by Ben Sanders
McCarthy laughed drily. ‘Get out of here. I’m done with you.’
Devereaux didn’t move. ‘I’ve got proof. They’re going to send you to prison.’ He wanted to clap him on the shoulder: befittingly McCarthyish for a parting jibe.
McCarthy said, ‘Get out.’
Devereaux swallowed: copper, like blood or bullets on the tongue. He said, ‘Why don’t you come in and answer some questions?’ The first time he’d laid that line on a policeman.
The Don said, ‘I used to love saying that.’
Devereaux didn’t answer. McCarthy said, ‘I’m not going with you. Get out of my house.’
Devereaux held his ground. McCarthy flipped his jacket hem back — fast. He slipped something off his belt. Fist-sized, metallic: that mythic .380. He kept it waist-high, muzzle on Devereaux’s gut.
Devereaux said, ‘What will the neighbours think?’
‘Go back inside.’
‘This isn’t very smart.’
‘Go back inside.’
Devereaux felt behind him for the edge of the slider, stepped indoors. He nearly tripped on the runner. McCarthy followed, pulled the door to behind him. Devereaux looked around. The room wasn’t worried: a copy of Time magazine lay splayed on an armchair, a mug sat almost empty atop a coaster. A reading lamp’s glow had been bleached out by morning sun.
McCarthy raised the gun. Devereaux visualised the trajectory. He pictured a sucking chest wound.
‘Hollow point ammo,’ McCarthy said. ‘Shit’s going to get ruptured.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
McCarthy said, ‘And to think you could have walked out of here under your own steam.’
‘You don’t want to shoot me in your living room.’
‘I could. I can dress this up anyway I like. You turned up here with a gun. You’ve already killed two people this week, maybe you decided to make me snuff number three. Top the antagonising boss.’
‘Have you killed anyone before?’
McCarthy didn’t answer.
Devereaux said, ‘You’re in for some sleepless nights.’ McCarthy smiled. ‘You’re in for some lifeless nights.’
‘They’re going to search the house and find where you’ve put the money.’
No reaction.
Devereaux felt sweat in his hair. He came across braver than he felt: ‘We don’t have to wrap things up like this.’
‘Use two fingers and take the gun off your hip and place it on the floor.’
‘I’m pretty keen to keep it.’
McCarthy laughed. ‘Let me know if you’re going to get uncooperative, and I’ll get that dealt to.’
‘Deal away.’
Too glib: McCarthy stepped forward. He swung low, hit Devereaux in the stomach with the muzzle of the .380. The blow folded him. Devereaux hit the ground. McCarthy dealt another big swing. Devereaux took it on the ear. His head bounced off the floor. He saw blue and red light: a motel flashback still very raw. He felt McCarthy’s hands at his belt, stripping his gun. Devereaux crawled away, knocked a half-closed door fully open. A quick, blurred glimpse: a ragged loose-leaf collage of paper on corkboards, crime scene shots from the Savings and Loan robbery, close-up snaps of dead men hand-dated thirty January. The Don’s home office-cum-brooding pen. A cream leather chair stood behind a desk loaded high with binders. Edward Hopper’s ‘Queensborough Bridge’ hung framed behind. Post-its bearing hand scribbles scattered here and there. He got a good gut feeling. It was The Don’s inner sanctum. It was prime territory for a stolen cash cache—
A hand on his collar, and he lost the thought. McCarthy dragged him out of the room. He watched his own clawed fingers raking backwards through carpet. He heard McCarthy nudge another door, and then they were through into a different room. Cool white tile greeted him. His blood so red and perfect against it. McCarthy dumped him against a bath edge. A light clicked on. The brightness seared. Devereaux raised an arm. He didn’t even see the punches coming: a quick one-two, cheek then mouth. He felt bottom-row dentistry break. He spat teeth. McCarthy was panting. He sounded crazy. Devereaux pictured him leering and frenzied. Hellbent on a good killing. Payback for all that pent-up resentment.
Devereaux spat blood on the floor. He was better at verbal conflict. Something told him to keep talking. He said, ‘It was a lot of risk for not a lot of money.’
