The Death File

by J. A. Kerley

  “So you haven’t been in Phoenix for two months?”

  “My father’s an engineer. He was consulting with a company in Glendale. I traveled with him – my life needed a change – and was going to take university classes, but I had, uh, anxiety attacks and Dr Meridien was suggested.” A pause. “You said murders, plural, but only mentioned Dr Meridien.”

  I blew out a breath and told her about Shackleton and Trujillo. Catherine Maruyama was a third of a world away but I swear I heard her hang her head.

  A whispered “Why?” was all she could say.

  “We hope to know soon,” was all I could reply. Night was nearing and we felt closer to a reason for the madness but, outside of $20,000,00, no idea what or why. Novarro instituted a BOLO for Adam Kubiac, and tomorrow’s task would be tracking him down.

  We hoped he was still breathing.

  45

  The stars wheeled overhead as Adam Kubiac steadied the rifle on a rock. Headlights flashed in the distance. He wore a wireless Bluetooth headset, Catherine Maruyama on the other end of the line. He needed her there, if not in person, in voice.

  “Car coming,” Kubiac whispered.

  “Make sure it’s Cottrell,” she said. “You’ve got to be sure.”

  “I’m looking through the night sight. The car’s pulling into his driveway. Door opening. It’s him. He’s going to his mailbox by the street. He just got his mail. He’s … heading toward the house.”

  “You have to do it now, Adam.”

  The world was spectral green through the telescopic night-vision scope; powerful enough to make it appear the lawyer was a dozen feet from the crosshairs. Cottrell was in slacks and a dress shirt, his jacket in one hand with a few envelopes in the other. The lawyer paused as if taking in the night air, his eyes looking toward Kubiac’s hiding place in the dark. He can’t see me, Kubiac thought, hair prickling on the back of his neck. He just sees darkness. Kubiac took a deep breath and placed the crosshairs over Cottrell’s chest. The lawyer’s face was in view. He looked small and human and vulnerable.

  “Adam?” Maruyama said. “I don’t hear anything.”

  The crosshairs were quivering. Kubiac took another deep breath and re-trained the sights.

  “Adam … what’s going on?”

  “I-I’m wuh-wuh-waiting f-f-for it to be pur-perfect.”

  “Adam! He raped me when I was fourteen!”

  “May-maybe you c-can still tuh-tell the police, C-Cat.”

  “Shoot the bastard, Adam,” Maruyama hissed. “Fire the fucking gun! Kill him!”

  Kubiac squinted through the sight at Cottrell, leaning against his hood and checking his watch. The crosshairs had drifted, but again found the center of Cottrell’s chest. Wavered.

  “Adam … what’s going on? SHOOT!”

  A chuffing sound, like spitting. “What?” Maruyama said. “What?”

  Silence.

  “Adam, talk to me! What happened?”

  “Cottrell’s … he’s on the ground. He’s not moving.”

  “Shoot him again, Adam!”

  “I … Jesus, I’m-I’m getting out of here.”

  Twenty minutes later Adam Kubiac exited his car on unsteady legs. Maruyama grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, wrapping him in an embrace. “Adam, you did it … you’re incredi—”

  He shrank away, face glistening with sweat. “I-I couldn’t do it, Cat. I started sh-haking … so bad … I shot over to the side. I tried to m-miss him. I don’t understand …”

  “You didn’t miss, Adam. You said he went down, right?”

  “I-I don’t know how.”

  Maruyama thought for two beats and snapped her fingers. “A ricochet. It happens a lot. A friend of my nephew’s got killed by a ricochet while some gangs were fighting. The bullet hit a building ten feet away and ricocheted. It doesn’t matter … You did it. Adam. You killed the bastard!”

  Kubiac stared past Maruyama, terror on his face. “I killed him,” he whispered. “I did.” He grabbed his stomach, dry heaving. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  Kubiac ran to the bathroom, fell to his knees, and began vomiting into the toilet. Maruyama followed like a shadow.

  “The rifle, Adam. It’s the only evidence. Where’s the rifle?”

  Kubiac upchucked again.

  “The gun, Adam. You didn’t leave it there, did you? Tell me you didn’t leave it!”

