“I don’t know, it’s not enough to kill someone,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I thought so too for a while. For a couple of days, I almost believed that cock-and-bull story about the break-in at Victoria’s place. That is, until Alan Houghton disappeared. And Alan Houghton, my dear Mr. Jones, was the man who was receiving the payments, the one getting the money from the secret account. The police found his car abandoned near Lookout Mountain. It was on the local news. I remembered the name. He’s vanished off the face of the Earth. Call the cops if you don’t believe me. Missing persons. Never find him, know why? Because he’s dead. Do you see now, the man who killed Victoria killed him, too. Don’t you see that that’s why Victoria had to die? Because Alan Houghton’s murder had already been planned. He disappeared the same night Victoria was killed.”
“It’s possible,” I said, and nodded. Klimmer had been clever. Maybe he was right. This Houghton person was getting payments from one or perhaps both of the brothers. Blackmailing them? A million dollars. That’s not nothing. Maybe the demands were going up. The murderer had had enough. He had been getting ready to kill him. He had already planned out Houghton’s whole death. But then Victoria had been put in charge of closing the bank accounts. She had found out about the illegal payments. The killer discovered that someone had seen the secret accounts, reckoned it was Victoria, checked her computer. Made a decision.
I would have to check out who Alan Houghton was and whether he had really disappeared. If there actually was a missing persons report. If so, things might be fitting nicely into place. Perhaps whichever brother did it had left some physical evidence at the murder scene, or perhaps at Alan Houghton’s house. The police could find out. Undoubtedly, the killer would have swept his trail, destroyed Victoria’s computer, wiped the accounts evidence, scoured Houghton’s apartment, but there might be something left. The police would need some convincing that they had arrested the wrong man, that the real killer was a respected and influential member of the community, but Klimmer was a convincing person. He had convinced me.
“What happened to Victoria’s computer?”
“Oh, it disappeared, believe me, I looked, I was told it had probably been sent back for repairs. Likely story.”
“But you said Victoria’s computer journal was encrypted, how could they have broken the encryption?”
“I don’t know, both brothers went to Harvard, they’re sharp, I really don’t know. Victoria told me she had encrypted the files herself, maybe she did it wrong.”
“Maybe she did it right, the brothers never found out about her, and she was killed for some other reason,” John said.
“Maybe a million things, I’m telling you what I know, someone killed her and I think I know who,” Klimmer said angrily. A tic in his left eye now. He fought it down.
I needed him to be a lot calmer. I needed him to come with me to the police station. We had to get him there while he was in a cooperative mood. Tonight, tomorrow, soon. Perhaps we could have this wrapped up quicker than any of us hoped.
The killer had undoubtedly been clever but had already made one dreadful mistake. He had completely discounted the possibility that Victoria had told someone of her suspicions, assuming she had not. But how could he have been so sure of her? He must have known her intimately. Maybe, despite what Klimmer said, he’d even been having an affair with her. So why not try and buy her off? Why resort to murder? No, he’d known Victoria was not the type. And he was putting a stop to the rot, ending the blackmail. He couldn’t afford to have around someone else who knew—someone who could start the blackmail again. And he couldn’t set her up as a fall guy, he didn’t want her speaking, telling her side. She had to be got rid of. Doubling her salary and posting her to South America wouldn’t work. He knew Victoria and he knew if ever she was asked, she would tell the truth. That was my girl, honest, smart, beautiful. He had seen all that and had chosen to end her life.
“Tell me about Charles and Robert Mulholland,” I said.
“They both have doctorates in some pointless social science thing, Charles has a law degree. Grew up rich in Boulder. Robert never had a proper job. Never worked a day in his life. Charles became an attorney with Cutter and May. A firm here. He worked in environmental law. They both wrote for those magazines, you know, Commentary, The National Review, that kind of paper. One of them had a brainchild to found an environmental group, get start-up dough from Daddy, I told you this before—”
“Tell me again, please.”
“Ok, so they set up CAW. Charles got made partner at Cutter and May and when CAW really started to take off, everyone benefited. I believe they have political ambitions. That’s why we’re moving the office to Denver, plus Daddy has remarried, so who knows, maybe they’re worried about the will,” Klimmer said with a leer, wiping brandy off his thin lips with a big clumsy paw.
“How long have you worked for them?” I asked.
Klimmer drank some more of his brandy, went to the kitchen, crashed something down on a tabletop, groaned, came back with the bottle.
“You know what I think?” he said.
“What?”
“I think I’m done with these fucking stupid questions, that’s what I think,” he said bellicosely.
“Well, Mr. Klimmer, don’t get—”
“I think I’ve told you more than enough, in fact, I’ve told you far too much,” he said loudly.
I nodded.
“Mr. Klimmer, you have been very cooperative and I’m very grateful. I, I suspect we’ll just have to do this one more time.”
“No more times,” Klimmer said, laughing, slurring his words. He sat down heavily, dropped the bottle, brandy spilling everywhere.
“Mr. Klimmer, you know we’re going to have to go to the police with this information,” I said.