It came out wet and gurgled. He lowered his arm. Panic bestowed shocking hyper-clarity: blood droplets were a rich and vivid scarlet, Warhol-garish. A high-tensile buzzing underpinned aural input. He saw McCarthy run a sleeve across his mouth. Maybe he was calming down. He licked his lips, shook his head. ‘No. Big risk, big money.’
There it was: admission. Albeit nonplussed and anticlimactic. Devereaux said, ‘How much?’
‘Two hundred grand-plus.’
The Don tucked the gun in his belt, at the small of his back. ‘All you had to do was hold your tongue and you could have walked out of here with all your faculties. Including your life. I gave you the option; you could have left unscathed.’
Devereaux tried not to think about it. He wiped blood off his mouth. He said, ‘How was it so much?’
McCarthy’s eyes half-lidded. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The bank and the armoured van were only sixty grand, tops.’
McCarthy listened to the street a moment, face distant. Devereaux felt his phone ringing. There was blood all over his chin. McCarthy tuned back in. He pinched his jacket, two-fingered by the lapels, slipped it off carefully. He draped it over a towel rack and said, ‘You remember our talk with Shane?’
He wouldn’t ever forget it: the Q and A session with Stanton, that bathroom in Pit.
McCarthy said, ‘He told us he had a dealer chasing him.’
‘The Leonard guy.’
‘Yeah. The Leonard guy.’ McCarthy sat down on the edge of the tub. He leaned forward, elbows to knees, took Devereaux’s chin in two fingers. He said, ‘I’m thinking Douglas had run some thefts we weren’t aware of.’ He grinned. Spit gleamed on his teeth. ‘You’re not looking your best.’
Devereaux said, ‘He supplemented bank funds with stolen drug money.’ His mouth felt fat and loose. Supplemented came out shupplemented.
‘Yeah. Or the other way around.’ He pushed Devereaux away. ‘You thought you could take me one on one,’ he said.
‘I managed it once.’
McCarthy smiled. ‘You’re pretty lucid. We’ll see how long that lasts, eh?’ He leaned and pulled open a drawer.
Devereaux heard metal things. Scissors, tweezers, razors. Jesus. He was panicking. Survival instincts were at odds: fight him, versus keep him talking. He said, ‘Tell me how you took the money.’
McCarthy shrugged. ‘I got called out on January thirtieth, after the shooting. I searched the house and found two hundred grand in a duffel bag under the floor in a bedroom.’
‘And you took it.’
‘There are worse things in life.’
‘That moral relativism again.’
McCarthy ignored the comment. He was quiet a long time. Eventually, he said, ‘Life’s such a big crazy place; it’s amazing you can get locked into just one thing.’
Devereaux stayed silent.
McCarthy shook his head. His eyes narrowed: that gaze could raise blisters. He bent in close. Devereaux felt his breath. McCarthy said, ‘Honestly. You don’t know what obsession or addiction is until you’ve had your nose to it. Honestly. You just cannot understand.’
Devereaux didn’t answer. The room smelled of blood and steam. Cheek to the floor, the grid-mesh tile grouting seemed to stretch forever.
McCarthy rolled shut the drawer. A pair of nail clippers in each hand. He worked them idly. ‘I just wanted to know who hurt the girl. Just that. Just that one simple thing. You’re not going to scream, are you?’
Devereaux didn’t reply. His mouth was full of blood. He wasn’t sure he could have screamed if he wanted to. McCarthy looked calm. Docile, even on the brink of bloodshed. He
said, ‘Listen to me a moment.’
Devereaux spat his mouthful. ‘I’m listening.’
McCarthy said, ‘I wanted daughters. I wanted three girls.’
Devereaux said nothing.
McCarthy’s face was empty. He gestured with the clippers. ‘People who take people’s lives. It’s like a giant fuck you to all those others who want children more than anything else in the world. All I wanted to do was find who hurt that girl. Can you understand that? Does that make any kind of sense to you?’
‘You’re going to kill me.’
