Deep Kill (The Micah Dunn Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  My hand went to the top of the desk, where the revolver waited in its holster, but it was only Sandy, key in hand, and a disgusted expression on her face.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said, setting a paper bag down on the table.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The price of costumes this year,” she said, reaching into the paper bag. “Look at this crap: all plastic and pasteboard.” She held up a wand, plastered with stick-on glitter. “Who’s gonna believe this?”

  “Who the hell are you going to be?” I asked.

  “Glenda the Good Witch, from The Wizard of Oz.” She shrugged. “I get so tired of being bad-asses.”

  “Suit yourself,” I told her. “So what else is new?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all. I checked on Brother Augustine. And it’s a pisser.”

  “What?”

  “Taylor Augustine, that’s what. Man, I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I went over there expecting some bullshit story, and having to spread some of your bread around to get past the front door, and I found they were all in a state of panic. I asked and that was when they told me, and I believe ’em.”

  “Told you what, damn it?”

  “About the boy’s uncle, Taylor Augustine. He’s disappeared.”

  Fifteen

  I didn’t like the sound of it. From what Sandy had seen of the boy’s mother and the other sisters, they were pretty upset. That meant Augustine hadn’t told them he was dropping from sight. I tried Mancuso at home, but there was no answer, and I was damned if I was going to call Fox. When Sandy left I tried putting all the facts together, again.

  Calvin Autry had had some kind of secret that kept him away from the other boys when he was growing up. A few years later he’d married, though whether it was out of love or to get away from his hometown was hard to say, but after twenty-odd years his wife had run away, dropped him a card from California, and vanished. Calvin had been left with their son, but the relationship between the two had been unstable. At least once they had almost come to blows. Five years after his wife left, Calvin was accused of child molesting. And then the boy he supposedly molested turned up dead.

  So much for Calvin. What did I know about the other players in the drama? About the boy I knew next to nothing, though if I could figure a way to get to the Spiderwoman, I might have an outside chance of finding out something. The boy’s uncle, Taylor Augustine, could have been used to set me up and then either been bought off or killed. If Calvin was guilty it didn’t make much sense for him to hire me and then warn me off the case. And there was no way to forget Eddie Gulch, now the late Eddie Gulch. There was more here than just child molesting, as if that weren’t heavy enough.

  The phone rang. I picked it up, hoping it was Scott, but instead it was the Captain’s voice saying my name, and I thought I could almost hear the waves in the background.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said.

  “I haven’t heard from you for two weeks,” he said accusingly. “I was wondering if you were dead.”

  “No, I’m fine. Just working,” I said.

  “Right,” he said, and there was no mistaking the tone of his voice. He didn’t think much of my work, never had; I could have done great things, and instead I was following embezzlers and the wayward daughters of the New Orleans country club set.

  “I saw Frank Herlihy the other day,” he said. “You remember him. He was a plebe your last year at the academy. He retired a couple of years ago, you know, right after he got his fourth stripe.”

  “Give him my regards,” I said wearily. “Look, Dad—”

  “So why don’t you tell me about it?” he asked. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Tell you about what?”

  “Whatever the hell you’re working on that’s keeping you so busy. If you’re too busy to call, I figure maybe you need my help.”

  I was speechless. It was the first time since I’d been in the business that he’d shown any interest at all in the work I did. “It’s nothing you’d find very interesting,” I finally said evasively. “Just a child molesting case.”

  “Child molesting, eh? That’s serious business. You know, we had a few of those in the navy. I sat on a general court once that tried a chief who’d molested five of his shipmates’ kids.”

  I was hearing something new, and I felt my reserve melting. All along I’d envisioned him on the bridge of his destroyer with the spray in his face, and I’d forgotten that there were other aspects to being a naval officer, like serving on courts-martial when called.

  “What happened to him?” I asked.

  “Thirty years at hard labor,” the Captain answered, “and it probably wasn’t enough.” A pause. “You know, I’d met him once or twice at the PX. He seemed like a pretty nice guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Another pause. “So you want to tell me about it, son?”

  Before I could think about whether I wanted to, I was telling him.

  Now and again I heard him grunt at something I’d said, and occasionally he asked a question. When I was done I felt suddenly naked and vulnerable, a little boy again who’d gone to his parent, only this wasn’t just any parent, this was the Captain.

  “I guess you could say I’m steering without a compass,” I told him, trying to make a joke out of it.

  “Yep. But don’t forget, son, people were sailing the seas long before the compass was ever invented. They just had to use other ways of reckoning the direction.” His voice was soft now, as if the breakers had receded, leaving the lapping of little waves on the sand.

  “You have any ideas, Dad?” I finally forced myself to say.

