A Clean Kill

by Mike Stewart

  Eight

  That evening, I was home by five. I was still too banged up to take a run, but a long walk along the shore helped work the kinks out of sore muscles.

  A couple of neighbors had strung tiny white lights along the lengths of their docks. One had perched a Christmas tree on a small, free-floating platform in the bay and decorated its branches with strings of those big green, red, and blue bulbs you don’t see much anymore. As I turned onto the pathway to my back door, I was beginning to feel better—more than a little overwhelmed, but better.

  I ordered Chinese from a new place in Fairhope.

  After dinner, I was hunched over my laptop making notes on the meeting with Curtis when I sensed someone or something stirring in the shadows outside. Enough was enough. I retrieved a Browning nine-millimeter from the gun closet, flicked off the interior lights, and stepped out into the cold December night, locking the door behind me.

  Heavy cloud cover shrouded the moon as I moved through deep shadow, scanning the yard and beachfront for any hint of movement, for any unfamiliar form or sound. Vague, lavender-edged shapes floated across the sky. Leafless trees rustled in the frigid air. And I was in the mood to shoot something. But I could find nothing that needed shooting.

  Still, when I finally stepped back inside the empty house, my heart raced. My fingers fumbled with nervous energy as I twisted the dead bolt into its slot. And the imagined shadow, the sense of unseen movement, remained.

  I slept that night with pots and pans stacked in front of the doors. I scattered wadded newspapers in the hallway and on the floor around my bed. Then I burrowed deep inside cool sheets and beneath the down comforter, where I thought of how much more ingenious and streetwise the wadded-newspaper thing had sounded in The Maltese Falcon.

  When I awoke, the house was just as I had left it. The shadow had disappeared with the night. I showered and dressed. I put away pans and stuffed newspapers into black plastic trash bags.

  But outside, on the hood of Joey’s Land Rover, I discovered the rigid, furry-gray corpse of a squirrel. And sitting in that off-road tank, parked on my own driveway at nine o’clock on a bright December morning, I found myself hurrying to lock the doors.

  By midmorning, I was in my Mobile office and had found refuge in the familiar comfort of my cracked-leather chair. Kelly had cleared my schedule following the wreck, so I had nothing much to do. And I found my thoughts consumed by echoing images of a deceased rodent.

  Squirrels die. And, when they die, it’s not unheard of for them to seek out a warm place, like the hood of a car, to do it—especially on a cold December night. But I knew that wasn’t what had happened. I was certain that the tiny reminder of mortality on my hood wasn’t natural. And I knew it the way you know someone you’ve just met has had hair plugs or a boob job.

  Human intervention leaves an imprint.

  The squirrel’s rigid posture didn’t quite form to the hood; the tiny cadaver had been too perfectly centered between the spare tire and the windshield; and the glassy stare of its dead-rodent eyes was directed too precisely at the driver’s seat.

  Someone—some subtle, intelligent asshole—wanted to either scare me off the case or split my attention. I was being discreetly violated—gingerly mind fucked—and there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it. Calling the cops to report a dead squirrel would have been even more laughable than reporting a stack of furniture in my living room.

  But what had I done instead? I had searched the beach with a loaded handgun. I had set the alarm. I had scattered kitchenware and reading materials throughout my house. It was embarrassing.

  I glanced at my watch. It was close to eleven. I needed something useful to do, something else to think about. I fetched a fresh mug of coffee and called Sheri Baneberry to set up a meeting.

  She told me I couldn’t come to her place of business.

  “I’ll wear a suit and everything.”

  “My boss doesn’t like us taking care of personal business here in the office. I’ll come by your office at lunch, if that’s okay.”

  I always prefer talking with clients and witnesses in their natural environs but, since I wasn’t given a choice, I told her that was fine. “By the way, what is it you do in that office where no one can come see you?”

  “We’re a marine insurance firm. I’m an actuary. I compute risk profiles for international maritime shipping.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I like it.” She sounded defensive.

  “What did you tell me your father does for a living?”

