Moonlight Weeps: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller Book 8)

by Vincent Zandri

  Chapter 40

  Back in the hearse, I slam the dashboard with my fist.

  “I’m so fucking stupid.”

  “Not really that stupid, Moonlight.”

  I turn to fat Elvis.

  “Thanks. That helps a lot.”

  His eyes go wide.

  “Well, I just mean you’re smart about some things. Other things not so smart. My two cents, of course.”

  “Shut up, Elvis.”

  He brings his fingers to his lips, pretends to zip them shut, just like my second-grade teacher, Mrs. DeLorenzo, used to do when the restless kids started talking too much, and I was looking for every opportunity possible to get a look up her mini skirt.

  I fire up a cig. Angrily.

  “You know what I think, Elvis?”

  He just looks at me because his mouth is still pretend zipped.

  “I think I just got duped by an eighteen-year-old thug who thinks he can manipulate me.”

  The singer mumbles something through his still zipped lips.

  “Just use your words, Elvis,” I say, taking a hit off the smoke.

  “I was just gonna say that maybe you were too easy on that Schroder kid. He’ll say anything to make you think he didn’t do it. Especially after you balled your fist in his face.”

  I nod while turning over the engine. I make a three-point turn in the paved parking area in front of the garage and speed back down the driveway, hoping the electronic gates don’t close before I get through them. The gates stay open, but the way I’m feeling right now, I’d like to see Stephen’s head impaled on one of those fence spikes.

  I gun the hearse back through the pristine suburb until I pull a tire-screeching right into Schroder’s driveway. I get out of the car, leave the door open, the engine running. I go to the front door, pound on the bell. When he doesn’t answer the door, I go around the back of the house. Schroder’s lying out on a chase lounge. He’s wearing a pair of big round sunglasses and nothing else but a skimpy speedo. In one hand, he’s holding a tall red drink with a stalk of celery sticking out of it. A Bloody Mary. In the other hand, he’s got his cell phone pressed to his ear.

  Opening the pool gate, I stomp my way over to him. He catches sight of me, goes wide-eyed, sits up straight, whispers something into his phone while eyeing me and then hangs up.

  “Bruce Willis,” he says, his face beaming like a Jack-O-Lantern. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  I knock his sunglasses off his face, revealing his beady little eyes. He spills his drink, and the glass goes tumbling to the pavement where it shatters. He stumbles a step backward.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” he barks.

  “That’s for operating on someone while you’re drunk,” I say.

  Then, I punch him in the stomach. He doubles over, drops his smartphone to the pavement where it too shatters. I follow up with an uppercut that explodes his bottom lip.

  “That’s for Scarface, may he rot in prison.”

  He drops to the pavement like a wet sack of rags and bones.

  That’s when I feel someone grabbing me from behind. It’s Elvis.

  “Fuck you doing, Moonlight?”

  “Get off of me,” I say, trying to wrestle myself free. But Elvis is a hell of a lot stronger than he appears.

  Schroder manages to get back up on his knees, where he wipes the blood from his mouth.

  “You’re going to pay for that, Moonlight. You just hit the wrong fucking brain surgeon.”

  “You hired the wrong private dick, asshole.”

  He stands, his white belly hanging over his banana hammock like uncooked pizza dough. He’s bleeding from his bottom lip, and it’s dripping down onto a sickly patch of gray-black hair that’s located directly in the center of his man boobs.

  “This time, you’re really fired.” He’s huffing and puffing like the beating I just gave him is the most exercise he’s gotten in years. “Remove yourself and your imbecile sidekick from my estate before I call the police.”

  “Who you callin’ an imbecile?” Elvis barks. Then tugging at my arm, “Come on, Moonlight. Let’s just leave.”

  I pull myself away from his grip.

  “This isn’t over, Schroder. Doesn’t matter if I’m not being paid. I’m still going to get to the bottom of what happened to that girl last Friday night. And if you decide to call the cops, remember, I know all about your little Oxy scheme with the Russians.”

