Four Ways To Midnight (An Anthony Carrick Short Story Collection Book 1)

by Jason Blacker

  John nodded.

  “I’m not stupid enough to believe that my wife didn’t know something might be up. I’m sure she suspects an affair of some sort. I mean, I haven’t been intimate with my wife for years. And I know for a fact it’s the same with Ray. Was the same with Ray.”

  “I had the impression,” I said, “that Phyllis, Ray’s wife...”

  “I know who she is,” Antonucci said.

  “I had the impression both she and Curtis knew about Ray’s philandering, with other men.”

  Antonucci nodded.

  “Yes, I suppose so. I mean, I found Ray on that site when I joined about eight months ago. If I remember correctly, Ray had joined a few years ago now, so I guess he’d been sneaking out long before I came to terms with who I was.”

  “Did he mention anything to you about his family being upset, or knowing what he did?” asked John.

  “Well, early on we were discussing how to keep everything discreet. In the very beginning of our relationship he had confessed to me that his wife had confronted him about his affairs. He said she’d found his internet bookmarks and the site where we were both on. She’d even managed to read some of his messages to and from others. That was when he had a really easily guessable password. Though I don’t know if he ever changed it...”

  “No, he didn’t,” offered John.

  “So she was very upset, as you can imagine. And rightly so, I guess. She wanted a divorce but he couldn’t risk it. He serves the same kind of people that I do. If word got out that not only was he dickering around behind his wife’s back but that he was doing it with other men, he’d be ruined.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “He said no. He said he’d fight her tooth and nail, move all the money offshore and he’d do his best to make sure she got nothing. Phyllis hasn’t worked a day in her life and I guess that scared her. But he held out a carrot, too. He said if she’d just bear with him for the next five years, he’d sell his car dealerships and give her half and she could do what she wanted.”

  “How did she like that idea?”

  “He said she begrudgingly accepted it on condition that he not embarrass her. Which I took to mean that he continue to be discreet.”

  “Anyway the son might have heard about this?” I asked.

  “Very likely, he said that it was one of the few times he and Phyllis had a row and Curtis was at home, allegedly sleeping.”

  John nodded, he was scribbling notes in his pad, had been this whole time. I was only getting paid half my rates, so I figured manual exercise like that was uncalled for.

  “But like I said, we were talking seriously of just putting ourselves out there, whatever the consequences. Ray had already started entertaining offers on his business.”

  “How much was it worth?”

  “Ray figured he could get fifteen to twenty million for it.”

  He threw that number out there like it was an old tennis ball his dog had played with for years. Easy, I guess, for some folks to throw around large numbers like that.

  “Our forensics team is working their way through a lot of evidence,” said John. “We’ve got shoe prints, we’re collecting DNA from the victim and the murder weapon. Now’s the time to come clean while we might be able to put in a good word with the DA.”

  Antonucci’s face got a little paler if it could.

  “Listen,” he said. “You’ll find my shoe prints there, you’ll also find, uh...my DNA on Ray, probably, but I swear to you, I didn’t kill him. So whatever murder weapon you think you’ve found, I didn’t use.”

  John looked at him steadily. Antonucci held his gaze for a while before turning his chair and looking outside again. John looked over at me and I nodded at him. We were done here. I had my killer, and his name was Curtis.

  “I shouldn’t have to say this,” said John. “But just to be clear, Mr. Antonucci, stay in town for the next few days while we wrap this up, just in case we have anything else we need from you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, looking out the window.

  John and I got up from our chairs across from his large desk. I turned around just before leaving.

  “You might want to do something with your eyes before you go back to your meeting.”

  Antonucci looked back over to me. He didn’t smile this time.

  “I have eyedrops,” he said.

  John and I left his office and walked past the receptionist on our way out. I grinned at her like a Cheshire cat. She offered a pinched smile that you could bend quarters with.

  We were outside waiting for the elevator when John turned to me.

  “You’re such an ass.”

  I looked over at him and furrowed my brow.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do something with those eyes. Jesus, Anthony, where’s your compassion. Clearly the guy is torn up over this.”

  The elevator door opened up and John walked in. I followed after.

  “Sometimes I’m an ass. For sure, I’ll take that. But this time John, you’ve got me pegged wrong. I was just trying to be sincere. Questions are going to be asked if he heads back into his meeting looking like he’s been crying. You heard him, his business requires him to be discreet about who he is. That’s all. Nothing meant by it.”

  John and I stared at each other softly for a while, like two bulls between an electric fence. John looked away at the door.

  “Okay,” he said. “Sorry, I thought you were being an ass.”

  “All right.”

  “You know that warrant I got for the Hope’s place?”

  We were sitting back in John’s office in the North Hollywood station. It was after six and I was starting to get hungry. I nodded at him.

  “It also included broad access to any other evidence that might be collected. And one of those things was a pair of Curtis’ shoes.”

  I grinned.

  “So you’re coming round to my side.”

  He shook his head and smiled at me.

