Artistic License

by Julie Hyzy

  Al shook his head. “Settle down. I don’t think they’re coming back for a while.”

  Pete felt a cold sweat break out from beneath his arms and across his forehead. He swallowed. “What did you tell them?” he asked, his voice sounding creaky to his own ears.

  “Me? Nothin. But our buddy here . . .” Al’s eyes slid over to Emil, who seemed oblivious to the fact that they were talking about him, “made you. Made you good.”

  Al plunked a shot of whisky in front of him. “Do you think they have the place staked out?” Pete asked, downing the shot with shaking hands.

  “Naw. They were just asking questions, but I think you better watch your back, you understand?”

  Pete nodded, and pushed the empty glass toward Al for a refill.

  Complying with the silent request, Al poured, clinking the bottle back into its place between all the others before he spoke again. “Now listen, I don’t mind covering for you, but you better make sure I get my cut on this deal between you and Romas.”

  “You and me both,” Pete said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ran into some problems today.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  Pete stared at the drink. “I couldn’t get the picture.”

  Al’s eyes widened. “What do you mean you couldn’t get it?” He gestured to Emil with a nod of his head and moved out from behind the bar, heading for a booth. “Maybe we better take this over here. The friggin walls have ears.”

  Pete sat down, and wrinkled his nose as his own body odor shot up in a puff. Most of his clothes were at Annie’s too. He’d been able to get by while he stayed at the YMCA, but pretty soon his stash was going to run out and he’d be out on his butt. Again. He thought about all the fine things the money from this heist would buy him, things that shoulda belonged to him anyway. At least the drawing was hidden until this business was through.

  “It’s at . . .” Pete stopped himself. No sense in telling Al where the thing was. “It’s in a safe place. I just can’t get to it today.”

  Al’s face turned red. “I took a chance on you. I set you up with Romas. And now with these cops sniffing around, I could get screwed for doing that. You better come through, you understand?”

  Pete felt the thrill of playing ball with the big guys slipping through his fingers as he massaged his forehead, muttering to himself.

  “When were you supposed to do the exchange?” Al asked. The front corner door of the bar opened again. Al squinted. “Oh shit.”

  * * * * *

  “What do you mean you don’t have it? Did we . . .” Romas turned to Al, as though looking for confirmation, “or did we not agree to an exchange of valuables this morning?” They were sitting at a table this time, Romas, Al, and Pete, far enough out of earshot of Emil who looked as though his nose was about to hit the liquid in his shot glass.

  Al held his hands out. “I wasn’t in on the arrangements. All’s I know is that this guy,” he gestured pointedly with his thumb, “was supposed to come through, and he didn’t. Listen,” he said, directing his comments to Pete, “I still get my cut, you understand?”

  Pete’s foot slipped from its perch against one of the table’s feet, causing the top to wobble and the men’s drinks to splash. “Sorry,” he said.

  Romas’ eyes were small, with enormous pouchy bags, but their anger shot like an arrow through Pete’s exterior calm. “You ain’t sorry, pal. Sorry’s what you’re gonna be if you don’t cough up that picture. I put some feelers out yesterday and got someone biting on it already.” He licked his lips, and for a second Pete caught a glimpse of just how big a job this really was. A sheen of perspiration glimmered over the big man’s upper lip and he gripped his untouched drink with his right hand, gesturing with the other. “If I find out I risked my reputation on a man who doesn’t know how to honor his commitments, well . . .” Romas let go of his glass and sat back.

  Al cleared his throat, “And my cut?” His beefy arms were crossed over the table, and he picked at the hairs on his right arm, looking nervous. “I held up my end of the bargain, buddy. You owe me.”

  Pete’s hands spread themselves outward of their own volition and he cringed at the weakness the movement implied. “I can’t come up with that kind of cash until we make the trade,” he said, chancing a look over to Romas. “He’s the guy with all the money.”

