by Alex MacLean
Kaufman stepped aside, and Audra crossed the threshold into a small living room decorated with leather furniture and a huge plasma TV. On a corner of the sofa slouched a young woman in brown corduroys and a black T-shirt with the words Kill ’Em With Your Awesome on the front. She was slim, fair skinned, and had dark hair with a coppery tint. Folded laundry occupied the seat beside her.
She watched a movie on the television in which a man was screaming, “Where’s my father? Where’s my father?”
Audra turned to the screen as Benicio Del Toro, restrained in a straitjacket and bound to a chair, was dunked backwards into a pool of icy water.
“What are you watching?” Audra asked her.
The woman rolled her eyes at the question. Then she twisted her mouth to one side and bounced an annoyed look off Audra’s face.
“Wolfman,” she muttered.
“Any good?”
The woman’s gaze was back on the screen. “Meh.”
Audra tilted her chin up, sensing the cold shoulder. No surprise there. Cops weren’t welcome here, and Kaufman probably knew Audra and Allan were the ones who had put away two of his fellow gang members for the Ruben Gamble shooting last year.
And here she was stuck in the same room with a man who had spent as much time behind bars as he had in the outside world. A man who, aided by his posse, had poisoned the streets of Halifax with all manner of crime for the past several years.
Kaufman stood in the kitchen doorway just off to her right. His arms were crossed, his lips tightened into a straight line.
Audra asked, “Can we have a minute? Alone.”
Kaufman narrowed his eyes and made one sharp clack with his tongue to show his discontent.
“Hon, give us a minute,” he said. “Won’t be any longer than that.”
The woman blinked at him, frowned. Then she picked up the remote and paused the movie. She brushed past them and went into the kitchen. There came the suction sound of the refrigerator door opening.
“You want one?” she called out.
Kaufman peered through the doorway at whatever she was talking about. “Yeah, okay.”
Audra looked down at her shoes, back up again when the woman walked into the room again holding two beers. She handed one to Kaufman. On the far end of the living room, a hallway split in opposite directions. The woman went there and hooked a right. Moments later, Audra heard a door close.
“Tell me,” she said, flipping open her notebook.
“Tell you what?”
“Whatever you know. Give me some news.”
As Kaufman popped the tab on the beer can and swung it sideways out of the way, Audra noticed tattoos running across the knuckles of both hands: Live Once.
“News?” The tone of his voice changed, deeper, huskier, dripping with anger and sarcasm. “Someone hacked up my boy with an axe.” He tipped the can to his lips and slugged back the beer.
Audra stared at him. Inwardly, she felt herself wince. How’d he know that fact? Wendy Drummond. Had to be. Damn it.
“When did you see him last?”
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“The axe?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“A little bird.”
“Chirped it in your ear, huh?”
Kaufman’s expression remained flat. He took another hit of beer; the sound of it gurgling down his throat was loud in the quiet of the room. His murky eyes never left hers.
“I know people,” he said.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Is it true?” he repeated, insistent.
Audra drew a breath. “You know I can’t get into the particulars of a murder investigation, Mr. Kaufman.”
He shrugged.
“When did you see him last?” she asked again.
“Saturday.”
“What time of day?”
“Midafternoon. We met at Bearly’s. Had a couple beers and some ribs. After that, we went over to Dooly’s for a round of pool.”
“Did he seem different to you? Tense? Fearful?”
“Todd? Fuck no.”
“Just the two of you there?”
Kaufman rubbed a hand over his jaw, filling the air with the scratch of bristles against his skin.
“No,” he said. “Three of us.”
“Who was the third person?”
“Lee.”
Audra paused, looked up from her notebook. “Lee Higgins?”
Kaufman nodded. “That’s right.”
He seemed to read something in her face or maybe something in her silence, because he added, “It’s not what you think. We don’t do that shit no more. What’s the word? Defunct? Yeah, we’re defunct.”
“The Black Scorpions are no more?”
“That’s right.”
Audra didn’t know what to think. Somehow she didn’t believe him. She remembered the gun, drugs, and money she’d found at Dory’s apartment. Wondered what items could be hidden in this place.
“So you all decided to turn over a new leaf?” Audra said. “Straighten up and fly right?”
Kaufman never answered her. His eyebrows slanted inwards, and his nose wrinkled briefly as if he smelled something foul. Then he chugged the last of the beer.
Audra expected him to crush the empty can in his hand to show his resentment, but instead he stepped through the kitchen doorway and set it on the table four feet away. When he returned, he leaned a shoulder against the jamb and folded his arms.
“Got myself a new life here with my girl, Nikki.” He tipped his head toward the hallway. “Hard for you to believe that, isn’t it?”
Audra regarded him a moment. If it were anyone else, then no. A leopard cannot change its spots, and the notion of Blake Kaufman suddenly shedding his criminal behavior didn’t seem plausible.
Audra spread her hands. “Hey, if you say so.”
“Yeah, right. Why’d you come here?”
“I thought you might be able to help me.”
“Help you?” One corner of Kaufman’s mouth lifted, and he shook his head.
Audra could almost hear his thoughts. Yeah, I’ll help you. Right off the edge of a cliff.
