Life Among the Tombstones

by H. R. Boldwood

  “Who knows?” I said. “Probably just some crackhead looking for something to fence.”

  “Maybe.” Harry’s tone sounded like he wasn’t buying my theory. “What if…we’ve been looking at the case all wrong? Maybe we aren’t the only ones who know about Veronica’s book. Maybe the killer does too.”

  I paused, letting that sink in.

  “You know,” Harry continued, “if you’re right about that book being a ledger, with a lot of important names inside, maybe the killer suspects that you found it. But instead of turning it in, you decided to play fast and loose. Make a little money, shake somebody down. It’s no secret you’re working the case. It’s all over the media.”

  The lightbulb in my head came on. “Then every name in that book is a potential suspect — for both the killing and the break in.”

  We took a couple of moments to run this theory up the old flagpole and see how it shook out.

  Harry finally said, “There is one other angle to consider. Maybe this little visit was a message telling you to back off the investigation. Better grow eyes in the back of your head.”

  Yet another unsettling theory. I’d had enough of running things up the old flagpole for one day.

  The detectives were nearly finished collecting evidence. Their next stop would be to chat with Mrs. Nussbaum. God bless them. Harry had to finish Veronica’s records review back at the office. He said his goodbyes and moseyed down the sidewalk, scribbling something in his notebook. With a wave, he sunk into the Crown Vic and disappeared behind the glare of the afternoon sun. It was new, this having a partner thing. New but nice. He worried for me. And I worried for him.

  “Watch your six,” I murmured, as he drove down the street.

  I had the next couple of hours to do laundry before reporting to work at The Blue Note. The only one with nothing on his agenda was Headbutt. I gave him a pass. Taking care of me is a 24/7 job and today, he’d come through like a champ.

  17

  Never Walk Away

  The Blue Note was jumping when I walked through the door. Between the yapping, laughing, and wailing juke box, the crowd sounded entirely too happy. I cursed my throbbing head and tossed back more Tylenol, telling myself that the crowd was a good thing. More people, more tips. As long as I didn’t kill anyone before the night was over. The odds were still out on that.

  Dallas moved behind the bar to serve Jimmy, Hank and the other regulars, while I worked the floor. Some tables turned over quickly, while others ordered food and round after round of drinks. One table, louder than the others, ran me ragged. A six-top filled with eight crazy chicks who drank their weight in vodka, swore like sailors, and greeted each new member by screaming, “Hey, Bitch!”

  The front door opened, letting in a blast of cold January air. I was bussing tables and didn’t notice who’d come in. I’d hoped it was Harry, and realized for the first time that he was later than usual.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up as a collective chant filled the room.

  “Stretch! Stretch! Stretch!”

  I spun on my heel and caught sight of Tiffany Swarovski navigating the crowd, and heading for the six-top of crazy bitches. The conversation Harry and I had with the late Veronica Henry looped through my brain. We’d asked if she knew who’d killed her, and she’d answered, “Find book.” And when we asked where her book was, she’d answered, “Stretch.”

  After all this time…could Stretch be a person? And could that person be Tiffany Swarovski? I slid the tub of dirty dishes down the bar and made a beeline for Tiffany.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” she said, sweeping her hand before her posse. “I see you’ve met my bitches. Ladies, this is Nighthawk.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Your friends call you Stretch?”

  “My…business associates do. Why?”

  Tiffany and Veronica, two working girls, albeit different clientele. What were the odds?

  “Excuse us, bitches,” I said, taking Tiffany’s arm. “We’ll be right back.”

  I dragged Tiffany through the kitchen to the back door, drawing a dubious stare from Dallas.

  “We’re going out back for a smoke break,” I yelled.

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “I do now.” I yanked Tiffany out the door. “Spill it, Stretch.”

  “Spill what?”

  Wearing her snakeskin stilettos, she had a good six inches on me. No wonder they called her Stretch. She pushed against me, trying to get away, as if she had something to hide. Little Allie wanted to know what; so did I.

