Dying to Play

by Mark Zubro

  Through the open doorway, I saw flashes and heard sounds of occasional emergency vehicles. I assumed the police weren’t at my door because I’d managed to foil the plan to implicate me. They were all out at the condo with the corpse and the media circus I’d done my best to insure.

  As I waited for the smell to clear, I tried to figure out what the hell was going on. I wondered who put the body there. Rotella and his police were high on my suspect list. There was one killer or group of killers who had the skills to concoct a lethal dose of some combination of meds, get it into Skeen’s drug regimen, and know what that regimen was. The person or persons unknown also had the ability to shoot, and was either a very, very lucky shot or an expert marksman deliberately missing. Those involved had to be strong enough to break a windshield with a large rock and tote a body around.

  If it was a conspiracy there were several possible combinations. Rotella and his police force had the manpower combined with whatever local faction the chief of police favored.

  Although injuring some of their own didn’t make a lot of sense. Maybe, as Hempil said, the town fights infested the police department? If that were true, someone would have had to plan for those two guys to be on duty. That was a stretch. Or maybe just one of them if that one was the intended victim and the other was just collateral damage.

  Then Old Charlie Hopper, depending on the strength and willingness of his college student helpers and documented or undocumented workers could supply muscle or expertise. Lots of amorphous combinations.

  I finally closed the door. I slept on the floor.

  THURSDAY 6:23 A.M.

  Great bombastic pounding on my door wakened me. I threw on black silk boxers and opened the door. It was Rotella. Not quite the vision I would prefer to wake up to in the morning.

  “Get dressed,” he ordered.

  I yawned. Glanced around. He and half his police department’s cars filled the line of parking spaces in both directions in front of my room. Mouths agape, several of the other inhabitants of this pathetic dive were at their doors.

  I decided to ignore his command to dress. I didn’t mind conducting a nearly naked interview. I sat on the edge of the bed, well aware that my gun was easily discoverable a few feet away with my permit a few more steps to its left in the wallet in my pants. He entered but didn’t shut the door behind him.

  With all the innocence and boredom I could muster, I asked, “What’s up?”

  “We know Czobel’s body was in here.”

  I looked around. “I don’t see it.”

  “It’s not here now, you moron.”

  “Why do you think it was here? Did you put it here? If you knew it was here, why didn’t you come in and get it and arrest me?”

  He didn’t mention me telling other people Czobel was dead. They didn’t believe me? They didn’t tell? They were the killers?

  “Don’t dick around with me asshole. I’ve been up all night with a dead body and idiot reporters. I found it hard to tell the difference.”

  “I imagine you would.”

  He raised his fist. I was prepared to defend myself. I also reminded myself that one of the wiki-entries on stupid most likely included sections on not riling local cops especially after all the headlines of all the people shot by cops in the post-Ferguson era.

  He controlled himself with an effort. Through clenched teeth, he asked, “Where’d you go yesterday?”

  “Am I charged with a crime?”

  Silence.

  “You want trouble from me?” Rotella asked.

  Against the open door and the rampant humidity, the air-conditioner gave a loud crank, crrrrack, groaned, and died.

  He and I gaped at it for a few seconds. It gave off a puff of acrid smoke then settled in silence.

  Rotella and I went around and around. I wondered if he was the killer and responsible for the dead body in my room. It would have been logical. I just wasn’t sure how probable.

  Finally he said, “And I’m not sure why Connor Knecht still has you hanging around the team. Since you got here, people have died.”

  I said, “I heard I have that effect on people.”

  “You think this is a joke?”

  If I’d said what I wanted at that moment, ‘no, but you are,’ he’d probably have arrested me, corpse or no corpse.

  I said, “There’s no dead body here. Do you have a connection with me and someone’s death?”

  He grumbled, “Not enough of one yet. Watch yourself.”

  A woman as slender as Bacall in To Have and Have Not walked through the door. She wore a clinging pink skirt, tight-fitting red jacket, a white blouse with an immense collar, low slung sandals, and a pink and red feathered hat with a white veil that came to the middle of her nose.

  Georgia De’Jungle slunk up to the sheriff and said, “Good morning,” in a throaty whisper.

  “Who the hell are you and how did you get past all the cops outside?” Rotella demanded.

  She placed a perfectly manicured, delicate hand on his arm for just a second. I detected the barest whiffs of seductive perfume.

  She purred. “Have I intruded? I apologize.” She touched him again for the briefest moment. Most of the front of her was within an inch or two of him. Especially where the front of his uniform pants now began to bulge.

  The sheriff said, “I have questions for this man. Do you know him?”

  Georgia looked at me and smiled. “I’d like to, but I want to know you better.” This time she let her hand linger where his bicep met his sleeve.

  Duncan bustled into the room. Two Butterfield uniformed officers followed him.

  Georgia’s fingertips caressed Rotella’s arm. Seduction as an investigative tool? Well, it worked for James Bond.

  The sheriff smiled at Georgia. For the moment I was forgotten. Georgia linked her arm with the sheriff’s and with a flourish of the clutch in her other hand, swept him out the door. The two officers followed.

