Bruce’s pallor became so pale and gray I thought he might vomit all over the computer. But then, it was technically his computer, so puking on it was his prerogative after all. But I bet he was regretting being so cooperative with Blood in the first place. But then, Blood isn’t exactly someone you can say no to. Especially when he’s staring you down, one on one.
Val’s eyes grew wet and angry. She turned to Bruce, slapped him across the face. Hard.
“You son of a bitch,” she said. “You killed my partner.”
Bruce raised his hand, touched his face where Val slapped it.
“I…did not…kill…your partner,” he said.
I nodded.
“He’s talking gospel, Val,” I said.
“What you saying, Keep?” Blood pressed.
Using my index finger, I pointed at the computer screen.
“You see how the light reflects off the object on the left hand?” I said. “That’s not a knife. And by the way, that hand is not black, but as white as Wonder Bread. I believe that object attached to one of the fingers is a diamond. Like the kind of diamond you would find on a woman’s engagement ring. Especially one that’s fairly large and very expensive.”
“So, what you’re saying,” Blood said, “is that, despite the evidence, Bruce didn’t actually run the knife across Anna’s neck.”
“Well if he didn’t,” Val said, “who did?”
“A cute little lady,” I said. “A little lady no bigger than you, Val.”
Chapter Twelve
The phone still in hand, I went to text messages, selected Miller from the contacts list
I typed in: John Patrick. Be here now. Bring backup.
I slipped the phone back in my jacket pocket.
“Val,” I said, “you must keep a running list of clients with bad credit.”
She cocked her head.
“Sure, there’s a list under the cash drawer. Women mostly, whose cards are almost always declined, or who renege on their layaways. There’s one or two who have written some very bouncy checks.”
“Does one of those bouncy check women, in particular, happen to come to mind?”
Val’s eyes went wide. Bruce took a quick step back as if he was about to bolt. But Blood grabbed hold of his arm, squeezed. Bruce’s already agonized face assumed a mask of pain so profound, even I could feel it.
Opening the drawer under the register, Val pulled out a metal tray that contained a whole bunch of cashed and, apparently uncashed, checks. Or, what I should say is, a stack of checks that bore the marking, “Declined.” She set a stack of maybe six or seven paper-clipped checks on the computer keyboard. The name and address located in the upper right-hand corner of the checks read, “Monica and Bruce Feingold.” The address was the wealthy Loudonville. Of course it was.
“Happy?” came the voice of the small woman standing in the middle of the floor.
“Monica,” Bruce said. “When did you come in?”
The woman who stood before us directly on top of Anna Kruise’s blood stain was Monica Feingold. Her blonde hair looked like it had just been groomed and colored, and her pink painted fingernails appeared to have been manicured only moments ago. She was wearing an expensive pink pantsuit and black high heels. For jewelry, she had diamonds in her ears that matched the diamond rock on her wedding finger. Dangling from her neck, a strand of pearls. She’d also had a Chanel bag strapped to her shoulder.
In a word, she’d dressed to kill.
Case and point? In her hands, she held a .38 caliber revolver.
“Where did you get a gun, Monica?” Bruce questioned. “You hate guns.”
“After what happened here,” she said, “I knew I needed protection. So, I did a little shopping in the North Albany projects.”
“Protection from whom, my love?” Bruce pressed.
“From assholes like your friends here.”
Blood turned to me. “She don’t know me. Why’s she calling me an asshole?”
“She doesn’t really mean it, Blood,” I said. “She’s just having a bad day. Maybe she just needs a little time in a safe space somewhere.”
Monica took a step or two forward, pointing the gun directly at Val.
“You,” she said, her eyes shifting to me. “Drop the gun. Do it now or—”
“—yeah, yeah,” I said, setting the .45 on the counter. “I’ve seen this movie before. Or the lady gets it, right?”
