Death by the Book jsm-1

by Lenny Bartulin

  Annabelle switched on another light. A bare globe with a metal cage around it jutted out from the middle of the ceiling. Jack thought of a torture room under a drug lord’s mansion.

  “Here,” said Annabelle. She handed him a small key and pointed at some metal lockers that lined the rear wall. There were six of them. “Go and open one.”

  “What have you got for me? A body?” As he said it, Jack realised that he was only half joking.

  “Just look.”

  Jack went to the lockers. He could not help but glance at the wine bottles in their racks — the labels on one row said Penfold’s Grange 1971. Five hundred a pop, at least. Only quality hangovers for Hammond Kasprowicz.

  He slipped the key into one of the middle lockers. It came open with a dull scrape of metal. Inside: books, boxes, framed photographs. Shoved in and packed tight. Jack turned and looked at Annabelle.

  “Take out one of the books.”

  Jack pulled out a slim volume: The Cull by Edward Kass. He leaned in and ran his eyes over the other spines. More copies of The Cull, plus some of Entropy House, and Simply Even. There were a lot of books. Enough to make Jack a little uncomfortable.

  “So he stored them here,” he said. “So what?”

  “Look inside the boxes.”

  He tugged at a shoebox, edged it out carefully and then lifted the lid. There were photographs in it. They had all been cut up into tiny pieces. It was like a box of confetti.

  “There’s more in the other lockers.” Annabelle’s voice was hard, emotionless. “They used to be photos of my mother.”

  Jack put the box down and pulled out one of the framed photographs. The glass was broken, only a few splinters remained around the edges of the frame. Mrs Kasprowicz’s face had been slashed and hacked, maybe with a pair of scissors. It was the same story with the other photos there. Those with Edward Kass in them had been given the same treatment.

  “I know my father hated them both,” said Annabelle. “But this?”

  Jack turned to her. She was standing with her arms loose by her sides.

  “There are burnt photos in other boxes. My mother had thousands of photos of herself. I remember going through them as a child. So many albums, envelopes stuffed with them. And he’s destroyed them all.”

  “He sure has.”

  “Why would he keep them?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  She stared vacantly for a moment. “You don’t think he had anything to do with Edward’s death?”

  Jack thought of the cops. “Doesn’t matter what I think.” He walked over and gave Annabelle the key. “How did you find this?”

  “After I spoke to you I went into his study, hoping I’d find something that would tell me where he might be. I don’t know, a receipt, a note, anything. In one of the bottom drawers of his desk I found a diary. The whole thing was blank, he hadn’t written a word in it anywhere. Businesses send them to him all the time, he usually throws them out or gives them to Louisa. I didn’t think there’d be anything there, but I flipped through it. The back cover slipped out of the leather sleeve of the jacket. The key was taped to it.”

  Jack nodded. “And here we are.” He thought of Edward Kass. He remembered the old man’s dead body, flopped like a life-sized puppet over the kitchen table, blood dripping slowly down to the floor, thick, dull splashes onto that soaked tartan slipper.

  Annabelle’s moccasins scraped on the gritty concrete floor. “What are you thinking?”

  “Why would your old man just take off?” The stuff in the lockers had been there a long time.

  “Maybe he panicked when he heard about Edward’s death.”

  Jack looked around the cellar. Hammond Kasprowicz was not the panicking type. “Maybe.”

  Annabelle put her hand on Jack’s arm. “Can you stay with me? I don’t want to be alone when the police come.”

  The cops were the last people Jack wanted to see. “Sure.” The cellar was starting to make him feel claustrophobic. It was the middle of the night. It had already been an intense day. He should have been home in bed. Annabelle Kasprowicz had still not answered his question. “I’ll stay, but first tell me what’s going on with Durst.”

  “Are you serious? I’m asking for your help, Jack. Can’t you drop it?”

  “No.”

  Tears glazed Annabelle’s eyes. “Fuck!”

  “I want to help,” said Jack. “But you have to tell me.”

  “I thought maybe you loved me.”