‘Yeah, but you’re different. You accepted the inherent risk in fucking with me.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m talking about the innocent.’ He thought for a moment. ‘People shouldn’t have to put up their lives as collateral against a normal routine. Do you know what I mean?’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
McCarthy said, ‘Edgar Allan Poe said something along the lines of man’s happiness being derived from the idea something better is just around the corner. There isn’t anything better around the corner. This is the peak of the hill. I hope you take some comfort from that. You would have struggled on in this vein for the rest of your life and never made a difference to anything.’
He dropped one pair of scissors, grabbed Devereaux’s jaw in one hand.
The bathroom door opened.
Pollard stepped in. Devereaux heard his breath catch. He pictured the view from the threshold: blood everywhere, he himself rag-doll and beaten, McCarthy in his shirtsleeves, poised to take life.
Pollard was shouting: ‘Jesus, Don. Let me see your hands. Real slow. Let me see your hands.’
McCarthy glanced over. He didn’t look surprised. He looked as if everything was unfolding as per the grand plan. He released Devereaux and drew the gun from his belt, slow.
Pollard said, ‘Jesus Christ. Don’t. Don’t make me shoot you.’ Knees and muzzle both wavering.
McCarthy ignored him. He reversed his grip on the pistol, slipped his thumb through the trigger guard. He put the muzzle in his mouth.
Devereaux kept his face blank. A tough look-away-or-keep-watching dichotomy. He didn’t want to indulge the guy’s desire to evoke shock. Maybe a last sick wish, unfulfilled.
Pollard said, ‘Oh, shit. Don’t. Don, don’t.’
McCarthy smiled, tombstone teeth light on the barrel, like holding a fat cigar. ‘I’ll be seeing you, sonny,’ he said. ‘Rest easy. Only the dead know your bad side.’
And then he pulled the trigger.
The shot blew out the back of his head. Skull and brain matter sprayed the tiles behind him. The bath caught a big gore arc. Pollard ducked in reflex.
McCarthy’s head tipped forward, chin to chest. A slack arm released the pistol. It hit the floor with a thud. The muzzle leaked a careful, gentle plume. Devereaux crawled away, tried to stay clear of the blood.
Backup arrived shortly afterwards. They were separated for questioning. Pollard was interviewed downstairs, Devereaux stayed in the living room. A uniformed sergeant took his statement while a paramedic patched him up. Devereaux kept details lean. He said he’d arrived at the house and McCarthy had assaulted him. He said The Don shot himself when confronted by Pollard. He didn’t explain why he was in the house. He omitted details of the conversation that preceded the attack. They pushed him for specifics. Devereaux said he’d discuss the matter with Lloyd Bowen.
Bowen showed at seven forty-five. Devereaux was outside on the deck. The inspector walked to the door of the bathroom and stood there a moment. He and The Don went back years. The suicide news must have left him numb: a crime scene tech’s question bounced straight off. He ran a hand down his tie and turned and came outside onto the deck. He was keeping it together well: a good blank face was on display. A hard edge of a man.
Devereaux was propped on the rail, facing the window.
Bowen stood beside him and looked out over the street. He removed silvered aviator shades from a jacket pocket without looking down. Two neat clicks as he unfolded them. ‘I told you not to leave the motel.’
‘I needed to come here.’
‘So you could drive him to suicide?’
Bowen donned the glasses and looked at him. Devereaux saw his own reflection: a distorted miniature in each curved lens. He said, ‘I didn’t drive him to anything.’
‘You don’t look like you should be standing.’
He didn’t feel like he should be standing either. His head was throbbing. His mouth felt raw. But he didn’t want to take a stretcher and risk having Bowen bedside. The idea of being talked down to didn’t thrill him.
‘What are you doing here, sergeant? And don’t fuck me about. I haven’t had my coffee.’
Devereaux told him. Bowen listened blankly: calm verging on boredom. ‘You think he was in possession of stolen money?’
‘Yes.’
‘A senior police officer complicit in theft?’
‘I’ve heard of stranger things.’
‘But that’s your contention?’
Devereaux nodded. ‘I think he was complicit in all kinds of stuff.’
Bowen eyed him humourlessly. ‘Who needs respect for the dead, eh?’