  “I figured it had to be someone close to him. A homicide like that, well, it isn’t well planned. It’s full of passion and spur of the moment. You know that. You don’t hardly find riff raff in Holmby Hills much, and a guy out there late at night, you know what he’s up to. Especially with a moustache like that. Anyway, I figured it must have been somebody close to the vic, and seeing as we were going to his home, might as well come away with whatever evidence might be kicking around.”

  “Thanks for the lesson in policing. Tell me about the shoes.”

  “Right. So they match one of the two print types found at the scene that weren’t the vic’s. They also match the soil that was there under the trees where the vic was found.”

  “That’s great, but it’s not a slam dunk.”

  John nodded.

  “I know, but Curtis probably doesn’t know that. I want to take a run at him. I think he might crack. We’ll bluff him. Forensics needs more time with the rock to determine the DNA. In the meantime, I figure we might have enough for a DNA warrant. We can play that card with him too.”

  “I like it. When do we leave, I want this wrapped up because I’m getting hungry and cranky.”

  “We can leave now. And if he folds like cooked pasta, then dinner’s on me,” said John.

  “With my help, he’ll fold like a warm blanket right out of the dryer.”

  We headed out and got into John’s unmarked police car. He decided on the I-10 West and then the I-405 North. It was a thirty minute drive before we pulled up to the Hope/Rivera mansion. John put his arm out the window and pushed the buzzer. Phyllis answered and let us in.

  “Let me take the lead on this,” said John as we both got out of the car and walked up to the front door.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  John grabbed the elephant’s metal trunk and rapped the door with it. Now that I was looking at it for the second time I noticed how much larger the trunk was considering the elephant head’s
size. I couldn’t help but think it was some sort of subtle phallic symbolism that Ray had planned. Phyllis opened the door.

  “Hello again,” she said to me.

  John introduced himself. She smiled at him. A feeble smile that wobbled and then fell off her face. She invited us in.

  “Not to be ungrateful, but I’m getting a little tired of seeing so much of the LAPD today.”

  We went back into the living room I had sat in earlier this morning. John and I sat together on one of the couches angled at ninety degrees to the couch Phyllis sat on. Our backs were to the windows, and beyond the windows was the lawn and tennis courts.

  “How can I help you this evening?” she asked, sighing.

  I started to think that maybe Curtis had bailed. That wouldn’t look good on him. Wouldn’t help his case, but a young hothead might do that. We took his shoes earlier in the day. He’s got to realize it’s gonna come full circle.

  “We’d like to have a word with your son, Curtis,” said John. “Is he in?”

  Phyllis nodded.

  “Yes, I’ll go and get him,” she said.

  “I’m here,” he said, walking into the living room from the hallway.

  He hadn’t changed, hadn’t even showered, so it seemed to me. His hair was still messy bird’s nest. He wore the same white shirt and blue jeans he had been earlier and he wore a pair of sandals on his feet. Maybe I was getting soft, but in the right light, give him a beard and he could play Jesus at the local production of the passion. Though in truth, his role was probably better suited to Judas.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Curtis,” said John.

  Curtis sat down next to his mother and started chewing away at his nails on his left hand.

  “You’re left handed?” I asked.

  He nodded and kept at chewing his nails.

  “Can you tell us where you were last night between midnight and two?” asked John.

  “He was here at home asleep,” said Phyllis.

  “How do you know?” asked John.

  “Well, I, er...I was here and I know he was here too.”

  “You were awake last night between midnight and two?”

  Phyllis gave John a long, tired stare, before slowly shaking her head.

  “Then I’ll ask him again. Where were you between midnight and two?”

  Curtis looked past us and out the window. He swallowed before he spoke.

  “Asleep in my bed.”

  He didn’t look at us when he answered. He told a pretty good lie, all things considered. I didn’t pick up any nervous twitch from him. Just a bald faced lie.

  “You really want to do this in front of your mother?” I asked him.

  He looked at me. His face as calm as marble.

  “Your mother, who you were trying to protect?”

  He looked over at his mother for a split moment and then quickly looked away again.

  “What’s he saying?” Phyllis asked, putting her hand on his knee.

  Curtis didn’t say anything. He kept chewing away at his nails like he was trying to chew his way out of a leg hold trap.

  “You know we took some of your shoes out of the house earlier in the day. And we found a match at the scene. You want us to explain it to your mother or do you want to do the right thing. DNA’s coming back from forensics and a DNA warrant is going to be served here pretty soon too,” said John.

  Phyllis’ mouth gaped open. She looked at Curtis who was studying the flora outside the window, just over John’s right shoulder.

  “Curtis,” she said. “What have you done?”

  He turned to his mother then and stopped chewing his nails.

  “I killed him okay. I fucking killed him. He’s never been a father to me, and as for a husband, he treated you like shit.”

  Phyllis looked down and pinched her lips together, frowning.

  “Why did you do it, son?” I asked.

  Curtis turned and looked at me.

  “Because he was a bastard and a son of a bitch. I didn’t plan on it, okay. I was sick to fucking death of the way he treated us. He never had a kind word for me or my mother. Hell, he didn’t even give a shit about me. I don’t think he even wanted me. But that’s not why I did it.”

  Curtis put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. He squeezed them shut and then opened them again. His hands trembled as he tried to find them something to do.