  I grabbed her coat collar and shoved her against the dumpster, hard. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Veronica Henry?”

  “You never asked. Damn, girl. That hurt.” She squinted down her nose at me. “How you know Veronica?”

  “Harry and I are working her murder investigation with CPD.”

  “But…you work here.”

  “I work with Harry, too. It’s complicated. Where’s her book?”

  “What book?”

  “The book you’re holding for her.”

  “You trippin’, girl. I ain’t holding no book.”

  “She gave it to you for safekeeping.”

  “Ha! Fat chance. Everybody know ain’t nothin’ safe with me.”

  She darted her eyes searching for an escape. Had I actually scared her? That didn’t seem likely. “You aren’t in trouble for having the book. I just need you to give it to me. That’s all. Or I can call the CPD and get a couple of uniforms here.”

  “Shit. I don’t want the dang thing anyway. Just having it gives me nine kinds of agita.”

  “What’s inside it?”

  “Hell if I know.” Tiffany shrugged and looked away. “And I don’t want to know neither. She called it her insurance. That girl had some high-powered clients, she did. Don’t want nothing to do with them.”

  Dallas would be out any minute hunting for me. I needed to wrap up this little heart-to-heart. “Go back inside and party with your bitch buddies. Just don’t tell anyone about our conversation. Hang onto that book. For now, keep it wherever the hell you hid it. And bring it here tomorrow morning at eleven.”

  Tiffany let her bitch flag fly. “Who you think you are, ho? You and those tiny-ass midget hands of yours, all up in my face. I’ll squash you like a bug. Thinking you can tell me what to—”

  “Tiffany?”

  “What?”

  “Bring me the book.”

  “Fine. But you screwed up my shoulder blades, slamming me against that dumpster. I feel a big ol’ knot coming on. Prolly knocked my discuses all outta whack. I might have to sue.”

  Holy hell. That was all I needed. “How about a Tequila Sunrise instead? On the house.”

  “Double? Three cherries, light ice. Heavy on the grenadine.”

  “You got it, girlfriend.”

  “Okay. We cool. But don’t be putting those itty-bitty midget hands on me again, Imma snap you like a twig.”

  I ushered Tiffany inside, scanned the entire bar, and frowned. Nine o’clock and still no sign of Harry. Before Dallas caught sight of me, I ducked into the restroom, whipped out my phone, and dialed Harry’s number.

  My voice went up two octaves when he answered. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Sorry. It was getting late, so I brought the records home. Still at it. But I think I figured out who our killer is. You are never going to believe it.”

  “Who?”

  “Not on the phone. If I’m right, our ah…circle of trust just got a lot smaller.”

  “No shit? I’ve got some news for you, too.” Based on Harry’s warning, I thought twice about blurting it out.

  “Save it,” he said. “Meet you at the bar at closing time. You can tell me then.”

  The night stayed busy, but closing time couldn’t arrive fast enough. I needed to get the hell out of there. The case was breaking wide open, while I was serving drinks, mopping floors and rolling silverware. Eventually, the crowd thinned out. Dallas sent
Jimmy packing after he knocked over one too many beers. Hank cashed out behind him. Tiffany and her bitches took their party elsewhere, but not before I caught her eye and mouthed the words “eleven o’clock.” She rolled her eyes and nodded on her way out the door.

  When 2:30 a.m. rolled around, Dallas turned off the neon Open sign and counted out my pay for the night. “Here’s an extra ten. Help cover that new smoking habit of yours.”

  I shoved the money into my pocket, snapped on my knife sheath, and slipped on my holster while Dallas punched in the alarm code.

  “See you tomorrow, say five o’clock? It’s Friday. Going to make tonight seem like a test run.”

  I slipped into my duster and told him I’d be there. We turned off the lights and closed the door behind us.

  Still no sign of Harry.

  Dallas offered me a ride but I waved him off and started my Harley, cranking up the heated seat and hand grips.

  “Come on, Harry,” I thought. “It’s cold out here.”

