, if very tiny.
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Bernie said.
“Why not?” said Myron.
“The details don’t matter,” Bernie said. “Right now I need you to think back to high school in Fort Kidder. What kind of offense did the football team run when Lotty was there?”
“Is that some kind of joke?” Myron said.
“Far from it,” Bernie said. “If it was a single wing—which a lot of high schools in the state were still running back then—then I need to talk to the fullback. If it was modern pro-style, then it’s the center.”
“What’s going on?” Myron said.
“Depending on the system, those would be the players most likely to have a close relationship with the quarterback.”
Myron gave Bernie a careful look. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, sounding more like his normal self. “Okay to bring Oksana back home?”
“Not yet,” Bernie said.
We were on our way out when Myron started opening the curtains. Daylight poured in and followed us through the doorway.
* * *
In the car, Bernie got on the phone and called Rick Torres.
“Is Chet there?” Rick said.
“Yup.”
“Awake?”
“Extremely.”
“Meet at Donut Heaven? I’m off in an hour.”
“Can’t,” Bernie said. “But I need a favor.”
And Bernie went on to describe some favor, possibly about a jail. I wasn’t really listening because … because we’d just turned down a chance to drop by Donut Heaven? Tackle the most important task first. Wasn’t that something Bernie said all the time? Or at least once? Plus I was starving.
Bernie hung up. The phone rang again.
“Bernie? Myron. I checked all police reports, Valley, suburbs, and three counties. No hits.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The intruder. No one matching his description has been arrested, injured enough to require EMTs, or otherwise incapacitated in the past thirty-six hours.”
“Myron, for god’s sake—there’s a reason for that.”
“A reason that would still my worries?”
“To the stillest,” Bernie said. “And aren’t you supposed to be working the football question?”
“That was easy,” Myron said. “Got a pen?”
* * *
“
What are we going to do if Charlie wants to play football?” Bernie said.
Buy him a football: that was my only idea. I was thinking about the big problem with football—namely the unwieldiness of the ball, which you need to deflate a bit to get it properly in your mouth—when we pulled into one of the playing field complexes we have in the Valley, not the fancy kind with the unreal grass and shady trees, but the other kind with mostly no grass and no trees. Out on the fields, kids—some little, some not quite as little—were practicing football. Practicing means the coaches are out on the field yelling things. In games, the coaches yell from the sidelines.
“Any chance you’d prefer to stay in the car?” Bernie said. “Maybe grab a few z’s?”
What was that? Something about the car? I was already some distance away and had missed most of it.
“Okay, then,” Bernie said. “Best behavior.”
But of course! What other kind was there? We walked around a couple of fields, stopped at the sideline of the next one. A guy in sweats, maybe Bernie’s age, was writing on a clipboard. He glanced up at Bernie.
“We’re looking for the Lions,” Bernie said.
Uh-oh. This was a bad development. I’d had an experience with a mountain lion, felt no desire for another one anytime soon, or ever. A trace of lion scent still lived in my brain, would maybe be there forever. I tried sniffing the air. No lions. So maybe we were looking for lions but had come to the wrong place? I was fine with that.
The guy checked his watch. “We got twenty more minutes.”
“We don’t want the field,” Bernie said. “Just a few minutes with the coach, Ernie Flowers, I believe. Is that you?”
The guy frowned. “I’m the head coach,” he said. “Assistant Coach Flowers handles the linemen.” He pointed to two rows of little kids in football gear lined up and facing each other, hands and feet on the ground. Hands and feet on the ground—what a great game! A big round dude with a stogie sticking out the side of his mouth was pacing back and forth between the two lines and yelling, “Hands and butts, hands and butts—how many times I gotta tell you potato heads?”
Heart of Barkness Page 24