by Les Edgerton
What did he know about this Reader? What was it Veronica said? A genius. She said he was a genius. He liked killing and he liked supermarkets, banks, places with big numbers. What did all that have to do with bombs and dogs?
Grady felt a headache coming on. The whole thing was screwy. Go through it again, he told himself. It connects. You’ve got to put the details together in the right way. Try to make some sense of it. He recalled an old movie with James Garner where they used these dogs to hold up a bank. Dobermans trained to rob banks. Maybe this Kincaid has figured out a new twist where he hooked them up with pipe bombs.
Possible, but he didn’t think so, the more he thought about it. He saw the picture of Reader in his mind. There was a huge ego involved. Genius type. Geniuses, especially pathological criminals like this guy, wouldn’t use someone else’s plan no matter how clever it might be. No, this would have to be an original thing, something nobody else would have ever thought of. The money probably wasn’t that important to a guy like this. The money would be a way of illustrating his importance, show how smart he was. A control freak, Grady was sure. Probably didn’t drink, at least to excess and despised those who did, figured them for weaklings, no self-control. Probably smoked on purpose to get the habit and once he was good and hooked, quit, cold turkey, merely to demonstrate to himself his iron self-control. He kept turning what little he knew about the guy over in his head, trying to get a handle on him.
The criminal mind, particularly the superior criminal mind--fascinated him even as it repelled him. The ultimate challenge, especially for a plodder like himself. He had to admit that, as much as he abhorred what Reader had done to his brother, in a way, he was enjoying the chase. He’d been up against some pretty slick cookies in his time, but he had a feeling this Reader made them all look like morons.
He wondered how much money was at stake.
I wish Jack was alive, he thought. I wish he was alive and sitting right here with me. He’d have this figured out in no time. How would you approach this, Jack? Think like a genius criminal? That’d be ea if I happened to be a genius criminal; however, I am just a dumb schmuck cop. Ex-cop, in fact, retired. I think my brain is retired, also.
He shook out his fifth Marlboro medium in the last hour and lighted it. He sensed displeasure at the act from the woman sitting next to him but dammit, she’d asked to come with him and if he was going to sit out here for hours he needed his smokes. I need some of that self-discipline, he thought ruefully, feeling the ache in his lungs as he inhaled deeply. I guess I ain’t the genius type. Not this millionaire, genius cop.
He turned the key in the ignition again and winced at the warm air that blasted out at first before cooling off and feeling like air-conditioning. How can anybody think in all this heat, he wondered. It was a miracle anything ever got solved! He glanced at the gas gauge to see if he needed any. There was a chance they might be in for a long wait.
***
Reader was talking about Indians again. The three men, him, Eddie, and C.J. St. Ives were all sitting in the living room. St. Ives had come to, but he didn’t look too good. His color was mostly gray.
Reader said, “See, Eddie, this guy’s an Indian, too. He’s a little more advanced Indian than you are, but he’s for sure an Indian.”
Eddie stopped his reading, put down the TV Guide, and said, “Why you goin’ off about the goddamned fucking Indians again? I told you, I’m French-Canadian, not no goddamned Indian. You know what, Reader? I’m your fucking partner. Why don’t you treat me like a partner? I might not be as smart as you, but I’m not a complete idiot, either. I’ve done a few things. Why’d you pick me if you think I’m so dumb? This is bullshit, your always raggin’ on me.”
Reader decided to ignore what he said.
“See? He’s got part of the package, thinks he’s got it all, thinks he’s in the twentieth century with both feet. Only he doesn’t realize this is almost the twenty-first century. See these passports, birth certificates?”
They’d made a search of the apartment after C.J. came to and told them what they wanted to know. Eddie found the papers, taped up under a dresser drawer.
