Suicide Season

by Rex Burns

  “They got what they deserved. Both of them.”

  I gazed back at those wide, green eyes. “You killed your husband because he was going to McAllister, not because of Carrie Busey. You killed her because she was investigating his death.”

  “They deserved to die! There were a lot of reasons they deserved it!”

  “And I was your tool to force Loomis into paying your share.”

  “At first, Devlin, yes. But not later. It wasn’t for money … that woman. That wasn’t for money. I was afraid—there was so much, and then she … I was afraid!” Margaret stepped toward me, her eyes glistening with sudden tears. “I tried not to love you. I tried to make you see that I couldn’t love you. But it didn’t work, Devlin. We do love each other. No matter how hard I tried not to, I fell in love with you, and you loved me.”

  “I still love you.”

  “I still love you, too! We can still be married! What’s happened is over—nobody has to know about it.”

  I doubted whether she ever loved me or anyone else—whether she even knew what it meant to love someone else. She loved herself, and she liked those who shared that love and enhanced it. And she needed me, which was close enough to love for her. But I did not know if any feeling she had went beyond that. And the argument was pointless, anyway. “I still love you, Margaret. But I don’t like you.”

  Her hands ran quickly through the black hair above her temples. “There’s no proof. I dug up that bullet and it’s gone. You can’t prove anything!”

  “Loomis’s statement is enough to open your husband’s death. And enough to bring charges against you for Busey’s death, too.”

  “You would do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if we love each other?”

  The answer was the same, though it took a little longer to get it out.

  “You fool.”

  That could well be true, but it changed nothing and I remained silent.

  “You’re a fool for listening to Loomis and a fool for letting him go.”

  “There was no reason to bring him back.”

  The tears had dried and now her eyes held the mocking heat of contempt. “No reason? You fool—how do you think he knew how Austin died? How do you think he knew?”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I had been asking that, but there had been too many other thoughts tumbling through my skull to focus on that one. And besides, he hadn’t been here—I knew; I had been watching her house. “You did it alone; you told him how it was done.”

  “You fool! Who do you think told me how to do it? Who do you think told me how it could be done?”

  “Loomis?”

  “Yes! And how do you think he knew it would work?”

  She waited until I said it, my voice a dry croak. “My father?”

  “Yes. Your father. The same way.”

  I stared at her as the words sank in, but it wasn’t Margaret’s face I saw. It was Loomis’s: the angelic smile, the mai tai lifted in toast, his benediction as I left, “I know you will do the right thing with the information, dear boy—you and your father are so much alike.”

  “He’s gone now, isn’t he? You let him go! He has all the money and he ruined me and he’s laughing at you, too!”

  “Loomis killed my father?”

  “Yes! And he got away with it—all of it. The money, the killing, everything. And so did I—I would have. I still can: it’s only your word against mine and I’ll swear I never admitted a thing to you and that every word Loomis wrote is a lie!”

  The green eyes had hardened into ice and they dominated the white hatred of her face. “He’s a thief and a liar and he won’t come back to testify! No one will believe that piece of paper! Go on—call the police—see how far it gets you!”

  “I won’t call,” I said. “Dutch can.”

  Behind her, from the half-open door of the study, a short, slightly pudgy figure pocketed the small tape recorder and plodded heavily toward the telephone.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Devlin Kirk Mysteries

  CHAPTER 1

  “IT WON’T TAKE that much time, Dev.” Bunch propped a gigantic shoe on the cold vanes of one of the radiators that flanked the arched window and its wrought-iron rail. The glass reached up from the office below and curved to a halt a foot from the ceiling. In its middle, a couple of panes were cranked open to catch any air, but all that came in was a whiff of diesel smoke from the trucks snorting in Wazee Street below. “You know what a missing persons case is: a few phone calls, a little legwork, and we find the guy sleeping at his girlfriend’s house.”

