The Violet Crow

by Michael Sheldon

  The Chief seemed to take it all in and ponder it seriously. When he finally spoke, they were back on their normal footing. “Chris from Tano’s sends his regards. Says he’s proud of you and wants to talk to you when you get out.”

  “Yeah, what about?”

  “I don’t know. But it must be important.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He said he’d give you a free cheesesteak, with all the trimmings.”

  “This really is my lucky day,” Bruno sighed. He stretched out painfully, wrapped his pillow around his head in an effort to block out the light, and tried to fall back to sleep.

  Chapter 39

  Driving home, traffic was thick again, as usual, until well past Olga’s. Even though Bruno could see vultures circling overhead in the waning twilight, he was still stalled in a bumper-to-bumper nightmare. He had to admit it: Where he lived was no longer “remote.” It wasn’t even “rural” or “small town.” Civilization had caught up to him, and would definitely overtake him in the next few years. Where could he go from here? Not tonight, he told himself. He was too tired to even think about it.

  Chief Black had given Bruno a break, shaving several hours off his time in the slammer for good behavior. Even so, after spending two days cooped up in a small cell, his bruises were aching painfully. His neck was sore from McRae’s pummeling. And between the sirens from the fire trucks and ambulances, the noon whistle, and all the banter and commotion in the police station, he’d barely gotten two consecutive hours of sleep. Yet the Chief actually had asked him to try reading the clothes again, as soon as he set him free.

  It’d have to wait. Bruno told him he needed to go home, clean up, get some rest. He needed to feed and walk Maggie. Watch a little TV. Even the promise of a free cheesesteak didn’t appeal on a night like this. He wanted to eat some home cooking. Soak in the hot tub. Go to bed.

  As he pulled into his neighborhood, he reacted with surprise—for only the five thousandth time—at how affluent and well put together it looked. Only his trailer and, maybe, the Terranovas’ house showed that the true Piney spirit was alive and well. After this case was over, he resolved to get some broken appliances to put out front. Maybe he could get a grant from some kind of historical society. The neighbors would love that.

  But Bruno’s good spirits vanished as soon as he pulled into his driveway.

  The front door to the trailer was wide open. The upper hinge had pulled free, so the door sagged weakly. And where was Maggie? She normally came bounding up to greet him. Tonight, she was nowhere in sight.

  Bruno got out of his car and left the door open so as not to make any noise. His heart pounded. He tiptoed up the front stairs. If an intruder was still inside he didn’t know what he’d do. He needed a weapon. Unfortunately, his shotgun was inside, in the back bedroom.

  Bruno peered cautiously around the doorjamb to reconnoiter. A moment’s glance told him everything he needed to know. He emerged from his defensive crouch and strode into the middle of the room. The devastation was complete. It wasn’t total—just the things he cared about. A cinder block nestled in the shattered remnants of his TV’s picture tube. His mattress was slashed to ribbons and human feces defiled his leather recliner. All of his plates were smashed. Anti-Semitic slogans had been sprayed on the walls with DayGlo pink spray paint. And there was no sign of Maggie.

  It must have been McRae. If someone had simply wanted to kill him, they would have been careful to leave the house in its usual condition so they could murder him easily when he walked, unwittingly, into the trap. This type of vandalism was an end in itself. It was the revenge of someone who drew the line at killing. It must have been McRae. Especially crapping in the chair; that was just his style. He hadn’t been kidding about acting fast. But dognapping? Bruno wouldn’t have expected that even a putz like his ex-brother-in-law would stoop so low.

  He retrieved his shotgun and loaded it with buckshot. Then he tidied up the worst of the mess, just so he could move around. With an eerie sense of calm Bruno founding himself thinking how ironic it all was: Now I have a dead TV set for the front porch.

  Just as he was about to step outside to search for Maggie, a gigantic pickup pulled up. Its throbbing diesel engine shook the whole property.

  Was it McRae coming back to gloat? Bruno stepped outside and raised his weapon toward the driver’s window.

  “Doan shoot, Joe. It’s me, Gil.”

