J Mark Bertrand

by Back on Murder (v5)

  I don’t have time for this. There’s a neck to wring. But there aren’t many places to hide in here, so I suspect she’s right about Tommy taking a hike. Who throws a party and then leaves? The more I think about it, the more my tenant fits the bill.

  “Your wife is nice,” Marta says.

  “My wife?”

  “The lady who lives here – she’s your wife, isn’t she?”

  I nod. “How do you know her?”

  “I met her,” she says. “When I was here before. She gave me a ride home.”

  “That was you?” I ask, leaning against the cabinet across from her, arms crossed, not exactly blocking the exit but fencing her in a bit.

  She glances out the window again, nodding.

  “Charlotte, my wife . . . she was worried about you.”

  There’s something false about her sudden laugh. “About me?”

  “You were in quite a state, she said. She even thought maybe something happened to you, that you’d been drugged or something.”

  Her bravado is gone, and in spite of the heavy eyeliner and tight-fitting top, she seems quite childlike and small, almost virginal. And she’s lost all ability to meet my gaze. Still, her voice keeps its hardness, projecting world-weary scorn.

  “I was just a little out of it from the night before.”

  “Are you and Tommy friends or something?”

  “Do I look like any of these people are my friends? I just know him from the bar. A bunch of them come in and, I don’t know, I just thought it might be fun. See how the other half parties, you know? Personally, I didn’t bother finishing school, and if you ask me, I didn’t miss anything. From what I see here” – she nods toward the living area – “I’d say I didn’t miss nothing at all.”

  “How old are you, Marta?”

  “Old enough.”

  “Twenty-one, at least?”

  She rolls her eyes again. “Well, duh. You know where I work.”

  “Charlotte said that when she drove you home, she dropped you at a dorm. If you’re not in school, why do you live in the dorms?”

  “I don’t,” she says. “That’s just where I left my car.”

  “She also said you couldn’t remember who you came with.”

  “Not their names.”

  “Is that a common thing for you, memory loss?”

  She glares are me. “I’m not good with names, okay? That doesn’t mean anything. Look, I said your wife was nice to me. I wasn’t trying to make a big thing out of it.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just concerned. Because if something did happen to you – ”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I’d have to do something about it.”

  The words come out, they float between us in the air, unseen but making their presence felt. Why am I worried? The memory of Charlotte’s distress, perhaps. The sudden though incomplete vulnerability Marta’s shown, or my earlier hunch that her hardness concealed a penchant for abuse. Or maybe it’s all the missing girls at the back of my mind, blending together, seeping out as a general concern for young femininity. Hannah Mayhew, the nation’s absent daughter, and the nameless one I tried to make her into – not even a woman, just a pattern of blood on the sheets.

  And behind them all, the girl who’s always absent but always threatening to make herself tangible, always visible in hints and traces in the face and shape of every woman I see of a certain age. The one I won’t talk about, because Charlotte’s right about the futility of revisiting the past.

  “You’re kind of nice,” Marta says, “in a weird sort of way.”

  “Not really. Not once you get to know me.”

  “Tommy says you are.”

  He has his reasons. And maybe Charlotte sees them more clearly than I do. I’ve been shielding him without realizing why, afraid that a reckoning of any kind could start off a chain reaction, forcing everything into the light. As a consequence, a girl like this, motivated by God knows what undefined ambition, some desire to belong, could come under my roof and suffer – what? Nothing, she says, and I want to believe her. I want to believe I don’t deserve a reckoning on her account.

  “You’re young,” I tell her. “I don’t know what happened to you the other night, if anything did. But your life . . . it should be a lot more than this. I’m just saying, don’t waste it.”

  She hops off the counter, heading slowly toward the living room. “I’m not looking for a surrogate daddy,” she says, “but if I was . . .”

  A surrogate daddy. And what is Tommy to me? An adopted son?

  “Get out of here. I’m gonna be rude to some people. You don’t want to see me when I get rude.”