  I knew what this missing persons case was, and a detective agency couldn’t survive with that kind of business. “How much did Mrs. Gutierrez say she’d pay?”

  “She’s a friend of the family, Dev. She doesn’t have that much money. And it took a lot for her to get up the nerve to ask me in the first place. I can probably wrap the damn thing up in twenty-four hours flat.”

  “Let her go to the cops. They’ll wrap it up for free.”

  Bunch explained with exaggerated patience. “Mrs. Gutierrez doesn’t want to go to the cops. The kid is her cousin’s nephew or some crap like that, and he’s only been in the States a few months.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he’s an illegal. Meaning the cops are out!”

  “Bunch, we haven’t had a decent case in over six months. We’re barely keeping our butts away from the alligators with a little insurance stuff, and even that’s falling off. Now you want to take a case for free?”

  “Jesus. You know what you sound like? A goddamn accountant. Prissy, you know? Pursed-up lips like a puckered anus, telling the secretaries not to sharpen their goddamn pencils because it wears them out faster.”

  “Dammit, Bunch!” That stung. It stung because it was true: I was beginning to feel like a prissy accountant. The in-box held half a dozen unopened envelopes with grinning plastic windows and fat with convenient preaddressed return envelopes. I didn’t have to open them to know what they wanted, and a glance at the return address was enough to tell me how much. It seemed that lately I spent more and more time totaling columns of figures and arriving at the same dismal conclusion.

  Some security agencies feasted on bad times; they went into the skip-trace game and made a tidy profit on debt collections. The Vinny Landrum Agency was doing fine. But who except Vinny Landrum wanted to be like Vinny Landrum? Even as Bunch and I watched the old accounts close out and the new ones fail to appear, we held out against debt collecting. For one thing, we were too vulnerable in the debt we owed; for another, industrial security was our game, something we did better than the competition, and we were building our reputation on it. What would happen if we were out of the office chasing a deadbeat, or in court swearing the husband of wife A was screwing the wife of husband B, and had to turn down a big company?

  But along with so many other businesses that relied on the oil money, which for years made Denver a boomtown, Kirk and Associates had fallen on hard times. And if the drying up of that oil and its wealth hadn’t brought a genuine bust, it sure as hell let the air out of a lot of bank accounts. Including ours. The insurance surveillance wasn’t regular and it didn’t pay nearly as well, but it did bring in enough to cover the rent. And the jobs were quick, leaving us free for that big call that never came. Fortunately, the corporation still had enough in the bank to provide half-salaries for Bunch and me. But the season was a dry one, and long. And now Bunch was talking about taking on charity work.

  “Look, Bunch, you know we’re getting the leftovers because we’re available. If one of the insurance companies calls and we’re tied up on a nonpaying case, they’re going somewhere else. Just like that, they’re going to dial another number, and we lose them and any other cases they might bring. All for the sake of sweet charity.”

  “You even talk like a goddamn accountant. How come you’re not squawking about the bottom line or the margin of profit?”


  “Because I can’t find the bottom line anymore! And do you really want to hear about our margin of profit?”

  “No.”

  “Damn good thing.”

  “But I’m tired of sitting on my butt waiting for the lame to walk and the dead to rise.”

  That’s what most of this insurance work was: lurking around to catch accident victims who claimed permanent and total disability, yet who managed to change the tires on their cars or paint their houses or even jog along country lanes. All it took was a telephoto lens, some skill at cover and concealment—and a lot of patience, which, for world-class security agents, neither Bunch nor I seemed to have in sufficient supply. I, too, felt the drudgery of it. Still, it paid. I reminded Bunch of that.

  He squashed one fist inside the palm of his other hand; his knuckles made a muffled rattle like pebbles dropped into a wooden barrel. “I told you, Dev. Mrs. Gutierrez is a friend of the family. Even if she can’t pay a cent, I’m not going to turn down a friend who asks for help.”

  “Goddamn it, the kid’s probably back in Mexico! He’s homesick, he hopped a bus, he went back. That’s all.”

