Moonlight Falls (A Dick Moonlight PI Series Book 1)

by Vincent Zandri

  Joy turned to Cain, blue eyes gaping open.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, as if to say What do I do?

  If this had been a cartoon, Cain’s jaw would have dropped to the floor.

  He asked, “What are you doing, old partner? You know the score. We just send her on for burial.”

  “She’s got to be cut open before I can make a final decision on your bogus suicide theory,” I said. “You know all suicides and homicides go under the knife. And I’ve got a witness to back me up in my methodology and procedure.” I shot Joy a look like You’re it! “Which means, we’ve got the lab and toxicology to consider.”

  Mitch took a step forward, a cup of Seven-Eleven coffee steaming in his right hand.

  He said, “Look at her for God’s sakes, Moonlight. Look at all the blood. She got drunk out of her mind, cut her own chest open, then finished herself off at the neck. End of story.”

  He’s right. Bury her. Bury the body of evidence. Bury anything that might point to you as a killer.

  I said, “Show me a means of death, Mitch. . . Show me a weapon.”

  The furrows on Cain’s brow were scrunched and deep. His unblinking slate-gray eyes told me he could not believe this was happening.

  “Jake panicked, deep-sixed the blade,” he insisted. “I don’t know where precisely or I’d go get it.”

  Jake had tossed the very blade that would prove the suicide theory.

  I wasn’t buying it for an instant.

  “I want an autopsy, Mitch. I want tox to test for drugs. I want to interview Jake.”

  “All in that order?” Cain said under his breath. “What if I decide to dismiss you?”

  “I go straight to O’Connor,” I bluffed.

  Cain, nodding, resigned, knowing that for the first time, I was determined to go by the book.

  The uniformed Joy, ever in the background, kept his mouth shut, myopic eyes glued to the tops of his shoes. Behind him, two or three A.P.D. cops paced the hall, listening in on our conversation— witnessed it.

  “My Lord, Moonlight, you been reading too many mysteries in your spare time.”

  “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

  “Maybe you should think about it this way,” Cain added. “Whose side is I.A. gonna take? A part-timer’s with a memory problem or mine?”

  “Memory’s not the problem,” I said. “It’s a slightly damaged cerebral cortex; an occasional inability to discern what’s right from wrong.”

  He stepped up to my ear. “A simple case of brain damage,” he whispered.

  I stuffed the rubber gloves into my old partner’s coffee cup and walked out.

  13

  I spotted Lola’s silver Subaru parked up against the concrete curb as soon as we made the corner onto Hope Lane. Consciously or not, I knew that I had been looking for it; looking for her. I knew she must have tried to call the house while I was gone. When she got no answer other than the machine, she must have closed up her lab early and made her way over.

  Sometimes I couldn’t be trusted.

  Five after four in the morning. The rain had stopped once more. The air was damp and cold. It had a ripe, gamey smell to it. Probably from the worms that had washed up onto the concrete sidewalk.

  My chest and head felt heavy.

  I made my way up the slate stairs that led to the front portico of the split-level. Joy took off, headed south back towards the downtown. I wondered if the kid ever slept. Maybe he was an android.

  The bile was still bubbling inside my stomach.

  Now that I was alone with the night sky, I could plainly feel it. Nausea, sneaking up on me.

  Once inside the house, I knew I was going to lose it.

  I bolted through the vestibule into the bathroom off the kitchen. I dropped to my knees and retched. All of it was coming out of me. My fear, my confusion. My guilt for what had happened to Scarlet, for denying our past together, for my bolting the scene instead of standing by her side, standing up to Jake. I was sick and sad for her life and her death.

  I was sick and sad that I might have had something to do with it.

  I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out the bloodied t-shirt, wiped my mouth. Some of Scarlet’s blood got onto my tongue. The taste of her blood made me sick a second time.

  The blood of a woman who was both dead and alive for me.