  I looked at my phone and sighed. No missed calls, no messages. That wasn’t like Harry. But he was a cop, and he was really wrapped up in those records. He was probably just running late. I dialed his number. The call went straight to voice mail.

  Little Allie wheedled me. Something’s wrong. But she’s such a freaking drama queen. I waited a couple of minutes, then counted to ten and hit redial.

  “You have reached the voice mail of Detective Harry Delk—”

  Listen to me! The brain bitch shouted. Something is fucking WRONG.

  Winter wind be damned, I tore up the expressway, making the twenty-minute drive to Harry’s place in ten flat. I cut my engine at the top of his street and coasted to the end of his driveway. A silence, thick and stagnant, draped his house — the kind of silence that churns in your gut. The kind that shoots bile up your throat when you realize how very wrong things are.

  A faint light shone from deep in the house. The garage door was closed, the living room curtains drawn. As I crept through the darkness to Harry’s porch, nothing looked out of place. But that’s what darkness does. It camouflages wrong. Everything’s fine, it soothes. Nothing to see here. Move along.

  Fuck that.

  My gift and I know darkness better than anyone. We do and see what should never be in our line of work every single day. We understand that no matter how ugly it gets you never turn your back and walk away. I grabbed the knob and sucked in a breath as the door to Harry Delk’s house popped open.

  18

  No, No, No

  I drew Hawk, raised him to high ready, and stepped across the threshold. “Harry?” His name came out in a whisper. I called again, louder. “Harry. It’s Nighthawk.”

  Frantic fluttering filled the air, followed by a piercing screech.

  “Help me! Help me!”

  What the hell? … Holy shit. That cry hadn’t come from Harry. It’d come from his bird.

  I pulled out my phone, turned on the flashlight and pushed deeper into the house, clearing each room along the way. Trusting my sight was risky. The street light cast shadows on the walls, painting boogeymen that faded before my very eyes. I used all my senses, feeling the rooms, absorbing their energy. Smells provided context for what I couldn’t see. The sweet scents of millet, seeds and fruit, the tang of tomatoes, no, not just tomatoes, seasonings too. Marinara sauce. Traces of oil and gunpowder teased my nose.

  Not to worry, I told myself. Harry’s been cleaning his .38.

  A few feet later, I rounded the corner into the kitchen. A sickening odor emerged, cloying, metallic and all too familiar. No, no, no —

  I slipped in something slick and fell face first to the floor. Swallowing back the vomit in my throat, I shined my flashlight along the outline of a body. A mewling sound escaped me as I staggered to my feet and slid my hand along the wall in search of a light switch. With a flick of a finger, Harry’s body came into view. The top of his head was missing. Some of it clung to the crevices of the popcorn ceiling, the rest sprayed Warhol-style across the room.

  A quick scan found his .38, snug in its holster, draped across the back of a kitchen chair. The brain bitch slapped me hard, snapping me back into tactical mode. Harry hadn’t seen this coming. She was right. But there was something else. Whoever did this made sure Harry couldn’t be raised to help me nail his killer.

  Cap needed to know, but Harry’s voice rang in my ear, reminding me that our “circle of trust” had shrunk. I ran a quick search on Harry’s computer for Veronica Henry’s records and came up empty, so I hunted for a flash drive (apologizing profusely to Harry as I rummaged through his pockets). Printed copies seemed unlikely, but I scoured the place anyway, rifling through things, using a paper towel in lieu of my fingers.

  Snake eyes. Zilch. Zip. Nada.

  Unless CPD’s tech guys could find what I had not, those records were missing in action, i.e. stolen. Sure, they could be reproduced but that would take some time. Time we didn’t have. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I needed to call it in. Little Allie argued with me, reasoning that too many hands would lead to a tainted investigation. She might have been right, but what choice did I have? After taking a moment to collect myself, I called Cap and gave voice to a fact I hadn’t fully processed.

  “Harry Delk’s been murdered.”