“He’s got a pretty good plan, shows intelligence. Only notice I said a ‘pretty good plan’? Shows no matter how much he thinks he’s on top of the game, he’s still thinking like an Indian. He’s been thinking about all the good things that were going to happen with his scheme and not enough about things that could go wrong. That’s the way the Indians would do it. Sit around the bonfire, whooping and hollering and counting in advance all the scalps they were gonna collect, all the white men they were gonna erase. Never thought too much about what if there were more white men than Indians or if their guns were bigger. Or if maybe the white man was sitting around their campfire planning to do something to the Indians.
“The smart guys,” he said, “spend more time figuring out what to do when things go bad than they do in thinking about how they’re going to celebrate when they win. I’ll bet that’s what you do, isn’t it, Eddie? I’ll bet you thought a whole lot about how many shoes you’re going to buy when this deal’s done, how many different women you’re going to screw. I bet you haven’t thought once about what might go wrong and how to fix it if it does. Am I right?”
Eddie didn’t answer.
“Water. Can I have some water?” St. Ives croaked from the couch.
“Sure,” Reader said. “Give him a drink, Eddie. See if there’s any popcorn, too. Got to have popcorn at the movies.”
He reached over and turned on the TV.
“This thing work all right?” A picture, fuzzy at first that began to clear, came on. “Sally Jesse,” he said, smirking. “You watch this crap? This is nice,” he said, not expecting an answer. “I’m glad to see you’ve got a VCR. Saves us the cost of buying one. I’ve got a little tape you’re gonna get a kick out of. In a couple of hours we’re gonna watch it together. I hope Eddie finds some popcorn. Popcorn’s always nice to munch on during the main feature.”
He turned the volume down and watched the picture for a moment. Sally Jesse was talking to two young black men on both sides of an older black woman. She walked over to the black woman and hugged her. The camera showed a close-up of Sally and the tear rolling down her cheek.
Eddie came back in and handed a glass of water to St. Ives who sat up and took it in both hands. “There ain’t no popcorn, Reader,” he said.
Reader said, “Eddie, I guess I been hard on you, haven’t I? Hey, partner, sorry about that.” He could see his partner was approaching the point where his attitude could fuck up the job. “I was kidding about that Indian stuff. Take a joke, Eddie. Cool down. I don’t think you’re so dumb. Would I have taken you on if I thought you were a fuck?”
Eddie visibly relaxed. He gave a tentative smile. “Well, shit, Reader, you been treatin’ me like a broke-dick dog, whaddya expect? How you think I’m gonna feel? We’re supposed t’be partners, this thing.”
Reader walked over and slapped him on the back. “Hey, take it easy. I’ve got job nerves. Couple things been going different than I wanted was all. Like this dead bitch in the closet. Ol’ C.J. here surprised me. It’s under control. We’re fine, Eddie. We’re about to become rich. One more day. Say, why don’t you go out, get some more food. Get yourself a six-pack. Hell, pick up a case, bring it back. We’ll all hoist a few. I bet Mr. St. Ives could use a beer. Couldn’t you, Mr. St. Ives?”
“Here.” He handed Eddie a fifty-dollar bill. “Get some chow, maybe some mudbugs, some cold boiled shrimp, hot sauce. Sounds good, huh? Get back in two hours, Eddie. Tell you what--you got time--go home and pack your shit, get what you need for when we blow this burg. Also,” he reached into his pocket and took out a single key and handed it to Eddie, “this is my apartment key. I want you to stop by and get some stuff we’re going to need. I got two boxes up on the closet shelf. All the shit we need’s there. There’s a garment bag, too. Get that. I need fresh clothes.”
As soon as
Eddie left, Reader went over and grabbed St. Ives by the arms and pulled him up to a sitting position on the couch. He sat down beside him and pulled the man’s hands to him.
“I think you maybe forgot a few little details, Mr. St. Ives. We’re going to have us a little chat. I need to know about these passports. Although I got a pretty good idea what they’re for. I just need you to tell me. There’s something else.”
