What was she hoping for with this stunt?
Why the half-witted quest to save her son? Did Charlene not understand just how much trouble he was in? I’d seen healthy doses of naiveté before, but this had to be a new high.
I wasn’t unsympathetic.
When things fell apart for Dad after Mom and Kate died, I didn’t want to believe it at first. Buried my head in the sand, and work, and ignored the locker-room whispers and glances.
Even once the whole shit-show came to a head and they forced him into an ‘early retirement,’ I had trouble admitting the truth. Only a drunken heart-to-heart convinced me otherwise. It hurt like hell to watch his pride wither and see him withdraw into himself over the next few years but by that time, I could no longer avoid what was patently obvious.
At some point, Charlene Wright would have to do the same.
She’d have to carry on living with the knowledge and acceptance that her son committed an act that she couldn’t fathom. That, or fall apart completely.
But that wasn’t my call.
I would do what I’d been paid for: deliver the evidence of her son’s actions at her feet, and whatever happened after that was up to her.
Thought I could see the edges of the window brightening a little more as I promised myself I’d get that train moving later in the morning. I rolled over, pulled Hilda close, and went back to sleep.
Chapter 14
Hit the office in the morning with a renewed sense of purpose. A couple of hours and I could have this thing wrapped up, send Paul and Charlene on their miserable ways and put my feet up for the rest of the week.
Started with the easy stuff.
Drank coffee while I re-read all the papers from the last two weeks since the shooting, on the off chance there were a couple of threads I could pull on.
Hey, I said it was the easy stuff, not a high-percentage play.
But it wasn’t completely fruitless. I did finish the task with a new appreciation for Monica’s ability to write thousands of words, rehashing the same points over and over, making it appear as though each paragraph was Oh-My-God-Will-You-Look-At-This breaking news, while actually saying nothing new.
It also netted me my first look at the crowd of protestors on Charlene’s front yard. A handful of carefully framed and dramatic close-up shots of angrily righteous (or righteously angry?) people holding home-made signs and making their voices heard at something out of frame. Didn’t look like there were more than about half a dozen total, so I couldn’t see what Paul and Charlene were so worked up about.
While the coffeepot perked again, I dialed DPD. Ed was in a meeting so I waited while the switchboard found, and then connected me with Ricco.
“What the hell do you want?” Ricco said.
“Good morning, Ricco. Might I say that your phone manner needs work. Have you been taking lessons from Ed? Myself, I’ve found some of the Dale Carnegie techniques quite worthwhil—”
“Worthwhile? This from the man who dropped a huge turd in our lap just to get in good with a fucking reporter? Uh huh.”
“You still have a stick up your ass about that?”
“Just be thankful you’re not talkin’ to Ed at the moment. He’s off licking the Chief’s boots and kissing the Mayor’s ass trying to keep his job. No thanks to you.”
“Hey, it wasn’t me that fucked up taking a simple phone call. It also wasn’t me who gave that little piece of information to the press. You need to spend a little more time looking over your own shoulders.”
“Yeah, but you putting Bradley Wright’s name out there hasn’t exactly helped the situation neither.”
“What do you want me to do about it? It’s moot anyway. The DA’s got the indictment, and with all the evidence you’ve got, once the kid wakes up, he’ll go down faster than a two-dollar hooker. Speaking of—”
“Two-dollar hookers?” Ricco cackled. “You that hard up, Rafferty? I could put you in touch with a coupla guys from Vice, you need a street corner. Me, I’d rather sun-bake nude at Three Mile Island than get within fifty yards some of those girls. But …”
“Droll, Ricco. And quite frankly beneath you. I—”
“Just like you want Slutbag Susie underneath you, I get it.” And he careered off into a laughing wheeze.
“Evidence. For your information, I was talking about evidence.”
The laughing disappeared and the auditory scowl returned.
“What about it?”
“What do you have connecting Bradley Wright to the shootings?”