  “Look, I went to confront him. I was sick and fucking tired of him fucking all these men and treating my mother like shit. I just wanted him to leave, okay. Leave us the fuck alone. When I walked down there, I passed that fucking neighbor on his way back. And when I got there, my father was pulling up his pants. I was fucking mad. I told him to stop this bullshit, and he told me it was none of my concern and that I should just go home. I told him he was killing my mother and he told me I knew nothing about it, that I was just a sniveling spoilt brat. That’s when I lost it. He turned around to do up his pants and I picked up the closest rock and hit him over the head.”

  “Oh, Curtis, no, no, no,” said Phyllis, tears streaming down her face. “Why, oh why, did you do it?”

  She was hugging herself tightly and rocking back and forth on the couch. John made a phone call and while we waited for a pickup to come I felt awkward. There was no pride in this for me. I’d sooner people didn’t kill each other. Picking up the pieces afterwards made me feel like a trash collector more times than not.

  “I’m not sorry I did it,” said Curtis. “Now my mother can be free of that asshole, and me, too.”

  I could understand that. I could see how he felt he was cornered with no way out. Doesn’t make it right, though. But parents fuck up their kids like that. Squeeze them ’til the joy and hopeful sap of youth is right out of them. Then you’ve got nothing left but a hot burnt ember. Like Curtis. I’d seen it before.

  I got up and let the two uniforms in and they arrested him and led him out of the house.

  “I did it for you, mom. I did it for you,” he said looking back at her over his shoulder as they led him out.

  But she just kept rocking and hugging herself on that couch. John and I waited until a lady from Social Services showed up to offer some comfort. We let ourselves out then. It was coming up on seven-thirty. I pulled out a cigarette and fired it up. I blew smoke at the darkening sky. John stood next to me for a bit and looked up at the stars starting to twinkle in the sky.

  “The Big Orange is starting to peel,” I said, looking straight out towards the road.

  John grunted and nodded his head.

  “But we did good work and I owe you a meal. Your choice.”

  All In

  It was a quiet night in Santa Monica, and the lazy hum from the cars driving by was like the soft kiss of the sea. It ebbed and flowed with the tide of traffic lights always thinking independently and never sequentially in this part of time. I had a paint brush in my hand with a dollop of red paint on the end. Might've been mistaken for a knife with red blood. But I was painting. It was something called "Time's Mistress". I didn't have a clue what it was about, but I was painting like my life depended on it.

  And it did. Rent was a week away, and the last painting I'd sold was back when Rembrandt was sitting on his father's lap in knickers. Pirate needed food, and I needed a drink, but the drink could wait until I had the money to pay for it.

  It was getting harder to find a decent gig in this town for an ex-homicide detective now working as a PI. Murder and Sons were still on double shifts but folks trusted the cops to figure it out, and that wasn't a bad idea, normally. What most of them didn't realize was that only about one in three murders in this city of sleepy angels gets solved.

  Though the movers in shakers in Hollywood and Beverly Hills who could afford a gumshoe like me got better service and higher clearance rates from LAPD's finest.

  What I'd been feeding myself with were discreet infidelities. What that really meant was the wife was looking to catch her dandy of a husband but couldn
't afford to pay me my regular rates, because you know, he might see the missing money from their joint account.

  Now I'm not really complaining, a couple hundred bucks for a day or two's work wasn't nothing. It kept paint on my brush, a cigarette in my mouth and Scotch in my glass, but it wasn't gonna top up my 401(k).

  Work had dried up like the antifreeze in my LeSabre last time I'd been out to Death Valley. It had gotten so bad I'd been looking at the help wanted section, and thinking about clipping hedges and mowing lawns. At least speaking English was a plus.

  But right now I was lost in my painting, streaking the canvas with red paint that looked more like arterial spray when my cell phone buzzed. I looked at the screen. It was my old pal John Roberts. I picked up the phone.

  "Johnny Rotten," I said.

  A laugh on the other side.

  "You busy tonight, Anthony?" he asked.

  "You asking me out on a date?"

  More laughing.

  "Keep telling yourself that. I've got a guy here who's not saying much. Figure you used to be a murder whisperer."

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm at the Malamar Hotel down on North Sepulveda Boulevard. You know it?"

  "Practically my second home," I said to him, lying.

  "Good, then I'll see you in a bit."

  I hung up, and already my mood had improved. Not because I'd heard from Captain Roberts, but because there was some money to be had for helping LAPD's boys in blue. I got out of my painting overalls that looked like I'd been in a paintball fight and put on my old detective clothes. Brown slacks and a blue shirt. I grabbed my fedora and headed out to see what the night had dragged in.

  I took the Pacific Coast Highway, which at times thinks it's a long dead president before changing it's mind again. The traffic at around two in the morning was quiet. It's about the only good time left to drive down Route 66 nowadays, except the cops are out looking for speeders.

  That didn't bother me, I drive slow. I've never mistaken the LeSabre for Ford GT, and Roberts is fed up with canceling my speeding tickets anyhow. Besides, there's no rushing the dead, and driving along the PCH with my windows down and the salty air in my nose reminded me of the good old days. The forties and fifties. When I wasn't even a twinkle in my father's eye.