  “Your word against mine, Bruce, baby.” He shoos us away with a backhanded wave while painting a fake, shit eating smile on his bulbous, bleeding face. “Now be gone with thee.”

  He doesn’t have to tell us twice, or thrice.

  Chapter 41

  I light another smoke as soon as I get back in the car. Backing out of the driveway I ask Elvis if there’s a place I can drop him off.

  “Ain’t we still on the case?” he asks, as I put the shift into drive, give it the gas.

  “I need some alone time.”

  “Well, I guess you can drop me off at the house. My wife will be at work anyways, and I know where she keeps the key. Might be nice to get a few hours shut-eye in my own hammock.”

  He tells me where his house is located on the way into Albany, and I drop him off at the edge of a driveway that accesses a plastic blue cookie cutter two-story colonial.

  “I’ll call you later,” I tell him, but I’m not sure I mean it now that I can’t pay him or justify putting his hours towards his bill.

  Then, I proceed to drive back home to my loft. When I get there, I let myself in through the big wood door and head immediately to my bed which is situated at the far left of the loft floor near the bathroom. In a matter of seconds, I’m out like an empty clip on Scarface’s little friend.

  I dream . . .

  I’m walking in the cemetery.

  It’s daytime, with the sun’s rays beaming through the breaks in the leaves on the trees. I don’t know how I’ve arrived here. I’m just here. The narrow road is gravel covered and winding. On either side of me are little green hills, each of them dotted with gray headstones. Lurking above the headstones are the trees. Thick, old oak trees covered in green leaves. The sun doesn’t shine through them so much as pokes holes in them.

  She appears as a silhouette off in the distance. All I can make out is the dark shape of a woman as she approaches me along the road. After a few moments, she takes on more detail, and the darkness of her image gives way not just to a woman, but a young woman. It’s Amanda Bates. Her dark hair is draping her tan, healthy face. Her eyes are beaming, her lips pressed gently together to form a content smile. She’s wearing a flowery dress, but her feet are bare. She has her arms held out for me like she wants to hold me.

  I go to her, take hold of her hands. It’s then I make out the wound on her neck. A thick, purple and black horizontal bruise formed by the rope she hanged herself with in the basement of her home . . .

  The dream shifts . . .

  I’m lying on my back. There’s a bright light shining in my eyes from a ceiling-mounted surgical lamp. I’m not liking this, so I try and get up from the table. But I can’t. My torso, legs, and arms are strapped tightly to it. Standing over me are two squat, portly figures dressed in surgical scrubs. One on the left and one on the right. Green masks cover their faces, and black-tinted translucent masks cover their eyes. When the one on the left pulls his mask down, I can see that it’s Dr. Schroder. He’s wearing that clown-like smile, his eyes narrow and black behind the shield.

  “Don’t worry, Bruce Willis,” he says, in his pseudo-soothing voice. “After I make the initial cuts, you won’t feel a thing.”

  “That’s right, Dad,” the one on the left says, pulling down his mask and sucking on a lit cigarette. “The brain doesn’t feel shit once the skull cap is sawed off. ’Course the sawing hurts like a motherfucker, but it’ll be fun to watch Moonlight squirm.”

  “Oh, yes it will, son. Let’s gaze upon Moonlight squirming and writhing, shall we?”r />
  In between puffs of his cigarette, Stephen is taking hits off a can of Heineken beer. Gripped in Dr. Schroder’s hand is a stainless steel surgical saw. The circular blade attached to it is maybe eight inches in diameter and ridged with razor sharp teeth. The saw’s surface glistens in the light shining down from the surgical lamp. He brings the saw to within inches of my eyes and flicks it on, the rapidly spinning circular blade buzzing loudly, violently.

  They’re right. I’m squirming, writhing.

  “Easy now, Bruce,” he says. “This will pinch a little.”

  I try to scream, but I can’t. It’s impossible for me to make even a hint of a sound. I’m paralyzed from head to toe.