  “Yeah. Money you’re never gonna see if I don’t get what you promised me.”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t get it, I said I couldn’t get it today,” Pete said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Just give me a couple days. It’s in a safe place and I’ll get it, I swear.”

  Romas stood up, looking at his watch. He pursed, then bit his lips as though thinking, staring as he did so, toward the front door. “Tell you what, little man. I’m gonna give you just one more chance. And you know why? Because I feel sorry for you.” He reached over and slapped Pete’s cheek twice, in an artificially friendly move. It stung. “I got business that’s gonna take me out of town till Thursday. I’ll be back here at ten sharp. Ten in the morning, you understand. Thursday.”

  Pete nodded, relieved. He knew he could get the drawing out of Annie’s house by then. He felt his body relax as the big man began to move away and Al stood up to go back behind the bar. Just as Romas reached the door he turned around. “And you will have it by then. Right?”

  Pete nodded, his head bobbing up and down like a flocked dog on the dashboard of a car running over potholes. He sent Romas a thumbs-up, feeling more confident watching two men depart. “Gotcha.”

  Al had his back to him, and Pete heard the clink and rushing water sounds of glasses being washed. He stared down at the beer in front of him. He’d get that goddamn picture if it was the last thing he did. Then who would be the big man? Downing the beer in three large gulps, he set it down with a heavy thunk, keeping one hand wrapped around the glass. Al didn’t turn around.

  All of a sudden the brew didn’t feel so good in Pete’s gut. “Screw it,” he said aloud in frustration, shoving the empty glass across the table. He stared at it a minute, then stood up and headed out. He pulled open the heavy door with a violent gesture, slamming it against the wall before it boomeranged back to close.

  Pushing through the flimsy screen door, he stood for a moment in the emerging sunshine, and jammed his glasses up his nose, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness. Putting one hand on his hips, he stretched out his back. It was going to be another hot one and the sudden change from the dismal bar to this outside fresh air made his sinuses ache.

  He shook his head looking upward. Time to regroup. Time to plan. He nodded to no one, assuring himself that this was going to be a piece of cake after all. The only thing standing between him and the big score was Annie, and she wasn’t worth the hassle. Not with that kind of money at stake.

  He needed it by Thursday. Today was Tuesday. Not a problem.

  Pete grinned to himself and stepped off the stoop.

  “Peter Munro?”

  He didn’t see them come up. Two guys, “cop” written all over them. Moving now, to stand too close for comfort. He felt his mouth hang open and he closed it quickly, stepping backwards. They stepped forward again, minimizing the space he had to maneuver. They must have been staking him out after all. He slid his eyes between the two, judging his chance at a run.

  Still, he attempted a touch of bravado. “Yeah, well, who wants to know?”

  The guy closest to Pete introduced himself and his partner as the two pulled out their identification. Pete made a show of reading the IDs, as though he’d never seen one before. The older one a slim guy, took a last draw on his cigarette and flicked it to the sidewalk, grinding it out with his shoe.

  “We have a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Munro,” he said. “If you’d like to come with us.” He gestured, palm outward toward the unmarked car at the curb.

  In a split-second, Pete knew what he had to do. He nodded, maki
ng it look like he was cooperating. But as the two men fell in behind him, he bolted.

  “Shit,” he heard one of them say. The big guy, he figured. That was the one who scared him. He looked like he was in good physical shape. But Pete knew his own speed and he thought he could do it.

  The sounds of rhythmic pounding behind him fought for dominance with the deafening thud of his own heartbeat in his ears. He scanned the area ahead, trying to decide his best path of escape. Ducking into a gangway between two three-flats, he shot toward the alley and went over the back gate with ease. He could hear the man behind him talking, into his mike, no doubt, but the voice came out breathless. Pete careened down the alleyway, looking for a promising yard.

  As he turned into a gateless throughway, he heard his movements reported again by the guy running behind him. He didn’t chance a look back, but the voice sounded farther back this time.