“You and Lee were closest to him.”
“Have you talked to Lee yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Can’t see him talking to you at all.”
Audra visualized a phone call happening once she left here. “Who would hurt Todd? Do you know anyone at all? Give me a name.”
She knew asking that sounded redundant. There was probably a long list of people from Dory’s past capable of committing the murder. People who probably wanted to see him dead.
“A name?” Kaufman raised his eyebrows. “You think one person did this? From what I heard, didn’t sound like it.”
Audra paused, chewing on the inside of her mouth. How much had Wendy Drummond told him?
“What else have you heard?”
“That my boy was tied to a chair and had an axe taken to him. One person did that? Don’t think so.”
Audra remembered the lone man on the security video, the shotgun evidence. She surmised two possible scenarios: one, the suspect was known by Todd Dory; or two, a ruse had been used to get inside the apartment.
There was no sense asking Kaufman his whereabouts on the night of the murder; his physique just didn’t match the man in the video. Not even close. Kaufman had him by a few inches, and he carried a good forty pounds more on his frame. And Lee Higgins was as big as Kaufman, if not bigger.
“Do you think rival gang members were behind this?” Audra asked.
“Could be.”
“Who?”
She caught the smile slink across his face, could see something at work behind those dark eyes of his. She wondered if he and Lee Higgins had someone in mind, if plans for a reprisal were already in motion.
“If you know something, tell me.”
“I don’t know anything. But your minute ended ten minutes ago.”
&nbs
p; Audra shut her notebook with a sigh. Screw this. Coming here had been a waste of time. If Kaufman had information, he wasn’t going to give it up. And Lee Higgins would be even less helpful.
She took out her card and handed it to Kaufman, felt like a fool by doing so. “Here, take this. Please call me if you hear anything.”
He stared at the card. “Detective Audra Price. Who’s that other one I know of? Stanton, isn’t it?”
Audra walked to the door and stepped out into the hallway. “Yes. Detective Stanton.”
Kaufman put his hand on the edge of the door. “Tell me. Is it a sow?”
Audra frowned, turned to him. “Excuse me?”
“What they call a female pig?” He smiled menacingly. “Yeah, that’s it. A sow.” And he slammed the door in her face.
Audra stared at the door for a moment, a bit stunned at first. Then she turned around and laughed. It was all the comment warranted. No anger. No hurt feelings. No flipping the bird. Just walk away and laugh.
She reached the end of the hallway and headed down the stairs. As she stepped outside, she suddenly felt the day in her bones, gnawing at the marrow like a hungry scavenger.
She checked her watch: 5:14. Closing on nine hours already and so much more work to do.
19
Dartmouth, June 9
5:05 p.m.
Seth felt nauseous as he sat behind the wheel of his rental car. Every nerve in his body seemed to be electrified by the adrenaline rush. He couldn’t stop shaking.
He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes, visualizing the face of Blake Kaufman. The man was another pustulant boil on humanity. He deserved to die in some horrible and bloody way.
Nothing but a wooden door stood between Seth and certain justice. Yet he was powerless without a weapon. His greatest fear was falling short and dying at Kaufman’s feet, one kill away from getting the man he wanted most—Lee Higgins.
Seth inhaled deeply through his nostrils when he detected a bouquet of familiar fragrances in the car’s interior. Clean and floral and spicy with powdery undertones. It smelled like Flower, the perfume Camille had worn all the time.
Seth smiled and leaned his head back against the seat, basking in the fond smell of her. Wishing he could hold the warmth of her body next to his again.
“You just need time,” people had told him. “Give time time. It heals all wounds.”
Seth realized that wasn’t true. Time had done nothing for him. The guilt and anguish still squeezed his heart as if it all had happened yesterday. In the months since Camille’s death, Seth missed her more, not less. He wished every day he could change places with her so the world could continue to experience her smile, laughter, and elegance.
Fingertips, cold and feather-like, brushed across Seth’s right cheek, and someone whispered his name into his ear, so close he could feel the breath. All at once, his eyes snapped open and his hands came up swatting.
At nothing.
Heart pounding, he peered into the backseat, around the windows of the car. Nobody was there. He put a damp palm to his cheek, the sensation of the fingertips still lingering there.
“Jesus.” He shook his head, swallowed. “Jesus Christ.”
He met his eyes in the rearview mirror, and they looked confused, scared. Sweat glistened on his face. He took off his ball cap and dropped it to the passenger seat, wiped a hand over the coarse stubble of his scalp.
He needed his medication before he lost it completely, while his brain still had the ability to navigate him home through the logjam of suppertime traffic.
Around him, he saw the neighborhood was getting busier with cars and pedestrians. The longer he sat here, the greater his risk of attracting a second glance from someone in the surrounding buildings. If he hadn’t already.
In his paranoia, Seth imagined a hand picking up a phone, a finger poking 9-1-1. He’d return tomorrow night in a different rental car, find a better vantage point, wait for Kaufman to come outside. Maybe Seth would get a chance to take him by surprise in the rear parking lot. Shoot him dead with the shotgun and leave the body where it fell. Escape before anyone saw him.
