Had I been dealing with Mulcahy and Seldeen, both of whom I began to miss, we likely would have been talking over coffee in their sixth floor cubicle. Mulcahy would have offered little to no slack, but at least there would have been a familiar tension that had, over the years, become, what, easy? Seated across the interview table from Ebbersole and Taggart, it was all about conspicuous hardball again, and a lingering question as to league; make that bush league.
“But you did rent the car,” said Ebbersole. “Why?”
“I’ve already explained that,” I said.
“Let’s have it again,” said Ebbersole.
“I’m sure it’s on tape,” I said. “Couldn’t you just play it back?”
“You’re not John Q,” said Taggart. “We go over it. Then we go over it again. And then we go over it some more.”
“Consistency,” I said.
“So far so good,” he said. There was a light in Taggart’s eyes that tended to undermine the power of his withering glare. This guy probably had a lot of friends. I was going to go with his being somewhere in his early thirties simply by where he was in his career. Prejudices are despicable in any form, but black people, forgive me, wore age better than did other ethnicities.
“Couldn’t we get someone else in here to help?” I said.
“Are you in distress?” said Ebbersole.
“Your textbook march through this person-of-interest-interview,” I said, “has me wondering if you two will be on pension before it’s over. I need to work for a living.”
“We were warned about you,” said Taggart.
“Oh,” I asked, “by whom?”
“Sergeant Mulcahy,” he said, “and Officer Seldeen.”
Ebbersole cut him off with a manufactured edge in her voice when she said, “Are you refusing to answer the question?”
“Not at all,” Sergeant. “I was merely trying to be considerate of you and Officer Taggart.”
She said, “I find you to be insulting.”
“It would be a mistake,” I said, “to take most of what I say personally.”
A snort escaped Taggart which resulted in Ebbersole’s bearing down on me doubly hard. And there it was, Taggart was not without humor either. This was going to have to stop. “I rented the Ford Taurus,” I said, “because my own vehicle had been rendered ineffective insofar as the case I am working on is concerned.”
“The death of your friend’s daughter,” said Ebbersole.
“Her death was a homicide,” I said.
“The young man in the trunk of your rental car,” she said, “was her friend.”
“I doubt they were friends,” I said. “They turned tricks on the street. They worked for the same pimp.”
She said, “This Russian individual.”
“Stefan Reznikov,” I said.
“On whom there is no data,” she said.
“He said as much,” I offered. “Bragged about it, actually. You have corroborated that fact three, or is it now four times?”
“Be a first,” said Taggart, “in this jurisdiction for a pimp with an organization like you’ve described to come up bupkis in the system.”
“Bupkis,” I said. “Haven’t heard that in a while.”
“Unless he was brand new,” said Ebbersole. “And you don’t show up new on the street overnight with an operation that extensive without infrastructure.”
Taggart said, “How do you connect this Russian pimp with the unlawful transaction that killed your friend’s daughter?”
“Allison Thomas,” I said.
“And the sophisticated harvesting,” he said, “of both kidneys from the young man you have identified as Bumper?”
“Sophisticated,” I said, “is not leaving the boy’s incisions wide open so he could bleed to death.”
“The organs were taken with surgical care,” said Ebbersole. “They were not yanked out.”
I twisted on that and must have telegraphed it again since Ebbersole accrued more enjoyment from returning to it each time she did. “He was murdered,” I said.
“Yes,” said Ebbersole. “The young man was murdered.”
“Because he had talked to you,” said Taggart.
“Yes,” I admitted.
She said, “Is it your conclusion, as well as ours that the young man would be alive today had you not compromised him?”
In trying for no affect, I had to do more than play dead inside. I had to die a little on the affirmative she was about to get from me yet one more time when I said, “Yes.”
“Tell us again,” said Ebbersole, “how you feel about that?”
I said, “You are off the rails, Sergeant. How I might feel is not germane. You have not been able to establish any kind of reasonable connection between my pursuit of this case as a licensed Private Investigator with a vested interest in the macabre execution of a boy about which I have given you a logical explanation. Your continuing this insanity, I’d like to suggest, just because you can, is very close to becoming actionable on my part.”
“Nice speech,” she said. “Let it be observed that you have displayed outright hostility when questioned about the extent of your responsibility in the death of a young man found in the trunk of an automobile you rented on the morning his body was found in the parking garage of your residence.”
I cut my eyes toward Taggart who I sensed was uncomfortable with where we had just arrived. “Is she fucking kidding me?” I said.
Ebbersole’s cell phone vibrated. She snatched it up and read a text message before handing the phone to Taggart who also read it. “We’ll take a short break,” she said, and stood up. But sensing, then, that she may have jumped up too quickly, she remained frozen in place so as to divert the impression she would be seen to be glad to flee the room.
Taggart stood up and pushed in his chair. He preceded her to the door. Cell phone in hand, he read the message again, and turned back to see, or to encourage, or to signal for her to make a move. “Perhaps you can use a moment,” said Ebbersole, “to compose yourself.”
