Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  I turned to Barbara. “And that’s where you come in Mrs. Dunleavy.”

  I turned back to Harold. “See, Harold, the strain on your wife had been too much. Our fault, of course, but you can see how it would be. She was suspicious. Very suspicious. Particularly with you instructed not to say anything. So she followed you that day.”

  Harold started.

  Barbara started.

  But neither said a word.

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s what happened. She arranged for the kid to go home with a friend from school, and she got in the car, and she followed you. You can’t blame her for that. You’d certainly given her enough reason. But that’s what happened. She followed you to Steerwell’s. And she saw you go in. And she saw you run out. She didn’t know what had happened, but she sure as hell was determined to find out. As soon as you drove off, she pulled up, parked the car and went up to the house.

  “The front door was unlocked. She pushed it open and went in. Of course, you know what she found. Steerwell’s body was lying there on the floor. A gun with a silencer was lying there next to it.

  “And that, Mr. Dunleavy, is when your wife did a dumb, heroic thing. You can’t blame her for it, and neither can we, but I must say it did screw up the investigation for some time. Fortunately everything’s straightened out now.

  “Your wife saw the body and the gun lying there on the floor. And she jumped to a conclusion. She knew you were into something, and she didn’t know how deep, but she thought this had confirmed it.

  “She thought you’d killed Steerwell.”

  I paused and let that sink in.

  “And that’s when she did the thing that is both dumb and heroic. You may have given your wife a hard time, Mr. Dunleavy, and she may have given you a hard time, and life lately may not have been what you could refer to as marital bliss. But, underneath all that, your wife must still care for you a whole lot, because she took a terrible risk.

  “She thought it was your gun, and she wanted to get rid of it. She picked it up and carried it out of the house. Unfortunately, at that moment, the next-door neighbor came out of her house and saw her. Your wife screamed, panicked, dropped the gun, hopped into her car and sped off.”

  Barbara MacAullif Dunleavy was now gawking at me with an expression identical to the one worn by Harold when I’d been talking about him.

  “Now,” I said, “naturally she’s been in an absolute panic ever since. And you, Harold, you’ve been in an absolute panic ever since. And neither one of you’ve felt you were able to talk to the other. It must have been living hell for you.

  “But the thing is, I’m here to tell you it’s over. Harold, you’ve done a good job, but we don’t need you anymore. We don’t even need you to testify. We nailed these birds, and we got ’em dead to rights. As far as we’re concerned, your job is over.

  “And you, Mrs. Dunleavy, as far as we’re concerned, you’ve done nothing wrong. Technically, you’re guilty of failing to report a crime. Technically, so is Harold. But we’re willing to overlook that. Particularly, under the circumstances. It only seems fair.

  “So Harold, thanks for a job well done, and Mrs. Dunleavy, we’re sorry to have inconvenienced you, we hope there’s no hard feelings.”

  Harold and Barbara gawked at me. Then at each other. Then back at me.

  All right, so it wasn’t brilliant. I told you I’m not that good a writer. It was the best I could do. It was a story with more holes in it than a Swiss cheese. He knew everything I said about him was bullshit. And she knew everything I said about her was bullshit. And they probably both could assume what I was saying about the other one was bullshit, too.

  But I figured it didn’t matter. They could pretend to buy it and ride along. Or they could buy parts of it and discount other parts of it. Or they could admit the whole thing was bullshit. Frankly, I didn’t care. The thing was, whatever they chose to do, they’d have to talk to each other.

  And that was the best I could hope for.

  But the talking would come later. For the moment they were speechless.

  I smiled, bowed and started out.

  It was Barbara who recovered first. I was halfway to the door before she stopped me.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  I turned and looked at her for one last time. Barbara MacAullif Dunleavy. Daughter of Sergeant MacAullif. The woman I’d admired from afar. She had risen and come to the door. And there she was. Up close at last.