  A gentle chuckle. “I thought you wouldn’t ever ask. Well, let’s start with this Calvin. He’s a friend, you can’t ever forget that, but you can’t let it blind you, either. You’ve got to look at it as if you were his commanding officer and he was one of your men. You may’ve been through hell together, love each other like brothers, but there’s one thing you can’t ever forget if you expect both of you to survive, and that’s that you’re the boss and he’s a member of your command. Only in this case you’re not running things because you’ve got gold stripes on your sleeve, you’re running them because you know how to investigate and he doesn’t. If he’s innocent, then you’ll find out, as long as you keep your distance and use your head.”

  “And if he’s guilty?” I asked.

  “If he’s guilty then you have to do the right thing, because no matter how nice a guy seems to be, no matter how many beers he can pour down when you’re sitting around swapping sea stories or how many charities he gives to or how many orphanages have him in their Christmas program, he’s still a child molester, and he has to be put away. The chief I was telling you about? He had the Navy Cross and a couple dozen other decorations, plus fifteen years of perfect service. A commendation from the secretary of the navy himself, for some shore duty he pulled at the Pentagon. He was a man who’d give you his last buck. And I guess that all has to count for something. But next to the five young boys whose lives he ruined, it just didn’t count for enough. There has to be law in society, boy, and there has to be punishment, or else nobody’ll know where they stand. A man has to know he can’t get off breaking the code by claiming he gave at the office.”

  There wasn’t anything to say. Of course he was right.

  “And in this case,” he went on, “we’re looking at murder, too.” Another pause. “And that’s why I don’t think your friend did it.”

  I suddenly felt like a weight had been lifted from me. “That makes me feel better,” I said.

  “Well, don’t feel all that good. Your friend still has to come in. And listen, don’t shy from grilling him. If he is your friend, then he’ll understand you’re doing what’s got to be done. Ask him the questions that need to be asked.”

  “I will—when I find him,” I said.

  “Man like that hasn’t gone
too far. He’s not at his son’s house, of course: the cops will have checked there first off. But he’s not too far away.”

  “Right.” The same thought had occurred to me.

  “What are you going to do next?”

  I told him.

  “Son, you be careful. These bastards play for keeps. Damn. I wish I was down there. You could use some help.”

  The worry in his voice was real, and I felt warm inside. “I’d like to have you,” I said. “But I can handle it.”

  “I know you can. You’re a Dunn, aren’t you?” He cleared his throat. “Well, look, call me tomorrow, okay? Let me know how it comes out. You got me curious now.”

  “Sure thing,” I told him. We said good-bye and I hung up.

  For the first time I really wished he was with me.

  It was dark when I went out again. I went over to the caretaker’s apartment and knocked on the patio door. Mr. Mamet opened it and squinted out at me, clearly hoping there wasn’t something broken that he would have to fix.

  “Yeah?” He was a quiet old man who said little to anyone, lived alone, and went about his daily tasks with a perpetual frown.

  I reached into my pocket for my checkbook. “Did I pay the rent this month?” I asked.

  He cocked his head slightly and then beckoned me inside. “Lemme see.” He shuffled through the kitchen, littered with dirty dishes, and into the dining room, where he picked up a big green receipt book and licked his finger.

  “Yeah, here it is,” he said. “You didn’t know you paid?”

  “I’m slow sometimes,” I said.

  “Looks like it.” He nodded at my face. “Somebody decked you, huh? What was it, some husband?”

  “No,” I said, “a preacher.”

  I went past him and through the living room, which looked like a set out of a fifties film noir, all black and white and chintzy, opening his front door before he could say anything. Like most people, he didn’t have a high opinion of my profession, maybe because he associated me with cops, who’d once put him away for killing his unfaithful wife. In the Quarter nobody cared, and, besides, he still had his framed pardon from 1968, signed by Governor John McKeithen, hanging on the wall.

  Barracks Street was quiet; on a Saturday night the action in the Quarter would be closer to Canal. Going around a few blocks, I didn’t see anybody in any of the cars by the curb. So I went to the parking lot, paid my tab, and collected the rental vehicle.

  I was at Playtime twenty minutes later. The parking lot was just filling up, and you could hear the rock music outside. A police car cruised slowly past the rows of vehicles and then left, headed for the next zoo on the list. I stuck the pistol and holster under my belt at the small of my back, in case the bouncer patted me down, and headed for the front door, scanning the cars as I went. But there was no red Ferrari, not yet. And if there was a narcotics stakeout I’d just have to take my chances.

  I paid my cover, bought a drink, and took a stool at one end of the bar, where I could catch sight of whoever entered in the big mirror.

  It could turn out to be a wasted couple of hours, of course. My prey might blow it off, or decide just to stand outside and do his deal. But a single man standing around outside was too conspicuous, and if I sat in my car I couldn’t see everybody who went inside. Which meant I had to go into the hornet’s nest, and wait.