  When I was empty, I tossed the shirt into the dirty laundry hamper under the counter. Then I rinsed my mouth out in the sink. The taste would not go away. I feared it would stay with me forever, like the memory of her touch, her smell, her smile, her soft auburn hair.

  After a time, I went back to the front door and bolted the lock.

  Rather than call up to Lola, I stood at the bottom of the stairs. I listened for the sound of her breathing. It was impossible to hear anything. I pictured her curled up in my bed, long black hair covering the side of her long face, full lips trembling gently as she slept and breathed.

  Lola Ross, the psychologist assigned to my case file after my accident.

  She’d been assigned on recommendation by my Council 82 Union rep up in Albany to work in close contact with both my New York City neurologist and my local general physician in order to ensure that my brain—such as it was—functioned properly. Or, as properly as could be expected considering the constant threat of occasional blackout, memory loss and/or lapse in judgment. There was only so much that could be expected from white and gray matter that had a bullet frag lodged inside it.

  I went back into the kitchen, pulled a clean coffee mug from out of the dishwasher and the bottle of Jack from the wall-mounted cabinet above it. I sat myself down at the kitchen table, poured myself a shot and drank it down in one swift swallow. Then I poured another with the intention of sipping it.

  I decided then to try and make some kind of sense out of what had happened last night.

  I thought about two different Scarlet Montanas. The first one alive and sexy, kissing me with a full, soft mouth. The other lying naked, flat on her back, throat cut from ear to ear, chest bearing puncture wounds and scrapes.

  The first thing I had to do was get it out of my head that I had played a part in Scarlet’s killing. What I had to do was relegate my paranoia to. . . well. . . paranoia. If I didn’t start looking at Scarlet’s death as a murder somebody else had committed, then I would lose the one chance I had for finding out who the real killer was and how he or she could have done such a thing to such a sweet girl.

  Who the hell could have mutilated her if she hadn’t managed it herself?

  Where was Jake through this whole thing and why wouldn’t Cain let me talk to him if they didn’t have something to hide or, on the other hand, they didn’t have something on me?

  Where had the weapon of death gone? Had it just disappeared? Could I possibly trust Cain when he told me that Jake had somehow disposed of it in all his grief?

  If Cain wanted me to rubberstamp what obviously required a full police investigation, what the hell could he be covering up?

  Questions but no answers.

  I did have whiskey.

  At times like these, sometimes whiskey was all the answer you needed.

  I drank down what was left in my cup, poured one more shot and drank it down. I felt the smoky-tasting liquid coat the back of my throat, trickling down my insides like Mother’s medicine. I hoped it would erase the taste of blood in my mouth.

  No such luck.

  The truth of the Scarlet Montana matter was this: without an opportunity to open her up, I wouldn’t know a goddamned thing. Sure, they could go to another dick to corroborate their suicide conclusions. But that might be too risky for them at this point.

  I’d already been witness to too many things. They had no choice but to work with me. In turn, maybe I could control the situation for Scarlet. For me.

  Whether I followed their rules of engagement or not.

  14

  Dawn.

  I slipped into bed beside Lola, spooned ag
ainst her, felt her smooth, warm skin against my own. I ran my hand down her smooth leg and leaned into her. Maybe we weren’t lovers yet, but we had something between us, Lola and me. A trust, a bond. Not that we had to keep our relationship a secret, but she was risking her livelihood by sleeping with me in the same bed. Even if nothing sexual was going on, (we were still wearing our underwear!) she’d been there for me—for my head—ever since my accident. We’d developed an attraction. No, that’s not right. It was more than an attraction—a kind of symbiosis, like two puzzle pieces fitting together. What we didn’t have together was precisely what Scarlet and I did have— a sexual relationship.

  For now. . .

  Abstinence, or so Lola claimed, was the one thing that would make our friendship last.

  She rolled over and smiled.

  “I was worried,” she said. “You didn’t return my phone calls.”