  Cap, Doc and the forensic investigative team arrived within the hour. I lingered in the dining room, on the periphery of the immediate crime scene, watching the professionals do what they do best, and wondering if any of their names were in Veronica’s book.

  Once Cap officially cleared the second floor, I walked up the steps, leaving the fray behind, and found a bathroom where I could clean myself up. My clothes, hands and hair were drenched in Harry’s blood. I needed to change, but I didn’t have a set of clothes with me. His pants would never fit. Harry had 125 pounds on me. I washed up as best I could, then rummaged through his drawers in search of a clean shirt. The winner was a black T-shirt plastered with the picture of a smoking .38, bearing the slogan Ballistic Therapy. I snickered and slipped it over my head. It hung to my knees. Wrapping the excess folds around me, I closed my eyes and pictured Harry wearing the cotton tee. I knew in my heart it was a keeper. I didn’t think he would mind.

  After a few deep breaths, I returned to the first floor. Cap wanted to know why I was there. I told him about Harry’s call, and that he thought he’d found Veronica’s killer. Cap ran me through the course of my evening several times, an old investigative technique designed to do two things: either shred holes in a perpetrator’s version of events, or secure additional facts a stressed-out witness might have forgotten.

  Standard operating procedure? Maybe, but it was insulting. And it pissed me off. I’m a corpse whisperer, damn it. My life is the definition of high stress. I’ll never have the luxury of forgetting a single moment of that night. But that wasn’t all that was bothering me.

  Questions about the timeline made me uneasy. I’d delayed reporting Harry’s murder to search for Veronica Henry’s records. Not only did I not have the records, I had to play fast and loose when accounting for my time. I debated whether to tell Cap that Harry had been working on Veronica’s records at home that night and finally decided there was no way around it. Those records had been booked into evidence and now they were missing.

  The forensic guys collected evidence and took samples of my hair and DNA for exclusionary purposes. Doc quietly escorted Harry’s body away around daybreak. By the time the last of the investigators left, 9 a.m. had come and gone.

  I couldn’t bring myself to leave.

  Cap hung back with me. I’d like to believe that he stayed to be supportive, but we both knew, by law, as a material witness, I couldn’t be left unattended at the crime scene. Harry’s bird scrambled back and forth on its perch, craning its neck, and calling Harry’s name. Poor thing. Who would care for it now that Harry was gone?

  What was its name? Lulu? Sulu?

  I wandered over to its cage, dumped th
e cup of empty seed husks, and pulled a bag of bird seed from a box that contained a book titled Your African Grey Parrot and some other bird-related crap. The box was labeled “Kulu.”

  That’s right. Kulu.

  My tears fell fast and embarrassingly hard. Stupid tears. There’s no crying in corpse whispering.

  “Harry’s dead,” I whispered to that silly bird.

  Harry, the self-professed dinosaur, who carried not one but two .38s — who could hunt Zs with the best of the best. The only partner I ever had worth his salt. The only partner I’d ever liked. Who’d bailed my ass out of jail, hooked me up with an attorney, and even cared for my dog when I couldn’t.

  I hadn’t known him long, but Harry had been my friend.

  I reached inside the cage to replace the freshly filled seed cup and Kulu, the parrot who sings “Drunk on a Plane,” bit the shit out of my finger and told me to fuck off.

  “Strike One, Birdzilla.” I slammed the cage door closed and carried it to the front door, mumbling the entire way.

  Cap followed, lugging the box of assorted bird crap. When he locked the door behind us, it occurred to me that I would never see Harry again. And neither would Kulu. As we ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape, I turned her cage away from the house so she wouldn’t realize she was leaving.

  Picturing her strapped to the back of my Harley, losing her feathers at sixty mph snapped me into my new reality. “Cap, would you mind hauling the bird to my house?”

  He nodded and took the cage, silently depositing it into his back seat

  Just like that, without a moment’s deliberation, I’d become a foster parent for a foul-mouthed, finger-eating bird. I didn’t have enough dog biscuits to feed Headbutt or me, let alone that flying feather duster.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  19

  Disturbing Visuals