  “He’s not from Mexico. He’s from El Salvador—the whole family is. They’re political refugees, and there’s not a damn thing left for him to go back to. Besides, the Mexicans don’t want him either.”

  “Doesn’t he have a green card?”

  “He doesn’t qualify. Our government says El Sal’s a fine place to live. Nobody should want to leave El Sal, they say.”

  Bunch’s silhouette, as tall as mine but twice as wide, blotted out the view across the low brick warehouses and small factories of Wazee Street. Beyond them, the haze-faded mountains west of Denver lifted in ridges one behind the other. Earlier in the summer, the distant slopes were shadowed dark with pines and green grass fed by runoff. But this late in September, the runoff had ceased and the slopes had turned to patches of pale brown streaked here and there with darker smudges of forest. Above that, snowfields glimmered dusty white. They were big enough to survive until the next snows, and some of them had been around long enough to earn the name of glacier. But from this distance, it was hard to think of that white as cool and fresh. Instead, they were unreal places of escape—tantalizing but forbidden.

  “I expect Costello to call soon, Bunch—”

  “You’ve been saying that for a week.”

  “—and when he does, it’ll be a twenty-four-hour surveillance. You know that.”

  “Fine. When he calls you, you call me. I’ll come. Simple.”

  “Why don’t you wait until we know for certain? Costello said he’d call this week and let us know.”

  “Because he hasn’t called yet. Because he might never call. And because Mrs. Gutierrez is worried. Really worried, Dev. It’s been over ten days since she heard anything, and nobody knows what happened to him. Nobody at work, nobody at his apartment house. She telephoned his boss and even went by to talk to people in his apartment.”

  “Oh yeah? When did she see him last?”

  “A week ago Sunday. But he usually phones two or three times a week, drops by on weekends, has Sunday dinner with the family. That kind of thing. She’s the only relative he’s got in the States, and that’s one of the reasons he came to Denver. And why she feels responsible for him.”

  “He just went to work and didn’t come back?”

  “That’s what she says.”

  “You’ve talked to the employer?”

  “No, Devlin. I have not talked to the employer. What in the hell do you think you were bitching about just two minutes ago? That’s one of the things I want to do this afternoon—talk to the employer. But you’re telling me it’ll take too much out of your goddamn pocket.”

  “Well, it can wait—” The ring of the telephone cut off my words, and I picked it up quickly. “Kirk and Associates.”

  “This here is Drayton Coe?” The voice had a rising inflection and an accent that was soft on r’s and long on vowels. Virginia maybe, or Georgia. “I’m the vice president for facilities at Hally Corporation?”

  I didn’t recognize either name, but he sounded as if I should. So I said, “Of course, Mr. Coe. What can we do for you?”

  “We have this little problem of theft and vandalism of company property—I see you people do industrial security. Does that include putting in security devices and such?”

  “It certainly can, sir. In fact, you couldn’t have called at a better time—our specialist in electronic surveillance just came in from another job. I can have him drive over right now and talk with you, if that’s all right.”

  The drawling voice said that would be nice, and in fact, the sooner the better. Coe gave directions and I jotted them on a pad for Bunch. He glanced at the address and smiled. “It’s not too far away from where Mrs. Gutierrez’ nephew works.”

  “Bunch—”

  “Hey, prissy-purse, cool out. I can swing by there after I talk to this Drayton Coe. Won’t cost you a dime, and I can find out about Nestor.”

  “Nestor?”

  “That’s the kid’s name: Nestor Calamaro.”

  The Hally Corporation, the Yellow Pages told me, was a firm that manufactured paper goods of all kinds and was located in Northwest Denver in what used to be a residential district for meat plant workers, when there had been a meat-packing plant and when there had been workers. I hoped that the job wouldn’t be one of those quick, low-profit installations of sensors and alarms—not a job to be scorned, but not one to rely on for a palpable income either.

