The Price of Malice

by Archer Mayor

  “Yeah—if you’re a dog.”

  There was a pause between them.

  “So,” Sam tried again. “Can we talk?”

  Karen hesitated, finally sighed, and stepped back. “Yeah. What the fuck.”

  The home Sam entered reminded her of a storeroom with every available surface piled with clothing, boxes, toys, miscellaneous junk, and—finally—a few recognizable items like a TV set, a toaster oven, a phone, and the like. Some of it was precariously perched, the rest packed in as snugly as a lost sock between two pillows. The air smelled of dirty clothes, cat litter, decaying food, and mildew.

  “Sit,” Karen ordered, gesturing vaguely to a bench seat mounted under the window along the trailer’s narrow end.

  Sam looked despairingly at the offer. The carpeted floor was filthy, the walls grimy, and the bench already occupied by two bedraggled kittens in a nest of clothes. Sam had no idea what microbial swamp she was sitting in as she gently shooed the cats away, shifted the pile, and gingerly settled down.

  “Thanks.”

  “Wanna drink?”

  “No. I’m good.”

  Karen chose a kitchen chair with a partially ripped plastic cushion. “This is about Wayne, right?”

  Sam accepted the offer to dive right in. “How well did you know him?”

  Karen lit a cigarette. “What do you think?”

  “You were lovers.”

  She laughed harshly. “Jesus. La-di-dah. I’ll guarantee you we weren’t that. We were a fast fuck—a way to scratch an itch.”

  “Your husband know about him?”

  “Todd?” she asked, as if it were a trick question. “No way, and I’m a dead woman if you tell him.”

  “Could Wayne be a dead man because Todd found out on his own?”

  Karen wasn’t fazed by the suggestion. “Todd’s not a killer.”

  “That’s not what you just said.”

  Karen watched her through the smoke. “I know what I said, and you know goddamn well what I mean.”

  “Still,” Sam pressed her. “Todd is a violent man. Things can start as a fight and go wrong by accident.”

  But the other woman was already shaking her head. “He didn’t kill him. He didn’t even know him, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Prison’s the biggest rumor mill there is,” Sam told her. “People coming and going all the time; everybody knowing everybody else. They gossip in there like a bunch of old grandmothers.”

  Karen’s expression betrayed her growing boredom. “I told you, if Todd found out, he would’ve hammered me, not Wayne. Sure as shit, even if he had done Wayne, I would’ve heard about it, along with the whole neighborhood and every cop in town. Todd is not a man to keep things buttoned up.”

  Sam knew the type. “When did you last see Wayne?”

  Karen laughed again. “It sure wasn’t after Todd got out.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “And where did you used to get together?”

  “Depended. Sometimes it was my van, or his car. He had a friend’s apartment we used a couple of times, until the friend walked in on us once. He tried to take me to his place once, but I wouldn’t even go in, it was so gross.”

  “How did you meet the first time?”

  Karen took a long, final pull on her cigarette and stubbed it out in an overflowing ashtray. “Wayne and me? At a bar. I was lonely. We got loaded. You know how it goes.”

  Sadly, that was true. Before Sam and Willy became a couple, she, too, had spent a good many nights at bars far outside Brattleboro, looking for companionship, and usually making the wrong choices.

  “How long ago was that?”

  Karen looked thoughtful. “Todd went up for a couple of years . . . I guess maybe half that. A year, a little less.”

  “You get to know him well—I mean socially? His family life, where he came from, any kids? Things like that?”

  She became irritated. “You don’t get it, do you? We fucked.” She dragged out the last word. “That means not a lot of chitchat. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. Same for him.”

  “But he came over here,” Sam countered.

  That stopped her. Karen studied her for a couple of seconds. “Goddamn Ricky,” she then said. “He told you that, right?”

  “Not actually,” Sam said, hoping to cover for him. “I took a shot and you just confirmed it.”

  Karen dug around in her pack for another cigarette. “Yeah, he came over a couple of times. I didn’t invite him, and I wasn’t happy about it.”