  The drink tasted like water, which was pretty much what it was, and I only made a pretense of sipping it. After half an hour I managed to quietly spill it on the floor between my stool and the bar. I ordered another and tried to shrink into anonymity. But it was difficult; I’d already been marked as a lone man out to make a pickup, and a girl from the dance floor was headed my way. I’d seen her watching on and off ever since I’d come in. In her early twenties, she had stringy black hair, with a short dress that left too much of her skinny flanks visible. She was a part-timer, I figured, ready to turn a trick on Saturday night for some snort. I’d been safe as long as the stools on either side were occupied, but now the one on the left had opened up, and the girl sidled onto it, giving me a sideways look as she took out a cigarette.

  “Got a light?” she asked. The line wasn’t original, but then she didn’t look like the original type.

  I shook my head. “Quit smoking,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “When was that?” she asked, her voice whiny.

  “After Nam.”

  “Oh. You were over there?”

  It was asked innocently, as one might ask about an ancient page of history that had flashed past in a textbook she had never bothered to read.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Her eyes dropped to my left side and lingered. “Something wrong with your arm?”

  “Kind of,” I said. “It doesn’t work.”

  “Did that happen in Nam?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  She got some matches from the bar, lit her cigarette, and blew out smoke, trying to look worldly-wise.

  “I heard that was bad. I never figured why we wanted to fight the Chinese anyway.”

  “We didn’t,” I said. “That was another war.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess all wars are the same.”

  “Maybe so.”

  She sniffed. “If you wanna talk about it, I’ll listen. I’m real good at listening.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m glad there isn’t a war today,” she said, and I nodded. It wasn’t going to do any good to try to drive her away. The last thing I needed was a scene.

  “Look, you want a drink?” I asked.

  She jerked her head like a reflex. “Yeah. Make mine a grasshopper. I like sweet drinks. Except sometimes I lose track and then they knock me on my ass.”

  I ordered for her.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. “Mine is Locksie.”

  “Don,” I said.

  “Hi, Don.” She frowned then, catching sight of the right side of my face for the first time. “Hey, what happened to you? Did you get beat up?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But I’m okay.”

  “Man, there’s some creeps in the world,” she declared. “Beating on a guy with one arm.” She leaned forward. “Was it about dope?”

  “Something like that.”

  She smiled. “I knew when I saw you, you were into the scene. Hey, it’s okay. It makes you forget. I always try to forget too.”

  “What do you have to forget?” I asked, trying to keep the ragged conversation alive.

  “Everything,” she spat. “My old man, my mom, Doug Haney.”

  “Who?”

  “My boss. I work at a loan office. He’s a creep.”

  “So quit,” I said.

  “Look, I only got a GED. There ain’t that many places to work in this town.”

  I raised my right hand to my drink and checked my watch. It was almost nine.

  “Hey,” she said, seeing me check the time. “You want to get outta here? If you got some toot, we could go to my place. Play some music, dance some. Whatever you want.”

  “In a little while,” I said. It was too early to give up. I’d stay to ten and then figure my hunch had been wrong.

  “You wanna dance, then?” she asked. “Or you want something else?”

  She reached over and walked her fingers across my thigh. When that didn’t work she ran a finger down my spine. When it got to the small of my back her hand froze.

  “Hey,” she said. “You’ve got a gun. Are you a cop?”

  “You ever seen a cop with a bad arm?” I asked.

  She relaxed a little. “That’s true. But look, man, if you’re into something heavy …”

  I thought she was going to split and more than ever I wanted her not to make a fuss, to keep sitting there talking as if nothing had happened.

  Because when I raised my eyes to the mirror I saw Herman Villiere walk in.

  Sixteen

  I watched him make his way over to a ta
ble on the other side of the dance floor. The same blonde was leaning on him.

  “I have a permit,” I told the girl. “Sometimes I carry a lot of money.”

  “Oh.” It took her a while to consider it. “You mean like payrolls and stuff.”

  “That’s right. With just one good arm …”

  “Sure, that’s okay, I understand.” She was instantly solicitous. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right. But I was thinking now might be a good time to leave here, like we were talking about.”

  “Yeah.” She started to get off her stool. “You do have some stuff?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s what I was waiting for. The main man just came in.”

  “Who?” Her head swiveled.

  “Don’t look around. Just get up slowly.”

  We rose together and I led her around the far side of the dance floor, keeping lots of bodies between Villiere and ourselves. When we got to the door and the back of his head was just visible I leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  “The man sitting there, to the left.”

  “Oh.”

  “I want you to go ask him if he has a red Ferrari parked outside. He’ll say yes. Then tell him you ran into it.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it. I’ll take it from there.”

  “What is this, a kinda password or something?”

  “You got it.”

  I left her and went outside, making my way to the first row of parked cars. I picked a van to stand behind. A few seconds later Herman Villiere came half running through the door and across the asphalt, with Locksie trailing behind him. He sped through the first row like a torpedo and angled off toward the end of the second row. I followed, going straight across to the second row of cars and then working my way toward the end between the bumpers. He beat me by fifteen seconds, and I saw him staring back at the girl with his hands on his hips, face red.

  “Hey, what is this?” He craned his head to look at the side of his vehicle. “I don’t see anything.”

  I stepped out of the shadows.