“Like I got time to do nothing better than shoot the shit with you, Rafferty.” I waited. Ricco sighed. “What’s the matter? His prints all over the gun that killed four not enough for you? It was more’n enough for Hanging Hernandez and the Grand Jury.”
“I know about the … Wait a minute, did you say Hanging Hernandez? So that’s where I’ve been going wrong. I need a kick-ass nickname to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies.”
“Yuck, yuck.”
“People call her that to her face?”
“‘Course not, don’t be stupid, but she makes people use her last name, and she’s got a better record on killin’ than Jesse James.”
“Rides that death penalty hard, does she?”
“Uh huh, and she’s good. I’m pretty sure she ain’t ever lost a murder case, not even as a prosecutor, but I do know for a fact she ain’t never had a death penalty request turned down.”
“Not looking good for Bradley.”
“Nup.” The chuckle was back.
“What else can you give me on Bradley?”
“Aside from the fact that the kid is officially fucked, nuthin’.”
“C’mon, Ricco, you’ve got to have more than that. You’ve had teams working on this for two weeks now.”
“No chance, Rafferty. Ed let me know what it was worth for me to let anything slide to you and I like being a cop more than I like unemployment. Why the hell you care, anyway?”
I told Ricco about the case I now had and then wished I hadn’t.
“You talked the Wright broad in to givin’ you money to prove the same thing as Hernandez?”
“It seems so.”
“How the fuck you get so lucky to fall in to shit like that I’ll never know. Meanwhile, the rest of us have to work for living.”
I couldn’t be bothered correcting him of his misconceptions on the pleasures and intricacies of the P.I. game. Besides, while I still had him on the phone ….
“I can’t sit and chat all day, Rafferty. I know it’s not the same for people like you with their wealthy patrons, but—”
“There’s gotta be something you can give me.” My voice sounded wheedley in my head and I didn’t like it.
“No there isn’t. Later.”
So Ricco was a bust, but at least I confirmed that I was probably better keeping my distance from Ed for a little while yet.
Stood up and looked out the window, between buildings and over to the Columbus High schoolyard. No kids playing, no kids running in terror.
Still and silent.
With school out, not for the summer but for the foreseeable future, would there be anything to find if I was to head down there?
Maybe, but I doubted it. Anything that hadn’t been processed and cataloged by now, that had been left at the scene all this time, if it had any relevance, it’d be guarded by cops. Especially now that the investigation was very much in the public eye.
Turned to the next arrow in my quiver—without getting out of the office, that was—and called the Office of the District Attorney.
Didn’t get to speak to Hanging Hernandez, not even close. In fact, the associate I did speak to, who couldn’t have been any more than twenty-four, twenty-five tops, gave me much the same response as Ricco.
She didn’t take as long or make as many references to cut-price streetwalkers. But she did give me a healthy mix of incredulity and derision when I explained what I wanted.
By the t
ime she’d hung up abruptly, I had already decided I was finished with the phone for the morning.
Locked the door and went to lunch.
Trust me on this, not all hot dogs are good.
So I put on the coffeepot and fired up a pipe to get rid of the aftertaste before I snagged the phone and dialed my service.
Eight calls.
What the hell?
Hilda, saying that she’d see me at her place tonight. No means the worst news I’d ever heard.
The next seven?
Paul Eindhoven. I sighed when the girl at my service mentioned his name, thinking it was a bit early to start chasing results, drew that breath back as she read the rest of the messages.
They all differed in detail, but the theme was the same.
“Wrights in danger. Need help.”
I rolled the chair out from under the desk and put my feet up while I dialed. I had the receiver wedged into my shoulder and watched clouds gather outside my window.
“Paul Eindhoven, Attorney at Law,” said a cool female voice.
“Get me Paul.”
“And may I ask who’s calling?”
I hate it when secretaries pull that routine.
