by Ray Daniel
Rope Burn
By
Ray Daniel
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Rope Burn
Copyright © 2012 by Ray Daniel
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This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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ROPE BURN
by Ray Daniel
Things were going to be different this year. Remy was a man with a plan. He hummed as he admired his hangman's noose. The knot had seven turns, just as he was taught in Cub Scouts. Remy tied the other end of the rope to the wood burning stove and tossed the noose over a beam in the old cabin.
Plenty of support.
A car door slammed in the driveway. Remy climbed onto the rickety television table. He put the noose around his neck and waited. He wouldn't kick the table out until his witness arrived.
#
Marsha Van Dyke sat in the crowded Chestnut Hill Starbucks, examining the grey-eyed woman who sipped espresso from a tiny paper cup and, like so many others, doubted Van Dyke's story.
"You say that Remy did not kill himself." the woman said. She was a detective named Yael Navas. She had black hair cut too short, plain nails, and a slender figure. She wore a tight, grey cashmere sweater that matched her eyes, and she spoke with a clipped accent. Van Dyke didn't like her.
"No, definitely not. It couldn't have been suicide. Remy would never do that. He couldn't. He loved life too much. He was a free spirit, yes, and an artist, but ..."
"But he put a rope around his neck."
Van Dyke stirred her coffee faster. Her stomach flopped. She needed to make this Navas woman believe her. The coffee started to form a black, concave whirlpool. Van Dyke said, "Yes. Yes. Around his neck. But that doesn't mean anything. He wouldn't do it, Ms. Navas."
"He wouldn't do what?" Navas's grey eyes bore into hers.
"He wouldn't kill himself. Oh, he might put on a show. Lord knows it wouldn't be the first time. The rope around his neck -- he's done that twice before. Then the kitchen knife. Drinking poison. The gun. Oh, the gun. He broke a window that time."
"He's tried to kill himself before."
"No. No. That's my point. He never actually tried to kill himself. He wanted attention. My attention. He was crazy about me."
"But you did not love him."
"Oh, that's not true," Van Dyke continued to stir the coffee. "It sounds so harsh when you say it. I loved him, but it was more of a spiritual connection."
The coffee spilled over the cup. Navas picked up a napkin and sopped up the liquid. Van Dyke sat back, holding her drink, retreating from the invasion of her space.
"He stepped off the table," said Navas.
"Yes. But he's done that before. He was so surprised, so surprised, when he was hung."
"You mean he looked surprised. In death."
"He was surprised. He wasn't expecting it. He was playing a role. Before he stepped off he raised his arms like he was Jesus or something." Van Dyke raised her arms to demonstrate. Her coffee cup brushed the shoulder of a man next to her. Coffee splashed to the floor.
He turned. "Can I help you?"
He was craggy and handsome with short salt-and-pepper hair. He sported a dark tan that offset his bright white shirt and checkered houndstooth jacket. He 'd been working on his laptop when she brushed him. Now, he shook his head as he ran his hands down his jacket, checking for wet spots.
Van Dyke stammered out an apology, "Oh, no. No. I was just telling a story."
"It must be a good one." He dragged his chair around his table, away from Van Dyke, and returned his attention to his PC.
Van Dyke put the coffee on the table, looked at Navas, and winked towards the man.
"I'm always getting attention like that."
"By touching people?"
"No," Van Dyke said, annoyed at this dense woman. "I mean attention from men."
"And Remy wanted your attention?"
"Oh yes. It was why he did those stunts. It's why I feel responsible."
"You feel responsible for his death?"
"If he wasn't trying to impress me he wouldn't have toyed with that rope."
"You mean he would not have hung himself."
"I feel terrible."
"And you are convinced this was not suicide."
"Of course it wasn't. Look, Ms. Navas … Yael ... Remy's mother is old and sick and out of money. If this is a suicide, then the poor woman won't see a dime of insurance. I felt bad for her, so I complained to the police and they gave me your card." Van Dyke brandished the white card. It was blank but for "[email protected]" printed in a small font. "They said you were quite good."
"I am."
"Will you take the case?"
"What exactly would you like me to do, Ms. Van Dyke?"
"Find out who killed Remy. Get his mother the insurance money."
"What if it was suicide?"
"It won't be."
#
She was a looker, this Yael Navas. Her grey sweater was tight across her high breasts and the cashmere caught a hint of muscles in her back and arms. When she'd come in, Chuck McGowen had tried to get a glimpse of her ass. He theorized that it would match the rest of her toned body. Now that she was watching him he kept his eyes from wandering by gazing deeply into hers.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. McGowen."
"It's my pleasure." It sure was.
"I'm looking into the death of Remy Williams."
"The police told me they had closed this case."
"I'm working for Marsha Van Dyke."
McGowen's mind chunked a bit and then came up with a picture of Van Dyke. Remy's girlfriend or something, tall, blond, a little fat, artsy. He said, "I know Ms. Van Dyke."
"She told me about Remy's insurance."
"I see. But, of course, I can't talk about his policy. That's confidential."
