by M. P. Cooley
“What’s the husband’s name?” I asked. “Family name?”
“Jelickson.” Dave spelled it out. Not one of the local family names, and generally people moved away from, not to, Hopewell Falls. “Guy from California she married when she was doing the college girl thing out in L.A. From what Jackie says, Danielle washed up and dragged the husband back with her. I got the address of the guy, and since you are on this—”
“Until Jerry wants me off.”
Dave sniffed in the air. “Aww . . . do I smell a martyr burning? I’m sorry I tried to be nice to you. I promise not to do it ever again. But you are on this, which I know would make you happy if you would stop bitching long enough to appreciate me and all I do for you.”
He had a point.
CHAPTER 4
I WAS GREETED BY TWO FISTS.
While Dave drove, I downloaded the Facebook app and searched for Danielle and the Jelickson brothers. Danielle was easy to find. Her page was “friends only,” but I could see her picture. The girl on the screen barely resembled the victim I’d found this morning. She was driving, the blond hair caught midflight in the draft of an open car window, more straw than gold. She seemed to be suppressing a smile, and her lips quirked up on the left. Most striking were her eyes: blue green, meeting the photographer’s gaze, not watching the road. I showed the picture to Dave at a stop sign.
“She’s a knockout,” he said.
“How professional,” I said, hunting for the Jelicksons.
“It’s not like I asked her out for an ice cream soda, although to be fair, she doesn’t look much like a soda kind of girl.”
Marty had opted out of Facebook—I liked him already. Ray had been hard to ID at first. His user picture was two fists, with THUG LIFE Sharpied on the fingers, the black block letters uneven. Thankfully, unlike Danielle, he didn’t protect his page. His updates were an endless string of getting ready to party, partying hard, and recovering from partying, but in his photo album I hit pay dirt. There were several pictures of him shirtless, baggy jeans belted low with boxers peeking out, his scowl and crossed-arm pose undermined by his skinny arms and concave chest. There were also pictures of Harley motorcycles; colossal men, bandanaed and bearded; a hand-drawn marijuana leaf; and a string of photos of Ray with Danielle. Danielle wore a white A-line dress with draping at the neckline, the loose fabric creating a deep V, the round globes of Danielle’s breasts emphasized with glitter. The shots were from a phone, the angles all from arm’s length and above, the two of them flashing Vs at the camera and taking swigs out of a flask, and laughing lots.
Dave pulled up in front of a row house that looked like it belonged in Belfast, not upstate New York. One of several hundred hastily thrown up in the last century for garment workers, Danielle’s house was without adornment, reflecting the grudging spirit in which it was built. Block upon block of the brick boxes listed to the left, as if trying, and failing, to escape the shadow of the mill. The random tacked-on wooden porch added to the haphazard quality of the neighborhood, and made me feel disoriented.
I balanced on Danielle’s bowed porch. Dave knocked three times, and with each rap the whole structure shook. I grabbed a post, but my glove slipped, picking up a coating of paint chips. The sounds of a video game rose from inside.
“Where’ve you been?” a male voice called. “You forget your key?”
The door swung open. My first thought when I saw the young man in the doorway with his slate-blue shirt buttoned tight at his neck and wrists was “prison,” but a security guard patch was stitched to the arm, and a tie was tucked in the breast pocket. His blunt-cut blond hair was short, almost military.
“Martin Jelickson?” Dave asked.
“Yeah?” Marty crossed his arms, and the fabric pulled tight across his chest and arms. Behind him, Ray sprawled on the couch, game controller forgotten on his lap, ignoring the sound of people dying on-screen. The boy had straight hair, a bit long, sun bleached at the tips but growing in brown. He wore a wifebeater under a too-big leather vest, which made him look even smaller.
“Martin, we’re the police. I’m Detective Batko and this is Officer Lyons.” I nodded at him. “May we come in—”
Marty widened his stance, filling the doorway, blocking his brother from view. “Have a warrant?”
Dave dropped his voice into a low rumble, private tones that the husband of the deceased deserved. “Martin, we are unhappy to inform you that your wife was found dead this morning.”