“Yeah, sweet cheeks, the name’s Sonny Crockett. I’m a pretty big thing on TV. Miami Vice? Maybe you’ve seen me.” No response. “Well, I’ve contracted a horrible case of bunions from my character wearing shoes without socks and I think I’ve got a big case against the studio for permanent metatarsal disfigurement.”
“Hmmph. Let me see if he’s in.”
A few minutes and a couple of clicks and pops later, Paul was on the line.
“Who is this?”
“Rafferty.”
“Where have you been?”
I shook my head.
“Paul. You asked for results and, for the next two days, I’m still on your retainer. I don’t owe you or your clients jack right now.”
“It’s no longer a matter of whether you will protect Charlene at her home. You must act now,” Paul said. “And regarding payment, she is prepared to pay for your time in helping with her personal security.”
“That’s table stakes, Paul. Don’t make it sound like she’s doing me a favor,” I said, but I wasn’t disinterested. The long-range forecast was still for a whole lot of nothing on the financial horizon.
Still, I stayed quiet and let Paul come to me. It would do him good.
“She needs help, Rafferty. After the cops finished the initial search of the house, a crowd of protestors began to camp out on the front yard and they’re starting to cause damage. To date, it’s just been some graffiti and tearing up the front yard, but it’s only a matter of time. Charlene can’t afford to lose her house.”
“I saw the pictures in the paper. It doesn’t look that bad. Just tell her to get out there with a gun. Her son was pretty handy with that approach.”
Paul ignored the bait.
“She’s not at home.”
“Well she sure as hell isn’t vacationing in Acapulco. Not with Bradley still in hospital.”
Paul sighed. “When it became obvious the crowd on their front lawn wasn’t going away, she thought she might as well get out of the house and hide for a while.”
“And where is she hiding?”
“She and Ray are in a no-tell motel on Harry Hines Boulevard. The manager won’t give them up, but there’s no additional security. If a reporter could track them there, then …”
“I can’t babysit and investigate. If I do this, I’ll have to bring in outside help. That goes on the bill.”
“Okay.”
“And it’ll cost you double, and split my forces, if I’m trying to watch two separate locations. Better to move them home.”
“I told her it was a bad idea in the first place.”
“Even if we can get Charlene home, that’s going to be two fifty a day for me, plus expenses, for an unspecified timeframe. That’ll add up quick. Can she handle that?”
“We’ll review in a couple of weeks if things haven’t settled down, but I expect you’ll have found proof of Bradley’s non-involvement by then.”
“Counselor, let me make this clear: I’m not a charity. No pay, no work. I will walk away from all of this—investigation, babysitting, the works—when the money runs out. Got that?”
I could hear Paul purse his lips. As if he wouldn’t do the same damn thing.
“Understood.”
“All right then. Gimme the room number and name of the motel?”
I knew it. I’d even used it before. He was right about the manager—the guy was old school, wouldn’t roll over for anyone—and the privacy was okay, but security? Motels were built to get people in, not keep them out.
“I’ll call Charlene and convince her that she needs to go home,” Paul said. “What time will you get over there?”
“Not so fast. I’ve got other things to do. I’ll get to her in the next couple days.”
Paul wasn’t happy. There wasn’t much he could do about it.
I wasn’t lying when I told Paul I had things to do. Now that the Wright house was empty, it gave me the perfect opportunity to break in, ahem, investigate.
I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d find in a house already picked apart by the police, but it did fit with one of my more oft-used approaches—it seemed like a good idea at the time.
It certainly couldn’t make things worse.
Uh huh.
Chapter 15
Turned out I was wrong about where Charlene lived.
The address I got from Paul was a lot lower than Lower Greenville, closer to the city and jammed in between Main and the E. R. L. Thornton Freeway.
I parked down the road from the smallish two-story frame house and sat in the car.