  “You basically just told me one son met him. Did the other kids, too?”

  The answer was made mid-inhalation. “Maybe a couple. What do I know?”

  “Just curious. But it makes me wonder if you didn’t squeeze in one last fast one with Wayne, even after Todd got out.”

  “Why do you care? I told you I didn’t kill him. I didn’t have a reason to.”

  “Maybe someone else did. Do you know of any other girlfriends?”

  “Didn’t want to know.”

  Sam decided to leave it at that for the moment, pending additional research. “Okay,” she said. “That works for me.”

  She made her voice more upbeat and conversational. “How many people live here? It’s got to be tight.”

  “The kids, me and Todd, a few others.”

  Sam already knew of Dan Kravitz and Maura Scully. “Who? I didn’t realize you had guests.”

  Karen waved her cigarette in the air vaguely. “They’re not guests. It’s a guy and his daughter—Dan Kravitz and Sally.”

  Sam nodded, as if completely up to speed. In fact, Willy had told her he actually knew Dan, but there’d never been mention of any daughter. “Oh, yeah. We’ve bumped into them. How old’s Sally now?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Sam shook her head in amazement. “God. Where do you put ’em all?”

  “Here and there. Some of them double up.”

  “Sally and Becky?” Sam asked, mentioning Karen’s daughter for the first time.

  Karen puckered her mouth. “Becky? No way. She’s way too stuck up for that. We put Sally in with Nicky. They seem to like it,” she added with a dirty laugh.

  “I bet,” Sam went along, knowing Nicholas was thirteen. “That work for Dan, too?”

  “He’s got nothing to complain about.”

  Sam covered her surprise with a knowing smile. “Damn. You’re good, girl. How often do you get it on with him?”

  Karen brushed it off. “Now and then.”

  “Even with Todd back?”

  Karen chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Oh, yeah, right. Let’s say that Dan’s on his own for a while.”

  Sam returned to an earlier theme, holding up her fingers to count. “So, wow. That’s you and Todd, Dan and Sally, the four kids. Eight of you, all in here? Even with Richard camping in the basement, that is something else, especially with Becky not cooperating.”

  Karen’s face darkened. “It’s nine, and it’s not like we have a choice, is it? You make ends meet—that’s something you fucking cops never get, always harassing us for pissant shit.”

  Sam held up both hands. “Not me. I grew up like this. That’s why I’m asking. This is like home-sweet-home. You do what you gotta do, right?”

  “Fucking right.”

  “But who’s the ninth? I miss a kid?”

  “That’s Maura,” Karen said dismissively. “Maura Scully. Ryan’s girlfriend. She’s kinda one of the family, ever since her own threw her out.”

  “You’re kidding? What’s the story there?”

  Karen looked disgusted. “It was Maura’s stepdad. I don’t know the details. Her mom went along with it, though. Worthless piece of trash—do that to your own flesh and blood.”

  It was a revealing comment. Sam knew too well that women like Karen, for all their faults and self-indulgences, could be fierce when defending their children against threat, even if such protectiveness was wanting day-to-day. It a
lso implied that Karen knew nothing of Wayne’s involvement with Becky.

  “So, is Becky a bit of a handful?” Sam asked.

  As if on cue, Karen’s relaxed manner slipped away. “What’s it your business?”

  Sam raised her eyebrows. “You said it yourself—her sleeping alone, being kind of aloof.”

  Karen studied her cigarette after taking another pull. “She’s a good kid. Just sensitive. Needs more peace and quiet than most.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In back.”

  This time, Sam’s surprise got the better of her. “She’s here? Now?”

  “That a crime?”

  “No, no. I just thought we were alone, and it’s a beautiful day. I noticed Richard was out and about somewhere.”

  Karen appeared to settle down a notch. “Yeah, well. You never know with him. He likes pokin’ around. Becky keeps more to herself.”

  “Kids can be that way, sometimes,” Sam agreed diplomatically. “Especially if they’ve had a rough time.”