I had already revealed more than I had intended to. I managed to say nothing further but hoped the venom I channeled into the look I gave her had been registered. She walked out the door Taggart held open for her. The camera was still rolling, I presumed, and the medium shot was likely cut to close-up in order to scrutinize whatever tell my response might offer on the heels of her exit. A low grade rumble began in my gut and slowly climbed into my chest. Had I allowed her to walk me into a mine field? Bumper’s curled body in the trunk of my rental car popped like a flash photo in my mind’s eye, especially the v-shaped surgical wound at the base of his abdomen that had dried into a gruesome gash of flesh.
Why had my guts gone to liquid this way? What was Bumper to me beyond a source of information? This was not an accident, or a necessary killing related to investigation. Bumper was killed because Stefan Reznikov had told me the story of his life, and he had gotten it right about the extent to which the boy’s senseless death would affect me. He had been an innocent, a boy with hope and a plan. He had cared for Allison. He had a girlfriend. He had commitment. I may not have been the perpetrator of his death, but I was the cause.
Taggart stood in the opened doorway before I realized he was there. He said, “You’re free to go.” We spent a moment or two in each other’s eye. No telling anymore what I was conveying about myself. No telling what he was inferring either.
I stepped out into the corridor just as Sergeant Mulcahy was about to walk past the door. He looked his usual dyspeptic self, PDD, I called it, Pervasive Disgust Disorder. “Do not make the mistake,” he said, “in presuming that I intend to run interference for you even one more time.” He must have left Ebbersole cringing somewhere nearby.
I said, “Thank you.”
“You’re standing in my way,” he said.
I moved aside. He continued to the end of the hall and around the corner. Taggart had watched him along with me. “Interesting,” he said. “Fir
st time I’ve seen that.”
“Being in his debt,” I said, “is like whatever is next after jumping out of the frying pan.”
“Ouch,” said Taggart.
“No,” I said, “that doesn’t begin.”
Ebbersole came out of a room down the hall behind me from which Mulcahy must have departed a moment before I had stepped into his path. “Officer Taggart,” she called, “I need a word with you.”
Taggart walked past me as I had walked past him in vacating the interview room. “Ouch,” I said. It was under-voiced enough so that I was sure only he had heard it. I might have been wrong, but I thought I saw him wince and stifle slight enjoyment of it as he passed by.
Nine
The first thing I did when the police released the rental car to me was to turn it back in to the agency after paying a hefty fee for the privilege of having driven it home once, parking it, and then paying for the time it had spent in impound. No sense wasting effort, money, or more time on another rental if Reznikov had the wherewithal, within minutes of my having acquired the use of the Taurus, to have had Bumper’s body placed in its trunk. This, followed by the tip-off to Ebbersole and Taggart, and their encountering me at the side door of the Kiam building in the time it took me to enjoy a cup of coffee and a two-block walk. The coordination and speed of the gruesome message resonated what Adrienne and I had observed the night I had Bogarted my way into his van―precision was key in an operation where everything remained in constant motion.
As for the rental car having been a Ford Taurus, I had to laugh at my own behavior. I used to select the cars I drove in collusion with a conceit I secretly enjoyed. Their model names Mustang, Ram, Intrepid, and Impala, during the times I owned each of them, had impressed me as reflections of how I perceived of myself in a given moment, from wild to indestructible to lithe and fast. Leave it to me to have been wooed by Taurus, the bull―an apt reflection of the way I had conducted myself in the ensuing china-shop-circumstance.
Except where the hiccup in my behavior was concerned as regards the bullish Taurus, it was a practice in which I no longer invested. Evidence my presently-owned vehicle to which I returned, Reznikov be damned, a Chrysler 300. Not the top of the line, but not the bottom either. I have never worn a car out in terms of years or mileage. It generally happened that my cars took a beating, part and parcel of my chosen profession. I admit to a devilish kind of exhilaration in being able to total a vehicle and then justify such occurrences, with practiced straight face, as work-related.
When the police released Bumper’s body, and when no one stepped forward to claim it, I arranged to have him buried. I thought I would be his sole mourner. That turned out not to be the case. The Funeral Director offered to say a few words graveside, but I asked that he not. I did not want to hear a one-size-fitted-all eulogy and opted instead for a few moments of silence. My sense of culpability in Bumper’s death intensified over his open grave. I also had the fleeting thought that I should perhaps include default burial costs as a line item business expense come tax time.
A young woman stepped up from behind me and joined in the silence at my side. She had a backpack strapped over her shoulders. It took only a moment to conclude that she was Rhonda, the girl Bumper had wanted to marry. That she stood as close as she did, while not uncomfortable, was unexpected. Like a scant few on an airliner who gravitate toward sitting together, some journeys are best undertaken in the company of others. As we turned away to allow the cemetery men to do their finish work unobserved, she stayed in step beside me. “Rhonda?” I said. She nodded. At least I thought she had. The hearse departed. There was only my Chrysler in the vicinity. We did not stop until we had reached the driver’s door, where I looked over the top of the car at a mockingbird in an oak tree as I waited for her to speak. Nasty birds.
“I have no money,” she said. “There’s no way I could have buried him.”
“How did you get here today?” I asked.
“Hitchhiked,” she said.
