Double Indemnity

by Maggie Kavanagh

  THE CONVERSATION with Emma faded from his mind on the drive to Shady Brook, and a new kind of worry replaced it, making his stomach sick.

  The letter he’d received a couple of weeks before wasn’t exactly news. Tim’s long-term care had surpassed the cap the previous year. Since then, Sam had paid the excess with the residual life insurance from his parents’ deaths, but that money was running low too. Both of his still-living grandparents had retired on a fixed income to Florida, and the business didn’t bring in enough money to support both Sam and the ever-increasing medical tab. He could only imagine what would happen once the funds dried up. And imagination would become reality in six short months unless something changed, and soon.

  “I’m going to think of something. I promise,” Sam told his brother. Tim stared at the ceiling and breathed in and out, in and out.

  Shady Brook couldn’t exactly put Tim out on the street, but Sam had nightmares about state-run care facilities for the poor. He couldn’t let Tim wind up as just another lump in a bed, ignored by people who didn’t get paid enough to care about who lived or died. He wouldn’t. There had to be a way. Not for the first time, he contemplated bank robbery. Maybe he could sell drugs on the street. Lord knew there was enough money floating around in Stonebridge for that kind of thing. Just a week before, another bust at a warehouse down by the docks had taken in millions of dollars of product. Of course those were all fantasies and not very good ones. Sam needed a miracle.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you, bud.” He patted his brother’s arm and stood, wondering how long he could keep lying.

  Later that evening Sam stretched out on his bed and flipped on the television. He rubbed his hand over his stomach and thought about the book he’d been reading to Tim, The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Depressing as hell, but something about it resonated with Sam. People did a lot of crazy shit when times got desperate enough.

  Heading down to the Star for a nightcap was tempting, but his eyelids grew heavy as a commercial break announced cash for unwanted gold jewelry at the highest prices in years. He was on the verge of sleep when the local newscast returned. Two reporters, both of whom looked as though they’d been dressed and styled sometime in the late nineties, stared steadily at the camera. The older one spoke.

  “An alleged break-in this evening has left one person dead. The victim was thirty-year-old Emma Walker, an officer with the Stonebridge Police Department. Police arrived on the scene when the victim failed to report for duty. Suspects are at large and all area residents are urged to stay in their homes and report suspicious activity.”

  “Ah, yes. It’s a sad night indeed for—” The younger reporter droned on, but Sam had stopped listening. His body went numb as the picture they’d shown of Emma faded from the screen.

  It couldn’t be. This had to be someone’s sick idea of a joke.

  Sam grabbed his laptop and performed a quick search, only to find a brief mention of the robbery on several local pages with no more information than what had been offered on the news. Suspected break-in. Victim dead at the scene. Bile rose in his throat, and he hurried to the bathroom before his last meal made an appearance, barely in time to heave into the toilet. He retched his guts out even as he thought it couldn’t be true. He’d seen wrong. He was dreaming.

  He rinsed his mouth and waited for the nausea to subside, but it didn’t. Hot tears pricked his eyes, and his stomach clenched again, an aching hollow. The floor was solid and comforting, and he allowed himself a moment to rest on it to stop his head from spinning. But every time he blinked, he saw Emma.

  Some time later, another thought wormed its way into his head and made him shiver. He might have been the last person to see her alive. The check she wrote…. Was it the last thing she’d ever done? Sweat broke out on his brow.

  Maybe he’d go have a drink after all.

  BEFORE SAM could even grab his wallet and keys, a harsh knock sounded on the door. The cops who waited outside didn’t cuff him but requested he come down to the station for questioning, all the same.

  The Stonebridge Police Department hadn’t been renovated since the late eighties, and whenever he visited, Sam always got the impression he’d stumbled onto the set of Lethal Weapon. Unfortunately, however, the detective interviewing him wasn’t Mel Gibson. Of course, it was Petersen. Of course.

