Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 2 (Intro by J.A.Konrath)

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  He was on the early shift one morning, rinsing out pots, when he heard a knock at the door. He walked out to the front and squinted through the window. It was Brady, a regular who sat with Lindsey almost every night, sharing jokes and stories and drinks. The bus boys said Brady threw money around like water. Once in a while Brady’s wife, a hot blond number, came in too. Today, though, Brady wasn’t smiling. As Derek opened the door, he felt waves of tension eddying out from Brady.

  “Lindsey in back?” No “hello, how are you, pal.” Brady never looked at you when he spoke, as if people were annoying things you swatted away like flies.

  “He’s not here.”

  “He must be.” Brady sounded irritated, as if it was Derek’s fault, and brushed past him. Derek started sweeping. Last night, he was loading the dishwasher when he heard loud voices coming from Lindsey’s cramped office next to the kitchen. Then there’d been silence. A few minutes later Derek saw Brady slink down the hall, his face half-hidden by a baseball cap pulled low across his forehead.

  Now Brady pushed past him again. “You hear from him this morning?”

  Derek shrugged. “Nope.”

  Brady opened the door. “When he comes in, have him call me.” Not a request. An order.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Brady.” The door slammed.

  A few minutes later, Derek caught a gleam of silver wedged between a barstool and the foot rail. Thinking it was a gum wrapper, he leaned over to pick it up. It was a set of car keys. A small tag asked the finder to return them to Ian Brady at a post office number. Derek turned them over in his hand. One key was silver, but the other was that new kind of key that wasn’t a key at all, just a finger of black plastic. Mercedes made them. Derek laid the keys on the bar. Brady would be charging back in as soon as he realized he’d dropped them.

  He finished sweeping the floor. Then he unloaded the dishwasher. Half an hour passed. Brady hadn’t come back. Derek started to itch all over. He stayed in the kitchen and tried not to think about the keys. Twenty minutes later the itch was still there, and his face felt hot. He checked the clock. Lindsey would be in any minute, along with the lunchtime crew.

  He walked back to the bar. The keys glinted in a shaft of sunlight. He ran his thumb and forefinger around his jaw-line, stroking an imaginary beard, a habit he’d picked up that made him feel smart. He stared at the keys. Then he scooped them up and let himself out the door.

  The Benz couldn’t be too far away. Derek walked up one block and down another. No car. Puzzled, he doubled back through the alley behind the restaurant. There it was, parked in the spot Lindsey usually kept vacant for suppliers. A navy blue coupe that looked like it just came off the showroom floor. Cream interior. Deep pile carpeting. Fat seventeen inch tires. It had to be over five hundred horsepower. That thing would fly.

  He skulked in the narrow shadow from an overhanging eave, his eyes scanning the buildings across the alley. This was the hottest summer since the year all those people died, and today was already a scorcher. Everyone must be holed up next to their air conditioners with the blinds down. Derek sauntered up to the car and pressed the dot of raised plastic on the key. The locks snapped up. He swung himself into the car. The leather seat yielded to the contours of his back, as though it was custom tailored for him. He gripped the wheel and turned over the engine. It caught right away. He nudged the car out of the alley.

  He headed east to the Drive, handling the Benz as gently as one of Lindsey’s crystal glasses, the ones he saved for special occasions. The slightest touch of his hand prompted an eager response, as if the car was just waiting for his next command. The ride was well balanced and stable, and it cornered on a matchstick. He cruised down the Drive, getting the feel of the car, then turned south on Fifty-Five.

  The road opened up a few miles later, and Derek floored it. The car hesitated for a fraction of a second, then lunged forward. Derek hunched forward and let the car eat up the highway. There was always a moment when he could tell whether a set of wheels was worth it or whether it had some defect, some flaw that made it a clunker. But this baby was perfect. Derek blew out his breath. It felt like he hadn’t really breathed in years. His fingers drifted over the walnut-trimmed instrument panel, the velvety smoothness of the seats. He wasn’t sure where the car ended and his flesh began.

