Diamond Eyes (Alo Nudger Book 7)

by John Lutz

  In the bottom of the ninth, with the score tied, Will Clark hit a three-run homer and Nudger and Claudia went to bed and made love. Claudia was hesitant at first, the fear getting in the way. Then her tentativeness suddenly left her and she clung to Nudger with a fierceness he remembered from their first nights together, after he’d saved her from suicide. He climaxed a while after she did. Bowed his head to a fleeting sadness. You’re getting old, Nudger.

  He rolled onto his back, gasping, feeling his own mortality and praying Claudia wouldn’t think again of taking her life. The strain of what was happening might do that to her.

  But that was silly, he decided. Claudia’s psychiatrist, Dr. Oliver, had told Nudger that Claudia now had a powerful “life force,” and unless clinical depression set in she was unlikely to see suicide as an alternative to solving her problems or waiting them out. Clinical depressions. Roger Bobinet had probably inspired a few of those.

  She went into the bathroom, still nude. Padded back a few minutes later in her bare feet and lay down again beside him. The bedsprings sang. She wriggled close so her arm was against him, one of her toes barely making contact with his leg.

  She said, “I’m glad I’m not alone, Nudger.”

  “So am I.”

  He drifted into uneasy sleep.

  In the morning he kissed her good-bye and watched from the living room window as she crossed the street at an angle and walked toward where her car was parked down the block. Always he marveled at her rhythmic, elegant walk. She passed out of sight beneath the branches of a nearby maple tree.

  He turned away from the window. Poured himself another cup of coffee, then went into the living room and turned on the ‘Today’ show on TV.

  jumped up from where he was seated on the sofa when he heard the grind of a key in the front door. The snick of the lock. Bobinet and the skeleton? Somehow? A chill spiraled up the back of his neck.

  The door opened.

  Claudia walked in. Stood still. Her face was pale. Without expression.

  In a dreamy voice she said, “Nudger, there’s a dead man sitting in my car.”

  20

  Nudger walked outside with Claudia. Death again. The thought of it, along with the heat, hit him hard and made him nauseated, affected his stomach as if the earth were gently and relentlessly rocking. He thumbed an antacid tablet into his mouth and chewed. It helped some. Calmed the carnival ride.

  They walked at a normal pace along the sun-washed sidewalk, down the block toward where Claudia’s toylike white Chevette was parked at the curb. A station wagon with a loud muffler rumbled past, someone on his way to work. Some of Claudia’s South St. Louis neighbors were out. Older people mostly. Two women were diligently sweeping their concrete porches, another the street near the curb. Something you saw frequently in this part of town. A man in a baseball cap and sleeveless undershirt was patiently watering his zoysia grass before the sun got too hot. Everything seemed so normal that Nudger heard himself say, “You sure about this, Claudia?”

  She didn’t bother answering.

  As they approached the car Nudger saw him. Realized why no one had noticed the man was a corpse. He was sitting up straight in the passenger’s seat, wearing what looked like a porkpie hat. Now he was as out of fashion as his headgear. His head was bowed slightly, as if he were reading something in his lap, or possibly dozing. Death, so awesome, could also be so mundane.

  Claudia said, “The cross-over safety belt’s holding him up like that.”

  She stopped near the rear bumper. Nudger walked to the front of the little car and peered in through the windshield. The man’s head was tilted so his face was barely visible, but his flesh had a pale, waxy look. Not dead, only sleeping?

  Not likely.

  Nudger opened the car door. Heat rolled out at him, along with something else that didn’t smell good. The man’s sphincter muscle had relaxed in death and he’d fouled himself. There was a great deal of dried blood; it appeared almost black on his white shirt front. In his lap.

  Nudger straightened up, jerked his head to the side, and drew a deep breath through his mouth. Held it and stooped low so he could look more closely up at the man’s face.

  He moved away from the car before exhaling and breathing normally again. Left the door open. The odor followed him.

  A couple of neighbors had tumbled onto the idea that something odd was occurring. The guy in the baseball cap and sleeve-. less undershirt, holding the hose, was staring across the street and watering his sidewalk.

