Speak the Dead

by Grant McKenzie

  “We think it’s this guy’s.” The answering voice carried the smoky undertones of a seductive Portuguese lilt, but it took a practiced ear to truly enjoy it.

  Jersey turned to see his partner, Detective Amarela Valente, as she popped her head out of the open front passenger door on the opposite side of the car. She was dressed head to toe in black—form-fitting slacks, tapered blouse, sensible shoes, and a shiny bomber-style leather jacket. Unlike him, however, she pulled it off with aplomb. It also didn’t hurt that she was athletically slim and possessed a perfect heart-shaped rear that could make a Spanish bullfighter cry—and probably had.

  This morning she had twisted her sable black hair into a serious ponytail and was wearing disarming cat’s-eye glasses. She was also nodding impatiently in the direction of the car’s interior.

  Jersey shouldered past two uniformed officers who were so distracted by every movement Amarela made that, despite his considerable size, they hadn’t registered his arrival. Jersey figured they were probably hoping she would offer to spank them after class.

  “Forget it, boys,” Jersey muttered. “She doesn’t know you’re alive.”

  The two officers flashed him sour looks as Jersey bent down to peer through the driver’s window. The seat was occupied although it was difficult to make out the driver’s face due to the amount of blood that splattered the glass.

  “We got a gun?” Jersey asked.

  “Still in his hand,” said Amarela.

  “Angle of entry?”

  “Stand up and see for yourself.”

  Jersey straightened and noticed the bullet’s exit puncturing the car roof less than an inch above the top of the window. Instinctively, he tried to follow the bullet’s trajectory, but the alley hadn’t yet been graced by the morning’s slowly rising sun.

  “We’ll need that bullet,” he said to no one in particular.

  The sour-faced officers ignored him.

  Jersey walked around the car’s enormous front hood, careful to avoid several muddy puddles slicked with oil, their depth and contents unknown. He leaned over Amarela’s shoulder to look inside.

  The dead man’s gun was a snub-nosed .38 revolver with blued metal finish and handsomely polished walnut grips.

  “Not a bad choice for suicide,” said Jersey. “It sucks for just about anything else.”

  “Don’t diss the snub .38, Jers,” warned Amarela. “Some of us are too embarrassed to carry Baby Glocks.” She made the word “baby” sound, well, babyish.

  Jersey grinned. “It’s all about being comfortable with your own sexuality, partner. Some of us don’t need to compensate.”

  “You have sexuality?”

  “Oh, don’t be modest, girlfriend. I saw you checking out my butt in these pants.”

  Amarela snorted. “I was just trying to figure how tight you had to tie the girdle.”

  “Ouch.”

  Jersey snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves and leaned further into the car, putting his weight on his knuckles so he didn’t fall face first into the corpse’s lap. When Amarela wriggled in beside him, the situation became cozy, except for the bloody dead man in the seat beside them. Amarela smelled of Dove soap and peppermint shampoo; the dead man didn’t.

  “So what brings you out so early?” Jersey asked in a low voice to avoid being overheard by the bored uniformed onlookers.

  Amarela shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Went for a drive and heard your name over the radio. I was heading to the hit-and-run when the report came in on this.”

  Jersey studied his partner. “You feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep. No biggie.”

  “Okay,” he said softly. “If you say so.”

  “I do. Besides, why are you so damn chipper? You’ve obviously come straight from the club. The gig go well?”

  Jersey nodded. “Real well. Crowd loved us. Only three fights, and the mosh pit was writhing.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And what else? Usually before a gig, you get all stoked and happy, but you crash right after, like a kid coming off a sugar rush, and turn into Mr. Grumpy Pants for at least twenty-four hours.”

  “I do not,” Jersey protested.

  “Do, too. It’s like male PMS. So fess up.”

  Jersey sighed. “I met a girl.”

  “At the gig?”

  “No. After. In the alley.”

  “A hooker?”

  “No! A witness. She works in the funeral home across the alley from the club. She’s the one who saw the car’s plate.”