  Kubiac pointing a shaking finger toward the street. “In th-the trunk.”

  Relief flooded Maruyama’s face. “I’ll take care of it. You can open the door to Cottrell’s office, right? With the code?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Wait fifteen minutes and unlock his office. Adam …?”

  “What?”

  Her eyes flashed. “’GET OFF YOUR KNEES AND DO IT!”

  Maruyama dashed away. Kubiac stood on rubbery legs and staggered to the couch. He sat and opened his computer, weeping like his soul had been ripped apart.

  Ramon Escheverría stared at his phone as it rang. He’d been waiting.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Say what I need to hear.”

  He listened and nodded. “That was a fear of mine, and why I sent you. No … not a problem. You moved away to somewhere safe? Bueno. You have indeed earned your money this night.”

  He listened again. “We are almost done, amigo. There is only the matter of the two Novarros and the Miami detective. When they are gone, we will have a party, no? A good way to savor a big payday.”

  Another string of questions from the other end. Escheverría thought a moment. “We will need a truck. I know of one used to transport various substances across the border and through the region. Let me give you the number to call. Tell the man El Gila would like to rent his special vehicle. No … no gasoline cans needed. We will be returning this one.”

  46

  Novarro awakened me before seven a.m. We had a big day ahead, convinced that if we could track down Adam Kubiac, we’d be close to a solve.

  If the kid was still alive, that is.

  “Helluva day yesterday,” I said as we stood in the kitchen eating stand-up tortillas con huevos y frijoles. “We’re getting close.”

  “To me the best thing about yesterday was finding out that Fish wasn’t snitching to Escheverría.” She thought for a moment and sighed. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  She sighed. “I’d better call Merle and apologize for thinking he might have been Ramon’s source. It’s the right thing to do.” She pulled her phone and pressed in numbers. I heard his overblown voice.

  “Yeah, Tash? What is it?” There was the sound of a siren in the background.

  “Merle, I wanted to apologize for thinking you might be leaking to Escheverría.”

  “It wasn’t you that thought that. It was that Florida A hole. Gotta go, Tash. Busy here.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m just north of Scottsdale. Got a lawyer shot dead in his front yard. No big loss, it’s Jeff Cottrell. Call me later so I can yell at you, OK?”

  “What’s a Cottrell?” I asked after she rang off.

  Novarro wrinkled her nose like a rotting mackerel had entered the cubicle. “Some scumbag who combines ambulance chasing with criminal defense, a sneaky, snaky type. Think Saul on Breaking Bad, just with nicer clothes and fewer scruples.”

  * * *

  Adam Kubiac was face-down on her couch when Maruyama entered the room. It was how she had left him last night, unable to coax him into bed. She scowled down, then assumed a smile and shook a bony shoulder.

  “Time to wake up, Adam. We need to buy you a suit.”

  “A suit?” he moaned into a cushion. “WTF?”

  “To wear to the probate hearing tomorrow.” Maruyama sat beside Kubiac and put a hand on the small of his back. “You have to pull it tighter, Adam. You’re in control, again. You put yourself in control.”

  “I … I killed a man, Cat.”

  “You killed an animal … a rapist and a thief trying to
steal millions of dollars of your money. He backed you into a corner and you did what a man has to do.” Maruyama ran a finger down his spine. “You’re afraid of the police finding out, right, Adam?”

  “I’ll go to prison … I hated the guy, but I didn’t expect—”

  “It had to be done. Adam. You did it for me as much as for you. And there’s no way anyone will ever find out.”

  Kubiac rolled over, his hair disheveled, eyes red. “You got in his office after I unlocked it?”

  “The agreements you signed are gone. We both did what we needed to do. We’re a team.”

  “What about the, uh, gun?”

  A mysterious smile. “Long gone.”

  “Where?”

  She ignored the question and pulled him to his feet. “We need to get you ready for tomorrow. That means nicer clothes, conservative.”

  Kubiac hung his head. “I don’t wanna go to a store. I hate shopping.”

  Maruyama’s jaw tensed. “How about in Scottsdale?”

  “My old man made me buy a couple suits. He picked them out, like dressing a baby.”

