Time of Death

by Nathan Van Coops

  “My hero.” She took me by the arm and led me toward the house. Her touch was electric. Made me feel charged and virile.

  Once inside she took the bottle of wine and located a corkscrew.

  There was a plate of hummus and pita chips on the kitchen island. I sampled some while she poured.

  “I was worried about you after last night. Are you feeling better?”

  “Nothing your pleasant company can’t fix.”

  She handed me a glass of wine. “What shall we drink to?”

  “I always drink to revenge.”

  “So your enemies fear you?”

  “The few left alive.”

  “Then why don’t we drink to the dead?” Her face grew serious.

  “To their memory,” I said, and lifted my glass. She clinked hers against it.

  I took a sip. Delicious. View wasn’t bad either.

  Isla was wearing a billowy tunic blouse that hung off her naturally bronze shoulders. Barely visible below the shirt, she had on tight jean shorts with the sort of rips that came standard. Her legs went forever. Not that I noticed that sort of thing. She was barefoot. The bottoms of her feet could very well have been disgusting. Nothing else was.

  I tried reminding myself she was a grieving widow. Didn’t help.

  But there was still work to do.

  “The police report mentioned Foster left a note the day he died. Can I see it?”

  “I told the police I didn’t want it back. Couldn’t stand to look at it.”

  “You recall what it said?”

  “Hardly anything.” Isla crossed one arm beneath her breasts, rested her other elbow on it, wine glass aloft. “He said goodbye. Something about it being his time. Nothing that really explained anything.” She took a drink.

  “Must have been difficult.”

  “To be honest I don’t think I read it till after the paramedics came. I was too upset.”

  She shivered.

  “I apologize for bringing up painful memories.”

  “No. It’s what I hired you for. And you’re a comfort.” She uncrossed her arms, took my hand and led me to the couch.

  When I sat, she sank to the cushion beside me, her leg touching mine.

  I looked away to keep my mind from wandering places it shouldn’t.

  The house was an open floor plan, high ceilings, stylish. The room smelled of citrus. It could be the after shot of a home improvement show. Everything perfect. Until perfection shattered. I felt for her.

  “You mind if we go through some of the photos on your husband’s phone?” I asked.

  “You really waited? I admire the self-control.” She took the phone from me and synced it with the television to make viewing easier. “What are you looking for?”

  “I’d like to get a clearer picture of what Foster was like. Might help.”

  Isla shrugged. A gesture that she somehow made alluring. Perhaps it was the nakedness of her shoulders. She flipped through the most recent photos. Many were more screenshots of vacation rental properties somewhere warm. Farther back she encountered outings with friends and family. She narrated the events to me, naming the subjects of the shots and where they’d been taken.

  I spotted a shot of Foster at a bar with friends. Place looked familiar.

  “He hung out at Mastry’s?”

  “I thought it was a dive but he loved it. Was going for years, I think. Well before I met him. It was an oasis for him.”

  “How often was he there?”

  “Couple nights a week?”

  “He ever mention someone named Dirk Walls?”

  Isla’s face clouded. “The name sounds familiar. Someone from Foster’s army days.”

  “He ever come over? Invited by Foster?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Haven’t heard of him in years.”

  I should have had more questions but her proximity was a distraction. She smelled divine.

  She flipped casually through photos and spoke freely about her life and job at the Tampa casino. By the second glass of wine I’d almost given up on detective work. Then a photo on the screen caught my eye.

  “Wait. Go back a few.”

  “This one?”

  “One more. That one.” I had her pause on a group shot. She and Foster were at the casino with a group of friends. But they weren’t who I was concerned with. There was also a man, not with them but recognizable in the background. It was Magic Max. AKA my pal Squinty. Black leather jacket. Diamond earring. Looking like a young Joe Pesci.

  “When was this?”

  “That was the night I met Foster. He came to the casino to celebrate his birthday.”

  “You were working?”

  Isla nodded. “Running a game for some regulars.”