  “Jake and Cain called me in.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why did they call you in?”

  I told her why.

  When I was through it was almost full light out. Some of the gray-filtered daylight leaked in around the drawn blinds. Maybe Lola and I were just friends on our way to becoming something more serious, but then sometimes friend-to-friend honesty can still be a real bitch, because she didn’t offer up anything in response to my night with Scarlet—before her death and after. No opinion about my apparent lack of control; my decision to do the wrong thing by once more sleeping with someone as vulnerable as Scarlet.

  Nothing. Because my right mind, it’s not always right.

  But then it’s not like she up and walked out on me either.

  Instead, in typical Lola fashion, she just rolled back over onto her side, facing the opposite direction.

  “This is why we don’t have sex,” she whispered.

  Quietly, she got out of bed, put on one of my robes, and went downstairs to make the morning coffee.

  15

  In my dream, I see her.

  She is as real to me as she was last night. Flesh and blood and that soft auburn hair.

  She comes to me where I’m lying in my bed. She is fully naked, but no longer cut up or scarred. She bends over, kisses me gently on the lips.

  She says, “I’m alive. I’m happy now. I don’t need to be rescued.”

  She turns, disappears. . .

  But then the dream changes.

  I’m back inside my kitchen. Outside the big picture-window I can make out clear blue sky and leafless trees blowing in the cool wind. Football weather. There’s a glass of whiskey set out on the table, an open bottle beside it. Set in between the bottle and the drinking glass are six .22 caliber bullets. But I only need one.

  I open the revolver cylinder, slide the single bullet inside, slap the cylinder closed.

  I raise the gun up to my head, press the barrel against my right temple, cock back the hammer. I feel my body trembling, the tears running from my eyes, down my face, and dripping off my chin. There’s a beautiful red robin perched outside my window. I’m staring into its black eyes. I smile. I begin to squeeze the trigger. But that’s when I see the face of my boy. My grip loosens. The pistol begins to drop from out of my hand at the exact moment the hammer comes down. . .

  When I woke, I thought I heard the rain. But I was mistaken. The shower was running.

  Short, sharp rivulets against the old glass-enclosed shower stall in the bathroom. I looked at the empty space that once contained Lola. Now just a dented pillow and a rumpled sheet.

  Is there anything lonelier?

  I sank down further into the bed, closed my eyes, and tried like hell to fall back to sleep.

  It was nearly mid-afternoon by the time I woke up.

  I needed my sleep. Doctor’s orders. I needed my exercise too. Also doctor’s orders.

  The running and the weights would have to wait until that night, however. Half the day was already gone.

  I was feeling more awake by the time I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist. A few minutes later I was downstairs in the kitchen, washing down a vitamin and an anti-inflammatory with cold orange juice. I mixed my protein shake while sipping on a cup of hot coffee. Decaf.

  After downing my shake, I opened the front door to retrieve what had been the morning paper. Maybe the sky was still overcast, but it was impossible not to see him - the white-skinned man standing at the foot of my driveway. A whiter-than-white-skinned man dressed in a black jacket, pants, and boots. He wore sunglasses as if to protect his eyes from the sun on a rainy day. He looked at me from across the lawn and smiled.

  There was a blue Toyota Land Cruiser parked behind him, the engine still running.

  I bent over in my towel, feeling the chill in the afternoon air, and picked up the paper. Not knowing what else to do, I smiled back at him.

  Then he did something that took me by surprise.

  He lifted his right hand and making a gesture like a knife with extended index finger, ran it across his neck. From where he stood at the foot of the driveway, I could hear him laughing.

  I didn’t waste a second. I ran back inside, tossing the paper onto the vestibule floor.

  Up in the bedroom I found my loaded Browning Hi-Power 9mm in the drawer of the nightstand.

  By the time I made it back outside the strange-looking man was already in his car, speeding north on Hope Lane towards the interior of the development.

  Hope is shaped like a horseshoe.