  The cheeks were every bit as smooth as they’d seemed. The face so young, so bright.

  Barbara MacAullif Dunleavy. The woman I’d seen in dirty photographs with a young stud. The woman I’d thought deserved better. The woman I’d secretly thought deserved me.

  Barbara MacAullif Dunleavy. The woman I’d done everything in my power to get back together again with her weak, philandering husband.

  I looked at her that one last time.

  I smiled slightly and, I’m sure, somewhat regretfully and then tossed the line away.

  “Who was that masked man?” I said.

  Then I was gone.

  43.

  I LAID THE GUN ON MacAullif’s desk.

  “Thanks for the loan,” I said.

  MacAullif picked it up and slid it into a desk drawer.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said. “Everything go all right?”

  “Like clockwork. Minton and Tallman are going down.”

  “Fuck them,” MacAullif said. “I mean the pictures.”

  “No problem. Twelve of thirteen rolls were duly delivered to the boys at Major Crimes, who were duly grateful.”

  “And Barbara’s outside interest?”

  “He’s history.”

  “And Harold and Barbara?”

  “They’re getting their best shot. Whether they take it or not is up to them.”

  MacAullif nodded. “Best you could do.” He looked at me. “Sorry you couldn’t meet Barbara. She’s quite a girl, you know.”

  “I’m sure she is,” I told him. Holding out on MacAullif was getting to be a hard habit to break.

  MacAullif looked embarrassed. I knew why. He wanted to say something that was awkward for him.

  “I just want you to know—” he began.

  “Skip it,” I said.

  “Right,” he said. “Fuck it. But if there’s ever anything I can do for you.”

  “I don’t suppose you can fix Jersey traffic tickets?”

  “Little out of my jurisdiction.”

  “That’s what I figured. So how’s your three murders going?”

  “One lapsed and went in the “Unsolved Crimes” file, one I’m working on and one Daniels actually solved.”

  “Not a bad batting average,” I observed.

  “Par for the course,” MacAullif said.

  I left him to grapple with the third murder. I was thankful it had nothing to do with me.

  I wouldn’t want you to think I’m entirely forgetful. On the way out, I checked his name on the certificates. The man I’d done the favor for was named William. Sergeant William MacAullif. I counted that as a particularly useless piece of information. I couldn’t imagine myself ever calling MacAullif “Bill” or “Billy.”

  I got in the car and drove home. Alice and Tommie were glad to see me, absence making the heart grow fonder, and all that shit.

  “How’d it go?” Alice asked.

  “Not bad,” I told her.

  “Are they going to get back together again?”

  “That’s up to them. I did all I could.”

  “I’m sure you did. And I’m sure they will.”

  And she was sure, too. Alice has absolute confidence in my ability to do things. I wish I shared it.

  Yeah, Alice was real pleased with the way things had turned out. Of course, I’d left out a few details in my account of what happened. Like the bit about almost getting nailed for two murders and one grand larceny charge. Little things like that.

  So Alice probably didn’t under
stand my reaction later that evening, when she called out, “Honey?” as she has a habit of doing when she wants me to do some small thing for her, like pass her the TV Guide or get a roll of toilet paper or bring her a bowl of chocolate ice cream on my way back from the kitchen.

  “Honey?” she called. “Do me a favor.”

  “No way.”

  Books by Parnell Hall

  Stanley Hastings private eye mysteries

  Detective

  Murder

  Favor

  Strangler

  Client

  Juror

  Shot

  Actor

  Blackmail

  Movie

  Trial

  Scam

  Suspense

  Cozy

  Manslaughter

  Hitman

  Caper

  Stakeout

  Puzzle Lady crossword puzzle mysteries

  A Clue For The Puzzle Lady

  Last Puzzle & Testament

  Puzzled To Death

  A Puzzle In A Pear Tree

  With This Puzzle I Thee Kill

  And A Puzzle To Die On

  Stalking The Puzzle Lady

  You Have The Right To Remain Puzzled

  The Sudoku Puzzle Murders

  Dead Man’s Puzzle

  The Puzzle Lady vs. The Sudoku Lady

  The KenKen Killings

  $10,000 in Small, Unmarked Puzzles

  Steve Winslow courtroom dramas

  The Baxter Trust

  Then Anonymous Client

  The Underground Man

  The Naked Typist

  The Wrong Gun

  The Innocent Woman

  Habeas Porpoise – Paul Levine

  Copyright © 2007 by Nittany Valley Productions, Inc.