  “You forget,” she says. “I already have.”

  Tommy’s party ends not with a whimper but a bang, the sound of me snapping the door shut behind the last of his friends. I follow them down the stairs, herding the pack, channeling people into their cars and then tapping the roofs until they pull away. The final car reverses down the drive with me trailing the bumper, hands on my hips, badge and holstered gun gleaming in the headlights. If Tommy gets it into his head to throw another shindig, I have a feeling not too many of these folks will see fit to attend.

  Once they’re gone, I camp out on the front steps for a little while on the off chance my tenant will return. But I figure he’s been tipped off and decided to spend the rest of the night on somebody’s couch. Back inside, Charlotte greets me at the door. I start to say something, but she pushes her lips against mine.

  “You did it,” she says. “Time for your reward.”

  “You were right,” I say.

  “Don’t sound so surprised. Now come on.”

  I let her take my hand and lead me up the back stairs. All is not right in my world, but one small corner is about to get noticeably better.

  It’s Marta at the breakfast table this time, looking just like she did a few hours ago. She sinks a spoon into her cereal, letting milk drip over the side, and Charlotte gazes at her fondly, stroking her hair. They show no surprise when I appear at the door. They both smile at me, both with the same smile, bearing a resemblance to each other that they don’t in real life.

  “I’m all grown up,” Marta says, holding her spoon up like an exclamation mark.

  Then the kitchen door starts rattling over her shoulder. A knock so loud it sends tremors through the floorboards. They turn, eyes wide, Marta dropping the spoon into the bowl, Charlotte covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Don’t let him in,” Marta pleads.

  “Let who in?” My legs take me forward. My hand goes to the doorknob.

  “Please don’t do it! Please, please, please!”

  “Don’t be afraid,” I say.

  “Roland.” Charlotte’s voice. “Roland, wake up.”

  My eyes blink open. I turn toward her. “What?”

  “Someone’s pounding on the door.”

  “For real?”

  And then I hear it. The nightstand clock reads just past six. I roll out of bed, pulling my pants on, sliding my pistol from the holster. An overreaction, maybe, but it’s underreacting that gets people killed. At the bedroom door I pause and turn. Charlotte’s crouched at the bedside, feeling around for her discarded clothes.

  The back door rattles on its hinges. Whoever’s doing the knocking, he’s hitting wood, not glass, otherwise there’d be shards all across the kitchen floor. I don’t open it. I don’t slit the shades for a peek. Instead, I go to the window overlooking the deck, which affords a flanking view of the back door. Tommy’s my prime suspect, and I’m considering putting a round into him. Nothing fatal, just a nick in the thigh. I know firsthand how annoying those can be.

  When I part the shades for a look, it isn’t Tommy at all. I pad into the kitchen, tuck my sig into the snack drawer, then unbolt the lock.

  Wilcox glares at me, nodding slowly. “I should have known.”

  “Known what?” I ask. Then, when he doesn’t answer: “I meant to call you.”
>
  I beckon him over the threshold, motioning in the direction of the breakfast table, but he doesn’t budge an inch. He wears a gray suit and regimental tie. Already, there are sweat stains on his white, spread-collared shirt.

  “I didn’t come here to chat,” he says. “But I heard about your new case. I want you to tell me one thing – and you’d better not lie to me, because I’ll know if you do. Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with Joe Thomson’s death.”

  “What?” I take a step back. “Is that what you came here for?”

  “I know you didn’t pull the trigger, Roland. That’s not what I’m saying. But are you working some kind of angle here, using me to do it? All that work I did with the DA, and suddenly the guy tops himself. And who do they put in charge of the investigation but you? Questions are going to be asked. It’s already happening. Just so you know, I won’t be covering for you.”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” I say.

  “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “It was just a coincidence. The guy’s cracking up, he’s feeling guilty about turning on his friends, and in a fit of despair he dumps one in the brainpan. Happens all the time.”