  “You know that guy in the background?”

  “No.” She focused on the image only a moment, then flipped onward.

  “Hold up. When was it taken?”

  “Foster’s twenty-ninth.”

  I took the phone and flipped to the days setting, noting the date.

  “You know that guy or something?”

  “Or something,” I muttered.

  She shifted on the couch and her shoulder pressed against mine. She sighed.

  When I put the phone down I found her hand on my arm. Her eyes held me hostage. With her lips slightly parted, she looked vulnerable. Hungry. She finished her wine and set the glass down.

  “Do you know the stages of grief, Greyson?”

  “Some.”

  “How would you classify the one when you just want to do whatever it takes to make you feel something? Just so you know you’re still alive and not the one who died.”

  “They just call that living.”

  “Since Foster’s been gone I’ve been so lost. Like a ghost. People see me but they pass right by. Like they’re scared to even ask how I’m feeling. Afraid I’ll shatter. Or they ask but it’s clear they have no idea what’s going on inside me. I just say I’m fine. Inside it makes me want to scream.”

  “No one would judge you for feeling untethered, wanting something real.”

  “What about you?” she asked. “Do you judge me?”

  Her eyes were riveted to mine, watching, begging for the truth.

  “I don’t.”

  Her fingers tightened on my forearm, then she pushed herself forward and kissed me, pressing her mouth to mine. Hard. Then ravenously.

  She grasped my shirt and rolled her leg over mine, mounting my lap. My hands went to her waist.

  Her hair fell around my face and she took only a short breath before taking my face between her hands and kissing me again.

  Her lips tasted like sex. My fingers tightened on her hips.

  After several seconds of tantalizing ecstasy, she pulled away and transfixed me with her eyes again. Her breath came fast. “This feels alive.”

  She tore open my shirt and put her hands to my stomach, then ran her palms up my chest to my neck. Then her mouth was on me again. She whispered into my ear, “I know I promised you dinner, but how do you feel about skipping to dessert?”

  I pushed myself to the edge of the couch and rose with effort, Isla still clinging to me, her legs twisted around my waist. My left hand cupped the tight fabric of her jean shorts, my right held her naked thigh.

  The bedroom wasn’t far. I knew the way. The couch was even closer. But I relaxed my grip on Isla and let her body slide down mine until her bare feet touched the floor.

  She peered up at me with her hair a tangle, eyes partly concealed by those improbable lashes.

  “You won’t,” she said.

  “Not tonight.”

  “Because I’m a mess.”

  “Because how matters.”

  I could still taste her on my lips.

  “Are you going to stay for dinner?”

  “I’m going to go now, or I won’t be able to make myself later.”

  “I never made dinner.”

  “I know.”

  I relea
sed her hand and went to the door. Isla Phillips watched me go, her knuckles pressed to her lips.

  Outside, I took a deep breath as I buttoned my shirt and told myself I wasn’t a fool.

  Because how did matter.

  And because Isla Phillips was lying to me.

  13

  “Be glad you don’t have a body, Waldo. They’re nothing but trouble.”

  I was almost to the on-ramp for the expressway, still putting my mind back together after my encounter with Isla. My head knew I was making the right call, but the rest of me had questions. Like why had Isla come on to me only after I’d noticed the photo of Magic Max? Was the come-on a distraction? From what? Whatever the reason, it had worked. I hadn’t had the wherewithal to ask her more.

  “I fear I don’t understand your concerns,” Waldo said. “How would your carnal activity with Mrs. Phillips impact the case? The law does not prohibit it.”

  “Call it personal ethics.”

  “You wanted to fornicate with the woman. It sounds as though she felt the same.”

  “Do you have to use the word fornicate? You sound like a nun.” I pulled into the turn lane beneath the overpass.

  “A nun with an accurate grasp of the English language?”

  “Accurate, but out of touch. What’s wrong with sleep with? Hook up with? We need to fit with the times.”

  “Incoming,” Waldo said.