  Cover design by Jeroen Ten Berge

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Nittany Valley Productions, Inc.

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  JAKE LASSITER SERIES

  “Mystery writing at its very, very best.” – Larry King, USA TODAY

  TO SPEAK FOR THE DEAD: Linebacker-turned-lawyer Jake Lassiter begins to believe that his surgeon client is innocent of malpractice…but guilty of murder.

  NIGHT VISION After several women are killed by an Internet stalker, Jake is appointed a special prosecutor, and follows a trail of evidence from Miami to London and the very streets where Jack the Ripper once roamed.

  FALSE DAWN: After his client confesses to a murder he didn't commit, Jake follows a bloody trail from Miami to Havana to discover the truth.

  MORTAL SIN: Talk about conflicts of interest. Jake is sleeping with Gina Florio and defending her mob-connected husband in court.

  RIPTIDE: Jake Lassiter chases a beautiful woman and stolen bonds from Miami to Maui.

  FOOL ME TWICE: To clear his name in a murder investigation, Jake follows a trail of evidence that leads from Miami to buried treasure in the abandoned silver mines of Aspen, Colorado. (Also available in a new paperback edition).

  FLESH & BONES: Jake falls for his beautiful client even though he doubts her story. She claims to have recovered "repressed memories" of abuse…just before gunning down her father

  LASSITER: Jake retraces the steps of a model who went missing 18 years earlier…after his one-night stand with her. (Also available in a new paperback edition).

  LAST CHANCE LASSITER: In this prequel novella, young Jake Lassiter has an impossible case: he represents Cadillac Johnson, an aging rhythm and blues musician who claims his greatest song was stolen by a top-of-the-charts hip-hop artist.

  STATE vs. LASSITER: This time, Jake is on the wrong side of the bar. He’s charged with murder! The victim? His girlfriend and banker, Pamela Baylins, who was about to report him to the authorities for allegedly stealing from clients.

  SOLOMON vs. LORD SERIES

  (Nominated for the Edgar, Macavity, International Thriller, and James Thurber awards).

  “A cross between ‘Moonlighting’ and ‘Night Court.’ Courtroom drama has never been this much fun.” – FreshFiction.com

  SOLOMON vs. LORD: Trial lawyer Victoria Lord, who follows every rule, and Steve Solomon, who makes up his own, bicker and banter as they defend a beautiful young woman, accused of killing her wealthy, older husband.

  THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI: Solomon and Lord come together – and fly apart – defending Victoria’s “Uncle Grif” on charges he killed a man with a speargun. It’s a case set in the Florida Keys with side trips to coral reefs and a nudist colony where all is more –and less – than it seems.

  KILL ALL THE LAWYERS: Just what did Steve Solomon do to infuriate ex-client and ex-con “Dr. Bill?” Did Solomon try to lose the case in which the TV shrink was charged in the death of a woman patient?

  HABEAS PORPOISE: It starts with the kidnapping of a pair of trained dolphins and turns into a murder trial with Solomon and Lord on opposite sides after Victoria is appointed a special prosecutor, and fireworks follow!

  STAND-ALONE THRILLERS

  IMPACT: A Jetliner crashes in the Everglades. Is it negligence or terrorism? When the legal case gets to the Supreme Court, the defense has a unique strategy: Kill anyone, even a Supreme Court Justice, to win the case.