Marty stumbled back. Dave reached out to steady him, but Marty whirled out of Dave’s grasp, ready to swing. I grabbed my baton. He saw me and paused, panting as if he had run a race. His expression hardened, and he stalked over to the couch, collapsing on it.
Ray twisted toward Marty. Unsure where to put his spider-thin legs and arms, he touched the sleeve of his brother’s shirt. Marty pulled away.
“Marty, man—”
“Don’t.” Marty clamped his mouth tight, blue eyes flashing silver.
“Are you Raymond?” I asked the boy.
He jutted out his chin. “Yeah, whatta you—” His voice broke high, childish, and a blush spread over his face and neck. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Let me get you both some water,” Dave said, crossing through to the far door. With a few more inches free, I edged forward into the room. The space had too-big furniture and heat so high sweat popped on my brow. There was a veiled scent of cigarettes, as if someone had smoked outside but left the door wide open, or had quit recently, leaving years of the smell soaked into the walls and floorboards. A sagging brown couch dominated the whole far wall and encroached several inches into the kitchen doorway. Remote controls were lined up on the water-ringed table, and two books, their corners squared, sat next to them: Alcoholics Anonymous and AA’s Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions. The GED for Dummies was wedged between the couch and the recliner, and Friday the 13th and Halloween were alphabetized on the DVD stand.
Ray propped the water Dave gave him on his knee, his legs thrust wide, staring into space. Marty drank three huge gulps, pulled a coaster out of a box on the table, and put the glass down on it before speaking.
“Accident?” Marty said.
Ray jumped in. “Or some serial killer? Like Freddy Krueger?”
“Ray, we’d like to talk to your brother first,” Dave said.
“C’mon, Ray.” I waved to the bedroom. “I’ll keep you company.”
Ray didn’t move until his brother nodded, yanking a Game Boy out of the overstuffed couch cushions and ambling out. I followed, stopping in the doorway. A heavily spiced perfume permeated the bedroom, not the light grassy scents popular with the girls these days, but something heady and dark. I watched Ray flop across the unmade bed, pausing to reach under his stomach and yank out a woman’s leopard-print sweater, which he rolled into a ball and tucked under his head. He saw me watching and buried his face in the sweater, inhaling deeply.
Two diamond-shaped patches were sewn into the back of his vest: MC, standard fare for a motorcycle vest, and something I hadn’t seen since my FBI days, 1%.
I got closer—surely I was mistaken. But no, there it was: 1% meant outlaw gang. Strands of white thread and small tears hopscotched across the leather, where an insignia had been sewn on and pulled off roughly. I was studying the outline when Ray looked up.
“Leave me alone. Pig.”
I wanted to pin him to the bed and make him tell me his club. Maybe later. Back in the doorway, I tried to give Dave the high sign, but his back was to me and I didn’t want to risk tipping off Marty.
“I have rights,” Marty said. “You’ll tell me what happened to Dani. You have to.”
“We’ll tell you,” Dave said kindly. Perhaps Dave’s lack of knowledge was good right now. There were no immediate threats, and he could be the sympathetic ear, and one of us on full alert was plenty.
Dave absently sat down in the recliner that jutted out from the corner, and promptly stood back up: it was
covered with clothes. He settled on the couch.
“Her death was suspicious, so we’re doing a full investigation,” Dave said. “Marty, can you give us a breakdown of your movements since you last saw your wife?”
“Went out to eat.” Marty talked fast. “We do that a lot. Our landlord cranks the radiators so we don’t like to use the oven. All our plants died, you know? Plus, Dani isn’t much of a cook.” He unbuttoned his sleeves and pushed them up absently, revealing a flaming skull tattoo.
I knew that ink from my time on the FBI’s Metro Gang Task Force. Abominations.
The Abominations were one of the big five of outlaw gangs: Hells Angels, Pagans, Outlaws, Bandidos, and them. Mostly the Abominations stuck to the West Coast. Why was he here? I scanned the room for weapons, signs, anything.