“Something like that,” she said. She took the gun, dropped it into her black Chanel purse. The two-pound Colt gave the bag some noticeable weight. While she refocused on Val, I felt myself slowly reaching for it.
“Hands up, mister!” she barked. “I know what your game is.”
“Keep,” Blood said, while he too slowly raised his hands, “you get the feeling Mrs. Feingold watches a lot of old crime movies in her spare time?”
“She does have the lingo down, doesn’t she?” I said.
“Bruce,” Monica said sharply, “get the damn door.”
Coming from out of the distance, the sound of cop cruiser sirens. They were faint enough that I’m not sure anyone other than Blood and I noticed them. He looked at me out the corner of his eye, and I looked at him.
Bruce went to the door, reached into his pocket for what I could only assume was a master key. He used it to lock the glass door.
“Monica, I thought we were friends,” Val said, empathy in her tone. Fake empathy. “You were always one of my best customers. The outfit you’re wearing right now…every stitch if it…comes from this boutique.”
“Drop it already,” Monica said. “You know goddamned well I stole this outfit, and that every one of the checks I’ve written to you over the past year and a half has bounced, thanks to my lovely breadwinner husband.” She turned, stared him down not like she was looking at her beloved betrothed, but more like she was looking at a steaming pile of fresh dog shit. “You wanna know how all this happened? How poor Anna came to be dead? Did he tell you already? Of course, he didn’t tell you. He was probably too busy looking at his hair in the mirror.”
While her eyes were concentrated on her husband, I took a chance and quickly dug my left hand in my jacket pocket, pulled out the cell, hit the Record app, slipped the phone onto the shelf under the register counter. From that position, it might not pick up everything that was said, but it was worth the shot.
“I only wanted what you wanted, Monica,” Bruce said.
Monica laughed, then shifted her aim from Val to her husband.
“Monica,” he cried, once again lifting his hands, “what are you doing? We love one another. Support one another. We’re bridge partners at the club. We row together. We…make…love.”
“Stop your nonsense,” Monica snapped. “You haven’t fucked me in years. Who exactly are you trying to kid?”
“I’ve tried, my love.”
“The only thing you’ve tried and failed at was making your daddy’s business into an empire worthy of Trump Towers. But instead, you drove it into the ground, and now we’re bankrupt.”
The bank statement I’d shoved into my pocket earlier came immediately to mind. I could bet it was painted in red balances. Maybe Bruce’s face had gone pale and ashen with fear before, but now it flushed red in shame and embarrassment. Bruce had himself one hell of an ego.
The sirens grew louder, more noticeable. Not that Monica cared at this point. She glanced over her shoulder at the three of us standing behind the register counter.
“Let me ask you all something,” she said. “You look like educated people. People who read a lot. Maybe even read the classics. Like this one short story I read back in prep school by John Cheever. You remember him? He appealed to all rich, silver-spoon-fed preppies like Bruce here. Anyway, Cheever wrote a story about a broke preppy blue blood snob who lives in a wealthy suburb just like Loudonville. Only, he can’t afford the place because he’s flat broke. Even his wife isn’t aware of how broke he is. So, what’s he decide to do? He decid
es to break into all the houses on the street and steel the rich lady’s jewelry. It’s called The Housebreaker of Shady Hill. You should check it out sometime.”
“Read it,” Blood whispered to me.
“Makes two of us,” I said.
“So, you see, lady and gentlemen,” Monica went on, “Bruce thought it would be a good idea if we paid a visit to all the stores in his lovely little mall on a night before the banks would be closed the following day. That way, we stood the chance of encountering tills that were still full of cold hard cash. It was my idea for the hoodie and the black shoe polish, which was a bitch to get off, let me tell you. But we don’t even get as far as the first store…this store, John Patrick…when we discover not cash, but one of the owners still occupying the place.”
“What was she doing?” Val asked.
