Deep Kill (The Micah Dunn Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  The lawyer lived in a big yellow two-story dating from the twenties, across the street from the insane asylum. He enjoyed the irony, and right now it seemed appropriate. Of course, I didn’t know if he’d be home, but I figured it was worth a chance.

  When we stopped at the corner I saw lights on, and I thought I saw a shadow pass in front of the window.

  “Wait here,” I told the driver. We got out and went through the grill fence and up the walk. I heard the TV playing inside and nodded to Sandy. If O’Rourke had a date, he might not be ecstatic about being interrupted, but there wasn’t any choice. I knocked on the door.

  A few seconds later he opened it, frowning out at us from behind his glasses, a drink in his hand and his hair tousled.

  “Jesus,” he said, looking from one of us to the other, “this must be serious.”

  Sandy went back to pay the cabdriver, and O’Rourke and I waited in the doorway for her. He ushered us in, going to the television and pushing a button on the VCR.

  “I was watching The African Queen,” he said, his tone half recriminating. “They’ve just buried Robert Morley.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “We came about another death.”

  He took a deep breath and sank into his easy chair. He’d been married once, but it hadn’t worked, and now, aside from bicycling, his main source of relaxation seemed to be classic movies. He waved a hand at the bar with its decanters and glasses, and Sandy went to fix herself one, but I already had a mouthful of acid.

  “So what is it?” he asked, and then squinted at my face. “And who beat the crap out of you?” He frowned. “Was it Condon? Are you holding something back?”

  “It’s academic,” I said. I told him about Eddie Gulch. “So you see, we really just happened to stumble onto it.”

  “Then you don’t have anything to sweat,” he said, rolling his glass between his hands. “Unless you picked up something at the scene. And that would be obstruction of justice.”

  I thought about the little slip of paper, which I’d since gotten rid of.

  “Nothing clearly connected with the crime,” I said.

  “I don’t think I want to examine that statement,” he muttered. “So now what?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted their bird dog out there to see where we’d gone.”

  “You know,” he said, “you’re fast establishing me as a mouthpiece for dubious causes.” He held up his glass to the light. “Now tell me why they had a cop in the lobby of Gulch’s building.”

  “They were following somebody,” I said. “The person that hired Gulch. It’s a drug case. They may have figured Gulch was a courier, or, more likely, a hit man.”

  “Since he took a shot at you, it seems likely,” he allowed.

  “That’s where you come in,” I said. “I’d like you to call and make sure they do a gunpowder residue test on Gulch’s hands.”

  “To prove he shot at you?” Sandy asked. “What if he scrubbed?”

  “Or wore gloves,” O’Rourke said.

  “I know, it’s a long shot,” I admitted. “But let’s do it anyway. They might blow me off, but they can’t refuse if you ask them. Call one of your contacts in the DA’s office.”

  O’Rourke sighed and reached for the phone. “You might as well go to the icebox,” he said, “and get out the lunch meat.” He shook his head as he punched the buttons. “They’re gonna love me for this.”

  Sandy and I made a stack of sandwiches and brought them out to the living room, while he took half an hour to track down an ADA named McLemore. I heard him promise everything from Saints tickets to his attendance at the DA’s next fund-raiser. When he’d gotten what he needed he muttered his thanks, pressing the receiver back on the hook like a man closing the lid on a basketful of snakes.

  “Okay. He’ll make the request. It’ll take a day or two. Tomorrow’s Saturday, and the State Police crime lab’s shorthanded, so don’t hold your breath.”

  “Thanks, John.”

  “Yeah.” He gave me a sour look. “Have you ever sat through one of the DA’s little after-dinner speeches?” He shook his head. “Since I had to get my man away from the table at T. Pittari’s, it’s also gonna cost me some tickets I don’t have. Micah …”

  “I know somebody who’ll print you up as many as you need,” I said, and watched him go green. Before he could protest I had the phone in my hand.