  It was another chance for Karen to flare up, but instead she merely grunted. “No shit.”

  “That’s too bad,” Sam said softly, her curiosity sharpened. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Karen tossed her head back. “Well, you know what they say, life is shit and then you die.”

  Sam pushed at the boundary a little, hoping to get lucky. “Sounds like life is shit for Becky, all right.”

  Unfortunately, she would never know Karen’s reaction, for as the latter opened her mouth to speak, a loud, explosive rattling shook the thin walls as a motorcycle with earsplitting pipes pulled into the dooryard.

  Karen segued into a broad smile instead, and slid off her chair to open the screen door.

  Sighing with disappointment, Sam stood up and waited.

  Karen called out as the obnoxious clatter abruptly died, “Ryan. You get that prescription like I asked?”

  A querulous male voice shot back. “What do you think? Whose the car belong to?”

  “A cop.”

  “Fuck,” came the response. Sam readied herself to leave, recognizing the inevitable.

  There were a couple of additional sounds from outside, before a scowling, muscle-bound teenager in a white T-shirt appeared, a dirty canvas bag in one hand and a drugstore sack in the other.

  This he thrust at his mother, muttering, “You owe me ten bucks.” Then he glared at Sam and demanded, “What do you want?”

  “Just having a conversation with your mother.”

  He looked like he’d just caught a whiff of something noxious. “Don’t let the door slap you on the ass,” he said, turning left and heading for the back of the trailer.

  Karen smiled. “Like father, like son.”

  Sam nodded, having no doubts about that. She approached the door and her hostess. “I better head out, Karen. I really appreciate the time. Like him or not, Wayne was murdered, so we got to go through the motions. Walk me out?”

  Karen looked torn, but didn’t say no.

  Sam stepped off the stairs and walked to the outside corner of the trailer, five feet from her car, where they were mostly out of sight from both the trailer’s windows and the closest neighbor. She didn’t want to be interrupted again and figured this was now or never.

  “I’ve got one last favor,” she said. “Something you see on TV a lot.”

  “What?” Karen was cautious.

  “Well, part of what we do is rule people out—that’s why all the questions. We start with everyone who might’ve had it in for the dead guy, and then we take them off the list, one by one.”

  “So?”

  “I was just wondering if you’d like to have your name taken off the list for sure.”

  “You haven’t already done that?” she protested. “I keep telling you I didn’t kill him.”

  “I know,” Sam agreed, “but I never got to ask what you were doing the night he died.”

  “I was here,” Karen answered, her mood darkening once more. “I got half the family that’ll swear to it.”

  “Cool.” Sam rummaged in her bag and extracted a small tubular case. “Then here’s the favor. If you’ll give me a quick DNA sample—just a swab from inside your cheek—I’ll run it by what the crime lab collected, and that’ll be that.”

  Sam pulled a long-handled cotton swab from its sterile container and held it up, her eyebrows raised questioningly. “Takes three seconds and is totally painless.”

  Karen hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”

  “It’ll sure cut down on our bugging you all the time,” Sam suggested.

  Karen finally yielded. “What the hell.”

  Without further comment, Sam had her open her mouth, quickly swabbed inside both her cheeks, and returned the sample to her bag.

  “That’s it,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

  Karen was running her tongue around inside her mouth. “Well, I don’t. That fucking dirtbag deserved what he got. You should’ve nailed him for some of the shit he pulled, instead of hassling all of us because someone had the sense to finally kill him.”

  “What kind of shit?” Sam was caught by the sudden bitterness, and immediately thought of Becky.

  Karen pressed her lips together briefly. “He was a bad man. There wasn’t nuthin’ he wouldn’t fuck around with.”

  Eager for more, Sam still hesitated before asking, “Look, I know we already covered this, but if that’s true, then why did you sleep with him?”

  “Some of us get what we can,” Karen told her resentfully. “I’m not looking for Mr. Right. That’s all bullshit. I take what I’m handed, and I took Wayne a few times. My guy’s in jail; I just wanted a little comfort now and then, you know? It’s not like I was lookin’ to marry the man.”