  Amarela grinned wide, showing a full set of nearly perfect white teeth. Rebelling against its sisters, the perfection of the smile was marred by a single eyetooth that stuck out at a slight angle. Amarela’s choice not to get it fixed had been one of the first things that endeared her to Jersey when they were partnered together five years earlier.

  Amarela said, “You met a mortician in an alley over the body of a dead woman and now you’re all gaa-gaa?”

  “I’m not gaa-gaa!” Jersey spoke too loudly and several of the officers outside leaned down to look in the windows at them.

  Jersey gritted his teeth to avoid blushing and glanced over at the dead man. “We can talk about this later.”

  Amarela shrugged. “Suit yourself, but we will talk.”

  The driver was in his mid to late sixties with a good head of silver hair. He appeared reasonably fit in a soft but still slim way, and wore a tailored, designer-label suit. The shirt and tie, however, looked slightly off as though he had been in a hurry to get dressed.

  “How come he looks rumpled?” Jersey asked.

  Amarela snorted. “He just blew his brains out and you expect him to tuck in his shirt?”

  Jersey rubbed the side of his nose with a latex finger. “You wear a three-thousand-dollar suit, you want to look your best. You tuck in your shirt, you straighten your tie, you make sure the Windsor knot is just right…” He let the thought trail off.

  “He just drove over someone,” said Amarela. “That can make a guy twitchy. He starts to sweat, he loosens his tie, starts grabbing at his shirt, the man’s a nervous wreck.”

  “Hmmm,” said Jersey. “Then what?”

  Amarela shrugged. “Then the remorse kicks in, so he pulls into an empty alley, digs out his gun and buys a one-way ticket to the hereafter.”

  Jersey leaned closer to the victim and sniffed.

  “I don’t smell booze,” he said. “Why run if you’re sober? The alley outside the club was dark. It could have been an accident.”

  Amarela didn’t answer, so Jersey hunched lower to get a better view of the entrance wound in the side of the dead man’s temple.

  “Get forensics to check the angle, just to make sure it was self-inflicted.”

  “Why?” asked Amarela. “You thinking car-jacking gone wrong? Those assholes don’t tend to leave guns behind. Guns cost money and jackers are scavengers.”

  Jersey locked eyes with his partner and kept a serious face. “It’s only a crappy .38.”

  Before Amarela could protest, Jersey backed out of the car and stretched his back. “We got an I.D.?”

  Amarela exited the car and stood beside him. The top of her head was not quite level with his shoulders.

  “The car is registered to a Nicholas Higgins. Whether or not that’s Mr. Higgins hogging the driver’s seat will have to wait until we get him out of there. I didn’t see a wallet.”

  “He wouldn’t want to ruin the line of his suit,” said Jersey. “You check the glove box?”

  Amarela sighed. “I was just about to do that before you strolled up like a Billy Idol wannabe and wanted the back story.”

  Jersey stepped back and held up his hands. “I wasn’t criticizing. And just so you know, Billy’s White Wedding is still a huge hit with the fans.”

  Amarela popped open the glove box and carefully removed a thin, calfskin wallet. She kept her eyes averted from Jersey’s smug grin as she f
lipped it open and removed an Oregon driver’s license. She compared the photo I.D. to the dead driver.

  “Looks like Mr. Higgins won’t need to renew,” she said. “The license was set to expire at the end of next month on his… ” she did a quick mental calculation, “sixty-fifth birthday.”

  “About the same age as the woman he ran over.” Jersey moved to the rear window and pressed his face close to the glass. A dark object wedged behind the passenger seat caught his eye.

  “There’s something behind your seat,” Jersey said. “Can you unlock this door?”

  Amarela leaned over and flipped the lock. Jersey opened the door and pulled out the object. It was a woman’s leather clutch purse.

  “You want the honors?” he asked.

  “Embarrassed by what you might find?”

  Jersey rolled his eyes, opened the purse and plucked out a wallet. When he opened it, he found another Oregon driver’s license. This time the I.D. matched the woman lying dead behind the club.