  “So what if I did?” Jack raised his voice. “Why are you still screwing your ex-husband?”

  “Don’t.”

  “Answer me.”

  “I told you the story.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “No problem.” Jack made for the stairs.

  “Wait!” Annabelle grabbed him by the arm. “It’s not what you think.”

  “What is it then?”

  She let go. Jack could see small red veins creeping into the corners of her eyes.

  “Ian signed a pre-nup when we married,” she said, looking at Jack intently. “All he gets is fifty thousand if we divorce. He owes a lot more than that.”

  “So what? Sign the divorce papers and off you go.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I do he’ll take me to court. And if it goes to court, he’ll ruin me.” Annabelle walked over to one of the wine racks, reached out with a hand and held on. She thought about something for a while. Then she said: “I had an affair earlier in our marriage. He’s got some tapes, some videos. I can’t let them come out, Jack. Louisa would never speak to me again.”

  “Who was it?” The question came out of Jack’s mouth of its own accord.

  “Nobody. It was nothing. But he was the father of Louisa’s best friend. He’s still with his wife. And his daughter is still Louisa’s best friend.”

  “So it’s not about the money.”

  “It is for Ian. And as far as my father’s concerned. He can’t understand why I won’t sign the divorce papers. He wants Ian gone. Of course, he doesn’t know about the tapes.”

  “How did Durst get them?”

  “Private investigator.” Annabelle wiped away some tears. “Do you understand, Jack? Can you see?”

  Above them a door slammed. Footsteps thudded down the hall. Annabelle looked at the ceiling and then rushed up the stairs. Jack took a deep breath. He looked over at the lockers for a moment and then followed, unhurried. The cops were going to love it. Hammond Kasprowicz was going to have a lot of explaining to do. So was Jack.

  Annabelle met him at the top of the stairs. It was not her father who had arrived home.

  “It’s Louisa,” she said. “You have to go.”

  Jack nodded. “You going to call the cops?”

  “What choice have I got?”

  “None.”

  “Call me tomorrow.” Annabelle kissed him on the cheek and walked off down the corridor. She disappeared into the house.

  As he left, Jack made as little noise as possible. He closed the front door with the barest click of the lock, and slipped away into the night. How was it that he found himself sneaking through the shadows once again?

  ~19~

  At 7.45 the next morning, as Jack was about to head off to Susko Books, somebody knocked on his door. Something about the tone of the knock said: Bad news. Maybe he was just a little nervous. Hearing things that were not there. Maybe it was just a neighbour, over for a cup of sugar. He opened the door. Maybe not.

  “They really should have a security system on the entrance here. Anybody can just walk in off the street. Bums, thieves, rapists.” Detective Geoff Peterson smiled. “Stand-over guys wearing brass knuckles.”

  He stood in the half-dark of the hall, smug and vaguely threatening. The light from Jack’s apartment threw a shadow that sliced his tall sinewy body like a mayor’s sash. But he looked too shabby for the posi
tion. His hands were in his pockets. There were bags under his eyes. His tie was undone and the silvery-grey suit looked slept in. The face was pinched; the eyes loaded. And here was Jack, at point-blank range.

  “Any light in here?” asked Peterson, looking down the entrance hall.

  “All the bulbs were stolen. You looking for work?”

  “What if somebody was waiting for you, hiding over there by the stairs? You open your front door, quick bang on the head, and they help themselves to the plasma TV.”

  Lois miaowed in the lounge room. Peterson looked over Jack’s shoulder and grinned. “And then just for the hell of it they play with the cat and a box of matches.”

  “Lucky we got you hanging around,” said Jack. “Maybe we could get you a stool for the slow afternoon shift.”

  “Might be someone with a gun or a knife. Up under the chin. Inside motherfucker and keep it quiet!”

  “You know the lines, Detective. And the way it just rolled off your tongue. I almost forgot you were a cop.”

  “They tie you up, ask politely where all the good stuff is. Then they kill the cat if you don’t feel like talking.”