  “He didn’t just shoot himself.”

  “No? Then what?”

  “What do you think?”

  He runs the back of his hand over his forehead, mopping the sweat. “I think that if you’re trying to play me here, if this is some kind of windup so you can settle the score with Reg Keller – ”

  “They did it,” I say. “I can’t prove that yet, but we both know it’s true. He was going to roll over on them, so they staged his death. What else could it be?”

  “Yeah, but how would they find out? You think he told them?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  I’m not going to tell him about my call to Stephanie Thomson and how she tipped Salazar off. The thing about Wilcox is, he likes everything to be neat. Even at our best, my unpredictability could make him nervous. Pulling over on the highway and switching a digital recorder on so Donald Fauk could do his patriotic duty by confessing to his wife’s murder – that had made his skin crawl. He’d have kept Fauk quiet until we could hustle him into an interview room, everything tidy and squared away.

  But I knew, in spite of everything I was going through at that moment, a much worse ordeal than a superficial gunshot, a pain I would have endured a thousand gunshots to forgo, I knew that it was now or never with Fauk, whether the confession was orthodox or not.

  “You’re upset,” I tell him. “I get that. But you haven’t done anything wrong here, and neither have I. They’re the ones who did this, and they’re going to pay for it. Just stick with me, all right?”

  “I’m not lifting a finger for you.”

  “Fine,” I say, shrugging off the hurt. And it does hurt to hear him speaking this way. “You don’t have to do a thing. I don’t want you to do a thing, if you get my drift. The thing I specifically don’t want you to do is tell my captain – or anybody else, for that matter – about the deal we had in place for Thomson. They’ll pull me off the investigation if they find out.”

  Finally, he steps into the house, a bum-rush over the threshold, getting right up in my face, jamming his finger into my chest.

  “You think I can keep that quiet? They’re gonna find out, my friend. Bascombe already talked to a guy in my office.”

  I shake my head. “He only knows about the past. Not this. And I’m not asking for a cover-up here. Just keep your own mouth shut, okay? Buy me some time, at least.”

  His finger rears back for another peck, then pauses in the air. His eyes drift over my shoulder. I turn to find Charlotte there, wearing my shirt from last night. Her legs look pale in the morning sun. Her eyes blink.

  “Stephen,” she says, doing another button up. “What are you doing here so early? What are you doing here at all? I haven’t seen you in . . . forever.”

  He drops his eyes and backs off, mumbling excuses on his way out the door.

  “Don’t leave on my account,” she says.

  He turns his back on us and goes, not even bothering to shut the door. I hear his shoes tapping the concrete, then his car door slamming and the engine turning over.

  “What was that all about?”

  I shut the door, turning the dead bolt. “Work.”

  While she kicks off breakfast, I go upstairs, running my head under the shower and then dressing quickly, collecting my keys and wallet, my empty holster, my newly charged phone. Coffee is on the table when I return, and so is my pistol.

  “I found that in the drawer,” Charlotte says, buttering some toast.

  I eat fast, but not fast enough. Just as I’m leaving, my phone starts to ring.

  “Who is it?” she asks.

  “I don’t recognize the number.”

  She walks toward me. “If it’s somebody with information wanting to meet up face-to-face, I’m not letting you out that door.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  The voice on the other end of the line crackles with nerves, but after a sentence or two I realize it’s the overeager crime-scene tech, Edgar Castro.

  “It’s a little early, Edgar.”

  “Is it? I’ve been up all night.”

  “Are you going to tell me why, or do I have to guess?”

  He clears his throat before continuing. “The thing is, I’m getting static here from my boss, like they don’t want me to make a big deal out of this. And maybe it’s nothing, but . . .”

  “Maybe what’s nothing?”

  “It’s kind of complicated,” he says. “But I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “It’d be easier to show you than try to explain.”

  “Show me what?”