  “Oh. Uh, construction. He and his partner are general contractors.”

  I thought about that. “I’ve got a client who builds shopping malls. Guy’s rich one year and broke the next.”

  “That’s the business. But Dad’s been mostly pretty lucky.”

  I told her I’d see her at lunch and hung up.

  Under the heading of coddling the recently wrecked, Kelly brought me a cup of coffee. Now I had two. I read the newspaper.

  At 12:10, I heard the front door ding-dong. A few seconds later, Kelly stepped into my office. “Sheri Baneberry is here with a friend who won’t tell me her name.”

  “Her name’s Bobbi Mactans.”

  Kelly smiled. “Did you see them come in, or have you already had the pleasure?”

  “The second one.”

  “I’ll show them back.”

  “Kelly? Tell Sheri I want to see her alone.”

  My petite secretary raised an eyebrow. “Ms. Mactans already seems irritated to be here. I don’t think excluding her from the meeting’s going to help.”

  “I think irritated is Bobbi’s natural state. The hell with her. I need to talk with my client.”

  Kelly nodded. I heard argumentative tones from the front room, and Kelly returned with Sheri Baneberry. Sheri’s face flushed pink, and she flashed a bitter smile. My client was one of those women who, for some reason, smile when they get mad. I’d seen other people do that—mostly women—and I’d always wondered what kind of cheerfully brutal parenting trains a person to strangle anger with a fake grin. Maybe women aren’t supposed to get mad the way men aren’t supposed to cry. “Supposed-to” screws up a lot of people.

  Her teeth were too big. She had to put them away to talk. “I thought you worked for me.”

  From behind Sheri, Kelly caught my eyes and rolled hers. I smiled, and Kelly left the room, closing the door behind her.

  I shifted my attention back to my client. “I do work for you.”

  “Then I want Bobbi in this meeting. And, in the future, I don’t expect you to order my friends to cool their heels while you summon me to your office.”

  “Cool their heels?”

  Sheri glared at me.

  “Have you ever hired a lawyer before?”

  She pointed her chin at me and shook her head.

  “Well, let me explain how I work. I do, indeed, work for you. But I’m not Pépé the houseboy. I won’t do whatever you say, whether it makes sense or not. You’re paying for my advice. And my advice may include things you don’t agree with, like not having your girlfriend listening in on privileged conversations.”

  Sheri’s face reddened again but not, I thought, from anger.

  “In fact,” I went on, “if I did let Bobbi listen in, what I told you would no longer be a privileged communication. Did you know that?”

  She swiveled her head, but it was a grudging admission.

  “Then that’s a good example of what I’m talking about. I’m not just making up rules to irritate you, Sheri. There are legal protections that I want to make sure you don’t inadvertently waive.”

  “What if I don’t care?”

  She wasn’t making sense. I waited.

  “I mean, what if I want her here anyway?”

  “Then we’ll call her in, and she can sit in that chair over there while I tell you what I know.”

  Sheri studied my face. “But if I don’t take your advice, you’re not going
to keep going—you’re not going to keep working for me—are you?”

  “No, I’m not. But Sheri, I’m not trying to be a prima donna. It’s just that you’re paying me to advise you regarding your mother’s death. If you’re not going to take the advice you’re paying for, I think it’d be better if you found another lawyer. Or, I could give you the names of a few private investigators in town who’ll investigate their asses off, without trying to advise you about anything.”

  Sheri gazed out at Mobile Bay through the window over my shoulder. Very quietly, she said, “Maybe.” Then she focused on my face. “First, tell me what you’ve learned so far.”

  And I did. Because everything I had learned, I had learned while Sheri Baneberry was pumping two hundred an hour into my bank account. So, she had the right to know everything I knew. I told her about Dr. Adderson’s suspicions, about my own carbon-monoxide-induced wreck, and all about my meeting with Curtis Krait at the Baldwin County Courthouse. I only purposefully left out two things. I didn’t tell Sheri I had asked Joey to do a background check on her friend, Bobbi Mactans. I also didn’t tell her about my visit from the midnight furniture stacker, since I had no real way of knowing whether the appearance of a table-chairs-vase-and-basketball vertical construction in my living room was tied to her case. At least, that was how I excused my decision not to tell her.