  Sam shrugged, faking nonchalance, wondering about what seemed hidden just out of sight. “I got it. Just so long as he doesn’t bring his shit inside the family, right?”

  “He didn’t,” Karen said reactively. “I saw to that. I mean, yeah, he came here a couple of times, but not because I invited him . . .”

  The door banged open behind them and Ryan appeared on the top step, glowering.

  “God damn it, Ma, give it a rest. She’s a cop. Every fucking word she says is to fuck you up. Don’t you know that? Get your ass in here, for Christ’s sake.”

  He glared at Sam. “And you get the fuck off our property. What’re you doin’ here anyway?”

  Sam stared at him levelly, hiding her disappointment. “I’ll tell you if you come down. We’ll need to talk anyhow.”

  He glowered. “I don’t got to talk to you.”

  “Not now, you don’t, but you will soon.”

  “About what?”

  Karen had been watching them like a spectator at a tennis game. Now she contributed, “It’s Wayne Castine. He was murdered.”

  Ryan looked disgusted. “Who cares? The guy was a pervert. I hope they tortured him first.”

  “Where were you Monday night, Ryan?”

  “None of your business, cop,” he spat at her, and then ducked back inside, yelling, “Ma, get in here. No kidding.”

  Karen smiled awkwardly. “I better go.” She then volunteered, “And Ryan was here Monday night.”

  Sam nodded, defeated for the time being. “Okay. Take care of yourself. Call me anytime, for any reason, deal?”

  All fire gone, Karen lifted her hand halfway and wiggled a couple of fingers in farewell. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Sam got in behind the wheel of her car, knowing for a fact that she’d be back. There was a lot going on inside that trailer. The problem was going to be puzzling through who knew what—and what they’d done as a result.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lyn looked up from her magazine as the door banged open in the kitchen.

  “Steve?” she called out, surprised.

  “Yeah,” came the sullen reply.

  She pursed her lips. He was in a mood again. She checked their mother, Maria,
who was staring, transfixed, at the TV set, its sound reduced to a murmur, and rose to her feet, the magazine still in one hand. As she passed by, her fingers caressed the older woman’s frail shoulder, to no reaction.

  “Be right back, Mom.”

  Steve was still in the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge. He straightened, bearing a can of beer. It was nine in the morning.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m having a beer, all right?” he said belligerently.

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause I feel like it.” He took a swig.

  Steve was an alcoholic. Sadly, their mother had seen to that, making him her teenage drinking buddy after Abílo and José had been taken. But he’d never attended AA, had taken only whatever prison counseling he’d been obliged to, and had otherwise relied on Lyn and his own reborn sense of responsibility to stay straight. It had been a lumpy, uneven ride, even if lately she’d believed he’d put the worst of it behind him.

  Until now.

  She reached out gently and laid a hand on his wrist, stopping him from taking another drink. “Talk to me, Steve,” she urged quietly. “What happened?”

  “I was ripped off,” he said angrily. “I got to the boat this morning to make a delivery, and it was trashed—totally torn apart. What the hell is up with that, huh? What the hell did I do to anybody?” He pulled away from her, tried to drink from the can and missed, spilling some of it onto his shirt.

  “Fuck,” he yelled, and threw the can into the sink. It bounced back out, hit the cabinet overhead, and landed on the floor. Lyn quickly grabbed it and dropped it back into the sink, where it seethed like a school science project.

  She took a paper towel and knelt down to clean the floor, not showing how worried she was by his news. All she could think of was Dick Brandhorst and his goons.

  “Was it vandalism, or did they really steal something?” she asked the floor.

  Steve leaned against the wall, his arms slack by his sides, dejected. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anything missing.”

  “So the electronics are okay?” she asked. “The gear? Toolbox?”

  He cut her off. “Yeah, yeah. It’s there.”

  She rose from her knees and threw the towel out. “What did the cops say?”

  “Nuthin’. I didn’t call them.”