  Claudia said, “Know who he is—was?”

  “Yeah. Ed Franks. A private investigator. Eileen’s lawyer, Henry Mercato, hired him to watch us and gather evidence of our wild spending of money that should go to Eileen.”

  Nudger caught shadowy movement in the corner of his vision. He turned and saw a bearish man with wide, sloping shoulders approaching. The man wasn’t wearing a suitcoat and his tie was loosened, his shirt’s top button unfastened. Everything about him, his clothes, the flesh of his neck, his face, was wrinkled. It had been several years since they’d last seen each other, so it took Nudger a few seconds to recognize him.

  Nudger said, “‘Lo, Larry.”

  “‘Lo, Nudge.” Larry Ervine smiled. It made his face even more wrinkly, like folding money, but kinder and not as green. He glanced at the open car door, the unnatural turn of the passenger’s leg. He knew death when he saw it, even from a distance. “What’ve we got here, one of those famous South St. Louis parking space disputes?”

  “Dead man,” Nudger said.

  “His space?”

  Nudger always marveled at cops’ surface callousness in the presence of violent death. It was a much misunderstood protective device that helped to keep them sane in the often irrational world through which they moved.

  “My friend’s car,” Nudger said. He cocked his head toward Ervine. “Claudia, Larry Ervine. Larry, Claudia. Larry’s with the police, Claudia.”

  Ervine nodded politely to Claudia. “I know who you are, ma’am. Been assigned to protect you. This”-he nodded toward the corpse in the car—“musta happened last night before I came on duty.”

  “I just ... found him like that,” Claudia said, as if she might be suspected of the crime. After all, the corpse was sitting in her car. Nudger realized she was still in mild shock. She should be bogged in Highway 40 traffic, driving at five miles per hour to her job at Stowe High School. Instead she was still on her own street, talking with Nudger and a Homicide officer while a dead guy sat silently by in her car, the door hanging open as if he’d like to overhear. Ed Franks, snooping even in death.

  While Nudger chewed two more antacid tablets, Ervine strolled over to the car and squatted down to examine the body. He straightened up slowly, as if his back ached, and unhooked a small black walkie-talkie with a short, blunt aerial from his belt. Static crackled as he radioed in what he’d found. The portable unit blared something only Ervine understood.

  He shot a look at the knot of people gathering on the sidewalk. He said, “Stay clear, folks,” in a quiet way that caused all movement to stop. He smiled at the still, somber onlookers and walked back over to Nudger and Claudia. “Know this guy, Nudge?”

  Nudger told him who Franks was, and what he might have been doing on Claudia’s street.

  Ervine said, “I heard of Franks. S’pose to be a real jerkoff.”

  “Figures,” Nudger said, “considering his employer.”

  The high warble of approaching sirens rode the hot air like banshees in pain. Urgent. Getting closer.

  The knot of neighbors stirred. Heads swiveled.

  A patrol car, red and blue flashing dome lights fighting the glare of the sun, had turned the corner and was headed toward them. Another car entered the block at the opposite comer. The sirens were deafening for a few seconds, then cut to silence. They didn’t growl down like the older sirens.

  There were few parking spaces, so the two dusty blue cruisers braked nose to nose in the middl
e of the street. Car doors opened and slammed shut. Uniforms piled out and began the systematic process of lending order to the chaotic aftermath of murder. It made things at least seem comprehensible, though often they weren’t.

  The police were setting up red-and-white barriers at each end of the block. The familiar yellow crime scene ribbons were unfurled, strung in a rough rectangle that encompassed Claudia’s car. Blue uniforms everywhere. Busy, busy. Inside the car, Franks seemed almost alive and totally unconcerned that he was the cause of all this fuss.

  An unmarked Pontiac angled to the curb near where a couple of uniforms were holding back the curious crowd. Its doors opened simultaneously. Hammersmith eased his bulk out from the passenger’s side with his incongruous grace. He went over and examined Franks as if paying his respects. Wrinkled his nose at the stench and fired up a cigar. Maybe situations like this were the reason he smoked the foul-smelling abominations. He stood well away from the car and puffed and puffed. Then, like a fat genie emerging from a mystic cloud of smoke, he glided toward Nudger.