  Bunch left the office whistling; he would find out for certain what Mr. Coe and his company needed. I stayed behind with the bills and the silent telephone, and listed the items we could, if necessary, begin to sell off. Our fax machine, a Panasonic UF-250, was our last major purchase from what was—though we didn’t know it then—our final big job. It wasn’t doing much for us right now and, as the newest piece of office equipment, probably had the best resale value. In fact, I was dialing the office supply company to see what they’d offer when Uncle Wyn, game leg stumping heavily, knocked and opened the door.

  “Jesus, Dev. It’s like a tomb around here. Business still that bad?”

  “Still that bad, Uncle Wyn.” I got up and swung the desk chair around for him, and held it as he gingerly let himself down. The only visitors’ chair had soft cushions and a raked back and was too hard for him to get in and out of.

  He grunted and propped his arthritic knee with the stout cane. “Going to rain sure as hell. I used to laugh at old cooters who claimed they could tell from their arthritis. But by God, I know now they were right. And this is what I get for laughing at them.”

  “We could use some rain. The month’s been a dry one. Everyone’s complaining.”

  “Don’t know what the hell everyone expects, living in a high desert like this.” With another grunt, he shifted his weight. “Now tell me outright, are you going to make it or not?”

  That was the question I’d been asking myself off and on for weeks now. And I didn’t know the answer. “We’re skating on the edge, Uncle Wyn. I had a call yesterday from an insurance company canceling another job. But Bunch just went out to look at some possible installation work.”

  “Lose much yesterday?”

  “Well, it would have covered the overhead for another month.”

  “I see.” He rubbed a finger across a scar on the back of his right hand, a memento from one of the thousands of cleats or foul balls that had bounced off him during his days as a professional catcher. “You need some help, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, Uncle. I might call on you if things get bad enough. But we have a good chance to make it. It’s just that things could be a little better, that’s all.”

  “I told you once, I’ll tell you again: I think it was dumb to pay me back so soon when you didn’t have to. If you hadn’t done that, you’d have a lot left in the bank—it could’ve been making money for you all this time for when you get in these slum
ps.”

  “But it’s good to be free and clear, too. Even when there’s not that much that’s clear.” And when the failure of my business wouldn’t mean loss for our major investor.

  “Hey, I wouldn’t put the squeeze on you. You know that.”

  “I know, Uncle Wyn. And I didn’t mean it that way. I meant it feels good to me—I feel better about having debts paid off, no matter who it is I owe.”

  “Yeah. Your daddy was that way too, God rest his soul. Me, I could owe somebody and lose no sleep over it. He couldn’t. It bugged him for some reason.”

  My uncle had taken my father’s place when he was murdered, and in a way I had taken the place of Uncle Wyn’s children, who, following their own lives, had moved away to the East and West coasts.

  “Trouble was, he also lost sleep when somebody owed him. Thought everybody ought to feel the way he did.” The heavy-featured head wagged back and forth. “Don’t sweat it, I say. You lend somebody a little, they don’t pay you back, you don’t lend them any more and they stay clear of you anyway. Cheap lesson, and you get rid of lousy company. Good deal all around.”

  “Maybe it’s genetic. I’m the worrier. Bunch could care less. If we go bankrupt, he’ll whistle to the next job.”

  “He’s got the right attitude.”

  “His name’s not on the letterhead.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference if it was. He’s a good ol’ boy.”

  He was that, and as an ex-professional football player, Bunch shared with Uncle Wyn a view of the world that I wasn’t privy to: life as a contest. A serious one, demanding full commitment perhaps, but fundamentally without any purpose except what the players themselves agreed to.

  “I know you don’t like to hear this, Dev, but I could use you in my own business. I’m getting pretty old, and this damn arthritis … .” He caught the note of complaint in his voice and stopped. “Anyway, none of the kids are interested in it, you know that. But I’d like to keep the business in the family.”