  “It seems,” said Jersey as he showed the I.D. to his partner, “that Mr. Higgins drove over his own wife.”

  “That could definitely make you suicidal,” said Amarela.

  “True,” agreed Jersey. “But if you loved your wife so much that you couldn’t live without her, why would you leave her for dead in the first place?”

  9

  A shriek of hastily applied brakes made everyone turn to see a dented brown Ford slide into the barricade and narrowly miss the scrambling officer on guard duty.

  Lieutenant Morrell climbed out of the Ford to survey the damage caused by hitting the barrier. He turned an evil eye on the pale-faced officer who had just narrowly missed becoming a hood ornament.

  “You! Tell the garage I want them to do another check on this beast as soon as I return to the station.”

  The officer remained tongue-tied, but managed to nod.

  “And,” Morrell continued, “straighten this damn barricade.”

  The lieutenant flicked a finger across his moustache to flatten any stray hairs and marched down the alley to the crime scene.

  The crowd of officers parted like the Red Sea and some of them suddenly discovered they were no longer needed on the scene. They departed as inconspicuously as possible.

  Morrell stopped at the car and bent to peer through the driver’s window.

  “Damn mess,” he said. “We have a weapon?”

  “In his hand,” said Jersey.

  Morrell straightened up and glared across the roof at the detective.

  “Still in costume, I see, Detective Castle.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jersey.

  “And what is your sidekick dressed as? Zorro.”

  Amarela opened her mouth to protest, but Jersey grabbed her arm and squeezed.

  “We were just wrapping up here,” said Jersey. “It appears that Mr. Higgins, he’s the gentleman with the ventilated skull, was married to the woman he drove over in the alley.”

  “Hmmm, interesting,” said Morrell in a tone that suggested he wasn’t interested at all. He bent down to peer through the window again. “Is that leather interior?”

  “Corinthian,” said Jersey with a straight face.

  “Blood makes a real mess of leather.”

  “It does,” Jersey agreed.

  Morrell straightened and finger-brushed his moustache.

  “Forensics on its way?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll need the bullet.”

  Jersey nodded.

  “Good, good, fast work, detective. Keep me informed.”

  Morrell turned on his heel and marched back to his car.

  Once he was out of earshot, Amarela snarled, “Zorro?”

  Jersey grinned. “I would have put you in the Catwoman camp, myself. You know, sleek, sexy—”

  “Dangerous,” snapped Amarela.

  “Definitely,” said Jersey, his grin widening.

  There was another crunch of metal and plastic from the mouth of the alley as Morrell’s car jerked forward into the resurrected barricade before quickly switching into reverse and backing away. The officer on guard duty flashed Jersey an exasperated look as he bent to fix the barricade once more.

  All Jersey could do was shrug his shoulders in sympathy.

  JERSEY and Amarela were walking to the barricade when Jersey came to a sudden stop and spun around.

  “What?” Amarela asked.

  “Can you read the plate?”

  Amarela peered down the alley and shook her head. “There’s something covering it.”

  Returning to the vehicle, Jersey lifted a ragged strip of waterproof black cloth that half covered the license plate.

  “This is from the victim’s coat,” he said. “It must’ve snagged when she came sliding off the back.”

  “So?”

  “So how could anyone have seen the plate with this flapping in the way?”

  Amarela rolled her eyes and turned back toward the barricade. “There’s another plate on the front, Doofus. Did your witness say which one she saw?”

  “No, but…” Jersey allowed his words to drift, but he was troubled.

  The only way for Sally to have seen the front license plate would be if she were standing in the alley before the victim was struck. But how was that possible? He had seen her enter the alley at virtually the same time he did.

  With a heavy sigh, Jersey snapped open his cellphone and dialed the club. After six rings an answering machine picked up with a rather punk “leave a message or fuck off” greeting.

  “Hey, Les, Jersey here. I need to know if you guys have CCTV on the door facing the alley. If so, I need to see it, so don’t erase this morning’s footage. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

  Jersey left his cell number and hung up.