  He said, “Our friend Franks keeps turning up, eh?”

  “Won’t anymore,” Nudger said.

  Hammersmith, still wearing an expression of distaste, drew on the cigar and then blew a thunderous green cloud. He glanced back at Franks and said, “You kill him, Claudia?”

  Claudia gripped Nudger’s arm and her body stiffened. Then she realized Hammersmith was joking in his macabre way and Nudger felt her relax beside him. She said, “I never saw him before. Didn’t know who he was till Nudger told me.”

  “He was killed by Bobinet to warn us to stay in line,” Nudger said.

  Hammersmith said, “Franks had no real connection to the diamond thing.”

  “Bobinet and the skeleton wouldn’t know that for sure. Here’s this guy sneaking around keeping an eye on me and Claudia, so it figured to them he had an angle. They know from nothing about the sharklike behavior of Henry Mercato and Eileen. They probably questioned Franks, saw his ID, and maybe even bought his story. But they couldn’t let him live, so they decided to make him an object lesson and a warning. Like the dog.”

  Hammersmith sucked on his cigar. “Whashat? Dog?”

  Nudger told him about the disemboweled dog on Marlou Dee’s bed.

  Hammersmith said, “Hmm.” Withdrew his cigar from his mouth and stared down at it. As if talking to it, he said, “Looks like to me that Franks was what you might call gutted. Disemboweled.”

  “God,” Claudia said. “Killed like a dog and for the same sick reason.”

  “Humane Society’d object,” Hammersmith said. Nudger knew he could carry his cops’ humor too far, get Claudia mad. Didn’t want that to happen.

  “I spent the night here,” he said. “When Claudia left the apartment to get in her car and go to work, she found Franks. They must have done him and set him up in the car last night, before Ervine came on stakeout.”

  “I expect the M.E.’s estimated time of death’ll bear that out,” Hammersmith said. “Ervine wouldn’t have missed this business if he’d been around at the time. Other cops, maybe, but not him. Way it looks, Franks was killed someplace else. Then the killers probably drove up next to Claudia’s car and transferred the corpse. It’d only take them seconds, not minutes. There’s a lot of blood in the street, and some down in the grass on the passenger side of the car.”

  “Hell of a lot of nerve,” Nudger said.

  “You mean because of the way people feel about their lawns around here?”

  “You know what I mean. Takes balls to move around a dead body like they did.”

  “Naw, not really. On a dark residential street. Even if somebody happened to hear the noise and see them, they’d figure it was a couple of guys dealing with a drunk friend.”

  Claudia leaned on Nudger and said, “I’m feeling light-headed. Mind if I go upstairs and sit down?”

  “The both of you go,” Hammersmith said. “I’ll be up in a while and question you in more detail, make it official.”

  Nudger took Claudia’s arm and began leading her down the street toward her apartment. She was trembling and didn’t seem to know it.

  Behind him Hammersmith said, “Better haul ass, Nudger, before Springer shows up.”

  Sound advice, Nudger thought.

  As soon as they entered the apartment, he guided Claudia directly to the bathroom. He helped her kneel on the tile floor in front of the toilet bowl. Worshiping the porcelain god, drunks called this. Whatever it was called, might as well get it over with.

  Without looking up, she said, “I think I’m gonna be okay, Nudger. Really.”

  Sure you are.

  He was tasting metal, and his own stomach was fluttering, but he figured he could keep his breakfast where it belonged. The antacid tablets had helped. And he hadn’t happened on Franks as a gruesome surprise, the way Claudia had.

  Odd, he thought, that he’d puked after dealing with a dead dog, but Franks, the agent of Eileen and Mercato, didn’t affect him as strongly even though he and Nudger were of the same species. Even the same profession. But then he hadn’t had to fit Franks’s corpse into a plastic trash bag and dispose of it.

  His stomach did give a kick, and he chased colorful visions of the dog, and of Franks, from his mind.