  “Could you come down to the lab?”

  I sigh, rolling my eyes for Charlotte’s benefit. She rolls hers back for mine.

  “Half an hour,” I say to Castro.

  “Excellent,” he replies. I imagine him on the other end of the line, pumping his fist in triumph. Whatever has got him so worked up, it better have the same effect on me.

  CHAPTER 19

  The moment the gun is in his hand, Edgar Castro’s eyes light up. He uses a serrated folding knife to remove the plastic tie running through the barrel, then eyeballs the breech to make sure there’s not a round in the chamber. When he passes it across the desk, I can sense his reluctance to let go. After double-checking for safety, I release the slide. It slams shut with a familiar metallic snap.

  “Everything look right to you?” he asks.

  I give the pistol a closer inspection. The blued finish is worn down on the edges, probably from holster wear, and the plastic factory grips have been replaced by checkered cocobolo. Along the front strap, a strip of skateboard tape provides tacky traction. The barrel is stamped .40 S&W, the cartridge our service pistols are chambered for. Thanks to my time clerking in the gun shop as a young man, I have an abiding awe for the trusty .45, but over the years I’ve come to respect the smaller, hotter .40. Apart from the fancy hardwood, this gun is a tool, plain and simple, the same as the one I carry every day.

  “The tape’s a little ghetto,” I say, “but otherwise it looks fine.”

  Castro’s little corner of csu is dark, packed with computer screens, lit by arc lamps, littered with a recycler’s dream supply of empty Dr. Pepper cans. The workspace, wiped clean apart from the pile of plastic evidence bags, was created by fitting a tabletop over a shoulder-to-shoulder rank of filing cabinets. He scrounged a desk from somewhere, too, a castoff from the dark days before the current cubicle system was installed.

  He fishes a loaded magazine from a separate evidence bag, sliding it over.

  “This stuff ’s all been checked for prints already?”

  He nods. “It’s cool. Now, does that look right?”

  The magazine’s weight feels good in my hand. I press do
wn on the uppermost cartridge with my thumb, testing the spring’s resistance.

  “I don’t get what you’re asking,” I say. “If there’s something wrong here, you’re going to have to point it out.”

  He takes pistol and magazine back, inserts one into the other, then works the slide.

  “Is that really necessary?” Even though the muzzle is safely aimed at the ground, I wince a little. Castro doesn’t inspire gun-handling confidence. He seems just the sort for an accidental discharge. Fortunately, the other technicians seem to give him a wide berth. The only other occupant of this particular room – calling it a lab would only dignify what looks like an oversized storage closet for high-tech equipment – vacated as soon as I showed up.

  He drops the magazine and ejects the chambered round. It flips through the air, thumping to rest on the gray carpet.

  “Just what you’d expect, right?” he says, setting the weapon down between us. “Now take a look at this.”

  The next item on his show-and-tell list is a double magazine carrier, nice tan leather from Milt Sparks, the sort of thing you clip to your belt to keep spare ammunition handy. Thomson seems to have been a man after my own heart, judging from the grips and gun leather, splashing out for the good stuff.

  “Nice,” I say. “So what?”

  “Look at the magazines.”

  With a sigh I withdraw the mags. They look the same as the other one. I thumb down the top round again, letting it spring back. Then the difference registers. The shape of the cartridges. Instead of the long, flat plane of a .40 caliber round, these are bottlenecked at the point where the bullet fits into the brass to accommodate a smaller projectile. I slide a round out, inspecting the bottom.

  “These are .357 sig,” I say.

  “Exactly. And they’re both the same. Now, the spent brass recovered inside Thomson’s vehicle was .40 caliber, and so are the rounds in the clip we found inside the gun. We dug the bullet out of the door pillar, and it’s .40 caliber, too, and a match for the barrel. So the fatal round was fired through that barrel, from that magazine. Everything is how it should be.”

  “Except this.” I tap the .357 sig round against the desk.