  Bruno didn’t lower the barrel, but he looked more closely toward the window of the truck. Gil Terranova slowly lowered his window so Bruno could see him.

  “My place got trashed tonight and Maggie’s missing. Did you see or hear anything?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Gil. “We heard a commotion, then Maggie came running over to our place. She’s hurt. Pretty bad, too. We’ve been tending to her and couldn’t come over until now.”

  “Is she OK? Where is she?”

  Gil paused before answering. “Yeah, I think she’ll be all right. She’s at our place, resting.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Whyn’t you get in the truck and I’ll take you back to my place so you can see for yourself.”

  Bruno climbed up into the passenger seat, holding the shotgun upright between his knees.

  “You got that thing secured?” Gil asked Bruno. “I’d hate to go over a bump and have you blow a hole in the roof of my truck. Specially if it took a piece of somebody’s scalp with it.”

  “Yeah, it’s OK,” said Bruno.

  “Good. Hope we don’t have to use that thing tonight. You say they busted up your home pretty good?”

  “Yeah. They smashed the TV set, crapped on my recliner, broke all the dishes, slashed my mattress and dumped a couple of bags of ready-mix in my hot tub.”

  Gil whistled. “Somebody’s mad at you. Think it’s because of those murders you’ve been investigating?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Just what I read in the paper. Didn’t realize you were a detective with a secret identity until we saw your picture.”

  Bruno shook his head in frustration. The furshlugginer Pest. He turned to Gil and explained, “Actually I think it was probably my brother-in-law.”

  Gil shot him a look that expressed his surprise. “Family stuff can get dicey, but …”

  “But what? You think my family’s over the top? No argument there. Besides, it was my ex-brother-in-law. I forgot to say ‘ex.’”

  “I hear ya,” Gil muttered. “Here we are.” He stopped in front of a ’50s ranch-style home. Carmine was worked up because of what had happened to Maggie. He yipped and jumped up on Gil, who finally had to grab him by the collar and lead him to his kennel. Peering from the front door was a boy who appeared to be around three years old and a girl who had just started walking. Both had curly black hair and dark brown eyes that were spread wide with wonder. There had already been a lot of excitement, and now this late-night visitor seemed to promise more.

  “That’s Frankie and Olivia,” Gil explained. “Kids, this is Mr. Kaplan—that’s right isn’t it, Joe? You want ’em to call you Kaplan, not Bruno X …?”

  Bruno nodded and Gil continued. “… Mr. Kaplan is our next-door neighbor. His dog is Maggie, the one we rescued tonight.”

  The kids’ eyes bugged out even more, if possible. Just then Gil’s wife, Angela, appeared. She was tall with wavy raven-black hair that fell down below her shoulders. She was rail thin, except for the bowling-ball-sized protrusion in her lower abdomen. Obviously number three was on its way. Angela was still wearing an apron and drying a serving dish. “I’m so sorry about Maggie, Mr. Kaplan.”

  “Call me Joe,” said Bruno, feeling incredibly anxious because everyone was telling him how sorry they were. “I’d like to see Maggie right away …”

  Gil lead him back to the TV room while Angela tried to get the kids to give him some privacy. When Bruno saw Maggie, he broke down and cried. She was sleeping on the couch and she struggle
d to raise her head and greet him when she detected his scent. Maggie appeared to be in good condition, except for her tail, which was bandaged about two inches above the base. The rest of it was missing. Her proud and beautiful tail. They’d amputated her tail.

  Gil put his hand on Bruno’s shoulder. “She lost a lot of blood. It was gushing when she showed up here. We slowed it down with a tight bandage, and I tried to put a clamp on it, but we couldn’t completely stop the bleeding. Fortunately, I was able to get our vet on the phone and he ran right over. Never saw anything like it. You really think your brother-in-law’d do something like that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not. None of this makes sense …”

  “Takes a pretty sick person, do something like this. Maybe Angela’s family—you know, they’re Sicilian …”

  “Very funny, Gil,” Angela protested. “They’re from Sicily a long time ago. Really, Joe, my family’s from North Jersey. Teaneck. My father was a realtor. My brother’s a dentist. When they want to get rough with Gil, they tell him the Giants are better than the Eagles.”