He took the man’s hand and forced the middle finger out and grabbed the nail with the pliers and tore off another nail, ripping it across the quick and ignoring the screams in his ear. He didn’t bother this time to cut down the sides with the scissors. Reader waited until St. Ives came to, his face drenched with sweat and moisture showing all the way through his suit coat. He’d broken the finger, too. That was pretty obvious the way it was twisted and began swelling up right away. He felt the sweat on his own face from the exertion. He looked at the bloody little object and flipped it across the room and set the pliers down on the coffee table. He didn’t have to pick them up this time, the banker tellin him things in a high, reedy voice that told Reader he was telling the truth.
“Now,” he said, pleased at his work. “What kind of story did you run on Castro?”
St. Ives started to open his mouth and say something, when Reader interrupted.
“You got to know I’m way ahead of you, my friend. You can’t even see my smoke I’m so far ahead. You want to be very careful here and tell me the truth. I’ll know when you’re lying.”
There wasn’t a drop of blood in St. Ives’ face. His voice was low and husky when he began talking.
When he finished, Reader said, “That’s a little more like it, Mr. St. Ives. Let’s you and me hop into the bedroom, let me make you all snug. I’ve got a few phone calls to make. You can go keep your girlfriend company. Here.” He stuck the dishcloth he’d been using to mop up the blood in St. Ives’ handcuffed hands. “Keep this tight around those fingers. They feel better already, don’t they?”
On their way to the bedroom, Reader said, “Say, Mr. St. Ives, you’d make a good con. You got lockstep down pat. Most guys fall down the first time they try it. You want to be careful when we get to that rug.”
***
One of the calls turned up some interesting information. Lionel had traced the license plate he’d given him to a rental agency, which went along with what Bobby’d told him. For a fifty-dollar bill, Lionel said he got a copy of the rental agreement from the bozo salesman, which not only gave the guy’s name but where he was staying. As soon as Reader heard the name, he made the connection.
“Thanks, buddy,” he said, replacing the phone.
He sat there for a long time, thinking.
After a while, he picked up the phone again.
“Octavio?” he said. “I want you to tell your boss something. I want you to tell him you got a tip there’s a DEA agent nosing around his business. Tell him you got it from a cop you know. Let him know you tracked the guy down and he’s staying out at the Day’s Inn in Kenner.”
There, he thought, satisfied with what he’d done. The guy’s no longer a problem. Castro would take care of him.
He leaned back and clasped his hands together behind his head.
I needed a challenge, he thought. This was getting boring, it was going so good.
CHAPTER 24
GRADY TURNED THE CAR and the air on for maybe the tenth time since they’d been there and fired up the last of what had been a full pack of cigarettes when they’d first parked. He didn’t think about it being the last cigarette since there was a full carton on the back seat, minus the pack he’d killed. The stakeout on Eddie’s apartment was going on longer than he’d expected. He glanced over at Whitney to see how she was holding up. So far, she’d exhibited remarkable patience. There weren’t a lot of civilians who would have endured their first stakeout nearly as well as she had.
“You don’t like the heat much, do you?” she said.
“Sorry,” he said, reaching for the control.
“No,” she said, “Leave it on. I probably hate it worse than you do.”
They’d both pretty much told each other their life history in the past couple of hours. When he’d told her about his and Jack’s lifelong dream to open the fishing camp in Vermont, she became animated.
“Grady! Do you know how far Vermont is from where I’m from? We used to do our shopping in Burlington! And Montpelier! Have you ever been to Montpelier? It’s my favorite town in the whole world! Did you know almost every building in town is on the National Register of Historic Buildings?”
It turned out she loved Vermont, almost as much as her own home state of New Hampshire.
“I’ve wanted to move back home ever since I got here,” she confessed. “The only reason I took this job was...” here she gave him a rueful grin, “...it was the only one I could get out of veterinary school and I had some hellacious loans to repay.”
She told him her own far-range plans.
“I’ve been saving every single penny I could. Someday, I’m going back and opening up my own clinic.”
“How’d you get interested in animals?” Grady wanted to know.
“My dad,” she said. “I was his boy. He was a photographer. Mostly wildlife. He had the cover of Sports Afield one time. That was funny!”
“How so?” Grady was puzzled.