  Jack tried to read Peterson’s face but it was like a wet newspaper. Had Clifford Harris called the cops about his assault on Durst? Jack’s guts told him no.

  “Hand over the cash you fuck!” hissed the detective. His eyes were dry and red and a touch on the wired side.

  “They’d get a haul, too,” said Jack. “With all the cash I’ve got stashed in my socks and folded inside the hamburger buns in the freezer. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “He might have followed you to work, guessed that not every dollar was declared to the tax department. These guys are smart cunts.”

  “Smarter than you, Detective?” Jack began to close the door. “I’ll leave you to your hall monitoring.”

  Peterson held his arm out and pushed the door open. A hard look of I don’t think so flashed across his face. Jack stiffened, but then he eased off and played it cool. Getting hammered by the cops first thing in the morning was not on his list of things to do today.

  He let go of the door and walked back into the apartment. He sat in the Eames chair, reached for a packet of cigarettes on the coffee table and lit up. He leaned back and watched Peterson close the front door.

  “How’s Hammond, Jack?”

  So the cops knew he was working for the old man. Had Annabelle told them?

  “That’s the first thing we’ll book you for: withholding information.”

  “Okay,” said Jack.

  “Should be able to squeeze out an accessory to assault there, too.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You think I’m joking? We found his little collection, Susko. The one you helped get together. And we know all about the burnt books and the notes. That constitutes assault. Tell me, did Kasprowicz get you to light the matches as well?”

  Outside the wind swirled dead acacia leaves around the courtyard. Jack turned and watched: maybe it was time he cleaned up out there. Sweeping was good honest work. Therapeutic, too.

  “Didn’t your mummy tell you playing with matches would get you into trouble?”

  “You’re just fishing, Detective,” said Jack. “But there’s nothing in the pond.”

  “Talking the talk, eh? How about we add aiding and abetting the escape of a murder suspect?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “Kasprowicz didn’t like that brother of his,” continued Peterson. “Took him to the cleaners for the family money. Then he tried to fuck him with the burnt books. Then he just decided to do him in. And now he’s done a runner.”

  “Really? Where’s he gone?”

  “Nobody knows. Except maybe you.”

  “Try Hong Kong.”

  “We checked. They never saw him. Try again.”

  “What about up your arse?”

  The detective smiled. “That’s it, Jack. Dig the hole deeper. ’Cause you’re going to get good and buried. I got the shovel in the car.”

  “Sounds like it’s personal, Detective. Did I fuck your sister or something?”

  Peterson moved a little closer. Behind his back he flexed the fingers of his right hand. “I know about the other guy at Kass’s apartment, Jackie boy,” he said. There was cold steel in his tone. “You know, the one who stabbed you the other day? The one who shot Kass in the head? The one you saw on the kitchen floor with a bullet in his chest? Good old Rory Champion. And that was his real name, too, in case you’re wondering.”

  Peterson let it all hang in the air for a moment. “Not telling us about Rory was a bad move, Jack. Sounds a little like intent to pervert the course of an investigation. Or maybe it sounds a lot like it. So next we have to ask ourselves why. Don’t we?”

  Jack looked blankly at Peterson.

  The detective grinned. “’Cause you’re an accessory to murder, maybe?” he said, enjoying himself. “People do all sorts of things for money.” Peterson looked around the apartment with distaste. “And there’s no doubt Kasprowicz could afford you.”

  “I’m sure you can colour it any way you want, Detective. But it all looks bullshit brown to me.” Jack tried to sound smooth but it was all unsealed road from the moment he opened his mouth.

  “Oh, I got all the colours of the rainbow right here.” Peterson tapped his pocket. “But let’s be clear. Let me explain the way they see it down at the station. I’ll give you the list and we’ll make sure there’s no confusion. I’d hate for you to be confused.”

  The detective took a few more steps towards the Eames chair. “You work for Kasprowicz,” he said. “You got all the Kass books for him. You lit the matches and wrote the notes. You’re a helpful kind of guy. And you find Kasprowicz someone to kill his brother. Kasprowicz knew you’d find the right person. Because you worked for Ziggy Brandt, you knew every piece of shit in town.” The detective smiled.

