Rest for the Wicked

by Ellen Hart

  “Look, I’m in my car, about ten minutes from your place. Since we have this window of opportunity, I suggest we use it.”

  “To do what?”

  “I can handle it alone if I need to, but it seems only fair that you come with me. We need to take him out. We all talked about it once before.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “And now it’s time.”

  Emmett’s thoughts all tumbled together. He felt dizzy, unfocused. “I don’t know. What if … I mean, maybe we could find someone to do it for us.”

  Vince’s laugh was mirthless. “Like how? Someone from your church? I assume you’re still a churchgoing guy.”

  “Now and then,” he offered weakly.

  “Face it, Emmett, you’re not exactly a badass. I’m more connected than you are, and I have no idea how to go about finding someone like that. We have to do it ourselves. Now. Be ready when I get there.”

  5

  The navigation system in Vince’s new Infiniti G37X wasn’t working, so he’d MapQuested the address before he left the club. With Emmett sitting next to him smelling like a distillery, the hope he’d entertained—that Emmett would actually be of some help—was fading.

  “Thought you’d stopped drinking years ago.”

  “No lectures,” said Emmett, drawing a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his parka. “I know what I can handle and what I can’t.”

  “You can’t handle booze. You were the worst of all of us.”

  “Look, this has been one of the most god-awful twenty-four hours of my life, so just shove a sock in it. I’m not interested.”

  “By the way, no smoking.”

  Emmett glared at him. “Since when?”

  “Since I bought the new car.”

  “You care more about your stuff than any guy I ever met.”

  “I don’t want to mess up the new-car smell with your stink. You smell bad enough as it is.”

  Emmett shifted his gaze to the side window and remained silent for the next few minutes. When a plane, lights flashing, passed overhead, he quickly looked down at his hands.

  “You still flying?” asked Vince.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you have a bad flight or something?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I don’t know how anyone can fly day in and day out. I hate it. Hate airports. Hate airport security. And then when I get on the goddamn plane, I feel like I’m packed into a tuna can. The air inside those planes is shit. The food is shit.”

  “It’s a living.” Emmett pulled a pack of gum out of his pocket.

  “Hey, there it is.” Vince pointed to a low building almost completely obscured by the mounds of snow left by the snowplows. If it hadn’t been for the J&L Value Inn sign, half-lit by one of two floodlights, he might have missed it. “Thar she blows,” he said, turning off the highway into a plowed drive. “We got lucky.”

  “How on earth could anything about this be lucky?”

  “Only one other car in the lot, and it’s all the way on the other end, near the office.” Lights were on in the unit near the car. The rest of the rooms were dark—except for number 14. Rudmann’s room. “I don’t see my Nissan.”

  “Your what?”

  “I lent Rudmann an old junker car when he got out of St. Peter.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “He kept calling, demanding I take him places. Everything that guy ever says comes out like a threat.”

  “Lord.”

  “The Lord gave up on us a long time ago.”

  “Maybe Rudmann’s not here.”

  “Or he parked the car somewhere else.”

  One of the reasons Vince had wanted Emmett to come along was so he could drive the Nissan home. He wasn’t slurring his words, so maybe it was still possible. Vince cut the lights before he eased into the spot in front of number 17, three doors down from Rudmann’s room.

  “What do we do now?” asked Emmett.

  Vince had it all worked out. “You knock on the door, call his name. I’ll stand behind you with the gun.”

  “You brought a gun?”

  “You planning to knock him over with your breath?”

  “Funny.”

  “When he answers, you tell him there’s been a change of plans. You’ve got the money, but before you give it to him, tell him the three of us need to talk. That will get us inside. I’ll take it from there.”

  “What if someone hears the gunshot?”

  “That’s what silencers are for.” He leaned over and removed a Walther from the glove compartment.

  As they crunched through the snow up to the door, Vince’s breath came in nervous puffs. “Just play it cool,” he said, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake bringing Emmett along. He removed the silencer from the pocket of his jacket, attached it, and then held the gun behind his back.

  “I can’t do this,” said Emmett, bending over as if he were in pain.

  “Pussy,” muttered Vince. “Get out of my way.” He edged him aside and knocked on the door. “Rudmann? Open up. It’s me.” Glancing over his shoulder, he hissed, “Straighten up. We only get one chance at this.” He knocked again.

  Coughing against his fist, Emmett whispered, “Maybe he’s not in there. We should go.”

  Feeling more frustrated by the second, Vince tried the handle. To his surprise, the knob turned easily in his hand.

  “I’ll stay out here,” said Emmett, wiping beads of sweat off his forehead.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “For God’s sake, just do it.”

  Fine, thought Vince. Rot in hell. How had he ever gotten mixed up with these losers? “Royal? I’m coming in, okay?” He couldn’t imagine why the door had been left unlocked.

  A lamp attached to the wall next to the bed cast a weak greenish light on the rumpled sheets. Pillows had been stacked against the headboard, and a newspaper and a few sports magazines were piled on the nightstand. The room smelled like dirty socks. Across from the bed, a thirteen-inch TV was tuned to an old 3rd Rock from the Sun episode.