“She was on her way out the front door when Bruce encountered her after sneaking in through the back door. She screamed, and he took hold of her, wrapped his hand around her mouth. He reached out, unlocked the door for me. I stepped inside, and I’ll never forget the look on her face when she saw my face underneath that hoodie. Raising her right foot, she came down hard on Bruce’s foot with her stiletto. He screamed, dropped the knife he was holding and released her. She immediately pulled out her cell and started to dial 911. She’d already dialed in the number 9, when I bent over, picked up the knife, and ran it across her throat.” Exhaling, her tone growing softer, more regretful. “The knife was so sharp, it seemed to go through her neck like it was made of warm butter. She fell to the floor, her eyes locked on mine. Mine was the last face she saw before going over to the other side.”
Taking a step closer to Bruce, pressing the barrel of the gun against his chest, she continued. “And what does my brave husband do? He just screams. Screams bloody murder. Screams like a little fucking girl.”
“So, you left Anna like that,” I said. “Bleeding out on the floor.”
She nodded. “What the hell else could we do? We committed murder one, and we would pay one way or another. I would pay anyway.”
The sirens filled the boutique space as the cruisers pulled up to the curb, the cops filing out, service weapons in hand. Leading the pack was Nick Miller, his semi-automatic gripped in his shooting hand.
“And now this,” Monica said with a strange sort of smile on her face. “Not exactly the life we planned when we bought the big house in Loudonville, is it, Bruce? Not what I planned when I married you, hoping to cash in on a multi-million dollar real estate development company. In the end, all we’re left with are bad memories and ashes. We’re goddamned sinners, you and me Bruce. An evil bastard and an evil bitch.”
“Monica,” Bruce whispered through a trembling voice. “But I love you.”
“Oh crap,” Blood whispered, “she’s gonna do it.”
“Val, don’t look,” I said, maybe a split second before Monica pulled the trigger.
Chapter Thirteen
The point-blank blast tore a good portion of Bruce’s spine out before his body collapsed to the concrete floor like a sack of rags and bones. The police rushed the door as Monica turned to the counter, smiled shyly.
“I always liked you, Val,” she said, her manner genuine and sincere. “You have the best taste in clothing and accessories ever. Too bad I couldn’t afford them.”
And then she pressed the revolver barrel against her temple and blew her brains out.
Chapter Fourteen
Blood took Val next door to the Italian restaurant to calm their nerves over a couple of stiff drinks. Martinis, no doubt. I could have used one by then myself. Or a beer, anyhow. But, per department SOP, Detective Miller had no choice but to question me.
Dutifully, I stood alongside him at the crime scene and gave him the rundown from the moment we left his office this morning until now, including the stuff he missed on the CCTV video, the evidence I captured in Bruce Feingold’s office, the murder weapon that was still out there in the woods behind the mall, and for the coup de grace, Monica’s confession which I managed to capture on my cell phone. All in all, a job well done. Or so Miller confided in me.
“Oh, plus, there’s this,” I said, reaching into my pocket, pulling out the now crumpled bank statement. “I’m guessing this one statement tells a hell of a financial story. A motivational story.”
He smiled. “Too bad you don’t work for me. I would give you a raise.” Then, his eyes shifted from the two stiffs lying in their own blood while the blue bootie wearing APD forensics team took pictures and collected evidence, to the laptop computer. “You know, I lied when I said we didn’t have a suspect. Naturally, the hoodie man was our suspect, but we couldn’t possibly match him up with anyone. And every time we tried, all we’d got was resistance.” He ran his hands over his short hair then stored them in the pockets on his gray trench coat. “The suspect in the film was wearing a hoodie, and the experts swore he was black judging by the color of the exposed skin.”
“She made herself out to be a black man,” I said. “A young black man. Not a bad plan when you think about it. For two amateurs, anyway.”
He bit down on his lip, nodded. As usual, I was waiting for the but.