  “Come on. We’ll go there and get one.”

  “I don’t want to see that place again, Cat. I never want to go back.”

  Maruyama wrapped Adam Kubiac in her arms, nuzzling his neck. “For me, Adam. Just one more day and it’s all over. Please, baby?”

  Twenty minutes later Catherine Maruyama stood in the open great room of the Kubiac house and stared at every wall in turn.

  “My god, Adam, what a fantastic place.”

  Kubiac scowled. “See that couch? When I was twelve I was staying overnight at a friend’s but forgot my game controller. When his mom drove me back to get it I found my old man on that couch with two women.” He took Maruyama’s hand and pulled her to his bedroom. “Let’s get the shit and get out.”

  “You’ll need a dress shirt. And shoes.”

  He pointed to black canvas Vans. “I got shoes.”

  “Leather ones, Adam. To go with the suit.”

  Adam Kubiac rolled his eyes, crossed to his closet, and opened the door. “Is this crap necessary?”

  Maruyama smiled. “Just once, Adam. Tomorrow. Your big day.”

  * * *

  Novarro’s phone rang and she grabbed it up. “Now?” she said, tensing. “Adam’s there now?” She hung up.

  “What?”

  “Darlene Landsmere, the Kubiacs’ neighbor. She just saw Adam and a woman going into the house.” She began tapping at her phone. “I’ll see if I can’t get the locals over there to hold him for us.”

  We rolled up in front of the Kubiac house fifteen minutes later, a Scottsdale patrol car out front. We exited simultaneously with two officers from the marked vehicle, the driver shaking his head.

  “Sorry, Detective. Gone when we got here.”

  Novarro muttered a brief strand of expletives and thanked the men. She turned to me. “Well, that’s a chance blown.”

  “Let’s check with Ms Landsmere.”

  Darlene Landsmere’s door opened as we approached. “I’m so sorry. I know you wanted to talk to Adam.”

  Novarro was in the lead. “He was here with a woman, you said?”

  “She was twenty or thereabouts, kinda pretty, a bit chunky. They didn’t have much to say.”

  “You spoke to them?”

  “When I saw them going inside I figured I’d wander over and maybe find out what Adam’s going to do with the house … sell it, live there, whatever. I knocked. When the door opened it was Adam with clothes on a hanger. A suit, I think.”

  “How’d he look?” I asked.

  “Frazzled. He looked even sadder than usual.”

  “The woman?”

  “She stayed inside and hidden, maybe on purpose.”

  Novarro frowned. “What makes you think that?”

  “After I pecked on the door I heard whispering and footsteps like maybe she was ducking out of sight. It had – I don’t know – a furtive sense.”

  “What’d you say to Adam, Ms Landsmere?” Novarro asked.

  “Just small talk, how you doing, hope you’ll be back soon, that kind of thing. I told him detectives were looking for him, thought I might be doing him a favor.”

  Novarro shot me a glance. “What happened?”

  “That boy turned white as a sheet and almost slammed the door in my face. That’s when I called Detective Novarro. But a minute later I saw them hustling out the door. They weren’t gone but three minutes when the Scottsdale police showed up.”

  Adam Kubiac had driven an erratic three miles before Maruyama made him pull over. “You’re going to hit something, Adam. You went through two stop signs.”

  “The cops know I killed Cottrell,” Kubiac wailed, pulling into the lot of an Ecuadorian restaurant. “They’re after me.”

  “They’re not after you. There’s no reason to be. If they knew you killed Cottrell, you’d already be on your way to jail.”

  “I didn’t want to kuh-kill him. Not at th-the end.”

  “But you did,” she affirmed. “You killed him as dead as a doornail.”

  “Why are d-detectives looking for me?”

  “It’s a rich person’s house, Adam. That’s what cops do in rich places like Scottsdale: they check on empty houses. They went to make sure everything was safe. LISTEN TO ME!”

  “What?”

  “That lady who came over … a busybody, right?”

  “Maybe, kind of. She’s nuh-nice.”

  “There you go. She’s the one who called the police and asked them to watch the house. They were looking for you so they could make sure the place was safe and secure.”