  ***

  When Derek smelled it, he thought it might be fertilizer from a nearby field until he spotted the warehouses flanking the highway. Then he popped open the glove compartment, thinking Brady left a burger or hot dog inside. He found lipstick, tissues, and a garage door opener, but no food.

  The odor grew more rancid, and he opened the windows. That helped for a while, but when he closed them to crank up the A/C, it came back. An uneasy feeling twisted his stomach. He veered off the highway at the next exit and stopped. The smell was strongest near the trunk. He got out and opened it up.

  He jumped back as if he’d singed his fingers, then took a tentative step forward. The body of a man was curled up inside. There were brown stains all over his khaki pants and polo shirt. On his feet were black Converses, the kind Lindsey wore. The hair on the back of Derek’s neck stiffened. It was Lindsey.

  The sudden roar of a passing car reminded Derek the trunk was wide open. He pushed it down. His pulse raced. This had to be a bad dream. If he opened the trunk again, it would be empty. He did. It wasn’t.

  Then he glimpsed a patch of red plastic peeking out from under Lindsey’s body. He pulled it out. It was a shopping bag from one of those fancy Lakeview stores. Inside was a crumpled white shirt with the same brown stains, and a large butcher’s knife, it too stained with blood. Derek froze. The knife was from the restaurant’s kitchen.

  He stiffened. He had a big problem, and grand theft auto was just the beginning. A minute passed. He walked up to the passenger side and pulled the tissues out of the glove compartment. He edged around to the back and slid the knife out of the bag, using the tissues to keep his prints off. Clutching the knife, he jogged to a wooded area set back from the road, found a patch of dead leaves and twigs, and buried the knife underneath.

  Seconds later, he was back behind the wheel heading south on Fifty-Five. Calmer now, he turned on the radio and twisted the dial to a country station. Tim McGraw was singing I Like It, I Love It. Derek thumped the wheel to the beat. Then he noticed the cell phone built into Brady’s car. His hand flew to his chin and stroked it for a moment. He punched in a number.

  “Louie? It’s Derek.” Louie was from East Moline. They’d worked in the laundry together, listening to country all day long. It was Louie who told him McGraw was married to Faith Hill.

  “Derek, my man. Still keeping your ass clean?” Louie guffawed. He knew Derek was a dishwasher.

  “Louie, I got a problem.”

  “Hold on, lemme get to another phone.”

  Derek heard a shrill voice in the background. “You already had one lousy break today. This better not take long.”

  “Don’t mess with me, woman,” Louie’s voice snapped. Then he was back. “What’s happening, man?”

  Derek told him. There was a long silence.

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the car.”

  “Man, are you crazy? You calling me from some dude’s car? What’s the matter with you? Get to a pay phone and call me back.” There was a click and the line went dead.

  Derek drove to the nearest gas station, but a few people were filling up their tanks, and he couldn’t risk someone getting a whiff of Lindsey. He sailed past it then redialed Louie’s number.

  “You at a pay phone?”

  “Er, yeah, Louie.”

  “It don’t sound like it.”

  Derek took a breath. “Louie, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Only one thing to do. Get your ass out of that car. Fast. Dump it.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “No way, man. Ditching cars is one thing. Dead bodies is somethin’ altogether different. Screw it man. You shou
ldna’ called me.”

  “Louie, don’t hang up. Please.”

  More silence.

  “Louie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where do I dump it?”

  “Anywhere man. Just do it.” Louie sounded impatient. “Shit. You got no clue, do you?”

  Derek shook his head, not realizing Louie couldn’t see him.

  “All right. Listen to me good now, Derek. You remember that movie we saw in the joint?”

  “What movie?” Derek loved movies. When he could follow the plot.

  “Think. The one about Bernie. You remember?”

  Derek thought hard, his lips pursed together with the effort. It was something about two guys trying to figure out what to do with a dead body. Weekend At Bernie’s. “Yeah.” He was proud of himself. “I remember.”