Devereaux turned and put his hands on the railing. ‘He was going to kill me. The respect might take a little while to surface.’
Across the road he could see kettle steam condensing against a window. A half-height curtain framed toast being buttered. Maybe nobody knew they had a dead neighbour. The buildings all huddled on their narrow streets, the lives within so perfectly separate, devoid of overlap.
Bowen said, ‘I don’t know whether to hope you’re wrong or not.’
‘If I’m wrong, he wouldn’t have beat the shit out of me.’
Bowen didn’t reply.
Devereaux said, ‘I told him I knew he’d stolen money from the crime scene after the shooting in January. He denied it and told me to leave. I didn’t, so he attacked me.’
‘And then shot himself?’
‘Pollard walked in on everything. I guess he felt he didn’t have many other options.’
‘What was Pollard doing here?’
‘I called him from the car before I came inside.’
‘A cynic might interpret that as some kind of premeditation.’
Devereaux said, ‘A cynic might interpret that as a naïve and PR-centric remark.’
‘PR-centric?’
‘If McCarthy was a crook, you’re not going to come out of this looking too good.’
Bowen let the comment slide. He said, ‘Why did you feel you needed to call Pollard?’
‘I thought there was a good chance of things going bad.’
‘But you didn’t want to wait for more backup.’
‘Bad is relative. I thought things might get uncivilised as opposed to horrific.’
Bowen watched him a while. He said, ‘You’re keeping it together well.’
‘I don’t find it all that sad.’
Bowen turned and looked at his reflection in the ranch slider. He folded his arms. ‘You think we’re going to search the place and find stolen money?’
He wouldn’t have bet his life on it. He said, ‘I’d bet my life on it.’
Bowen said, ‘So what’s the motive?’
‘Not like you to actually believe something I say, Lloyd.’
‘It’s inspector, or sir.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
Bowen said, ‘What’s the motive?’
‘He wanted to find who hurt the girl during the fight club robbery in January.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a motive.’
‘He issued a contract to find who was responsible. He had a lawyer named Alan Rowe looking into it. Rowe hired a private investigator to work the case, on the basis it was Rowe’s own daughter who’d been hurt.’
Bowen contemplated for a moment. ‘And I’m guessing this aforementioned investigator is your old colleague John Hale.’
‘You don’t miss much.’
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Bowen stepped to the ranch slider. ‘Wait here. If you leave the scene, I’ll have you arrested.’
‘I thought you’d want to stay and bargain with me.’
Bowen moved back to the railing, looked down at the street. ‘You sound like you’re building up to threaten me with something.’
‘I was actually going to make a request first.’
‘First.’
Devereaux didn’t push it.
Bowen said, ‘I’m listening.’
Warm toast smell riding a warm breeze. Devereaux said, ‘I want to keep my job, and I don’t want any charges brought against John Hale.’
‘I don’t have unilateral control.’
‘But you have clout. You can make stuff happen. Or stop it from happening.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
Devereaux directed a nod indoors. ‘You’ve got a senior detective implicated in major crime. You really need to keep a lid on it.’
‘You’re not going to spread the story.’
‘If I’m no longer employed, I’ll have no reason not to.’
Bowen didn’t answer. The sunglasses obscured inner workings.
Devereaux said, ‘Certainly, John Hale isn’t obliged to keep his mouth shut.’
Bowen looked at him. ‘You seem very confident.’
And yet he wasn’t feeling it. Devereaux said, ‘You don’t seem all that shocked he’s dead.’
‘Neither do you. And it’s your reaction that’s most important.’
‘Because?’
‘No reason. You normally carry a gun around with you?’
‘Only when accusing people of theft.’
‘You know how he sustained those head injuries?’
‘I don’t want to discuss this any further.’
Bowen smiled. ‘The number of guilty men I’ve heard say that.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
Bowen moved back to the slider. ‘You’ll know by the end of the day,’ he said.
‘About what?’
‘If we find cash on the premises, you’re off the hook. Otherwise, I need to book you in for a talk.’ He paused on the threshold. ‘You’d better pray to God Doug Allen doesn’t die.’