“Go, I don’t care, I’ll deny everything. I’ll deny I ever saw you. Margaret was on lunch, she can’t back up your story, you were never at CAW today. You never came here. Don’t you see, if he can kill Victoria and Houghton he can kill me.”
“No, the police will protect you.”
“The police. The police can’t do anything. I don’t know what I was thinking. I never told you anything. I never saw you. I never fucking saw you,” he said, raising his voice and gripping the sides of his chair. He pointed his finger at me and shook his head.
“Ok, Mr. Klimmer, well, look, I think we’ll go, we’ll discuss this tomorrow,” I began.
“We’re discussing nothing tomorrow, I make a huge mistake, I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought I wanted someone to come looking for me, but I was wrong. Goddamnit, you tricked me, you tricked me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I invented the whole thing. No, I never saw you.”
“Mr. Klimmer—”
“You weren’t here, you made it all up,” Klimmer said, angrily, on the verge of hysteria. It was time to leave, we had to let him calm down. I gave John the nod.
John tried to get up.
“Where are you going?” Klimmer said, furiously, “what are you doing? I’m not going with you. Sit down, sit down, I tell you.”
Klimmer was right on the edge. We had pushed it too far. Shouldn’t have come here again today. This was a catch to be taken easy, on a light line, not brutally hauled in. Tomorrow morning, the three of us walking to the police station together. Bad call hounding him again today.
Klimmer got up and backed away from us. He was furious. He looked unhinged. More than just the drink. He slapped himself on the face. Made a fist. John was standing right next to him on the balcony. Three chairs, me and two big guys, we could barely fit at the best of times. Now, with all of us standing, it was crowded, horribly tense.
“Back off,” he shouted at John. “I’m not going with you.”
“Calm down, mate, we’re leaving you alone, we’re not touching you,” John said.
“I don’t know who you are, leave me alone,” Klimmer said, his body shaking with fury. Was he drunk? Was he
having a breakdown? All those pent-up weeks, knowing what he knew, and now it was released. Now it was all coming out, his anger, his fear, his love for the dead girl. His fury at the spoiled rich kid who had killed her. And it was John and me who had stirred these emotions in him. Somehow we were the enemy.
The veins throbbed in his head, his pale skin had turned red.
“Leave me alone,” he yelled at John, standing a few inches from him, his face almost up against John’s.
“Steady on, mate,” John said.
“Everything’s fine,” I assured him.
But his eyes were wild. His cheeks crimson, then white, then ashen. He bit his lip. He bit it until it bled.
“Get out, get out, both of you, I don’t know anything.”
“We’re leaving,” I said, and started backing away, except there was nowhere to back to.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Klimmer said.
“It’s ok, everything’s fine,” I said. “Come on, John, we’re leaving.”
“Go, leave, now,” Klimmer said.
John turned his back and began squeezing past the chair, trying to go back into the living room. Klimmer shoved him. John grabbed Klimmer’s hand. Klimmer shoved him again.
It all happened in slow motion now. Time paused on its journey to eternity. I don’t know what John was doing. Steadying himself? Shoving Klimmer back? What did Klimmer think? That John was trying to grab him, trying to wrestle him to the ground as a precursor to frog-marching him to the police station? He punched John, hit him in the throat, started shoving him back into the seat, John reacted violently, pushed Klimmer away from him. Klimmer snarled, went for John again, grabbed at his collar, John pushed Klimmer off him. Harder this time. Cop fashion. Aggressive. John had big shoulders. Klimmer was all height, but John had bulk, too. The balcony was very narrow. Too crowded. Klimmer six-five, six-six, with that high center of gravity. The rail came up only to the top of his hips. I could see it before it happened. I reached out my hand.
Klimmer stumbled. The momentum carried him into and onto the balcony rail. He toppled backward, lay horizontal on the rail for a fraction of a second.
“John,” I said in a frozen whisper.
Klimmer clawed the air. John made a grab for him but Klimmer had lost his balance, the momentum carrying him tumbling over the balcony. He fell at a rate of thirty-two feet per second per second, his eyes stunned, his mouth open, his voice gone. He had, perhaps, a second to prepare himself. He landed on his feet but his femurs burst out through his knees. His internal organs smashed into one another. Parts of his brain liquefied inside his skull. The body snapped and crumpled sickeningly on the concrete path. He died instantly without uttering a sound.
6: THE DWARF
West across the park and the city—five layers of mountains and the setting sun. A halo over the foothills like an enormous chrysalis. A trap enclosing us in this town, in this state. Forever. We stood on the balcony for an amazed moment—caught in our own theologies of panic, fear, retribution. It was the longest day of the year and it wasn’t to be over for a long time yet. A dozen witnesses in the park. At least two or three had seen the whole thing.
We moved back from the edge of the balcony.
John was stunned, his eyes wide, his face white.
“W-what now?” he asked. “The police?”
“We make a run for it,” I said.
“What?”
“We’ll get twenty years for this,” I said.
“It was an accident.”
“It was goddamn manslaughter, twenty years,” I insisted.
“We won’t get out,” John said.
“We’ll try.”