  “Well, where’s the one place we thought they shoulda’ ditched him, but they didn’t?”

  Derek thought he recalled some of the guys acting like they knew all about dumping stiffs, but he couldn’t remember what they said. “I—I dunno.”

  “Man, do I have to spell it out for you?”

  Derek hung his head.

  “Listen. I’m not gonna say it straight out—you never know who’s listening. But you get yerself out to the airport, you hear?”

  The muscles on his face relaxed. “I got it. Thanks, Louie.”

  “And we never talked, you got it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Derek?”

  “Yeah, Louie?”

  “Long term parking.”

  “Right.”

  Derek cut northeast towards O’Hare. He might catch on slow, but he knew what to do now. He’d ditch the Mercedes then race into the airport like he was boarding a plane. Then he’d make a one-eighty and take the subway home. His problems would be over. He turned up the radio and whistled along with Garth Brooks.

  But when he got to long term parking, he realized they’d just finished renovating the lots. There was now a booth next to the automatic gate, and inside sat a black man, or a Double-A, as Louie called them. Derek pulled up and waited for his ticket.

  The man stared at Derek with narrowed eyes, and Derek felt a jolt of recognition. The guy was an ex-con. Louie said you could always tell. There was something in the eyes, something that marked you as a former inmate, and it never went away, no matter how long you’d been out. Derek realized he should have waited until dark. The booth might have been empty, or even if someone was there, they’d probably be jammin’ to the music from their headphones, taking no notice of a guy in a Benz. He circled the lot and pretended to change his mind. As he looped back to the highway, he felt the guy staring after him.

  Derek cruised through neighborhoods where the same house reproduced itself in different hues of paint. After an hour or so he came to an industrial area dotted with warehouses and factories. He sat up straighter. The road dead-ended just ahead. Beyond it was a field, waist high with prairie grass. Nothing else. He stopped and got out of the car. There was no traffic. Or people. He was about to toss the keys into the field and run like hell when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Nice wheels, man.”

  Derek whipped around. A kid on a bike. The kid braked to a stop.

  “A C1600 with a V-12 engine, right?”

  Derek didn’t know what model it was, but he dipped his head anyway.

  “I know a guy has one of those new CLK350s, but your baby is wicked sweet.”

  Derek grunted. The kid went on about independent suspension, torque, and power transmissions, clearly trying to impress Derek with his knowledge. But Derek didn’t want to shoot the breeze. He had to split before the kid smelled Lindsey.

  “What are you doing around here, anyway?” The kid wrinkled his nose.

  Derek’s stomach flipped. He shrugged, struggling to act nonchalant. What should he say? Luckily, the kid gave him an out.

  “You work around here?”

  “Yeah,” Derek said, almost grateful. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Oh. You must have just started, right? ‘Cause I never seen your car before.”

  Derek nodded. Then a thought came to him. “You know what time it is?”

  The kid shook his head.

  “I gotta go. They dock you an hour’s pay if you take too long on break.”

  He got back in the car and tried not to lay down any rubber as he pulled away.

  By late afternoon, the stench from the trunk was turning his skin clammy. Blasting the A/C didn’t help, and the hot angry air whipping through the window scalded his arm. He sped up Ninety-Four to Milwaukee, then backtracked south. He’d missed his shift; he hoped Lindsey wouldn’t fire him. Then he giggled. Lindsey wouldn’t be firing anyone anymore. By nightfall, though, he was drained. He was a prisoner in the Benz, just as surely as he’d been in the joint. He was hungry and tired, and he didn’t know what to do.

  It wasn’t until three in the morning, occasional headlights winking past him on the Skyway, that he had an epiphany. This wasn’t his problem. It was Brady’s. Brady killed Lindsey. He, Derek, was guilty of only one thing: taking the car for a joy ride. If he could somehow undo that, he’d be in the clear. He played with the idea, turning it over in his mind, like a new car you want to baby until you know its limits.