  “Royal? You in the bathroom? Hey, man, I’ve got your money.” He edged forward, the gun held firmly in both hand. “You okay, man?” Glancing over at an empty bottle of Svedka on the nightstand, he began to get the picture. “You been drinking, huh? Guess maybe you passed out. What a shame.”

  He eased up to the partially closed bathroom door. Kicking it open, he smiled, then froze at the sight that greeted him. Rudmann lay under the sink, half on his back, half on his side, arms and legs spread wide, a look of astonishment on his unshaven face, as if the blast that had carved the crater in his chest had come out of nowhere. Dark blood soaked his shirt and pooled on the cracked tile underneath his lifeless body.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” hissed Vince, lowering the pistol and stifling an urge to vomit. The last thing he needed was to leave his DNA in the room. Pressing a hand over his mouth, he rushed back through the door, past Emmett and his questioning stare. He ran in a circle around the parking lot, hoping the nausea would pass. When it didn’t, not knowing what else to do, he opened up the back of his shiny new car and hurled all over the empty trunk.

  “Gee, that sucks,” offered Emmett.

  Vince wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “What did he say?”

  “Jack shit,” said Vince, ordering Emmett to get in.

  Skidding out of the lot, the car fishtailed through the snow toward the highway.

  “He’s dead,” said Vince, forcing his eyes to stay on the road.

  “That silencer was amazing,” said Emmett. “I never heard a thing.”

  “You are one useless son of a bitch, you know that? He was already dead. I never touched him.”

  Vince took one last look around for his car. If it wasn’t in the lot, maybe the cops wouldn’t go looking for it. He prayed like hell that nobody at the motel had seen them arrive or leave. Somebody had done the job Vince thought would fall to him. M
aybe it would all work out for the best.

  Or maybe it wouldn’t.

  6

  Just before lunch on Tuesday, Jane was in the downstairs pub at the Lyme House replacing an ink cartridge on the printer attached to the POS computer when she spied Nolan walk in. He moved so slowly and looked so flushed that she immediately came out to see what was wrong.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, concerned that something had happened with the police investigation.

  Nolan motioned her to a booth. As he eased onto the bench, he grimaced.

  “Is it your back?”

  “Yeah,” he said, trying but obviously failing to find a comfortable position.

  “You must have really hurt it,” she said, sliding in across from him.

  “Afraid so. I hit the ground pretty hard.”

  Nolan had to be extra careful about jarring his back because of a bullet he’d taken to the stomach some eighteen months ago—an injury he’d sustained while saving Jane’s life. At the time, his doctors had considered an operation to remove the fragment, but in the end had decided to leave it where it was. If it had shifted because of the fall, it could be a big problem for him. Jane searched his face, trying to determine how worried she should be.

  “I’ve got some news,” he said. “Taylor called me a few minutes ago. Seems a dishwasher at GaudyLights walked into the homicide division this morning and admitted to killing my nephew. His name is Elvio Ramos. Twenty-six years old. Married with three kids.”

  “I don’t understand. Why give himself up?”

  “Apparently he figured it was only a matter of time before they caught him. He’d heard that they’d found the knife. He’d been arrested once before, so his prints were on file and he assumed there had to be prints on the knife.”

  “But … why admit to it? A lawyer might have been able to work some sort of plea deal.”

  “It’s a good question.”

  “For which Taylor had no answer?”

  “Ramos admitted to the crime. Didn’t ask for a lawyer. Gave up a DNA sample without a fight. He told Taylor how it happened, that he bolted from the alley and got rid of the knife, then returned to the kitchen to finish out his shift. He didn’t think anyone had missed him. Get this. The athletic shoes he was wearing when he walked into city hall were covered in my nephew’s blood.” Nolan paused, pressed his lips together, and cleared his throat. “He didn’t own another pair of shoes. When it came to the why, he just stopped talking. He said something like ‘I’m here to tell you I did it. You can lock me up and throw away the key. God forgive me, I deserve it.’ He had a cross in his hand and kept fingering it throughout the interview. For him, apparently, that was the end of it. Taylor tried to get him to open up and state a reason, but he refused to say another word.”

  “Makes no sense.”

  “It does if he’s hiding something.”

  “Like what?”

  Nolan shook his head.

  “Are the police going to leave it at that?”

  “Taylor said he’d give it a couple of days. There’s always the chance that Ramos may change his mind when he talks to his court-appointed lawyer.”

  “And if he doesn’t? If he stays silent about his reasons?”

  Nolan pulled the salt shaker in front of him, began to spin it. “I can’t leave it like that. If he won’t talk, then I’d say it’s up to us to figure it out. When I spoke to my sister yesterday morning, she had no idea that DeAndre had left St. Louis. He was here for a reason, Jane. He was murdered for a reason. I need to know what it was.”

  “Where do we start?” This would be her first official case as a licensed PI. She was, of course, sorry that it had come as the result of such a personal tragedy for Nolan and his family, and yet she was eager to dig in and get to work.

  “I’ve been making some notes,” said Nolan. “I’ve got several appointments this afternoon on another matter. Maybe we could meet at the Rat later. I’ll call and we can work out a time.”

  “Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat before you leave?”