  “Now then,” Dr. Schroder says, “it’s time we dig that bullet out of your brain.”

  He revs the saw, brings it slowly to my forehead, and pushes the blade into the skin and bone . . .

  The dream shifts again . . .

  I’m still lying down, but I’m no longer strapped to a surgical table, two sadistic psychopaths about to saw my skull open. I’m lying in my bed, at home. I’m at peace. Other than the gentle sounds of the Hudson River lapping up against the empty docks outside the walls of this old brick building, all is silent. When she walks into the dark loft and approaches the bed, I’m not the least bit startled. I can’t see her face entirely, but I know it’s her. I can smell her rose petal scent, and I can see the outline of her lush, long brunette hair as it gently rests against her shoulders. I see her shapely body, her round breasts, heart-shaped hips and bottom. She takes hold of my hand, squeezes it.

  “I thought you were dead,” I say, feeling tears fall down my cheek.

  “Surprise,” Lola says, “I’m still here.”

  She presses her hand against my face, dries my tears . . .

  When I wake up, there’s a woman sitting on the side of the bed, her heart-shaped backside pressed up against me. I want to believe it’s Lola. That what I saw in the dream was real. But it isn’t Lola. It’s Lisa, Senator Bates’ sister-in-law.

  I can’t say that I’m startled, but her sudden presence provides me with a bit of an unexpected jolt.

  “I apologize for waking you,” she says, softly. She’s still wearing the sleek black dress from before, and the pumps on her feet. Outside the floor to ceiling windows, the night has already settled in. I’ve been asleep for hours. “You were dreaming,” she adds.

  I sit up.

  “How’d you get in here?”

  She gestures towards the door.

  “It was wide open. You must have been pretty tired. Or pretty drunk. Oh, and there’s some blood on your right hand.”

  “Haven’t been sleeping well lately,” I say, glancing down at the blood on my knuckles. Schroder’s blood. “What brings you here?”

  She brushes back her hair, sets it behind her ear. Her eyes are dark and deep, her lips thick and soft. If she weren’t up close and personal, I might truly mistake her for Lola, or her niece, Amanda.

  “I think you know,” says the sister-in-law of Senator Jeffery Bates.

  That’s when it hits me. Schroder, speaking about being in love with a woman whose brother-in-law is a senator.

  “How’s Doc Schroder feeling?” I say. “Word on the streets is he’s in love with you. By the looks of it, Senator Bates is, too. I assume his wife — your big sister — has no idea.”

  “The doctor will be fine. His lip will be swelled for a bit. As for the two men who are hopelessly in love with me, I think that would be stretching it a bit. I’m not the committal type, and like you’ve pointed out, Senator Bates is married to my big sister whom I love very much.”

  “You maintain your morals,” I say. “I like that in a woman. And now you’re here to speak with me in private about Amanda.”

  “Yes,” she nods. “Amanda, the poor dear soul.”

  “And what is it you need to tell me behind the backs of both Schroder and Bates?”

  “This thing that happened, between her and Stephen. You should know that it wasn’t entirely his fault. But it also wasn’t entirely her fault either.”

  I feel her words like a shot to the gut.

  “I walked out of your brother-in-law’s house convinced that Stephen had tricked me into thinking he was not only innocent of her suicide, but that he was the victim.”

  Now she’s shaking her head.

  “You’re not far off. It’s true, he’s not innocent in the matter, but then, neither is Amanda.”

  “Explain,” I say, sitting up straighter.

  “Amanda and Stephen had had their run-ins before. Certainly they’d slept together. Certainly they’d done drugs together. Gotten drunk.”

  “Amanda and Stephen.”

  In my mind, I’m picturing punching Dr. Schroder in the mouth. A punch meant for his son. I see the blood on my knuckles to prove it.

  Exhaling for effect, she says, “I spoke with some of Amanda’s friends at the funeral. A couple of them were at the party that night. They saw Amanda and Stephen disappear together up to his bedroom. Disappear together as in mutually agreeing to head upstairs. Later on, they were both heard fighting.”