The group on the Wright’s front lawn was larger than I expected, three or four times the half-dozen that I proclaimed. They sat, stood, and walked back and forth on the front lawn in front of parked cars. Tent shelters had been erected and lawn chairs scattered. A series of signs had been planted curbside: Pictures of Bradley Wright from recent newspaper articles blown up and emblazoned with the words KID KILLER!! and MURDERERS WILL BE JUDGED AND BURN IN HELL, and other epithets.
Two news vans leaned against the curb on the opposite side of the road. I couldn’t see any spiderish tripods with cameras or toothy reporters, so probably a skeleton crew left behind to get extra footage in the event the killer’s parent decided returning home was a good idea.
The house and gardens looked old and worn but neat, like a woman past her prime fooling no-one but herself with the judicious application of makeup and hair dye. The front lawn nearest the curb wasn’t faring well, what with being torn up by the repeated movement of the crowd.
The front door looked secure and the windows unbroken for the moment. A couple of black paint starbursts punctuated the garage door and a MURDERER!! graffito in blood red stained the wall under the front porch. A jumble of boxes, plastic bags and stuff which I couldn’t define as being thrown away or stored jammed the space between the garage wall and the near fence.
I wasn’t going to learn any more by sitting there, so I decided to ‘git amongst ’em,’ as Cowboy would say. Thumbed open the glove compartment, wondered why the Colt .45 wasn’t there, and spent too long working out that it was still in the Mustang. At McLeod’s.
Goddamn.
I got out, locked the car, and started a pipe as I leaned against the front fender. Once it was going, I strolled down the street, just another passer-by taking in the sights.
“What’s going on?” I asked a middle-aged woman wearing a screaming-eagle baseball cap. She leaned against an older model Ford station wagon adorned with two bumper stickers: GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, I DO. and HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS.
Catchy.
“You haven’t heard?” She twisted to look at me, without moving her sizable butt from the support offered by Henry’s finest sheet metal. “One of those school shooters lived here.”
“You mean the Columbus High thing?” I played dumb. Hilda often said it wasn’t much of a stretch.
“Uh huh. God exacted his retribution when he struck the boy down for his heinous acts. He’ll get dragged before the Almighty Lord soon enough to answer for what he done. The mom and some guy hid in a taxi as they ran away like the cowards that they are, but we’re staying here to remind them that the Everlasting Fire of Righteousness is Coming.”
I kid you not. She said that.
It was all I could do not to laugh.
We were joined by a middle-aged, clean shaven, guy carrying thirty pounds more than he should have been. Conservatively dressed, didn’t look that smart, and seemed blissfully unaware of the fact.
“Everything all good, Ruthie?” he asked.
“Uh huh,” she said. “Just this guy here asking about what’s going on.”
“You got a problem, mister? We got every right to be here, you know. It’s a free country.”
“Oh, I know it,” I said.
When I decided not to follow that with further information, he moved from defending his rights to glaring at me.
I turned and said to the woman, “No sign of the mom?”
She smiled, showing a lot of teeth and gums. “Not yet. It don’t matter. We’ll be here whenever she decides to slink back in shame.”
“Uh huh,” I said.
Looked over the rest of the assembled multitude and figured I’d get much the same story from each of them. There was an impressive range of ages—from a pimple-faced boy who should have been in his elementary school classroom to someone’s grandmother sitting in her bright green lawn chair knitting the beginnings of an American flag—and they sent a unified, unspoken message. Lots of patriotic sweatshirts and hats, a few hip-holstered pistols, and more than one bible being thumped.
While I could spend the rest of the day and amuse myself by collecting a series of outrageous viewpoints and religious quotes, that wouldn’t get me any closer to extracting info from the interior of the house.
I nodded at Ruthie and the other guy, circled back to the Pacer, bashed my pipe out on my boot heel, got in, and drove around the block to another chunk of suburbia. Quiet this time of day; householders away at work, shopping or such. I cruised down the street until I estimated I was behind the Wright house. I kept going for another hundred yards and parked under a big shade tree.
Wright & Wrong Page 11