“Anyway, she wasn’t much of a cook. Not bad—not a problem—just no practice. So we ate over at the Purple Pub. Then she dropped me off at work. Then she took the car since she was going to pick up some shit . . . a new shower curtain, I think . . . at Target.” He breathed deeply, breaking up his rushed speech. “So where’d you find her?”
“What time did Danielle drop you off?” Dave asked.
Marty seemed to consider the question. “Nine thirty? Or thereabouts?”
My suburban mom radar tingled. A lie, I thought. Target closed at nine.
“And did she return from those errands?” Dave asked.
“Yeah. Ray said so. Want me to get him? Ask him?” A live wire exposed, Marty jolted into unfocused action. He barreled toward me, and I lowered my center of gravity, ready to intercept.
“Marty, you’re the important one here,” Dave called, patting the seat next to him. “C’mon, tell me what you did next.” Reluctantly Marty returned. I checked Ray, who hadn’t registered anything, only the top of his head visible.
“I’m security at the state capitol building in Albany.” Marty held up the sleeve of his blue shirt with the state insignia. “Ten P.M. to six. Dani picks me up.”
“Last night?” Dave asked.
“Couldn’t reach her.” Marty pulled out his phone and tabbed through the messages. “Last text from her was at two forty-eight.”
Dave held out his hand. “Could I see?”
Marty held the phone close, hiding the screen. “You got no warrant.”
“You’re right. But we’re trying to investigate here and, well, it would help.” Marty gripped it tighter for a moment before tossing the phone in Dave’s lap.
I watched Marty as Dave read the messages. He dropped his face on his forearms, but there was no shaking. No fear. His breathing was normal and his skin was a healthy golden, so no shock. Dave walked the phone to me. A few texts from Danielle, stopping at 3:00 A.M. Marty had sent more texts and called both her and his brother at five thirty and six thirty.
“You left at six?” Dave asked. “What happened to—”
“No, see that’s the thing. I ended up staying late because the next guy—guy who’s supposed to take over—called in. Car problems. Asked me to cover until seven, and the asshole didn’t show up until ten. So I called Dani. No answer. Called Ray. He said she was having an early breakfast with her dad.” His leg started jittering. “Did her father do this? He was always trying to . . .” Marty reached out, like he was searching for the word with his hand. “God damn him.”
Dave kept the information he gave Marty about the Brouillettes vague, saying only that they were in DC.
“But he could’ve come back. He’s got a plane. He’d do anything to keep Danielle. I mean the first time we met he tried to punch me out.”
Dave tapped his pad twice. “Could you explain, Marty?”
“I was helping her move out of her apartment in L.A. She and I had become friendly. . . .”
“Where?” Dave asked.
Marty faced his bookshelf. He touched four books, and I began to think he wasn’t going to answer. Finally he said, “AA. And before you start thinking all kinds of crazy stuff, you gotta know Danielle was just checking it out. She says she didn’t have a problem, and I believe her.”
“And you?”
Marty moved the Charles Portis so that it came after the George Pelecanos. “I did. Before.” He turned to face us. “I’ve been clean and sober for almost four years.”
“That’s very cool, man,” Dave said, sincerely. “You should be proud. So tell me more about your run-in with Phil.”
“So me and a buddy are loading up a truck with stuff to take to her dad’s plane”—he said it nonchalantly, as if everyone had their own plane—“and Danielle and her dad are going at it, him telling her all the things she’s not going to do when she’s back under his roof, blah, blah, blah. And he grabs her, and I put down the dresser I was holding because I got a problem when things get physical.”
Generally I found that bikers liked nothing more than getting physical. I watched him closely, but didn’t see any tells that he was lying.
“But Danielle,” Marty continued, “she’s so mad, she’s blazing, and she shakes him off. She looks like she’s going to punch him out, no kidding, throwing up her fists and dropping low, even though she weighed maybe a buck ten. And it’s pretty clear where she learned that move—he’s got the same stance. Craig is standing there with his thumbs up his ass—”
“Craig?” Dave asked.