  Katherine answered on the first ring. “Micah. Thank God. I’ve been sitting here worried to death.”

  “I thought Sandy called you.”

  “She did. It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s Scott. I haven’t heard from him for two days now. I called his apartment, and he isn’t there. His friends haven’t seen him and—”

  “Whoa,” I said. “He called me yesterday. At least, there was a message on my machine.”

  “You talked to him, then?”

  Damn. It had slipped my mind. “No,” I admitted. “But he sounded fine.”

  “Did he say what he wanted to talk to you about?”

  “No. But there wasn’t any urgency.” Or was there?

  “Micah, I’m worried. Ever since the other night …”

  “Scott’s a big boy,” I said soothingly. “He’ll be okay. Probably just studying at somebody’s place. I’ll check on him.”

  “Please.” She hesitated. “Micah, about the other night, I—”

  “It’s okay. We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Yeah,” she said flatly.

  “Katherine …” I lowered my voice. “Look, you’re his mother. I accept that. I’ve never had a kid, so maybe I don’t know what it’s like. But I know Scott, and I think he’ll be okay.”

  “I know,” she said in a small voice. “But I’d feel a lot better if you were here right now.”

  I thought about the gunshot that had missed me, and the beating I’d taken, and then about the dead man, sitting in the chair with a silly smile on his face.

  “It’s best for me to stay away for the time being,” I said. “Until some business matters are resolved.”

  “You mean the Autry thing. Micah, if you need me …”

  “Thanks. Right now, though, I need you where you are.” I hesitated, looking over at O’Rourke. “I’ll be at John’s tonight.”

  “All right. But Micah …”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  For the first time in two days I felt something almost good. “I love you, too,” I said. “Later.” I hung up.

  “The bed’s made upstairs,” O’Rourke said. “Sandy can have the downstairs. Or you can flip for it.”

  Sandy shook her head, finishing her sandwich. “Sandy can take care of herself,” she said. “And right now she’s got some legwork to do.”

  We both looked at her.

  She got up, taking her purse. “Well, I don’t know about you dudes, but I’d kinda like to talk to a cat named Taylor Augustine.”

  Fourteen

  The next morning I felt almost human. O’Rourke was downstairs when I got up; I smelled coffee brewing. I went to the window in his bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall and lifted the curtain. The street looked clear, but you can never tell. Fox and his partner might be further down the street, or on Chestnut, the side street that ran alongside the house. Sandy had gone out through the back door, and through the garden gate, and I counted on her ability to slip away into the night. If they were still interested in me, I was going to have to do the same thing, only in daylight.

  I went downstairs to the kitchen, where O’Rourke handed me a plate of toast. “I don’t eat much on Saturday mornings,” he said. “My day to jog.”

  “Could you do me a favor first?” I asked, and explained what I wanted him to do.

  He shrugged. “Why the hell not? I’ve done everything else.” He poured himself a second cup of coffee. “You really think this clears Autry, then?”

  “Why would Autry kill Gulch?” I countered.

  “I don’t know. But you m
ight’ve just stumbled onto something that’s not connected with the Autry business at all.”

  “If I did, they knew enough about Autry to get Taylor Augustine to call me,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s true.” He pursed his lips. “Well, who do you think hired Gulch, then?”

  “My guess is Villiere,” I said.

  “But what does that have to do with child molesting?”

  I shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “Okay. Try this: Autry was into more than one illegal thing. Dope as well as kids.” I started to protest, but he held up a hand. “It’s happened to less likely people. His wife left him, he was wrung out …”

  “Not Cal,” I said. But the presence of the young narcotics cop who’d been in the room with Fox argued O’Rourke’s case.

  Five minutes later O’Rourke went out to his station wagon and drove away. I watched from upstairs, but nobody followed, so far as I could see. I gave it another five minutes and then let myself out the back. O’Rourke would drive around for a few minutes and then return. I was counting on anyone following him, if they were still in place.