  Streaking through to a shadowed space between two more homes, he checked right and left, then sprinted to the right. The car had been pointed north. Chances are, if the other guy was trying to head him off, he’d be coming from the left. He ducked into another gangway, doubling back and creeping along the bungalow’s brick wall, checking to see if the guy chasing him had waited. He took in the row of neat yards, separated by matching cyclone fences. No one. He headed back to the alley, with stealth.

  As he crept around the back of a white-sided garage, he knew he’d chosen the wrong direction.

  “Freeze, asshole.” It was the big guy, panting. “And put your hands up.

  ”

  * * * * *

  “Can I get you something?” Richard DeChristopher asked. “Diet pop, coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Annie said, reaching the landing in front of the door to the playroom after a trip to the washroom. “I’m fine.” Since he’d arrived home, he’d kept up a conversation, and now escorted her up both sets of stairs to the third level. He spoke to her differently than he had in the past, too. Eager, almost.

  As she approached the room, she took a deep breath. Maybe now she’d be left alone to finish. Stepping inside, she reassessed it. Nearly finished, all it required were touchups. An hour or so for painting and another to rip up all the newspaper, masking tape, and drop cloths that she’d left strewn about the room. Then she’d be done.

  Crouching over her tackle box of supplies, she felt a bit uncomfortable, as though her jeans were suddenly too tight for such a position. Rearranging herself, she sat down on the floor and looked around for one of her fine line brushes.

  Richard DeChristopher didn’t leave. Feeling his eyes on her, Annie turned. The man made an imposing figure as he stood in the doorway. Unhurried, he shifted his gaze from her to the rest of the room, taking it in, wall by wall, nodding. Even though he smiled in a gentle, beneficent way, his body stood rigid and his jaw clenched.

  “You’ve done a magnificent job,” he said.

  A prickly feeling came over Annie’s stomach. While he’d never been anything other than the picture of courtesy, all of a sudden the fact that she was alone in this big house with only Richard DeChristopher and Timothy made her feel uneasy.

  “Thank you,” she said, wishing he’d leave her alone.

  Taking two steps in, Richard reached out to touch the wall, “So real,” he said. “It’s almost three-dimensional. Like I could reach over and break one of these vines in half,” he snapped his fingers, “like that.”

  As he spoke he watched her. She felt her cheeks warm under his scrutiny and fought a sick feeling gnawing in her gut. Something was not right. She needed to get out of here.

  Annie blinked. “You know,” she said, her voice wavering, “I could probably use a glass of water, after all.” She stood up. This job wasn’t worth the fear she felt. Once she got downstairs, she was out of here, even if she had to walk all the way home.

  DeChristopher nodded in a feigned subservient way, a little grin playing at his lips. “Of course.”

  Annie moved to the door, but DeChristopher blocked her way. “I was going to go down to get it,” she said, trying not to look intimidated.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  Annie heaved a sigh as he moved toward the landing outside the room’s door. Good. Once he was in the kitchen, she’d make her way out. She glanced behind her. She’d leave the paint box and tools here, but she’d grab her backpack on the way out. She’d left it by the front door when she arrived.

  “Timothy,” he called from the top of the steps, never moving far enough out of the doorway for Annie to get around him, “would you be kind enough to bring Ms. Callaghan a tall glass of ice water?” He turned to her. “You do take ice, don’t you?”

  Annie, numb, nodded.

  Turning back, he clasped his hands together. “Go ahead,” he said, gesturing inside the room. “Don’t let me stop you. I just thought that while you worked we could have a little chat.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  George and the station receptionist stood outside the interrogation room. He held one foot in the doorway, keeping the occupants in sight. Bill sat across the table from Pete. They had been about to launch into their good cop, bad cop routine but Tonya’s knock had interrupted the momentum. They’d have to start all over again.

  “He says he’ll only talk to you, Detective,” Tonya said with a shrug of her shoulders. At George’s look of impatience, she glanced back down at her note. “A Mr. Sam Morgan.”