I grabbed his arm and backed him off the balcony and into the apartment. I found the brandy glasses we’d drunk from, wiped them with a piece of paper towel. Tried to think of any other surfaces I’d touched, wiped them, too.
Police sirens now. John sat down on the chair, dazed.
“Oh, Jesus,” he was saying over and over.
“Get up,” I yelled at him.
He sat there, incredulous. Stunned into catalepsia. And to think I was the heroin user. I grabbed him, pulled him to the door. Wiped the handle, went out, left the apartment, closed the door behind us. Marched him to the fire escape.
“We’ll just walk out,” I said.
He nodded, I don’t think he knew what was going on. John was a peeler and back in Ireland he owned a gun but he’d never bargained on killing anyone. Out of his depth here, this whole scene wasn’t his, this whole story had turned into a bad dream. John had hitched his star to mine in the hope of getting somewhere better. Getting out of rain-swept, war-torn, depressing Ulster for America. And I should have resisted. John, the anchor dragging us down. Going to drown us both.
“Where’s your hat?” I asked.
“My what?”
“Your fucking baseball hat,” I said.
I sprinted back to the apartment.
“Where are you going?” he wailed.
“John, you better snap out of it, we’re in the shit, I’m going back to get your hat.”
“We got to get out of here,” he said, his voice quavering.
“John, shut the fuck up, stay here, I’ll be back.”
I went to the door. Pulled the sleeve of my shirt down, turned the handle, it wouldn’t open. Thoughts raced through my head. The apartment door naturally had a self-locking mechanism. I wouldn’t be able to get in. The cops would find John’s print-encrusted hat that said on it: Belfast Blues Festival. Maybe, if they were really smart, they’d cross-check the recent arrivals at DIA, to see if any had come from Belfast. Well, that would be that. Best-case scenario, we do get away from this building, out of Denver, back to the UK. They’d find our names, put two and two together. Extradite us, try us.
Had to get back into that apartment, get that goddamn hat. I looked down the corridor. Mercifully, no one had come out to see what all the bloody commotion was. A fancy building—most people on this floor probably had fancy jobs that kept them out during the day.
Arms on my back, pulling me.
I turned.
John, wild, gesticulating. Losing it.
“Alex, forget the fucking hat, we have to go.”
“John, if we don’t get the hat, we’re fucked, your prints are on it, so are mine, and since we’re peelers we’re on Interpol’s computer. We have to get back into the apartment to get it. Trust me. We gotta break the door down.”
“Can you take prints off cloth?”
“Aye and take them off the bloody peak,” I said.
“Leave it, we have to get out of here,” he said.
I grabbed his face and made him look at me. His whole body was shaking. He was drenched with sweat. This close to a nervous collapse, I could tell. No point trying to convince him, I grabbed him by the collar, dragged him over to the door.
Again I could hear sirens.
“We gotta go, Alex, they are going to nail us,” John pleaded.
“We’re going to charge the door, shoulder it, break it down,” I said.
The corridor was wide, it would give us a bit of a run at least.
“Alex, we don’t have the time,” John said.
“Now listen, you wanker, if we don’t get that hat, we are fucking going to prison, do you understand?” I said as calm as I could.
“Alex, we have to—” John began, but his voice trailed off, his eyes closed, he didn’t know what he was doing. His body slumped and I could see he was giving over his will to mine, it was the path of least resistance.
We backed up from the door, maybe a good ten paces. I’d never broken a door down before. I had no idea how difficult it would be. Nice strong building, too, the door probably wouldn’t give like they did in cop shows and the movies. We’d try for it, anyway.
“Now,” I said.
We ran at the door and jumped into it with our shoulders. A huge crash. We bounced off, fell, without noticeable effect on the door. Shoul
ders killing us.
The sirens were louder now too. At least a couple of different vehicles. John looked at me. Desperate.
“We go again,” I said.
We backed up, ran at the door, shouldered it, again bounced off without any noticeable change.
“And again,” I said.
We backed up and this time as we did so, a man came out of his apartment. A very old man, in checked trousers, white shirt, slippers.
“What’s all this noise?” he said.
“We have to take him out,” John said under his breath.
“We’re police, sir,” I said in what I hoped was an American accent, “someone jumped from their balcony, suicide, we think. I’d like you to return to you apartment, we’re going to be questioning everyone.”
“A suicide, where?” the old man asked.
“In the park, the body’s right out there,” I said.
“I gotta see this,” the old geezer said and went back inside.
“Now we have to go,” John said.
“One more try,” I said.
We backed up, charged the door, bounced off.
“One more,” I said, “I felt something give.”
“You said that was the last,” John said.
“One more,” I insisted.
We rammed the door and this time the metal screws holding the lock into the wood popped out and the door gave a little. If I could smash it with something, it would go. I looked down the hall.
“The fire extinguisher,” I said.
I grabbed the fire extinguisher out of the glass case. Thumped it into the door. The lock gave. I shoved the door open.
“John, wipe my prints off the extinguisher and the handle and the case the extinguisher was in, ok?”
He looked blank. I slapped him upside the head.
“Ok?”
He nodded. I ran into the apartment, searched for the hat, saw it on the coffee table, grabbed it, ran out.
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