  I knew there was a chance I might intercept the son of a bitch as he exited the opposite southeast side.

  I was dressed in a bath towel, no shoes. I had to hold the towel tight around my waist while I ran along the main road, Browning out front, all the time the wet gravel cutting into my heels and soles.

  In the end, I wasn’t even close.

  In the time it took me to cover half the distance between my house and the other side of the horseshoe, the Toyota was already making its way due east along the main road.

  I stopped, sucked in a deep breath and passed out.

  16

  When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was that the blue Land Cruiser was pulled up alongside the road. The second thing I noticed was that the pale-skinned man was standing directly over me. He must have seen me fall to the pavement; must have caught sight of me in the rearview. He was kneeling over me, maybe to get a closer look at my face. I was trying to raise up the Browning and aim it at him. But my right arm was dead.

  The albino man dropped down on one knee. He was wearing dark aviator sunglasses, even on a cloud-filled day. He had a bald head, red lips, and tongue. Kneeling there, he coughed up a wad of phlegm and spit it out onto the narrow strip of gravel-covered shoulder.

  When I worked up the strength to talk, I asked him who the hell he was, why he’d been standing outside my house. He just raised an index finger and pressed it to pursed lips.

  “Shhh,” he smiled. “Try not to talk, yes?” He spoke heavily accented English.

  From where I lay, I could see that his black t-shirt was sticking out of his pants, his jacket pulled back. It was hiked up above his waist, exposing a jagged purple scar along his left side, just above the hip bone. I guess he noticed me noticing him, or his grotesque scar anyway, because his face suddenly went stone stiff. Reaching down, he picked up my Browning. My hand lifted up along with it. When he let go, the whole thing just slapped back down to the ground.

  A car went by and then another. The second one slowed down a little as it passed, but then sped up again. The albino man stood up, brushed off his knees.

  “You do what you are told, yes?” he said.

  Then without another word got back in his ride and burned rubber.

  What the hell was happening? Who the hell was the albino man? Was it possible he was Scarlet’s killer? Or was he simply some creep I helped put away a long time ago? You never knew in my business. Criminals were paroled. You couldn’t fight th
e system. But then, I think I would have remembered somebody that white; somebody that creepy; somebody carrying that kind of shark-bite scar tissue on his side. Maybe he was a hatchet man hired by Cain or Jake to keep me in order. But that didn’t make any sense either. Jake had no reason to threaten me with anything. I was the one man he was counting on to do what he wanted me to do.

  There and then I made the decision to start packing my Browning again.

  I had been pretty bad about it since my accident. Carrying it only when absolutely necessary, especially in light of my permit being revoked. Even the cops wouldn’t allow a man in my condition to carry a loaded firearm. On the record, that is.

  Off the record, they insisted that I carry it. Still, I felt better sometimes without it. I don’t know why I should feel better, especially when my line of work involved the occasional shoot-or-be-shot. I suppose it all had to do with the death thing. Rather, the proximity of death. As for me, I might have felt healthier than an ox, but with every minute of every day I could see, taste and smell my death as if it were being hastily prepared for me by some higher authority.

  A bullet fragment was lodged in my head.

  The doctors had assured me that one day the fragment was going to shift and leave me, for all intents and purposes, brain dead. Or just plain dead. That would be the day that Moonlight falls for good.

  That was my reality. It was also my son’s reality whether he knew it or not.

  Lifting myself up off the damp ground, I breathed in deep and felt the life return to my right arm. A car went by. It was full of kids. High school kids. They yelled something out the window and whistled. I tightened the towel around my waist, about-faced and began my half- naked march back home.

  For now anyway, Moonlight lives.

  17

  Back inside the kitchen I washed my hands and face, picked out some excess gravel from my knees, the mud from my feet and dried myself off with a dish towel. For a while, I just leaned myself against the counter and took a nice quiet breather. I waited for my pulse to slow, my temples to stop throbbing.