  It didn’t even occur to me to share my dead-squirrel story.

  I was just finishing with the details of my meeting with Curtis when the front door ding-donged again, and I heard a tangle of excited male and female voices.

  Kelly burst into my office. “Tom, there’s a man out front demanding to see you.” She motioned at Sheri with a nod. “It’s about Ms. Baneberry. He says his name is Jonathan Cort.”

  I glanced at Sheri, who suddenly looked like a teenage girl caught buying a personal massage device. But, in this case, I had a feeling that I was the forbidden prick.

  “Who’s Jonathan Cort?”

  Sheri met my eyes. “He’s my father’s business partner.”

  Great. I headed for the waiting room. When I got there, I found an angry Bobbi Mactans and an even angrier fifty-year-old man who looked like a construction foreman. Jonathan Cort was about my size. He had dark hair, black eyes, and a leathery face that had been creased and hardened by decades of wind and sun.

  I asked, “Can I help you?”

  Cort looked over my shoulder. “Sheri! Come on. We’re leaving.”

  I turned to look at Sheri, who had stopped in the hallway three feet behind me. She seemed to be frozen in place—except that I noticed the front of her silk blouse, where it draped between her breasts, was vibrating. My client was trembling with fear.

  Cort walked toward me. The big man reached across his chest and put his hand on my shoulder with the intention of sweeping me aside.

  “Move!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Cort locked eyes with me, and his stare reminded me of someone else who had recently tried to bore holes through my eyes. He said, “Move, or I’ll move you.” But he was already tugging at my shoulder, and I didn’t think he had a lot more in him.

  Without looking away from Cort’s eyes, I said, “Kelly, call the cops.”

  From the hallway, I heard her say, “I already have.”

  Cort stopped tugging, but he continued to grip my shoulder. “What? You’re gonna call the cops ’cause I want Sheri to leave with me?” He shook his head and grinned. “What’re you gonna tell ’em? You gonna tell ’em I scared you?”

  “No. I’m going to tell them you barged in here and committed assault and battery.”

  Now his expression changed, and I could tell he was thinking about something other than grabbing Sheri, which was what I wanted. “You’re full of it. I didn’t batter anybody.”

  “As soon as you tried to shove me out of the way, you committed legal battery. And I’ve got three witnesses who can testify that I didn’t aggravate you or fight back. But, if you try to get past me to Ms. Baneberry, I’ll be forced to stop you …”

  “You think you can?”

  “… and press charges on her behalf and mine.” I paused. “Now, get your fucking hand off me.”

  Jonathan Cort dropped his gaze to my chest and paused while logic overtook anger; then he spun and walked to the door. As he snatched at the knob, he snapped over his shoulder, “This isn’t over.”

  I said, “Good exit line.”

  He slammed the door. And, for the first time since Cort had stepped in front of me, I noticed Bobbi, my client’s choleric companion, standing in front of the big double window. She was red-faced, breathing heavily, and bowed up like the toughest kid on the playground.

  I turned and walked into the hallway, where I stood very close to Sheri with my back to the waiting room and Bobbi Mactans. I spoke softly. “You know Bobbi probably called him?”

  She nodded.

  “What do you want to do? Do you want me to keep going on the investigation?”

  When she spoke, she whispered. “Keep going.”

  “Okay. But I have to ask. Somebody has already tried to put me out of commission for looking into your mother’s death. Are we going to have any more problems keeping my investigation, and our discussions, private?”

  Sheri Baneberry shook her blonde head no and repeated, “Just keep going.”

  I convinced a purple-faced Bobbi that Sheri needed to remain in my office for an indeterminate period. I suggested to Bobbi that she might not want to wait, and she glared at me. I told her I’d make sure Sheri got back to work, and she glared at me. Finally, I just told her to leave.