  “But she said a couple of d-detectives were asking about muh-me. Not cops, d-detectives.”

  “It’s the way old people talk. All cops are detectives. It’s just a general word they use. Here, let’s switch places. I’ll drive and you can relax.”

  Kubiac seemed frozen in place, hands tight on the wheel. “I’m s-scared, Cat.”

  “Of what?”

  “What if I show up at the w-will reading and get suh-surrounded by cops? They’ll arrest me and throw me in p-p-prison. I can’t go to p-prison, Catherine … do you know what happens to smaller guys like m-me?”

  Maruyama’s hand cut through the air and whipped into Kubiac’s cheek. He drew back, eyes wide, hand on his face.

  “Jesus, Cat!”

  She pulled him close. “You’ve got to calm down and hold it all together, Adam. Everything’s going to be all right. Have I been right so far?”

  “Y-yes,” he sniffled across her shoulder. “Always.”

  “You’ve been my strength, Adam. Let me be yours. We’ll get through this, I promise. Now get out and I’ll drive us home.”

  * * *

  We spent the rest of the day interviewing everyone we could find who had gone to school with Kubiac, including several teachers.

  “I dunno, he was kind of a loner,” said a kid who’d been in Kubiac’s homeroom. “Plus he could be a real asshole, y’know?”

  Another student: “We used to hang out back in middle school, he was OK. A big nerd, but OK. But all he wanted to talk about was gaming and code. It was, like, his world and if you didn’t speak its language, you were like dumb or something. But I think it was how he, like, protected himself somehow. He almost never looked like he was having fun.”

  “Girlfriend? Kubiac?” Laughter from a kid he gamed against at arcades.

  “He took my advanced math class when he was in the ninth grade,” a teacher commented. “A college-level course. He was a standout, incredible mind. No, let me qualify that, an incredible mind when he chose to use it. When he didn’t feel sufficiently engaged or motivated, he’d put on a whining voice and complain that he was too smart for ‘all this shit.’”

  “I dunno, dude,” said a kid who’d been in five of Kubiac’s classes. “I don’t think anyone knew him real well. He was too … like we’re right here, but he’d be way over the
re. In another world. I think he liked it that way.”

  A girl who had sat behind him in a math class: “His old man used to be on the tube in Phoenix, some kind of car dealer. I remember one time someone asked, ‘Hey Adam, you gonna grow up and sell cars?’ Just kidding around, y’know? And fucking Kubiac just went ballistic, screaming and swinging on the other guy like an out-of-control monkey. It was nuts.”

  Adam Kubiac had a lonely life, it seemed, but maybe his life was on the Internet, though it wasn’t Facebook. He had an account, but his last entry had been over a year ago. There were four photos, three of Kubiac with some kind of electronic device in hand, one of his battered white Subaru. The post said

  “Got this today and parked it behind my father’s M-Benz. Ha! Major fucking meltdown!”

  Not one of the twenty-one “friends” had responded.

  Eight hours passed and the sun turned to twilight, the dusk to dark. We had BOLOS out in all jurisdictions in the valley. Wherever Kubiac’s car was, it wasn’t on the road, or hadn’t crossed the path of the correct eyes.

  Ben was on the couch and watching TV when Novarro and I arrived. He left a few minutes later and returned with cartons of Thai food. We ate and, knowing tomorrow would be a full, and hopefully productive, day, we were in bed by ten p.m.

  47

  I heard the sound before I realized what it was: the slight squeak I’d learned to associate with the opening of Novarro’s bedroom door. My eyes opened to the darkness of the room and the distant whine of a jet arriving at the airport.

  Was that it? I wondered, ears searching the room. Just an incoming plane?

  Rhythmic breathing, deep and regular; Novarro beside me, her warmth and scent in the furrows of the sheets. I blinked at the digital clock and watched 4.25 a.m. turn to 4.26.

  Another sound. Human. Was Ben up and moving around … maybe in the bathroom? No. I heard one person shushing another, less a sound than an exhalation. My hand moved toward my piece on the nightstand. It was inches away when I felt cold steel press against my ribs.

  “No, amigo,” a voice said. “Not a choice that you have.”