  I walked down to Magazine, found a grocery with a pay phone, and called a cab. While I was waiting, I looked up Melville Autry’s address.

  His house was on Oak Island, one of the new subdivisions that formed part of East New Orleans. Something Melville had told me kept coming back to nest in my consciousness, like a buzzard flapping its wings: Him and me, we’ve had words, sure, once’t I come close to clobbering him, he was so stubborn. …

  Maybe Calvin and Melville weren’t on such close terms, after all.

  My plans called for me to be somewhere at dark; until then I had a day on my hands. Why not? I thought, as the cab pulled up outside.

  I had him drive me past the underpass near Condon’s church, where I’d left my car two nights ago, but the car was gone. I hoped Sandy had picked it up for me, but I wasn’t going back by the office to check, because that was the best way to pick up a tail. Instead I got out at a downtown hotel, where I rented a car, and by ten I was on my way east.

  Twenty-five hundred years ago the only people who inhabited Oak Island were a bunch of wandering Indians, whose idea of a feast was shucking clams. The only ones who stayed the year through were the dead, who ended up in the shell heap with the rest of the garbage. It doesn’t take a lot of brains to know that land like that goes under whenever there’s a good storm.

  The streets had names like Expedition and Endeavor, so the suckers who bought houses there should have been warned. But somehow, I reminded myself, looking out at the desolate brown scrub vegetation, suckers never learn, and maybe they’d end up in a shell heap like the ancient Indians.

  The house I was looking for was on Founders, a one-story, modern brick affair with a blue pickup in the driveway and toys on the front lawn. I slowed at the end of the street and turned around.

  I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I had plenty of time to wait and watch, but this was a neighborhood where there was no cover, just houses on each side of the street, and if I sat there for very long I’d probably get a visit from the law.

  Of course, I could just go up to the door and knock. Is Calvin here? Did you ever try to slug it out with him? Did you wind up with a grudge?

  I was still thinking about it when the door opened and the question was resolved. It was Melville, dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt, and as I watched he got into the pickup and drove away from me and out of the subdivision.

  It was Saturday, so he wasn’t heading to work. I thought about letting him go and seeing if Calvin was inside the house. But I could always come back for Calvin. Right now I had time on my hands and could indulge my curiosity. I let him get a block ahead and then followed.

  He left the subdivision at Michoud Boulevard and turned right, headed for the interstate. There he curved left, going west toward the city, and I nudged my speed up to sixty-five, keeping him in sight.

  There was a wreck on the Intercoastal Bridge, and traffic on our side was bottlenecked into two lanes. I slipped in two cars behind him and saw him get out and stand in the road, trying to see what the holdup was. Our lane soon opened and we set off, Melville weaving in and out of traffic ahead of me. I sped up, aware that I was risking a traffic ticket and the inevitable questioning that would result when I was recognized.

  When he turned onto Causeway, it came to me where he was going. Of course, I thought, slowing down to a legal speed. He was heading for his father’s house.

  I let him lose himself in the traffic. When I turned into the street, his pickup was already in the driveway. I went on past, drove onto a side street, and came back around to park on the opposite side, about five houses down, facing his truck. The lawn beside me had a white sheet with eyeholes cut in it dangling from an oak tree, and a couple of dummy gravestones on the grass. In a few weeks the kids would be out in their costumes, lugging heavy paper bags full of candy. They’d take their candy home and their parents would go through it, looking for razor blades or other signs of tampering. They wouldn’t find any, but somebody would know somebody who could swear it had happened to a cousin. It was that kind of neighborhood.

  Melville had gone into the house, but I couldn’t see what was going on. I wished now I was in my own car, because I keep a pair of binoculars under the seat. Ten minutes later I saw him emerge. He was halfway to his truck when a woman came out of the Bonchaud house next door and said something to him. He threw his hands up in the air, like what she’d said made him angry. She stood her ground, and he shouted something, but even with the window down I couldn’t make it out.