  Bobbi stormed out. A few minutes later, I escorted Sheri Baneberry out of my office, down the service elevator, and through the parking deck to a waiting cab. When she was well away, I walked through the lobby and stopped just inside the glass front doors.

  It took a few minutes to spot them. Bobbi Mactans and Jonathan Cort sat in a silver BMW at the end of the block. They were watching the front of my building.

  Nine

  I was reading back over the newspaper—checking out celebrity birthdays, running down the crossword clues to see if I knew anything—when Joey strolled into my office carrying a leather shotgun case and a file folder. It was 2:05. Sheri had been gone for more than an hour.

  Joey grinned. “Busy?”

  I folded the paper and tossed in on the desk. “I’m convalescing.”

  “Poor little fella.” Joey leaned my wreck-recovered shotgun against the wall and plopped into one of the tufted client chairs. “Did you know that Mizzz Bobbi Mactans is sitting in a silver convertible up the street staring a hole in your building?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “And that there’s a man with her?”

  “I knew that too.”

  “Then I don’t guess I need to tell you who he is.”

  “Jonathan Cort, moderately tough guy and business partner of Jim Baneberry.”

  Joey raised his eyebrows. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And Bobbi Mactans’s father.”

  “What?”

  Joey grinned. “Unh-huh. Not as smart as you thought you were, are you?”

  “They do look alike.”

  Joey grinned. “Yeah, I bet you were just about to put it together.”

  “What’s with the different last name? Has she been married?”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, Bobbi ain’t exactly the marrying kind. No. She petitioned the court last year to change her last name from Cort to Mactans.”

  “Oh.”

  “I saw the paperwork at the courthouse. And I have to say: damn, Tom. Where do you find these fuckin’ people? Your friend Bobbi went on and on about how women are government-sanctioned slaves who acquire the names of their masters after marriage. She even put it in the petition that she chose ‘Mactans’ ’cause it’s part of the scientific name for a black widow spider.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I th
ink it’s fair to say that Bobbi has issues.”

  Joey could always cheer me up.

  He tossed the file folder on my desk. “Here’s what you asked me for. It’s got some more background on Bobbi Cort Mactans. And the stuff on Dr. Laurel Adderson is in there.” He pointed at the folder. “The bottom line on malpractice, though, is Adderson has been sued twice in five years. One claim was dismissed on summary judgment. The other was settled. From what I could see from the court records, both cases looked like bullshit to me.” Joey leaned back in his chair. “By the way, we got something on the wreck.”

  I waited. “And that would be?”

  “Bubba, someone who does not love and admire you connected a carbon-monoxide canister to the heater in your Jeep.”

  “You actually found it?”

  “Yep. Took a while, but we got it. There was this piece of what looked like rusted tailpipe in the drainage ditch next to the road. Whoever rigged the Jeep went to a lot of trouble. The canister was glued inside the rusted pipe with foam sealant and fitted to the heater intake with wax. When the heater kicked on, the canister filled the Jeep with carbon monoxide in less than a minute. At least, that’s what the engineer said who I had look at the thing.”

  “Why wax? That seems weird.”

  “Yeah, that struck me too. But that’s where this dickweed got real professional. You see, the wax sealed the canister onto the air intake. But as soon as you slammed through the drainage ditch, the wax popped loose and the pipe fell off—’cause that’s what it was designed to do. This old piece of pipe with the canister hidden inside was a good seventy feet from the wreck. Hell, if I hadn’t had a mechanic crawling around on the ground collecting every little screw and doohickey, nobody would’ve ever found out about it.

  “And here’s what I guess is the smartest, or maybe the scariest, part, depending on how you look at it. If, for some reason, the whole rig hadn’t worked, the heater would’ve eventually melted the wax and dropped the pipe on the highway, where nobody would’ve ever looked at it twice. So, whether it worked or didn’t work, there wasn’t gonna be any evidence either way that somebody had tampered with your vehicle.”