  “And when they really want respect,” Gil continued, “they tell me that even the Jets are better. North Jersey stronzi …”

  The monologue achieved its intended purpose. Bruno had stopped crying, but Gil could see he was still upset. “Anyway, we’re really sorry about Maggie.” He shot a questioning look toward Angela, who nodded, yes, it was OK. “Do you need a place to stay tonight? You’re welcome to stay here.”

  “Thanks. But I need to sleep at my place tonight.”

  “Do you think it’s safe?”

  Bruno shrugged. “I gotta go home.”

  Gil understood. “Why don’t I drive you …?”

  “… and take some of this bracciole,” said Angela, moving toward the kitchen to prepare a dish, “so you don’t have to cook.”

  “Yeah definitely take some,” said Gil. “Angela’s bra-zhol is delicious. It’ll restore your strength. The vet left some painkillers for Maggie and I’ve got some Tylenol with codeine left over from my accident with the tractor last winter.”

  Bruno thanked him for all he’d done. As Gil drove him home, Bruno tried to rally himself with the thought that, at least, things couldn’t get any worse. But they did. As the truck’s headlights played across the porch, they illuminated a package that’d been left on the top step. It was long and fairly narrow, tied with a ribbon as though a florist had delivered a gift of a dozen roses. “Holy cow, Joe, what’s that? I didn’t see a delivery truck or nothin’.”

  Bruno opened it, his hands trembling and a sick feeling spreading upward from his stomach. The ribbon came free. Inside, the box was lined with white satin and covered with tissue paper. When Bruno removed it he found Maggie’s severed tail resting on a pillow. Next to it was a note. It read simply, “Your niece is next.”

  Chapter 40

  The cop from Tabernacle was disgusted. Justifiably so. “You don’t go barging into a crime scene and straighten things up. You oughta know better’n that.”

  “I thought it was my brother-in-law … ex-brother-in-law …” Bruno tried to explain.

  “I doan’ care if it was your mother!” shouted the cop.

  “… I just wanted to straighten up. It’s my house, after all …” Bruno continued. “What would you have done if it happened at your place? Just left a pile of steaming crap on your favorite chair?”

  —“That was evidence,” the cop retorted. The Tabernacle police force so rarely had an authentic crime scene worth protecting, it was frustrating to lose one; at the same time, the officer was thoroughly pleased to have this opportunity to get in somebody’s face about lousing things up. “You say you work with the police. You should have known better.” And he turned his back on Bruno so he could mutter insults under his breath.

  Bruno sat there and stewed until he heard the sound of Randy’s buffed-up monster of a muscle car pulling into his driveway. This was Randy’s pride and joy, and he used it from time to time when official business required an unmarked car. He figured people would never expect a classic car, decked out in flat primer gray, belonged to the police. Randy’s car was a 1969 Charger Daytona, built specifically for NASCAR competition. Though more than 35 years old, even the street model was more aerodynamic than many racing cars built decades later. Randy had it souped up with the fabled 426 Hemi, which produced at least 425 horsepower. It was an awesome machine for racing in the streets; using it for police business allowed Randy to open it up, from time to time, without having to worry about getting arrested for reckless driving.

  Biff and Randy entered the trailer, hats in hand. The absence of banter showed they had heard the news and thought Bruno might be in a state of shock. Bruno immediately apologized for disturbing the crime scene. “I thought for sure it was McRae taking out his frustrations. Seeking revenge.”

  “He has a pretty good alibi for last night,” said Randy. “He was with Mayor Dove, trying to get both you and the Chief locked up because of what he did at his own house …”

  Randy caught the eye of the Tabernacle cop, who slunk off sullenly, handing him a business card on the way out.

  Bruno didn’t even notice. He sighed deeply. “I knew it wasn’t him when I saw the note. Even McRae wouldn’t threaten his own daughter.”

  “You never know,” Biff said. “He bashed in his own front door. Maybe the note was a ruse to throw us off the track.”