  The sun was just streaking the sky with pink when Derek drove east on Fullerton in Lincoln Park. He found Brady’s home easily—his address was in the glove compartment. It was a neat brick townhouse, surrounded by a wrought iron fence in front and a small garage on the side. A discreet sign mounted on the gate asked visitors to announce themselves. He parked the car, got out, and left the keys in the ignition. He pressed the buzzer and then sprinted to the corner where he crouched behind a shuttered newsstand and peeked out.

  Brady’s door opened; Brady and his wife emerged. Brady’s wife was in a bathrobe, her blond hair in tangles, but Brady was wearing the same clothes he’d worn yesterday. Both of them looked shocked to see the Benz. His wife waved her arms in the air, then pointed a finger at Brady. Brady’s arms flew up as if he thought she might hit him. He gestured to the house and hurried inside.

  His wife waited until the front door closed. Then she strolled up to the driver’s side, looked in both directions, and took the keys out of the ignition. Back at the trunk, she inserted the key and raised the hood. Ten seconds passed. Then Derek heard her scream, loud enough to carry a full block away. She slammed down the trunk and ran up the driveway, clutching her stomach with her hands. Derek thought she was going to throw up. He waited until he heard the sirens approaching before he left. He thought he might have forgotten something, but he didn’t know what it was.

  ***

  Derek couldn’t decide whether to show up for work. If he didn’t, someone would wonder where he was, but if he did, they’d ask where he’d been yesterday. He decided to go in and say he’d been sick. He needed the money.

  The sign said Lindsey’s was closed, but the place was crawling with cops. A couple of uniforms shielded the door. When he told them his name, they said to duck under the yellow tape stretched across the front. A man in a fancy suit and silk tie stood at the bar, talking into a cell phone. His skin was the shade of cocoa, his nappy black hair grizzled at the sides. His eyes were fearless.

  “I know, but it’s the closest thing we got to a crime scene.” His eyes locked on Derek trying to slip through the door. “This is the last place anyone saw him alive.” The man pointed to a table. Derek sat down. A guy taking pictures was just finishing up, while another guy started to smear black powder all over everything. “Call me back when you have something.” The man who’d been talking snapped the phone closed and dumped it in his jacket pocket.

  “Luke Woolston. Area Three Detectives.” The man nodded to Derek. “Who are you?”

  Derek stammered. “D-Derek Schindler.”

  “They told me you missed work yesterday.”

  “Yeah.” Derek refused to meet the detective’s eyes.
/>   Woolston took a swivel stick off the bar, stuck it in his mouth. “How come?”

  Derek gazed past the detective. The guy with the briefcase was dusting the top of the bar with white powder. “I got no A/C. I couldn’t breathe.”

  Woolston twirled the swivel stick in his mouth. “You go to the ER? See a doctor?”

  Derek shook his head.

  “But you made a miraculous recovery.” The detective curled his lip.

  “I took lots of showers.”

  Woolston sat down across from Derek. “When was your last shift?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Where did you go afterwards?”

  “Home.”

  The detective’s cell phone rang. Woolston pulled it out of his pocket. “Good. Keep on it.” He laid the phone on the table, his eyes never leaving Derek’s face. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Derek looked at the cell phone.

  “Yesterday we got a report of a stolen Mercedes. Brand new car. Then, less than twenty-four hours later, the car shows up. With Mr. Lindsey in the trunk.” He took the swivel stick out of his mouth and pointed to the phone. “Now I hear you did two to five for stealing cars.”

  Derek blinked.

  “You see the problem?” Woolston twirled the swizzle stick. “Let me try out a theory on you, son.” He stood up, walked around to Derek, laid a hand on the back of Derek’s chair. Derek had to twist around to see him. “I’m prepared to believe that whoever killed Lindsey didn’t intend to kill him. I think the offender—” Woolston took his time with each syllable—“was just out for a joy ride. And you know, I can understand that.”