  The plumber’s wife, I thought, and opened my door, undecided whether to break in on them and try to shake something loose or to let them finish and then try to wheedle the truth out of the woman. A minute later they were joined by the plumber himself, but he stood half a step behind his wife, and from his body language it looked like he was trying to arbitrate.

  Melville threw up his hands a final time, turned his back on the pair, and got into his truck. The engine roared and he shot backward into the street and squealed away, leaving about a pound of rubber behind him on the asphalt.

  I started across the street and caught the couple before they’d reached their front steps.

  “You,” Virgil Bonchaud said.

  “Me again,” I said, and hoped I could bluff it out.

  “You’re not any credit investigator,” he pronounced.

  “I’ve seen him before, Virgil,” his wife said. She was dumpy, late fifties, with brown curly hair and a doughy complexion. “I’ve seen you,” she repeated, looking straight at me.

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “Look, I’m a private detective. I was hired to look into the Autry business. I noticed you were having words with his son.”

  A dog yapped somewhere nearby, and Virgil Bonchaud spit in the flower bed.

  His wife took a step toward me, her eyes flashing. “You hear that?”

  The dog was still yapping. I nodded.

  “That pit bull’s been yapping ever since Cal Autry left. They keep it chained up to the garage door. For burglars, he said. Melville comes over here to feed it every day. That shuts it up for about five minutes. Then, the rest of the day and night, it’s yap, yap, yap. You can’t sleep, you can’t watch TV. I told him just now he ought to take that dog with him or have it put out of its misery. The cops were about to do it, when they came that time to search, but nice guy here went and tied it someplace else.” She turned on her husband. “You shoulda let ’em shoot it.”

  “Mabel’s sensitive to sounds, you might say,” her husband put in.

  “It’s all day and all night,” Mabel declared. “And the smell, all that dog does is crap.”

  The plumber nodded gravely. “It does stink,” he allowed.

  “I told him,” Mabel went on. “But he didn’t want to hear it. Just like his old man. And Marie was nothing but a—”

  “Now, Mabel.” />
  “Well,” she proclaimed, “you know it’s true. And what kinda man would keep a pit bull? The dogs are menaces.”

  Virgil Bonchaud squinted over at me. “You could of told us who you was to start with,” he said. “Instead of all this credit investigator crap.”

  “I didn’t want to stir things up.”

  He grunted. “What could stir ’em up any more than they are already?”

  He had something there. I murmured my apologies and left, feeling their eyes on my back.

  Melville had just come to feed the dog, the dog a panicked Cal had left behind. Something about the scenario bothered me, but I wasn’t sure what. Not that I didn’t believe it; it was something else, something pricking at the edge of consciousness.

  I drove back, making a pass by Scott’s apartment near Tulane. No one answered the door, and the mail hadn’t been picked up. I tried to tell myself that he was just enjoying his independence, but I didn’t like the looks of it. There wasn’t anything to be done just now, though. I left a note for him to call me and his mother, returned downtown, and stashed the rental car in a parking lot. Then I walked back to my office.

  I slipped in through the pedestrian gate, not seeing any watchers. But there was a vacant building across the street, and that was the place I’d pick if I were doing surveillance.

  It didn’t do any good to worry about it, though; tonight I’d be able to lose them in the narrow streets of the Quarter, if someone really was watching, and then duck back to the parking lot and collect the rental car. I was more worried about my own vehicle.

  But I shouldn’t have been, because I turned around and there it was, parked in its usual place beside the patio fountain. I breathed a sigh of relief and silently thanked Sandy.

  There was something under the wiper on the driver’s side, a folded sheet of paper. I unfolded it and read what was written on it.

  Sandy hadn’t brought the car at all. Shaking my head, I stood staring at the note in my hand: Courtesy of the brothers and sisters of the Church of the Deliverance. God bless you, Brother Dunn.

  It was three o’clock and I was nodding in my chair, a Brahms symphony from the public radio station lulling me in and out of sleep, when the door opened and I came suddenly awake.