  Soaked with icy sweat, he stood at the washbasin and twisted the Cold handle. Got a damp washcloth ready while Claudia retched.

  He didn’t watch her directly but kept his eyes fixed on her bent and heaving back in the mirror.

  21

  After Hammersmith and Springer had gone, Nudger and Claudia sat on the sofa in her living room. Claudia had just hung up the phone, after explaining to someone at Stowe High School what had happened, and assuring them that she’d be there for her afternoon class. She had an hour before she was due to leave, so she was sipping a Diet Pepsi, trying to cool mind and body before venturing back out into the difficult and unpredictable world.

  Nudger was pulling on Busch beer from a can. He had his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His throat was sore from talking so much to Hammersmith and Springer. Springer, mainly, with his back-door, insinuating questions. Weasely little bastard.

  At least Hammersmith had gotten off the pin by telling Springer that he’d planned to inform him of the protective surveillance on Claudia, only there hadn’t been time. Franks had been considerate enough to be murdered on the first night, thus providing Hammersmith with a plausible enough explanation for moving behind Springer’s back.

  It was almost noon; the glaring sun was bent through the slanted venetian blinds above the laboring air conditioner and couldn’t penetrate more than mere inches into the apartment. It was cool and dim in Claudia’s living room. Sanctuary, now that Springer and Hammersmith had left.

  Nudger looked over at Claudia, thought how much he loved her, and said, “Ever think about seeing Jamaica?”

  She stared at him. “The two of us?”

  “No, just you.”

  She thought about that, her lean face serious. Then she shook her head, causing her long dark hair to swing in a soft pendulum motion. “I can’t run from this, Nudger.”

  He figured he’d hear that from her; she’d done a complete turnaround since her suicide attempt and a few years of psychoanalysis. Dr. Oliver had transformed her into a quiet fighter. Nudger decided to try reason. “Franks should have run.”

  “That’s obvious. But Franks doesn’t teach two remedial English classes to learning-impaired children.”

  “Your job can’t be that important, Claudia! We’re talking about your life here.”

  “My life. That’s the point. I’ll live it my way, without being dictated to by a couple of scumbag terrorists.”

  “These guys left a corpse in your car, Claudia!”

  “I remember.” She calmly sipped Pepsi.

  Nudger said, “Jesus!”

  She gazed at him over the rim of her glass; dark eyes so deep. Like wells to the earth’s core and mystery. S
he set the glass down on the table by the sofa. “You’re more or less in my position, Nudger. Are you running?”

  “No. Because I’ve been hired to do a job.” Oh-oh, shouldn’t have said that.

  She smiled like a fisherman who’s set the hook. “So have I been hired to do a job. And I intend to continue doing it.”

  “God, you’re stubborn!” he said in frustration.

  “Now there’s a quality you should understand.”

  “Christ, Claudia, be reasonable!”

  “Even if you’re not?”

  “That’s never stopped you before.”

  “Nudger, it’s gallant of you to be so concerned. But life’s not a John Wayne movie, and you’re not a hell of a lot like John Wayne anyway. I’ll be okay.”

  Hey! He felt a pang of resentment. “More like Clark Gable?”

  “Well, a little more. When he was older.”

  He felt better, but not much.

  “I’ll be safe enough,” she assured him. “Hammersmith’s continuing the watch on me. And after what happened to Franks, I’ll be extra careful. I promise.”

  Nudger knew he wasn’t going to change her mind. “I’ll drive you out to the school.” The police had impounded her car. After they released it, the interior would have to be cleaned as thoroughly as possible. Even then, something of Franks might haunt it. She should get another car.

  “All right,” she told him. “But I can catch a ride home with a teacher who lives in Bellville.” She stood up and smoothed her dress. Smiled at him, then leaned over and kissed the top of his head where his hair was thinning. “Nudger, don’t worry so much about me. Please.”

  He didn’t answer. Finished his beer in one long series of swallows and stood up. “You ready to leave?”

  “Soon as I get my briefcase.”

  Nudger remembered the relationship of his father and mother. Dad working, Mom tending house and kids. His mother had never uttered the phrase “my briefcase.”