"Of course."
"But, you know, there are other ways we could talk about it."
"How do you mean?"
"We could talk about it hypothetically. If someone were to buy life insurance and leave it to his mother. What then?"
"What then?" asked Navas.
McGowen looked into her eyes and pictured them closed, pictured Yael Navas with her mouth parted in pleasure as she rocked in the bed, his hand caressing one of those firm breasts and finding the nipple. She probably had rock hard thighs.
"Mr. McGowen!" she said. Had she seen his thoughts or was it just her accent?
"Yes?"
"You were speaking hypothetically."
"I was, but perhaps we could talk about it in a hypothetical way over dinner." McGowen smiled. Navas raised an eyebrow.
"And how," she asked, "would dinner make a difference?"
"Well, if I knew you better I would feel more comfortable about the details of our hypothetical conversation."
Navas smiled, her lips pursed together and turning up at the corners.
"How well would you need to know me, Mr. McGowen?" She placed her left hand palm down on the desk. There was no ring.
McGowen put his hand on hers, "I think I'd need to know you fairly well. There's some odd things in that account." He stroked the back of her dry hand. It flipped and grabbed him, turning his wrist a
nd digging its nails into the base of his thumb.
"I think you know me well enough ... Mr. McGowen."
McGowen pulled at his hand. God she's strong. She held the grip, her nails hitting a pressure point at the base of his thumb.
"Gaah!" said McGowen.
"I probably don't need much information," said Navas quietly. "Just the odd part."
"Jesus, let go!"
"Soon."
"What do you want to know?"
"What do you want to tell me?" The twisting pain drove up his arm. Her hand seemed to work on its own, the rest of her body showing no sign of the struggle. McGowen scrambled to find a morsel of information he could throw her, something she would accept but that wouldn't compromise him.
"It makes no fucking sense! That's what. Let the fuck go!"
The pain was gone and Yael Navas was sitting quietly in her chair, hands folded in her lap, short black hair still perfectly in place.
"In what way?" she asked.
"His mother is over eighty." McGowen rubbed at his hand. "Why would he buy life insurance on himself and leave her as the beneficiary? He was going to outlive her."
"He didn't."
"I know he didn't. That's why we're not paying. He killed himself."
"And if it was murder?"
"Then the money would go to an old woman. You'd think he would have left it to his brother. Now get out."
"Brother?"
"Remy had a brother. His name is Maurice. Now would you please leave."
Navas rose and walked to the door, opened it and turned back.
"Mr. McGowen."
McGowen looked at his fingers and flexed them as nervy tingles worked their way through his reviving thumb. He looked up and said, "Yeah?"
"Who would have gotten the money if the had mother died first?"
McGowen had his hand back and he was damn sure Yael Navas would never touch it again.
"Fuck you."
Navas raised an eyebrow. "Unlikely."
She opened the door and left. McGowen noted that he had been right about her ass.
#
"Watch out, that's shit," said Officer Ralph Baker.
"I know," said Yael Navas leaning down for a closer look.
"Sometimes they shit themselves."
"I know."
"Especially with a hanging."
"Yes."
Baker regarded Yael Navas. She was all right, if you liked your girls thin and intense. He didn't. Still, he stood a little straighter and sucked in the gut that hung over his belt.
Navas completed her investigation of the table top where Remy had stood. She turned to the rope that lay on the floor. It had been cut into two pieces. One half held the noose. The other half was anchored to the stove. Navas picked it up the noose and inspected the knot. There was electrical tape on the end of the rope. She picked at it a bit.
Baker sighed. Stupid private dicks always had to make it look like they'd earned their pay. Navas continued wasting his time by examining the rope where it was tied to the stove. She brushed its frayed end with her fingers.
"It's a rope," said Baker. "Can we go now? I've got work to do."
Navas stood next to Baker and surveyed the scene.
"Who owns this cabin?" she asked.
"Remy owned it. The brother, Maurice, owns it now."
Navas surveyed the cabin again.
"C'mon, Navas, I gotta go."
"Why do you think he killed himself?"
"He owed money."
"Why did he owe money?"
"He was a compulsive gambler. Poker, football, the horses. He had a problem."
"Who did he owe the money to?"
"Hugh Graxton. Hugh does all the gambling action in MetroWest."
"Where can I find him?"
"You ever been to the Starbucks in Chestnut Hill?"
#
Hugh Graxton saw Navas entering the Starbucks out of the corner of his eye. She moved to the counter and ordered. The chat window on his PC blinked.
One of Graxton's men chatted: "?"
The code meant they had caught the guy they were following, the guy who owed Hugh money. They wanted to know what to do next.
Graxton knew that using text messages was risky in his line of business, but he just couldn't get over the efficiency. Texting let him sit in a comfortable Starbucks and run his empire. Without it, he'd be having his conversations in his cellar. So he used codes.
Graxton typed: "LOL!"
The exclamation point meant the guy would get a beating. Two would have been worse. Graxton hardly ever resorted to the smiley. Customers usually paid before that. Graxton looked up. Navas was standing over his table.