  Jack did not look up. He carefully shaped the end of his cigarette against the inside of the ashtray.

  “So you hire Rory — he’s nice and cheap, eat a bag of cockroaches for ten bucks. Everything is set. But then the fucker wants more money. Maybe he worked out he was being ripped off, somehow found out about Kasprowicz and guessed that whatever he was paying you was more than you were paying him. Or maybe he thought he could blackmail you. Maybe he thought he could squeeze something extra out of the deal. Is that why he stabbed you, Jack? ’Cause you said no?”

  “You must be one of the five smartest people in the world.”

  “I don’t give a fuck why he stabbed you,” spat Peterson. “He took the job. All systems go. Kasprowicz gets the fuck out of town. You’re so dedicated to your work you get yourself invited to the apartment to see everything’s been done right. And what do you find? Kass is dead and, hey shit, so is Rory! What a bonus! You’re in the money now and no witnesses. How am I going so far?”

  Jack hauled on his cigarette and then stubbed it out. The day had barely started and already it was up to his neck.

  “That’s a good story, Detective,” he said. “Some twists and turns, some interesting characters. Motive’s a little thin, though.”

  “Not for Glendenning.”

  Jack tried a grin. “But the nice thing about writing stories is at least you can make yourself good-looking.”

  Peterson burnt his eyes into Jack’s. Half-a-dozen seconds ticked by slowly, as though a grandfather clock was in the room, marking time with long, ominous strokes.

  The detective walked over and stood behind the Eames chair. He leaned in towards Jack’s ear and spoke in a nasty whisper. “What about the daughter? She good in the sack, Jackie boy? She part of the deal?”

  Surprised, Jack turned his head a little towards Peterson. “Why? You short on masturbation fantasies?”

  There was a slight rush of air. An instant later the slap that caused it landed on Jack’s right cheek. It snapped his head round to his left shoulder. His face lit up and glowed hot, as though a row of fire
crackers had been set off inside his head.

  Lois miaowed over by the bedroom doorway but thought twice about a rescue operation. Jack tried to get up out of the chair. The detective helped him up. A second later, he was sitting down again, doubled over and holding his guts.

  “How do you like being fucked, Jack?” Peterson’s face was red and sweaty: his eyes sparked like dynamite wicks. Detective Geoff Peterson loved his job. “I hope you like it, Jack. ’Cause you’re going to get good and fucked now.”

  ~20~

  Jack held his hands out in front of him. Detective Geoff Peterson put the cuffs on with a couple of swift movements. He threw a coat over them, opened the front door, nodded down the hallway. Jack walked through and Peterson followed.

  The detective’s car was parked about twenty metres up the road. Gusty wind whipped through the trees; drizzly rain swirled and plunged in the air. There were not many people about. Those that were walked by stiffly, heads down, hunched under umbrellas, with mobiles and iPods glued onto their ears. They paid no attention to Jack, stumbling beside Peterson, the red welt across his cheek stinging in the morning cold.

  “That’s the way,” said the detective. “Nice and quiet.”

  They reached the car, a white, unmarked Ford Falcon. Peterson opened the rear door and pulled Jack closer.

  “In you get.”

  Jack stepped back. “I want to call a lawyer.”

  “I’m going to count to one.”

  “This is bullshit —”

  “One.”

  Jack braced but Peterson was too quick, unloading like a cannon. A hard fist followed by a lot of forearm, straight to the gut. As he doubled over the detective pushed him into the back seat and slammed the door. Jack lay on his side and groaned.

  Peterson grinned at the Neighbourhood Watch sign riveted to the telegraph pole beside the car. He walked calmly around to the driver’s side door, got in and drove off.

  “You comfortable back there?”

  “Motherfucker,” wheezed Jack. He squeezed his eyes shut and the darkness filled with wriggling shards of light.

  “Good boy.”

  Thrown like a sack of shit into the back of a car. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Or karma? For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. The only mystery: when and where.