  “That’s not even close to a synonym—”

  “INCOMING.” The accelerator went out from under my foot, launching me back in my seat as the car rocketed forward. A blur of a vehicle flashed in my peripheral vision and something clipped the rear of the car, causing it to spin hard to the left. My hands clenched the wheel but Waldo was steering, dodging a Honda Accord in the oncoming lane. Horns blared. We careened past the Honda, tires squealing as the brakes were applied. I lurched in the seat as we came to a stop.

  “Fuck,” I exclaimed.

  “I assumed that would be too crass and pedestrian for you,” Waldo said. “I’ll use ‘sleep with’ next time.”

  I scanned wildly out the windshield as I clenched the steering wheel. “No. What was that?”

  But then I saw him. The vehicle was turning around. Navy stripe. Raised up, knobby tires. I knew that truck. Dirk P. Walls. What the hell was he doing? His brights were on. Couldn’t see his face, but the truck was aimed my direction.

  “Oh hell no.” I switched the car to manual and stepped on the accelerator. Playing chicken with a half-ton pickup wasn’t a wise move but I was pissed.

  The truck lurched into motion, headed for me, but swerved hard, taking the expressway on-ramp instead. The truck roared up the incline. I shifted gears and tore after him.

  The old truck couldn’t outrun the Boss but he was trying.

  It careened around other vehicles, using the shoulder, cutting off other drivers. Horns blared.

  The Boss roared after it.

  The back window of the Dodge was screened by a decal with a barracuda on it. It appeared to be swimming as the truck veered between lanes on the expressway. Saturday night meant heavy traffic. The road was packed. Dirk’s truck swerved around cars at what must have been close to the truck’s top speed. My speedometer read 95.

  Then the lane ahead opened up.

  Taillights blurred into streaks of red. The truck had to have its accelerator floored. The Boss gained on him, a predator smelling blood.

  He was driving like a madman. Aggressive. Bold.

  But I was better. He couldn’t shake me.

  I only eased off the pursuit when we hit the Gandy Bridge. He had one route for the next few miles. I didn’t need to cause a pileup.

  “You have an address for this asshole, Waldo?”

  “There is a listing for a D. Patrick Walls on Nevada Avenue Northeast in St. Petersburg. Would you like me to plan a route?”

  “That’s Shore Acres. I know it. Just wanted to know where he’s headed.”

  Wall’s truck looked to be slowing down. I lost sight of the pickup as it drifted into the neighboring lane and directly into the path of a tractor trailer.

  What the hell?

  The big rig’s brake lights flashed and it gave a blast from its horn. Then it swerved left, the trailer swinging wildly. I went right to stay clear and was just in time to see Dirk’s truck get hit by the front bumper of the tractor trailer. The effect torqued the front of the pickup into the concrete barrier alongside the bridge. The lifted truck rammed through the barricade in a spectacular eruption of glass, steel and concrete.

  Shit.

  Brake lights went on all across the freeway. Cars swerved. I tore past the scene of the crash but braked hard and veered into the breakdown lane.

  That was bad. No way anyone survived that impact. But I had to check.

  Another big rig thundered past as I climbed out of the car and raced back along the shoulder, wary of inattentive drivers that might not see the accident in time.

  The pickup was in the water.

  I reached the point of impact and noted the bent rebar and destroyed concrete. Pieces of the truck littered the shoulder.

  The water was choppy and dark, but there was enough light to make out the truck. The windshield and driver’s window had shattered and water was pouring into the cab. There appeared to be no one in the seat. Thrown clear? The rear window of the cab was still intact, and the barracuda looked at home sinking beneath the waves. In a matter of seconds, the truck vanished into the bay.

  Shit. I scanned the water. No sign of a body.

  The waves resumed their lapping against the pilings of the bridge.

  If Dirk was somewhere in that water, there was no helping him.

  Sirens cut the night, and blue-and-red lights were flashing in the distance by the time I got back to the car. Traffic slowed to a crawl behind the accident.