"Well, hello," he said, "Ms. Navas, isn't it? Please, please sit."
Graxton moved his laptop to the side and watched Navas sit, admiring her economy of motion and focus. Her paper espresso cup clicked as it settled squarely onto the table. Her body moved smoothly into place behind it. Her face and grey eyes were placid. She angled her chair and Graxton knew that she did it to add the door to her peripheral vision. She was a professional.
Navas said, "You surprise me."
"I do? I doubt that."
"You used my name. I thought you would have hidden the fact that you had eavesdropped on my conversation with Ms. Van Dyke."
"Well, Ms. Nav ... may I call you Yael?"
"No."
Hugh smiled with lifeless eyes and she smiled back in the same way.
"Hmm. Awkward. Well, Ms. Navas, as you probably know, Remy and I did business."
"He owed you money."
"Owed being the key word. He doesn't owe it to me any more."
"Because he's dead."
"No. Because he paid."
She sipped her espresso. Graxton guessed that she had not expected that answer.
She asked, "How much did he owe?"
Graxton was silent.
Another sip. "Mr. Graxton, what did you think of my client's idea?"
"That Remy was murdered?"
"Yes."
"I think she's crazy. On the other hand, his suicide made no sense to me."
"Because he had paid you?"
Graxton watched Navas and wondered if she was wearing a wire. If she was, it was from the FBI. His police mole, Baker, would have told him of a local operation.
He said, "Because Remy wasn't that type. He was crazy, but not suicidal."
"Crazy?"
"His response to my guys was truly bizarre. He'd hide under his bed. He'd answer the door naked. He'd offer them stock tips."
"But he was never suicidal."
"As you can imagine, I wouldn't associate with someone who might kill himself."
"You wouldn't get paid."
Graxton spread his hands and nodded. It wouldn't be picked up on a wire.
She continued, "Also there would be no life insurance money."
Graxton looked back to his laptop. "I've got work to do."
"What do you know of his life insurance, Mr. Graxton?"
"I have no idea. You'd have to ask his mother. I hear she would have gotten it."
Yael Navas stood with the same economy of motion and picked up her espresso. She took another sip. "Interesting. How would you have known that?"
Maybe she was wearing a wire. Graxton crossed his arms and locked eyes with Navas. "Are we going to have problems?"
Navas said, "I don't know yet."
"Would you give me some warning if we were?"
Navas turned and walked out of the Starbucks.
#
Maurice Williams wheezed as he watched Yael Navas perch on a stool in his mother's small room. He admired her ability to avoid the Hummels that covered every flat surface in the place. The folks in the assisted living home allowed the figurines because they calmed his mother. Maurice, with his four hundred pounds, was constantly knocking the damn things over.
"Tha
nk you for seeing me," she said.
"Shh..." Maurice whispered, pointing to the bed.
"I'm sorry," Navas said quietly. She didn't whisper, but she was quiet enough.
Maurice said, "She's been sleeping a lot lately."
"Because of her son's death?"
Maurice shrugged. "Probably. She's had Alzheimer's for years. She was doing OK, normal one day loopy the next. But when he died, she lost it. She sleeps and then yells and then sleeps. It sucks."
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks." Maurice fingered the tail of his plaid work shirt. The energy drained out of him like it did every time he talked about his mother or Remy.
"Marsha Van Dyke asked me to look into Remy's suicide. She thinks it was murder and she says that there is insurance money at stake."
"Yeah. I guess so. We never knew about any insurance."
"He never mentioned it?"
"No."
"That seems odd."
Maurice snorted. "Typical Remy, though. He was always playing an angle. Like his cabin. He said his cabin was an investment, but he wouldn't sell it to get cash. Instead, he got Ma to buy a third of it from him."
"I see," said Navas.
"But she never really lived there. She lived here and he took her to the cabin every month for a week. He even took her there the week before he ... you know. She was calmer there and he'd leave her alone and go for hikes."
"He'd leave her in the cabin alone?"
"Yeah. At first. He kept saying that she wasn't so bad and he was right sometimes. But then other times she'd lose it. Once, she almost burned the place down. He was like, 'It was just an accident.' Then she got lost in the woods. We found her the next day. It was as if he was hoping she'd get killed so he could save money on this nursing home."
"How much money?"
"A ton. These Alzheimer places are $10,000 a month."
"But surely the government pays that."
Maurice snorted, "What planet are you from?"
"Israel."
"Well. This isn't Israel. They'll pay for her, but only after she's completely broke."
"Your mother still has money?"
"Not really. But the government says she does. They say that she hid her money by buying part of Remy's cabin. They wouldn't pay unless Remy sold the cabin and gave her the cash back."
"He wouldn't sell?"
"No. He loved that cabin."
The woman in the bed moaned.
Maurice said, "Shit. You should go."
His mother said, "Stupid, stupid boy."
"Go to sleep, Ma," said Maurice waving at her. He turned back to Navas "This upsets her. You should go."