  Sam leaned back and sipped the tepid coffee they’d brought as a token assurance he wasn’t a suspect. It tasted like burned cat hair. He grimaced, his empty stomach churning, and set the cup back down. The corner of Petersen’s fishlike mouth turned up in a smirk from across the table. Even though he had nothing to hide, Sam’s blood chilled when he considered the possibility they’d analyze the cup for his prints. They sat in a little dingy brown room with uncomfortable folding chairs. It was an interrogation room, but they’d propped the dull metal door open to give Sam the illusion he could walk away from this interview.

  “You don’t like the coffee?” Petersen asked. “I made it myself.”

  “Explains why it tastes like piss.”

  Petersen clucked disapproval, and his double chin wobbled. “Sam Flynn. You never change, do you? Have you given up on being a fake reporter? I haven’t seen you around here much lately.”

  “I thank God every day for small favors.”

  “I take it you two know each other?” Chief Sheldon raised his bushy eyebrows as he breezed through the open door and closed it firmly behind him. He had the bluest eyes Sam had ever seen and was handsome in a grandfatherly, old Paul Newman way. But those eyebrows. Sam had never encountered such impressive specimens. He’d often marveled at them as a child when he’d seen the chief at holidays or the occasional dinner parties his parents held.

  “I’d like to say no,” said Sam. “I really would. But I can’t.”

  “So you’ve picked up murder as a hobby. I thought you only wrote about dead people.”

  “That’s enough, Petersen,” said Chief Sheldon. “Sam came in on a voluntary basis, and he’s not a suspect.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Aw, still sore I wouldn’t suck your dick after gym class?” said Sam. True story, but the chief didn’t catch on.

  Petersen blanched. “I always knew there was something off about you, Flynn. Besides the obvious. Watch what you say around him, Chief, or you’ll wind up on his stupid blog. Not that anyone reads it.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Do I have to put up with this?”

  “No, you don’t.” Sheldon gave a half nod toward the door. “I’ll take it from here, Petersen.”

  Petersen scowled. “Just so you know, he’s probably hiding something.”

  “Talking about yourself again, Little Pete?” Sam smiled sweetly and watched the departing backside with vicious pleasure. He’d had a rough enough night without having to deal with that sonofabitch. Even though Sam had a hard time believing in God, he believed in karma, and someday Rich Petersen would get his.

  Sheldon sat down across from him. “Thanks for taking the time to come and talk to us. How are you, son?”

  Sam answered automatically. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  As the chief of police, Sheldon had been close with Sam’s father, who’d served as state’s attorney before his death. Even though Sam hadn’t seen the chief much in recent years, Sheldon looked out for him. He’d gotten Sam out of a DUI on the first anniversary of his parents’ death, a stupid mistake made in a moment of grief, and Sam had never done it again. He didn’t expect the same leniency a second time, family friend or no.

  “And how’s your brother?”

  “Same. That’s where I was today, by the way. I didn’t kill Emma.”

  “You shouldn’t let Petersen get under your skin.” Sheldon straightened up and pushed the record button on the tape player sitting on the table. “Now for the formalities. I assume you know the drill? Let’s start by stating your name and occupation.” Sam did. “And when did you last see Emma Walker?”

  It hurt to hear her name.
She’d been alive merely hours before, and now she was gone. “I saw her earlier this afternoon.”

  “You work for the Walkers?”

  “Yes, I co-own a landscaping business, and the Walkers are a client.”

  “And how many times would you say you’ve been to the Walkers’ house for yard maintenance?”

  “I’m there once a week on Thursdays, sometimes alone, sometimes with a crew.” He shrugged.

  Sheldon jotted down a few notes, those huge caterpillars knotting together. Then he glanced over his notebook at Sam. “Earlier today, when you saw Emma Walker, what happened?”

  “I mowed the lawn, and then I stopped in to ask for payment. Emma let me inside while she wrote out the check. We had a drink, and then I left.”

  “You had a drink?” Sheldon sounded curious. He tapped his pen against his pad of paper.

  “Yeah. I was thirsty, and she invited me to join her. I consider Emma a friend.”