“Yeah, Craig Madigan, the Brouillettes’ pilot. He’s trying to pat Danielle’s shoulder, and Danielle is shaking him off so she can get a better shot at her dad. I’m ready for a punch-up, but instead of screaming at him she just backs up to me and says, sweet as pie, ‘Can I go home with you?’ ”
Dave didn’t look up from where he was writing. “And you said?”
“I said, ‘Sure thing.’ My stepdad was a fucking bully, too. Phil, he turns on me, comes at me swinging, but I’m bigger and got him pinned before I had to fuck him up. Craig is following Danielle around like a puppy, begging her to stay calm, but she was firing with both barrels, telling her dad to leave, telling him she didn’t care if he cut her off. I let Phil go once he promised to go quietly, and suddenly it was me and Danielle against the world.”
Pacing, Marty tripped over a woman’s black patent-leather boot that peeked out from under the coffee table. He picked it up, found the second, and lined the pair up against the wall. His hands shook, and he knelt down so that he could get the heels square. When he spoke again his voice quavered.
“Look, I’m trying to help out here, but I don’t understand how something that happened last year is more important than my wife being dead.” Through clenched teeth he added, “I know how this stuff works. Tell me what happened. Where was she?”
“She was on the river,” Dave said.
“Wait, what? On the river? Not in?”
“The water’s frozen,” I said, “and based on what I saw—”
“What you saw. You. So you found her.” Marty seemed to see me for the first time. “What . . . did she suffer?”
“No suffering,” I said, telling him how I found her. Marty flinched, so I paused, picking my words carefully. “Injuries were sustained . . . from the fall.” I thought that was a diplomatic way to phrase Danielle’s gutting. Since I had his attention, I asked him a question. “Tell us about her, Marty. We need to know Danielle.”
Marty sputtered protests, but his desire to help, or maybe the chance to talk about his wife, won out. “She was smart. Not book smart—she hated school, and they hated her right back—but she could think fast. And she was really, really beautiful.
“She moved in with me after the blowup with her dad. We weren’t a couple, at least at first. I didn’t want to sleep . . . didn’t want to be romantically involved . . . with someone who felt like they owed me. And she said we should wait, until we could come together as equals.”
It was hard to believe any guy would take a woman in out of the kindness of his heart, especially one as pretty as Danielle. The skepticism must have shown on my face.
“N
o, it’s true. I was trying to be of service, and it’s not like I got nothing out of the deal. She let me read all the books from her classes, and she was cool when my dumbass brother”—he thumbed in the direction of the bedroom—“came down for the weekend from my folks’ place. And when she couldn’t make rent, she gave me her furniture. Nice stuff her dad bought her. I didn’t have any, so that worked out.” He ran his finger along the ripped piping of the couch cushion. “Should have brought that stuff with us when we moved out here, but she thought her folks would set us up. . . .
“Anyway, she made up a bunch of work experience and talked her way into a waitressing job at a high-end place. She offered to move out, but . . . I liked having her around. It’s just . . . I’d been on my own for a while, and to have someone . . . someone like her . . . around . . . She was smart—she thought fast, faster than anyone. We were both flat busted, and we’d do free stuff, like walking around Japantown talking about all the crazy shit that came into her head. Her honesty, it made me want to tell her things. She listened.” He paused, a smile on his face. “ ‘An adventure in adulthood,’ she called it. Her folks, she loved them, but she felt like everything they gave her had strings attached, and the stuff and money and experiences, it was almost too much to be grateful for. She wanted to reunite with them, not as a kid crawling back to her parents, but like a responsible adult who owned her mistakes. I got that.”
“When did you get together, exactly?” Dave asked.
“Last spring. Summer is when we got together. July.”
“You got married in July?” Dave asked.
“No, October. When we were moving back. She thought it would make it easier. Like her parents would have to like me and her if she married me.” He clenched his jaw. “Told her it wouldn’t happen, and I was right: it didn’t.”
“You had reservations, but you married her anyway?”
Marty shrugged. “Not about marrying her, but moving back? Yeah. But she had this way. . . . I’ve seen people get married where they hate each other’s guts three seconds after the wedding, but her thing was that if two people . . . if the two of us . . . found each other, loved each other, we should do it.”