  George eased himself halfway back into the room, nodding to Tonya. “Have him wait,” he said. “Pete. Buddy,” he said addressing the suspect, “I got a visitor. Somebody here who’s got some interesting evidence,” he said, embellishing on Tonya’s information. “And guess what? It’s all about you.”

  Pete’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “So, you got yourself a reprieve for a few minutes. Detective Schumann here will keep you company while I’m gone and anything you want to tell him? You go right ahead. And maybe, if you’re real cooperative, things’ll go easier for you.

  ”

  * * * * *

  “Mr. Morgan? What can I do for you?”

  Sam carried a black leather folder into the office where two rows of steel gray desks crowded opposite walls, leaving a narrow aisle in which to walk. Detective Lulinski’s desk was the second on the left. Except for the two of them, the room was unoccupied, which made Sam feel a bit more at ease.

  The detective pulled a side chair from one of the unoccupied desks, and settled it next to his, effectively blocking the aisle if anyone needed passage. “Have a seat,” he said.

  Sam settled the folder on his lap, and tapped the pads of his fingertips together, measuring his words. “I have . . . that is, Annie and I, have found some notes and papers that make it seem as though Gary Randall was planning a theft.” He tried to read how the detective was taking the information. “A big one.”

  “A big one,” the detective repeated, showing no reaction whatsoever.

  “Gary had a place he kept things, a safe place. Annie ran across it yesterday morning and I just thought that there might be a clue.” Sam spread his hands out. “Or, something.”

  Detective Lulinski sat back. “And you’re hoping that this evidence you have will shift our investigation away from Ms. Callaghan and focus it on someone else.”

  “Annie had nothing to do with Gary Randall’s death. You have to know that.”

  “In my line of work, Mr. Morgan, I never assume I know anything.”

  The two men locked eyes for a moment before Sam pulled out Gary’s paperwork. “Well then, you’ll be open-minded, I guess,” he said, trying not to let his sarcasm show. “Here’s what we found.”

  * * * * *

  George played out several scenarios in his mind as he stood up, tapping the papers on his desk after he and Sam had finished. “Do you have some time, Mr. Morgan?”

  Sam nodded.

  “I have someone I need to talk to, right away. If you wouldn’t mind waiting here for a while.” He g
estured vaguely out the door, “There’s coffee in the break room. Help yourself.”

  George called Bill out of the interrogation room with an impatient motion. Pete’s eyes were large as he caught the signal and George knew that every delay in his questioning now would only serve to make the suspect sweat a little more. Good.

  “What’s up?” Bill asked.

  George told him.

  A few moments later, both detectives resumed their places opposite Pete at the table.

  * * * * *

  They knew.

  Pete licked his lips and switched his gaze from the thin guy to the big one and back again. They knew about the drawing. He could see it in their eyes.

  “Mr. Munro,” Detective Lulinski said.

  “Yes?” Pete’s voice cracked as he answered.

  “You realize that we were able to bring you in on an outstanding warrant. Let me see,” he said. The guy made a pretense of consulting his notes, but Pete knew it was just for show. He knew exactly what he was going to say next because the whole job had been blown wide open. “Yes, here it is. Fraud. Assumed name.”

  Pete nodded, not trusting his voice again.

  Both the detectives shifted positions, as though arranging themselves for a long conversation. The other guy spoke. “But we all know that’s not why you’re here today, don’t we?”

  Pete shrugged, his mind working, playing out all his options.

  Detective Lulinski affected a sympathetic look. “Mr. Munro. You have quite an extensive record here,” he said as he pulled up the bottoms of the anchored sheaf of papers, letting them flip one by one back down. “But nothing of the magnitude of murder. This is a whole new ballgame for you, isn’t it?”

  “Murder?”

  “Gary Randall.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Well, we have some new evidence, Mr. Munro . . .” Detective Lulinski let the thought hang.

  “Who was out there? Who’d you talk to?”