  Duncan watched them go for a second, began to close the door, and said, “How does she do that?”

  “Magic? Don’t close the door. It’s too hot.” I smelled my armpits. “I need a shower.”

  My skin felt cool for a few seconds after I got out of the shower, but the humidity quickly forced a sheen of sweat to appear. I threw on a few clothes while Duncan and I talked.

  I asked, “Why’d you guys show up?”

  “It’s all over the Internet about a body being found in Tyler Skeen’s condo. You called the cops?”

  “And the media. I didn’t want just the locals in on this.”

  “Why keep staying here? Your cover is kind of pointless.”

  “Find a spot for all of us. Move the satellite office to Butterfield. There’s no need to conceal it.”

  “I’ll take care of it. What’s today’s agenda?”

  “I talk to the locals and see if I can’t get some insight into all this crap.”

  He went to move the office. I grabbed some coffee at Millie’s.

  THURSDAY 8:49 A.M.

  I’d met Jamie McDaniels’ wife, so I thought I’d try his in-town girlfriend, Cyndy. Donny told me she owned her own beauty shop. I arrived just before nine. No customers yet. She smiled and let her eyes rove from my smile to my shoes, lingering at hips and crotch.

  She said, “You’re the hot new guy on the team that’s investigating and protecting everyone. Any of that working out for you? Although I’d be willing to investigate how hot you are at great length anytime you want.”

  I said, “How does Mrs. McDaniels feel about your relationship with her husband?”

  “You the morals police? A preacher?”

  “Just curious if it made a difference.”

  “Why would I care?”

  “He might have to break off the relationship.”

  “He has to every time she comes to town. I don’t have a problem with that. She probably does, if she knows about me. I was here long before her, and I’ll be here long after she’s gone.”


  Cyndy looked to be in her early thirties. She hung out the ‘closed’ sign and twisted shut the blinds in the windows and door. “Now what can I do for you?” Compared to Georgia, her slinking over to me was closer to the swaying of an elephant with only three legs. Not a lot of class or sexiness, but you felt pity for the elephant.

  I asked, “Jamie knows you cheat?”

  “You going to tell him?”

  “Not planning on it.”

  “I care a little bit, but not much. I do like men who are young and muscular. Jamie is all that. So are you.” She squeezed my bicep. “You real busy?”

  “Real busy.” I left out the gay/not interested part.

  “Too bad.”

  “What can you tell me about Tyler Skeen being murdered?”

  “I didn’t have sex with him. He was fat and old and out of shape. He tried. I said no. I have standards.”

  “Who do you think might have wanted to kill him?”

  “This town has been all torn up for years and even worse since Connor Knecht came back. Me, I don’t care so much. I’m getting my needs met right in town thanks to him.”

  “Lot of people didn’t like each other.”

  “It’s a hotbed.” She giggled.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Jesus,” she said. “Everybody is in an uproar. About what? Who cares if this is built or that? All these people are in it for money. Some just think they’ll make more money for themselves if they do it their way.”

  “Like Old Charlie Hopper?”

  “You talked to him? You think he’s some sweet old guy? Ha! Old Charlie’s a moonshiner and illegal drug runner, and I don’t know what all else. Shoot you as easy as look at you. Nobody messes with Old Charlie Hopper.”

  “Knecht did, didn’t he?”

  “Old Charlie is not some omnipotent mafia don,” Cyndy said. “He’s got limits, although I’m not sure even he knows what they are.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Charlie limits himself to doing whatever he wants. Whatever he wants hasn’t landed him in jail.”

  “Yet?”

  “He doesn’t like me much,” Cyndy said.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s fat and old, and I won’t have sex with him either. He doesn’t like that.”

  “How about the college kids who hang around and do good out there?”

  “You believe that shit? You are so naïve. They help him harvest and manufacture his drugs.”

  “Why doesn’t Rotella arrest him?

  “You must be the most naïve man on the planet. Think.”

  “Rotella and Charlie go way, way back, and their families go even further back.”

  “They’re the old guard. Rotella’s been guarding shit since they invented dirt.”

  “Rotella making money off Old Charlie?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You’re not a Rotella fan.”

  “Another fat old guy who wanted to get off and who was a little more persistent than some.”

  “He’s not married?”

  “Rotella actually had the grace to come on to me when he was between marriages. I’ll give him that much.”

  “I thought Todd Timmons was in with the old guard.”

  “Todd’s in with the stupids. Man could lose money at a popsicle stand. He gets madder every time he loses another hundred grand or so. People explain things to him, but he just doesn’t get it. He invests in Main Street coffee shops that can’t possibly sustain themselves.”

  She knew nothing else helpful. As I turned to leave, she said, “You can stay.”

  I said, “Thanks, but no.”

  She said, “You be careful. There’s a lot of crazy people in this town. Either side would do mean things to the other. There’s lots of unhappy folks, clinging to their guns and religion and bitterness.”

  “Isn’t that getting a little old?” I asked.