  “What did you drink?”

  Sam breathed deeply to calm his nerves. He had no reason to feel guilty. “A beer. Just one.”

  “While you were in the house, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

  He hesitated a moment, and Sheldon picked up on the beat. “Was Emma acting strangely?”

  “I thought you said this was a home invasion?”

  “We’re just trying to make sure we’ve covered all the bases. So you had a drink, cooled down a little. What did you talk about?”

  The conversation he’d had with Emma, what had it been about—lying to someone you love, or rather, finding something out about someone you loved, something bad? Sam hadn’t given it much thought after he’d left, distracted as he’d been by his own situation with Tim.

  “A little about careers, what I might want to do with my life aside from landscaping. She seemed like she’d been having a bad day.”

  “Oh? How would you describe her state of mind?”

  “Like she’d been upset earlier but had calmed down. She was… tired, I guess. She’d been crying. I did notice she’d dropped some eggs on the floor and hadn’t cleaned them up.”

  “Did she tell you what she was upset about?” Sheldon’s pen paused on the paper.

  “No. Like I said, I didn’t stay very long. And we weren’t exactly confidants. She could have had a fight with someone, maybe a girlfriend.”

  “Or her husband?”

  “Maybe. She didn’t mention anything specific.”

  Sheldon started writing again, squinting down at the words. “If you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call anytime, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And you’re free to go, but before you do, one last question. What do you know about Nathan Walker?”

  The way Sheldon said the name evaporated the pretense from the room, and all of the oxygen seemed to go with it. Walker was a suspect, and if Sam was reading the chief’s face correctly, a serious one.

  “I don’t know much about him. I only mow his lawn.” After all, he could hardly tell Chief Sheldon that Nathan had featured prominently in more than one of Sam’s late night jerk-off sessions. He tried to think back to interactions he’d witnessed between Emma and Nathan, some indication their relationship could have devolved into such a sinister end. In the few conversations Sam had had with Emma about her home life, he knew she and Nathan had been married for nearly ten years and that Nathan was several years older. They seemed happy enough, from what he saw. Comfortable. Even a little boring. Of course, his own observations didn’t mean anything. Every day stories came out about marriages falling apart and ending in murder, though to outsiders, the couple might seem perfectly normal.

  Sam’s gut swam with unease as his mind churned. Suddenly the full weight of the situation crashed down upon him. Whatever he said might be used to either condemn or vindicate a man who may or may not have killed his wife.

  “I think you know why I’m asking,” said Sheldon, breaking Sam’s reverie. “Have you ever seen the two of them arguing?”

  “No, Chief, I haven’t.”

  “You’re a hard-working kid, Sam. You know I respect what you do. A guy like Walker, though. Now he’s the type born with a silver spoon. He’s not like you and me. Sometimes men like that think they can do anything and get away with it.”

  “Yeah.” Sam nodded. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say. I’ve never seen them argue. They always seemed to get along.”

  “All right.” Sheldon gestured toward the door, which opened. Petersen poked his head in, and Sheldon raised those bushy eyebrows in some sort of Morse code signal for the conclusion of their interview.

  “I’ll be in touch if we need you to come back down,” Sheldon said as he pushed back from the table and stood. “Thanks for your cooperation. You can let yourself out. And Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I hope you know your dad would be real proud of you.”

  Sam blushed and stood, relieved to have his freedom once again. He brushed by Petersen in the doorway before retreating down the hall to the exit. A few people gave him curious glances, but he kept his eyes focused straight ahead. McCormick, the rookie, was manning the front desk with another woman Sam vaguely recognized. She was white as a sheet, and he didn’t look much better. Another few officers stood around the front door in close conversation, their grim tableau a reminder the department had lost one of its own. Their talk became more animated when a new arrival entered the station.

  Even partially shielded by the cop leading him in, Sam knew the handcuffed man. Sam froze as Nathan Walker was urged forward in his direction.