“But,” he said, “it makes the cop’s job all the harder. The black community automatically assumes you’re profiling them when you start asking the hard questions. When you start scouring the projects and rounding up some of the usual suspects. The local Al Sharpton race-baiting tax evaders start screaming in your face.”
“Strange times we’re living in,” I said. “It will all get better…one day.”
“Let’s hope so,” he said. “The state of crime and punishment depends upon it.”
Turning, he went for the door. Before he got there, he spun back around and smiled sadly.
“Monica Feingold,” he said. “I guess you could say she was dressed to kill.”
I had to laugh because he took the exact words right out of my mouth. Or out of my brain anyway. He turned once more and walked out. I made my way to Monica’s purse, excused myself in front of the CSI professionals, grabbed my .45, shoved it back into my holster, and made my way for the door.
I was looking forward to a nice, tall, cold beer. God knows I’d earned it.
THE END
Vincent Zandri is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling winner of the 2016 ITW Thriller Award and PWA Shamus Award for Moonlight Weeps. Suspense Magazine recently selected his novel, When Shadows Come, as the Best Thriller of 2016. He lives in New York. His newly released Jack Marconi PI novel is The Corruptions, based on a true story. You can find out more about all his novels and stories at WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
If you enjoyed this Jack Marconi short shot, you will love the new Jack Marconi PI full-length novel: The Corruptions. Check out a sample…
“I hope I can make it across the border.” —Stephen King, Rita Hayworth and The Shawshank Redemption
What follows is based on fact. Some of the names have been changed for legal purposes and/or to protect the innocence of the individuals to which they belong.
Chapter One
Clinton Maximum Security Correctional Facility
Dannemora, NY
20 miles south of the Canadian Border Present Day
Little Siberia.
It’s what the three thousand inmates call this iron house…this frigid stony lonesome. What they started calling it not long after the stone walls were first erected back in 1844 when the inmates were forced to work the local iron mines for ten hours a day, six days a week until their shackled ankles bled, their hands blistered, and their lungs turned black from iron ore dust.
The mines are gone now, but the relentless cold has decided to stay on like a stiff, icy, iron hard-on. A reminder of the life and death that awaits you as soon as you enter the prison gates for the strip-searched, full anal cavity check primary indoctrination. Some of the New York State Historic Landmark’s old stone walls remain as a visitor center showcase while several new
and improved cell blocks constructed of prefabricated concrete panels now house the majority of the hard-core inmates. The blocks are set inside castle-like, razor-wire topped reinforced concrete walls protected by strategically positioned guard towers that are manned by teams of riot shotgun and M16 packing corrections officers.
Without the modern convenience benefits of an efficient heating system, the upstate New York winters can be harsh and deadly in Little Siberia. At night, an inmate will gnash his teeth. He’ll toss and turn and shiver in his rack in the unyielding cold. He’ll dream of sandy beaches, sultry summer nights, and cold, refreshing bottles of beer. But when he wakes up, a layer of frost will coat his blanket.
But the torture doesn’t end there. The real cold that invades your bones hasn’t got shit to do with the weather. The real cold comes from the sounds of the inmates who surround you. Their crying. Their sobbing. Their moaning. Or maybe you’ll hear them pleasuring themselves under their blankets, the sound of skin slapping skin, bruising your already shattered imagination. Or maybe two cellmates have married, and you’ve got no choice in hell but to swallow the squeaking of springs and a metal bed stand pounding the concrete block wall that separates your cell from theirs. You shiver from the dark, cold loneliness and you listen for the boot steps of the black-uniformed, ballistic-vested screws who pass by every fifteen minutes for yet another head count. You think about the woman you left behind while you do a twenty-five to life stint. Sure, she writes you, calls you, and even visits on occasion. But in your frozen brain, you can’t help but see her slipping off sheer satin panties while wrapped in the arms of another man, maybe your best friend, her manicured hand running up his thigh until she finds exactly what she wants. Exactly what she’s been missing.
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