  “Wouldn’t turn down a pub burger.”

  She smiled as she slipped out of the booth, knowing it was one of his favorites. “Raw onions, extra mayo.” Turning back to him to ask what he’d like to drink, she saw that he’d eased out of the booth, too. As he stood, one of his legs buckled and he fell hard. In an instant, people were rushing toward him. Jane bent down and gripped his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  The look on his face was a mixture of embarrassment and pain. The pain won out. “My left leg,” he said, his face twisting in agony. “It’s like it isn’t there. And my back hurts like hell.” He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth.

  “Call 911,” Jane shouted to one of the bartenders. “Get an EMT here now.”

  “I’ll be okay,” said Nolan, trying to sit up. “Just give me a minute.”

  “You’re going to the emergency room,” said Jane, moving behind him so he could lean against her. “No arguing.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Of course you are. But I won’t be until a doctor checks you out.”

  * * *

  Cordelia appeared in the emergency waiting room door dressed head to toe in leather. She whipped off her sunglasses and swept the room with a hawklike stare.

  From the corner, Jane wiggled a couple of fingers.

  “There you are,” she said, marching through the crowd of waiting patients, some on crutches, some sneezing or coughing, others talking on cell phones or trying to quiet children. Squeezing into a chair next to Jane, she said, “I got here as soon as I could. What do we know?”

  “The doctor ordered X-rays. That was three hours ago.”

  “Typical. How’s he doing?”

  “He was in a lot of pain when we arrived. A nurse got him settled in one of those curtained-off rooms, and then she whisked him away. I was asked to wait out here.”

  “You told the doctor about the bullet in his back?”

  “They know. They’re sending for his medical records.” Jane was far more worried than Nolan seemed to be. “He wanted them to give him some pain pills and send him home.”

  “But you said his leg had gone numb.”

  “He’s not thinking clearly.”

  “He’s scared.”

  Jane glanced over at Cordelia and saw her own worry reflected in her friend’s face, which didn’t do much for her general sense of well-being. “What if they want to operate? I read a ton of articles on that when he was in the hospital last time. It’s never an easy decision, and the outcome is always uncertain.”

  “Don’t catastrophize. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

  “You’re telling me not to catastrophize? You? The queen of daytime drama?”

  “Think soothing thoughts, dearheart. Deep breaths.”

  “This can’t be happening.” She’d been so sure that, after a year and a half of good health, Nolan was out of the woods.

  “I can see into that motley soul of yours, Janey.”

  “Motley?”

  “I use the word in the pure Shakespearean sense, not the more recent rock group diminution. You blame yourself for Nolan getting shot.”

  “He wouldn’t have been in the woods if it hadn’t been for me.”

  “But you didn’t shoot him.”

  At the moment, it seemed like a fine point.

  Cordelia patted Jane’s knee. “Not to worry. When I get home tonight, I’ll dig out my tarot cards. Do a reading for him and one for you. That should put your mind at rest.”

  Oh goody, thought Jane. Haul out the tarot cards for true peace of mind. “Let’s change the subject. Want to tell me about your heated conversation with Mel the other night?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’re keeping something from me. Something big.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I couldn’t help but overhear some of what you two said.”

  “You were eavesdropping.”r />
  “Maybe a little. Then again, unless I employed earplugs, it would have been hard to miss what you were saying. You weren’t exactly whispering.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when the time is right.”

  “And when will that be?”

  Cordelia wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Are you moving out of state? Taking a position somewhere else?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “Because I always thought you’d end up in New York one day, directing at a major theater.”

  “This is my home. I find it invigorating living amongst the corn rows.”

  “You’re such a snob.”

  “I know, but you love me anyway.”

  With little else to occupy her besides her own anxiety, Jane spent the next few minutes bringing Cordelia up to speed on Elvio Ramos and his confession.

  “Can’t they shine a bright light in his eyes and make him talk?”

  “I think torture went out with the Bush administration.” At least, she hoped it had.

  Jane eyed the fish tank, watching one of the bigger fish chase a smaller fish around. “What a world we live in.” As she was about to move to deeper philosophical ground, she caught sight of the doctor who had ordered the X-rays. The woman had on a white coat over blue scrubs and stood in the doorway, scanning the crowd.

  Jane stood as the woman made her way toward her. Cordelia rose, too, dwarfing the doctor with her height and size.

  “How’s he doing?” asked Jane.

  “I’m calling in another doctor—Robert Schulman. He’s a specialist. It looks to me like the bullet has migrated. I started him on antibiotics and Vicodin. He’s resting fairly comfortably. Dr. Schulman will take a look at the X-rays and the myelogram and perhaps order more imaging studies, and then he’ll talk to you and your uncle about what he thinks should be done.”

  “Uncle?” said Cordelia, raising an eyebrow.

  “Do you think he’ll want to operate?” asked Jane.

  “If it were up to me, I’d do it immediately. Regardless of the level of injury, this kind of deterioration is an indication for urgent decompression, at least in my opinion. On the other hand, optimal surgical timing is only one of the issues that need to be addressed. Dr. Schulman will do the studies needed to develop the best treatment options. Your uncle is in excellent hands.”