I said, “Looks like you’re going someplace.”
“There’s nothing for me here now,” she said.
“No friends?” I said.
“Bumper,” she said. I nodded. “I’m HIV positive,” she added. “He wasn’t. He was okay with that.” The autopsy results had been negative for HIV. I nodded again. “Can’t work for The Russian,” she said, “if you’re positive.”
I said, “Why not?” I knew but wanted to hear it from the street.
‘He can clean up a lot,” said Rhonda, ‘but he can’t fix HIV. His house is clean. It’s his calling card.”
“Where are you headed now?” I said.
“Bus station,” she said.
I asked, “And then?
“Wherever seventy-eight dollars can take me,” she said. I took out my wallet. “Forget it,” she continued. “You buried Bumper. I’m not taking any money from you.”
“How about a ride to the bus station?” I said.
Rhonda said, “Okay.”
We rode in silence as we headed for the Greyhound Station. Traffic was thick and soon came to a stop. “Are you sick?” I said.
“Not yet,” she said.
“On medication?” I said.
She shook her head and said, “No.”
“Shouldn’t you be?” I said. Rhonda shrugged. I went on, “Have any family?”
“Can’t say for sure,” she said. “Last I saw of my mother she was on the back of a motorcycle headed who knows where with some guy.”
“Bumper told me about you,” I said.
“Told me about you too,” said Rhonda.
I said, “He wanted to marry you.”
“Yeah,” she said. “We talked about it.” The bus station was surrounded by chain link fence. All but one bay on the north side of the building had a bus in it. As it was a downtown hub, there was no parking. Most of the patrons arrived on foot or by city bus. Others were dropped off. I had pulled to the curb to drop Rhonda. “Thank you,” she said.
I said, “You’re welcome.”
She made no move to get out of the car, and took several moments before she said, “I never let myself believe we’d actually end up married.” I waited further on her. “Looks like I did myself a favor there,” she said.
Don’t die until you’re dead, I thought, but managed to keep it to myself. She stared straight ahead out the windshield. Rhonda asked, “You happy?”
“I’ve known happiness,” I said.
“Some kind of secret to it?” she said.
“It seems that way until it happens,” I said, “and then it’s as easy as stepping off a curb.”
It appeared to register as useful information to her. “Did you know,” she said, “you were happy when you were?”
I had to think carefully about that. “Not always,” I said.
This, too, appeared meaningful for her. “Is it enough?” she asked.
I said, “Yes.”
“Bumper knew the secret,” she said.
That did not surprise me. What little I had seen of him was not unhopeful. I took out my wallet and gave Rhonda one of my cards.
“What’s this for?” she said.
“Way to reach me if you need it,” I said.
She asked, “And if I called?”
“I’d listen,” I said.
She turned and looked me in the eye, deciding if she could trust what I’d said. Then she said, “You going to find whoever killed Bumper?”
“Yes,” I said.
Her scrutiny intensified. “God help me,” she said, “I believe you.”
I said, “You sure leaving town is the answer?”
“Ask me what I do,” she said, “and I’ll tell you I start over. It’s what I know.”
We both arrived at the moment where it was clear there was nothing more to say. Rhonda got out of the car, looked for a way into the bus yard through the chain link fence, then headed off without looking back. I waited until she had disappeared into the termi
nal before pulling away.
Ten
I was gun shy of pursuing other innocent souls who might end up collateral damage as pointed messages to me. Too, I was tired of burying people. I decided to focus on those who had reason to meet with Reznikov as part of the pick-up and drop-off orchestration in his roving business model. They seemed less innocent than did the foot soldiers.
First I had to locate the van again, which was going to involve equal parts persistence and luck. I could troll downtown in hopes of a chance encounter, as before. Or, I could plant myself where traffic remained steady on the promise that at some point the van would have to appear. The hunter creates a blind in which to wait where his prey will inevitably appear. In the absence of another idea, this presented as sound to me. The luck component engaged upon my finding a parking spot behind a pick-up with a shell covering its bed just off Main Street.
I selected Main Street to watch because it was, well, Main Street, a name that accrued to itself a sense that watching it would yield more than would the watching of, say, Austin, Travis, or San Jacinto Streets, as they were not the main street. It was safe to assume that Reznikov did not stay on the move in order to see the sights. He was a self-proclaimed shark that needed to stay on the move in order to keep water and oxygen moving through its gills. Therefore, it made sense for me to locate myself opportunely and to be ready for what passed by. Main Street was busy.
While trying to ward off a nagging suspicion that the effort would end up fruitless, I gave myself to considering why Reznikov got involved with prostitution if the real payday was the sale of body parts? One appeared to work against the other. Conventional wisdom would have a legal concern fronting the illegal one in order to hide it. Whereas, in this instance, Reznikov had an illegal enterprise acting as the shill for an even more dastardly illegal one. I recalled an absurd science fiction story wherein the superior intelligence was inhabited by worms who offered that the meaning of life was actually quite simple―a means of keeping the meat fresh until it was needed.
Spare Parts: A Ted Mitchell Detective Novel (Ted Mitchell Detective Novels Book 4) Page 7