  Their eyes met. At first Sam didn’t think Nathan recognized him. Sam knew that particular look well—the look of a person in deep shock. He’d seen it on his own face when he looked in the mirror.

  “Nathan,” he said automatically. A flicker of awareness appeared on Nathan’s handsome face. His eyes searched Sam’s.

  “She can’t be dead. She’s not dead, is she?” He choked the words.

  Sam nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Nathan crumpled. His head sagged and his shoulders slumped as if under an unbearable weight. “That’s what they told me.” He sounded like a lost child.

  “Move along,” said the officer leading Nathan. “There’s no time for chitchat.”

  “Can’t you see he’s not well?” Sam wanted to reach out and help when Nathan stumbled forward, but the cop gave him a narrow-eyed glare. They passed and left Sam staring after them.

  “Sympathy for the suspect, huh? Suspicious,” Petersen said from behind Sam.

  Sam didn’t bother replying. They still lived in America after all, and innocent until proven guilty meant something. Perhaps it was wishful thinking on Sam’s part, because he didn’t want to imagine the alternative.

  He left the station, but he didn’t go directly home. It was past closing time, so he wandered the neighborhood for a while, though he’d have to be up for work in only a few hours.

  The streets of Stonebridge were empty except for the night creatures, those above or beyond the law who skulked corners and alleyways looking for a fix—something to take them out of their tedious existence, whether it be sex, drugs, or violence. A couple guys passed each other quickly, slapping palms as they went, and Sam wished for a wild moment he was the one pocketing the bag of whatever and slipping it into his veins or breathing it into his lungs. But his drug of choice had always been legal. He probably shouldn’t be wandering in this particular neighborhood unarmed, but he didn’t have any money to lose, and he felt reckless, untethered.

  Life was so fucking strange. It chugged along blandly until one day, an ordinary day like any other, everything changed. Sam still didn’t know how to get back to the person he’d been before the accident. That person was a stranger. He could empathize with Nathan because, whatever had happened, this was that moment for him. There was no going back.

  Chapter 4

  THE PROJECT Sam and Yuri started the next day required them
to tear up an entire front lawn for replanting. The heat combined with 100 percent humidity to create a cocktail of misery. Juan, one of the contract workers, drove the excavator while Sam and Yuri took a quick break. A couple other guys smoked at a distance. The whole crew was in force and probably would be for the next week, at least.

  “So do you think he was charged?” Yuri asked. He leaned against the side of his pickup and took a deep drink from his water bottle. Sam tried not to stare at his muscular arms.

  “I don’t know. He looked like shit when he was brought in for questioning.”

  “I’ll bet.” Yuri snorted.

  “You think he did it?”

  “I don’t know, but if they brought him in, there must be a reason.”

  Sam shrugged. “They brought me in, and I sure as hell didn’t do it. I don’t know. Something about it doesn’t sit right with me.”

  Yuri gave him a hard look. “I think it’s probably best left to the professionals, Sam. Don’t meddle.”

  “Who, me?” Sam widened his eyes, all innocence. “I never meddle.”

  “Ha, bullshit.”

  The sound of the machinery grating against rock was getting on Sam’s nerves. He could practically see the heat rising in waves from the crackling asphalt. If the pavement couldn’t stand the heat, it seemed unfair to think a human body could.

  “We better get back to work,” said Yuri to everyone. “Long day ahead of us, boys.” The other two guys butted out their cigs on the ground and nodded. One of them was new to the crew, and Sam could tell he was uneasy with the whole gay thing. As long as he kept his mouth shut about it, there wouldn’t be a problem. Sam and Yuri didn’t tolerate bigotry on their team.

  Juan idled the engine of the excavator, hopped down, and patted the seat for Sam.

  “It’s all yours, boss,” he said.

  “Gee, thanks, but I didn’t get you anything.”

  Juan must have been at least fifty, but he still had the body of a much younger man. Only his leathery skin showed his age. It wrinkled around his eyes, evidence of too much time spent in the sun. “You’re a funny one, cabrón.”