“Because Dad never shot an animal in his life and that’s a hunting magazine. The picture he shot was grouse being flushed. I bet there’s a million hunters saw that cover and had a wet dream. You know what he did?”
He shook his head.
“He purposely gave the magazine the wrong location.”
“I don’t get it,” Grady said.
“He told the editor the photos were shot in a different place than where they were. It was his way of protecting those birds. He could have ruined his professional reputation if they’d found out.”
“Yeah, I see.” Grady nodded, thoughtfully, smiling at the story. “He sounds like a good guy.”
“Was,” she said. “He died. On a shoot. He was taking pictures of wild turkeys. He died the way he wanted. With his wild animals.”
“I’m sorry,” Grady murmured.
“I am, too,” she said, her eyes misty. “Anyway, that’s where I get my love of animals. From Dad.”
For a moment, she just stared into the distance, and then she shook her hair slightly. She had a thought. A woman’s thought. Shyly, she said, “Maybe...if you get your camp and I get my clinic, we could see each other sometimes. Wouldn’t that be nice!”
Nice wasn’t the word he had in mind at the thought. Wonderful, would be a better one. What the heck was happening? He was too old to be acting like some pimple-faced teenager. Not to mention his financial situation wasn’t the best to have a woman like this in his life. Not now, especially, with his brother’s unpaid hospital bills and the cost of the funeral he’d scheduled for three days from then. With all that, it was doubtful he’d be able to afford much more than a room somewhere for the rest of his life.
Just as he was really getting into the really deep-down sorrowful portion of his self-pity, a car turned onto the street they were on.
He grabbed Whitney’s arm and quicklike slid down beneath the seat, whispering urgently for her to do the same. He knew it was Eddie in the brown Cavalier right away, from Veronica’s description of the man which pretty much matched up with Pelkerson’s earlier one.
The Cavalier went past them and turned in to the complex parking lot. As soon as Eddie emerged, Grady said, “Okay. You can get up now.”
When the man came out with two suitcases ten minutes later, Grady knew he’d made the right decision tot at his place instead of trying to find Kincaid. The suitcases were a good sign something was up. Eddie was going on a trip and he’d bet the itinerary would begin right after whatever it was those two were planning went down.
He looked at Whitney, saw the question in her eyes.
“Yep. W
e’re on him. Like stink on shit. Let’s see where a dog-killer punk like this likes to go.”
He turned the key in the ignition.
He followed Eddie, keeping at least two cars behind him, not that Grady felt he needed to be that careful. The guy seemed to be oblivious to the possibility of someone tailing him. As he made perhaps his sixth turn, Whitney said, “Bucktown.”
Grady glanced at her. “Huh?”
“Bucktown,” she repeated. “That’s where he’s headed.”
Grady didn’t see anything different about where they were. Looked like part of the same neighborhood they’d been driving in. Just ahead, the Cavalier slowed and pulled off and parked by what looked like a restaurant. Deannie’s, the sign said.
“Deannie’s has the best seafood in town,” Whitney said. “They do more carry-out than any two places combined. It used to be a wholesale place only, but they had such a demand, they added a restaurant. Thank God the tourists haven’t discovered it yet.”
“We’ll have to go here sometime,” Grady said, half-jokingly, his eye on the door Eddie had gone into.
“When they sterilize the place,” she replied, and it was a couple of seconds before he realized she was referring to Eddie.
Eddie came out ten minutes later, his arms under a huge paper sack, which Whitney said was probably shrimp, maybe mudbugs.
“Mudbugs?” Grady said, and she explained what mudbugs were.
“That’s bait!” was his only comment.
It looked like Eddie had enough for ten people.
“Looks like he’s going to party,” Grady said, waiting until he had gone by before he turned around and slowly began catching up.
Eddie’s car headed back into Metairie, but instead of turning on Veteran’s, he kept straight, ending up turning left on another highway.
“This is Jefferson Highway,” Whitney informed. He was trying to make a mental note of all the places they passed, for future reference.