  “He has an alibi,” Randy said. “There’s still plenty of evidence to collect here. We should still be able to get prints off of the note card and maybe the box. Plenty of DNA left on the recliner. And we can look outside for footprints, tire tracks and the weapon …”

  He nodded to Biff, who had carefully picked up the flower box and was spiriting it out to the car without saying anything to Bruno.

  “You try to get some sleep,” Randy counseled.

  Bruno nodded passively. The bed was trashed. Luckily he had a spare inflatable mattress. And drugs for pain and sleep. He and Maggie both took a dose. They curled up together on the mattress on the floor and slept through the night in a deep, dreamless state that was more like suspended animation than sleep.

  Somehow, they woke up refreshed. Maybe it was the sunshine. The crisp morning chill, with a slight hint of mid-morning warmth. The signs of springtime all around.

  Maggie was wagging her stump. Cautiously at first. Then with more of her normal gusto. Bruno checked the dressing. The vet had done a good job, but it was lucky Gil had known how to staunch the bleeding in the first place. Bruno resolved to find a way to repay him, or at least thank him properly, someday.

  Now, with his mind starting to clear, Bruno had to wonder: Why were they threatening Mimi? Who knew about his relationship to her and her importance to the case? Was there a mole—or a rat?—on the Gardenfield police force?

  With these questions percolating, Bruno sorted through all of the mail and other junk that had accumulated during the days he had been a guest of the Borough of Gardenfield. Bills. Junk. Newspaper supplements. And the newspaper itself. Nothing less appealing than a two-day-old Pest, Bruno reflected. Nevertheless, he flipped through quickly, scanning the local news. And there it was: the answer staring him right in the face.

  Peaches had gotten word of the fight at McRae’s. She’d called it “The Showdown at Casa McRae,” adding a subtitle: “Psychic rumbles with City Attorney.” So there it was in black and white, the information that McRae had been fighting to conceal about his family’s involvement in the Quaker Killer/Ginnie Doe investigation. For such a smart guy, McRae seemed to have a knack for undermining his own interests.

  But the real villain here was Peaches. She had tipped off the identity of a young girl and put her in a clear state of peril. Somebody needed to do something about her. She’d been giving him tsuris—pain and trouble—every step of the way. She’d accused him of colluding with Gussie’s killer. She’d spoiled the secret of his dual identities and gotten him kicked off his best consult
ing gig. Now she’d almost gotten Maggie killed, as well as exposing innocent little Mimi to unwarranted risks.

  It was time to act. Peaches had to be neutralized before she could do further damage. But how? Nothing sprang to mind right away, but he was sure he’d think of something in the next day or two. So he called Peaches and set up a lunch date for early the following week.

  Chapter 41

  “This is personal now. You’re really gonna let them have it, aren’tcha?” said Biff. He was trying to pump up Bruno, who had come to Gardenfield early the next day to read Ginnie Doe’s clothing. “I mean, they were probably trying to kill you. Maybe they’d’ve done it, too, if we hadn’t been keeping you here, safe and sound, in our jail. And, by the way, sorry about your dog.”

  Bruno wouldn’t have felt any worse if Biff had punched him in the stomach. He hadn’t considered the possibility that he may have been the intended target until now. “I’m no hero,” he told Biff, quite truthfully. “Whatever I find out, you guys are going to have to do the heavy lifting. If I start taking things personally, it just makes it tougher to concentrate. I have to stay focused.”

  Nice speech, Bruno congratulated himself as he headed for the Chief’s office. Truth of the matter was he was still back on his heels from the attack on Maggie. And even more troubled by the threat against Mimi. He’d already discussed this with the Chief on the phone. Obviously, there was no way to warn McRae to be vigilant without sending him into a homicidal rage. Bruno suggested putting McRae on medical leave and sending the whole family down to Puerto Rico to recuperate. The Chief agreed it was a good idea, but doubted anybody had the budget for it. “Best I can do is assign Biff to keep an eye on them,” said the Chief.

  The prospect did little to ease Bruno’s mind about Mimi’s safety. Once Maggie got better, maybe he’d be able to keep an eye on her himself.