  Amarela flashed him a sideways glance.

  “I know, I know,” Jersey said defensively. “I should have secured the tape when I was at the scene. But I was…” He hesitated.

  “Distracted,” Amarela finished for him.

  10

  Sally opened her apartment door to the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

  A longhaired Calico, its fur a chaotic blend of orange, black, and white, instantly wrapped itself around her ankles and began to purr.

  Locking the door behind her, Sally dropped her coat and a small leather travel pouch on the floor and bent to pick up the cat. The purring grew louder as the cat climbed onto her shoulder to begin nuzzling her cheek and bumping the side of her head with its own.

  Sally laughed delightedly.

  “You want breakfast, Jiggy?”

  Jiggy—short for jigsaw, as in puzzle; not the Will Smith “Getting’ Jiggy wit It” song—licked her cheek. The cat’s tongue was so rough it could have removed five layers of makeup in one swipe if Sally ever bothered to wear any.

  Sally prepared a bowl of food for the cat: a generous dollop of disgustingly pungent soft food surrounded by crunchy, tuna flavored morsels of hard.

  With the cat occupied, Sally started a warm bath, changed into a fuzzy white robe and slippers, and poured herself a glass of red Chilean wine. The wine was as rich in color and full of body as fresh blood, but with a lighter, fruitier, and more palatable flavor.

  Sally took two long swallows of wine before turning her attention to the fridge. The glass shelves were mostly bare, but a plastic container of leftover Pad Thai from the local Noodle Box looked appetizing. She gave it a sniff to make sure it was still edible before zapping it in the microwave.

  After another large swallow of wine, Sally topped up her glass and carried it to the bath along with her lukewarm container of Thai noodles in spicy peanut sauce.

  When the tub was nearly full, Sally added a splash of foaming bath salts. She let the water run for an extra minute before switching off the taps and stepping in.

  The water soothed her muscles, the wine soothed her mind, and the exotic food made her feel wonderfully decadent. Sally closed her eyes,
the rim of the glass resting upon her lower lip, the rich bouquet smelling of volcanic soil, exotic fruit, and a hint of dark chocolate.

  Her thoughts drifted lazily until, behind her eyelids, her pupils widened in alarm as the car’s ferocious grill was suddenly bearing down on her again.

  No, not on her, she told herself to ease a rising panic, the dead woman in the periwinkle pantsuit and black raincoat.

  Sally forced herself to stay calm, knowing the vehicle couldn’t hurt her. This was the past, not the present.

  She glanced at the license plate and then looked into and through the windshield.

  Two faces. Both men.

  The driver, an older gentleman with silver hair, looked terrified, his eyes wide and filled with tears. The passenger, face in profile, nose like a shark fin and skin a sickly white, was talking incessantly at the driver. His thin lips were flapping with such force that foam and spittle bubbled at the corners. There was also something wrong with his eye… like it was sliding down his cheek.

  She didn’t recognize either man.

  The car rushed forward and she braced herself for impact—

  Something warm splashed her cheek…

  Sally’s eyes snapped open. Jiggy was dipping her paw into the bath water and shaking it before licking and repeating.

  “Thanks,” Sally said with a relieved sigh. She lifted her free hand out of the tub to stroke the cat under its chin. “Once is enough to be hit by a car, even in a dream.”

  The cat purred and flicked its paw again, sending water spraying.

  A little drunk from the wine and exhausted by her night, Sally stumbled from the bathroom with her eyes half-closed and crawled into bed. The embrace of a goose down comforter wrapped around her like a lover, while the warmth brought blissful weight to her eyelids. Not one to be left out, Jiggy kneaded the blanket at her human’s feet before curling up behind her knees and joining her in sleep.

  As the steam in the bathroom began to dissipate, three finger-painted words appeared on the bathroom mirror above the sink.

  The message read: Run, Sally! Run!

  11

  Jersey made a quick stop at his condo on the northern edge of Old Town to drop off his car and grab a change of clothes.