But Seth wanted more than that. He wanted Kaufman to see him right before he died. He wanted to see that shock, that final understanding register in his eyes.
Yeah, you’re right. It’s me, motherfucker.
Seth clenched his jaw. Heat, blood, and anger pulsed through his body. He shifted his gaze to the sideview mirror beside him. For a full minute he stared at the front door of Kaufman’s apartment building. No one entered. No one exited. The female cop was still in there, looking for information, correlating stories, sniffing for the scent of a suspect.
A scent of him.
Seth wondered how close she was to connecting the dots. He didn’t think she had recognized him, but some cops—the experienced ones—had good poker faces. You never knew what they were thinking or feeling.
Suddenly, she emerged from the building. She paused on the front stoop, wrist bent up toward her face. Seth watched her open a notebook and scribble inside it. Then she walked to a black Impala parked at the curb and hopped inside.
When she turned the car around in the street and began coming in his direction, Seth sank as low as possible in the seat. He listened to the car drive past with a steady climb in its throttle, then the sound faded away and was gone.
Seth peeked over top of the dash and saw the Impala stopped for a red light down the street. Its left turn signal flashed. Another car came out of the parking lot and pulled up behind.
Seth straightened himself in the seat, drew the seat belt across his chest, and slipped on his sunglasses.
The red light turned green, and the Impala sped off. As Seth watched it go, he remembered bending over Camille’s body and caressing her cheek. He could smell her perfume and her blood, could feel the warmth still present in her limp body. The eyes that had held so much love for him stared up at him, wide and empty.
A cry welled in his throat as the horrible reality walloped him in the gut. His wife was gone, never to come back again.
Hands tight on the steering wheel, Seth said without speaking, I’m going to kill them, Camille. I’m going to carve those fuckers up. They won’t have the things they denied us. Our happiness. Our lives together.
It’s my right.
Not the cops’.
Not the courts’.
Mine.
20
Halifax, June 9
7:12 p.m.
“Hi. I’m Molly,” the placard read. “I’m fifteen and in the tenth grade.”
The girl in the YouTube video looked sad and lost. She had flowing black hair and Eurasian eyes, and a purple barbell pierced her left eyebrow. She didn’t speak, only held up a sequence of placards, each one adding to the story of a tortured child battling through abuse and bullying.
Watching her, Daphne was struck by a particular kinship; their pain, disgrace, and loneliness were eerily similar.
“I’ve been diagnosed with depression, panic disorder, and bulimia,” Molly said. “I blame it on the bullying I suffered in school.
“It started in the seventh grade. I was chubby then, and the kids used to call me Hippo. Whale. Fatty. Blimp. I always got picked last in gym class. I had no friends.
“I thought high school would be better, but I was wrong. It’s worse. Girls spread rumors about me. Boys too. I’m haunted by the mean names I’m called. Ugly. Slut. Stupid. Emo. Garbage.
“They push me into lockers. Trip me in the hallways. Pick fights after school. Everyone is against me. I can’t make any friends. Other kids are too embarrassed to hang out with me.
“I cry myself to sleep at night. I started cutting. I throw up every morning before going to school. No one knows how much I suffer.” Molly paused a moment, wiped her eyes. “All I ever wanted was to fit in. I feel so alone. I don’t talk to anyone. Sometimes I just want to die. This world is so dark and horrible.
“I’m not looking for sympathy.
I just wanted to share my story with you.
“‘To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.’ Gilbert Keith Chesterton.
“I try to be hopeful. It’s hard. Some days, I find it impossible.”
Molly set down the last placard and reached toward her computer. The YouTube screen went black, followed by the words: RIP Molly West. April 13, 1995 – June 2, 2010.
“Oh, no,” Daphne said with a jolt. “No, no, no.”
Tears ran down her face. Molly was dead. How? Did she commit suicide? Probably. Her tormentors had ruined her. Made her life unbearable and hopeless. Drove her to take the only available way out.
They had won.
Daphne got up from her desk and sat on the edge of her bed, hung her head. Clear and sudden images from the past day at school popped up in her mind—the snickers in the hallways, the mixed looks of pity and embarrassment, the bar of soap left in front of her locker, Margi smacking her across the face and knocking her to the sidewalk.
In a moment of strange clarity, Daphne saw herself as Molly West. Alone. Hiding in her room. Afraid of school and people. Paranoid. Unable to sleep. Nervous all the time.
Someone knocked on her bedroom door, and she jumped. Quickly, she wiped her eyes and straightened her back, trying to compose herself.
“Come in,” she said.
Her father, Daniel, poked his head into the room. “Whatcha doing, kiddo?”
“Nothing, Dad.”
“I haven’t seen you since supper. Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” she managed.
Daniel’s eyes narrowed on her. “You sure? You don’t seem like yourself. You barely touched your supper.”
Daphne felt heat creep into her cheeks. She turned from her father’s eyes, a man she’d always admired and respected, whose approval she’d always sought. She hated herself for lying to him.
“Yeah,” she said in a brittle voice. “I’m sure.”
“You know your mom and I worry about you. If there’s anything you want to talk about, we’re here.”
Daphne swallowed, looked over at him. “I know, Dad.”