  “Not if you’re one of the ones who is unhappy, clinging, and bitter. People are pissed that their world is going away. Connor Knecht thought he was going to save it by replacing it. Others thought they could save it by enshrining it in Lucite. They were both wrong.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m along for the ride. Whoever brings the most studly men to town is on my ‘good guy’ list.”

  “You know about Edwin Hempil.”

  She smiled fondly. “Eddie.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Eddie is a dream. Kind of a nut. But a dream. He’s all skinny? But there isn’t an ounce of fat and the muscles there are very taut.”

  “He could barely make headway against some teenage security guard.”

  “Eddie doesn’t want to hurt anybody. Eddie is a dear gentle soul.”

  I risked a guess. “And a great lover.”

  “And…” she hesitated. “Um, he’s got a lot to work with, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded.

  “And amazingly, he knows what to do with it. He’s one of the best lovers in this town. That may not be saying much for the town, but it does say a lot for Eddie. He may be a geek, but those twitches turn him into a jackhammer at all the right moments.”

  I wondered if he was strong enough to carry dead bodies around town. As for him twitching and shooting a rifle and hitting anything, that I doubted.

  THURSDAY 9:17 A.M.

  I decided to try Todd Timmons. He had an office above the local bakery, which was short on chocolate and sparse on a lot else. The wedding cake in the window looked like it might have been left over from Miss Havisham’s non-soirée.

  Two men and one woman worked in Timmons’ office. It took up the entire second floor. The three of them were busy at computer screens. One of them was the large drunk from the game on Monday. He had a cast on his arm. He took one look at me, lowered his head, and didn’t look up.

  Timmons had a desk toward the back. He spotted me and rushed forward with his right hand extended. He had to turn himself sideways to get past several desks. He had an immense bushy red beard. He said, “You’re that investigator. You come right in. I want to talk to you.”

  He hustled back to a swivel chair in front of his desk, which might have been Danish modern in the fifties, but was now just tired wood and bent edges. The chair squeaked and the seat cushion had been duct taped. Timmons’ voice boomed. “I should have hired you to get information on Knecht.”

  “Are there things to get?” I asked.

  “You bet. The man is shady from way back, has an awful reputation. You must not be very good if you didn’t find that out before you started.”

  I said, “I like a challenge.”

  “Oh, a funny guy. I like funny guys. This town needs funny guys. After what’s happened here” He shook his head. “Death and destruction. Destruction and death.”

  “You know who’s behind it?”

  He frowned for a second, then laughed. “No. I don’t do death and destruction. I invest and build. I work honestly.”

  “You buddies with Rotella?”

  “Grew up together. Kindergarten through twelfth grade. Played on every sports team together. You’re going to do right by this town?”

  “I’ll do right by this client.”

  The big fake smile faded. “See that that doesn’t lead you into trouble. I’ve invested millions in this town as well. I’d do a great deal to get it back. Connor Knecht would do anything he could to screw me and mine.” All booming friendliness was gone.

  “Does that include Tyler Skeen’s murder?”

  “That’s a bonus. Any kind of bad publicity for that shit is perfect.”

  “Why not just both build lots of stuff?”

  “You’ve seen this community. It’s dying.”

  “So why are you investing?”

  “I love the town.”

  “He claims he does too.”

  “He loves his money and himself.”

  “You know anything about Skeen’s parties?”


  “I never went.”

  “Never invited?”

  “I wouldn’t want to go.”

  I said, “If Connor Knecht goes belly-up, what happens to your investments?”

  “Well, Connor can’t really go belly-up. He’s got billions of dollars to play with. Mostly he just has to get tired of spending it here. The goal is to get him to spend it somewhere else. Why doesn’t the old fart just buy himself an island in the South Pacific like a sensible billionaire?”

  “Maybe South Pacific islands aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Neither is this town.”

  “You know Charlie Hopper?”

  “Sure. Old Charlie’s a good guy. Why, you think he killed Skeen?”

  “No, but he did sue you.”

  He waved a hand and let go a brief chortle. “That was nothing. It was all over years ago.”

  I said, “I noticed one of your employees has a cast on his arm where I broke it at the game last Monday. He attacked an innocent woman and child.”

  “He’s my son.”

  Not a lot of objectivity likely there.

  THURSDAY 10:42 A.M.

  It wasn’t even noon and the temperature according to my phone was ninety-one degrees, the humidity over 90 percent. The clear blue sky threatened a rain free day.

  Hustling down Main Street toward me was a bald man in a white short sleeve shirt, red tie, khaki short pants, black ankle socks, and gray running shoes. He stopped in front of me, held out his hand, “I’m Bob Snedeker, Marty Murray’s editor. Can I speak with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Out of this heat. The office is down this way.”

  We walked a block past the post office and the Grab the Grub Grocery store to a narrow three-story brick edifice that, with a million or more dollars of renovations put into it, might have passed for a brownstone in New York City.

  The first floor was mostly open space with desks that had computers on them, and file cabinets up against the walls. Papers were neatly stacked, walls were clear, the floor polished. A window air-conditioner whirred fairly successfully to keep the room less humid than outdoors. He led me to a small space in the back that had a burlap-covered partition between it and the rest of the room.