  “Over what?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, pulling a slip of paper from out of her bra. “You’ll have to ask them.”

  She hands me the paper. I stare down at it. Two names are written on it in blue ball-point.

  Jill Marsh and Kevin Woods. Each of the names has a respective cell phone number written beneath it.

  “Thanks for this,” I say, clearing the sleep from my throat. “I’ll contact them.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You working for the police?”

  “I work for me first, the cops second. Or secondarily anyway.”

  She gets up, her hand brushing up against mine like it had the Senator earlier this morning.

  “You’re leaving?” I ask.

  “My work here is done.” She smiles, slyly.

  “You sure about that? You could have easily called or emailed me with this information.”

  Gently she sits back down onto the bed.

  “Snagged,” she whispers.

  “You’re a bad lady, Lisa,” I say. “Bad, but good, too.”

  “You and me,” she says, “we’re a pair.”

  Leaning into me, she kisses me on the mouth.

  Our work here is most definitely not done.

  Chapter 42

  I’m back to staring down at the slip of paper after Lisa is gone. I decide to call the girl first, sensing she would be the most likely to answer a phone that’s displaying a number she doesn’t recognize, whereas a guy might choose to ignore it. That is, my built in shit-detector serves me right, which it most definitely has not been doing as of late. Turns out she answers after the second ring.

  “This is Jill,” she says, happily, giddy almost.

  I tell her who I am and what I do for a living.

  “Oh my God, like, I’ve never met a real private detective before. I thought you guys only existed in mystery novels.”

  “We’re real flesh and blood,” I assure her. “Where can we meet?”

  “I’m working at the Starbucks in Newton Plaza until eleven. If you wanna come by now, I can take my break early.”

  “I’d like that. They have beer at Starbucks?”

  “No, silly. Just hardcore java.”

  “I’m into hardcore.”

  “Oh, sweet. I like you already, Mr. Moonlight.”

  “Just Moonlight is fine.”

  “See ya later, tater . . . I mean, Moonlight.”

  She hangs up sounding very excited about our coffee date.

  Chapter 43

  The Starbucks is located in one of those suburban strip malls that began dotting the landscape in the early 1980s, and that houses every type and manner of overpriced fast food chains, frozen yogurt shops, hair and nail salons, and coffee houses than you can point a maxed out Amex at. I park the he
arse in front of the store causing a few of the college age kids who are drinking Frappuccino’s out on the deck to do a double-take.

  “Anyone want a ride?” I say, as I walk past them to the front entry in my black leather coat and combat boots.

  “I’m only taking one ride in one of those, and that ain’t happening for a long time,” answers a white kid who’s as big as a pro football player.

  “Pays to be a realist, big fella,” I say, as I swing open the door, step inside, gaze upon the service counter.

  There’s a couple of women tending the counter. The first one is young, peppy, blonde, and smallish. The second one is a redhead, slightly overweight and definitely in her forties. My guess, Jill is the first girl.

  I step over to the counter.

  “Jill?” I inquire.

  “Moonlight,” she beams. Then, to her co-worker. “Suze, I’m going on break.”

  “You want a coffee?” Suze says to me.

  I glance up at the menu board and the one million ways coffee can be served and the many more millions of dollars you can spend for the privilege of drinking that coffee.

  “Small, black, no sugar.”

  “You serious,” Suze says, brushing back her red hair behind her ears. “That’s it?”

  “Yup.”

  “Here we refer to a small as a ‘tall,’” Jill chimes in with her rehearsed corporate smile.

  “Why? Doesn’t seem right.”

  “Starbucks marketing strategy,” she explains while removing her green apron, laying it over a chair back. “We wish to accentuate the positive. Small sounds bad, but tall sounds nice.”

  My coffee arrives not in a tall paper cup at all, but a small green cup. Small is small no matter what you call it.