  I climbed back into the Boss.

  “Your heart rate is highly elevated,” Waldo said. “Do you require medical attention?”

  “No. I’m fine. Just freaked out. I want to know what the hell just happened.”

  Emergency vehicles appeared in the shoulder at a distance behind me. I’d just be in the way. And I had no answers for them. Not yet.

  I pulled back into the driving lanes and drove on, joining the flow of cars accelerating back to St. Pete.

  What on earth was he thinking?

  I headed for Shore Acres.

  Why would Dirk try to kill me? The bump on the nose I’d given him was hardly enough cause for revenge. I wanted to be angry but the sight of the truck sinking into the bay had left me with a pit in my gut. To be angry I’d first have to untangle the knot of apprehension growing inside me.

  There were things I didn’t know. And things you don’t know get you killed.

  * * *

  The neighborhood of Shore Acres hugged the bay side of St. Petersburg and had earned itself the nickname Flood Acres for the amount of water it retained in a storm. The houses were single-story ranch homes built in the seventies and eighties. The residence of D. Patrick Walls was of similar construction featuring cinder block walls, a screened porch, and carport. Old oaks lined the street but Dirk’s yard held only a trio of buccaneer palms.

  I parked the Boss on the street, pulled a pair of driving gloves from the glove box, and approached the front door. The street was quiet with the exception of snippets of rock music drifting from a neighboring backyard.

  After donning the gloves, I tried the bell, then the door handle. Nothing moved. No sound even. Didn’t Dirk Walls have a dog? My stomach turned at the idea that it might have been in the truck.

  The house had no alley, but a white vinyl gate allowed access to the side yard. The back lawn was sparse, all weeds and sand spurs. Patches of turf were torn up. Small piles of dirt sat beside the holes. Dirk’s dog.

  Brittle PVC patio furniture and a rusted propane grill decorated the back lanai. The back door was locked as well but neatly out of sight.

  I pulled m
y trusty lock pick set from my pocket and set to work on the door. Fifteen seconds. I considered mentioning it to Waldo but he preferred not to acknowledge my activity when it veered outside legal boundaries.

  The door swung open.

  The house was quiet, but something felt off. The room I’d entered was an office. Den? Video game room? Not a bedroom. TV mounted to the wall. Desk. Game consoles. Comfy recliner.

  A red light glowed from a power strip taped to the floor.

  Then I heard the whimper.

  The dog was in a crate in the corner. A white shepherd. Brilliant blue eyes. Its head was on its paws.

  “Hey. You’re a pretty one.” The dog’s tail gave the faintest twitch, then was still again.

  Then came another whimper.

  I eased my way into the hallway and noted the door to the adjacent bedroom was open. Bed was unmade but empty.

  A quick glance down the hall showed a living room and galley kitchen, both unoccupied.

  “Why’d you try to run me off the road tonight, Dirk?” I muttered.

  I walked into the master bedroom, scanned the surfaces and peeked into a few drawers, careful to leave everything as I found it.

  There was an odd smell in the air. Like burnt hair. I pushed open the bathroom door. The shower curtain rail was down and a man was slumped in the tub, his head drooping on his chest.

  I stooped to get a good look at his face, but it was unmistakable.

  Dirk P. Walls was dead.

  And he’d been that way for hours.

  14

  I stared at the dead body for a long time. I wondered if Dirk Walls had plans tonight he was absent from. If so, no one had come to check on him.

  From what I could tell, his assailant had surprised him opening the door to the bathroom and hit him hard. Dirk stumbled back through the curtain and landed in the bathtub.

  Best guess anyway.

  What he was hit with was the next question. There were no signs of trauma to his head or face, but red streaks marked his neck in a fern-like pattern.

  Squatting near the edge of the tub, I tugged at the collar of his shirt and found more of the burns on his chest.

  They looked electrical. Like the one on my arm.

  I donned my sunglasses and hit record, capturing the scene and Dirk’s wounds.