  BALLISTIC: A nuclear missile, a band of terrorists, and only two people who can prevent Armageddon. A “loose nukes” thriller for the 21st Century. (Also available in a new paperback edition).

  ILLEGAL: Down-and-out lawyer Jimmy (Royal) Payne tries to re-unite a Mexican boy with his missing mother and becomes enmeshed in the world of human trafficking and sex slavery.

  PAYDIRT: Bobby Gallagher had it all and lost it. Now, assisted by his 12-year-old brainiac son, he tries to rig the Super Bowl, win a huge bet…and avoid getting killed. (Also available in a new paperback edition).

  Visit the author’s website at http://www.paul-levine.com for more information. While there, sign up for Paul Levine’s newsletter and the chance to win free books and other prizes.

  One

  RUNNING TALL

  Just after two a.m., Steve Solomon sprinted along the seawall, chasing the man on the Jet Ski.

  Black wet suit. Black helmet. Dark visor. A Darth Vader look.

  The man shot Steve the bird, then shoved the throttle wide open. The Jet Ski jolted airborne, splashed down, and roared along the channel toward Biscayne Bay.

  “Stop him, Uncle Steve!”

  Bobby, urging him on. Steve had ordered his twelve-year-old nephew to stay on the dock, but the boy was running, too, trailing behind.

  “You can catch him!”

  Sure, kiddo. Leave it to me to capture the bad guy, rescue the dolphins, save the world.

  A quarter-moon hung like a scythe over the Bay. Cetacean Park should have been quiet. The channel should have rippled placidly in the moist breeze, the air scented with salt and seaweed. Instead, the Jet Ski growled like an angry beast, belching greasy vapors in its wake.

  Steve picked up his pace. Years earlier, he had been the fastest Jewish kid on Pine Tree Drive, admittedly a group with more shleppers than sprinters.

  He figured there was one chance to catch the man. The channel ran straight for three hundred yards, then dog-legged right for another two hundred yards before reaching open water. He could cut diagonally across an empty field, the shortest leg of the triangle, and intercept the Jet Ski at the inlet to the Bay.

  Steve looked back over his shoulder. Bobby had stopped along the seawall, either because he was pooped or because he was belatedly following his uncle’s orders.

  Steve ran tall, back straight, shoulders relaxed, head still. He had always been fast over short distances. Stealing bases at U of M, a painles
s ninety-foot sprint. But lousy at distance running. No patience for the training, no tolerance for the pain. Before Victoria, his live-in girlfriend, he’d been a sprinter in his personal life, too. Hundred-yard dashes, hundred-hour relationships.

  Flying now, feet barely touching the ground. Hopped over a fallen pond frond, never breaking stride. Shot a look at the Jet Skier, the dive knife sheathed at his ankle. Calculated time and distance. And possible injuries.

  Knife wound, concussion, drowning.

  They would reach the intersection of channel and Bay simultaneously.

  Steve hit the embankment and drove off his back foot. He launched into space, arms spread like wings, soaring toward the man on the Jet Ski, thinking . . .

  Just what the hell am I doing?

  Two

  FROM BEDROOM TO BAY

  One hour before leaping into the darkness of Biscayne Bay, Steve was locked in the spooning position with his girlfriend and law partner, Victoria Lord, her hair tickling his nose, her sweet scent fueling his dreams. The phone jarred him awake. Wade Grisby at Cetacean Park.

  Victoria stirred as Steve pulled on his Hurricanes running shorts and a T-shirt with the slogan: “What If the Hokey Pokey Is What It’s All About?”

  “Bobby,” Steve whispered. Explanation enough.

  She rolled over, her blond hair splayed across the pillow. “Dolphins or stars?”

  Steve understood the shorthand. Bobby had broken into the planetarium the night of a meteor shower. Lately, the kid had been sneaking out of the house to play with the dolphins on Key Biscayne.