Murder My Past

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Murder My Past Page 25

by Delia C. Pitts


  Keith snuffed the red cigarette tip between thumb and middle finger. His lips flattened, but he didn’t wince. “You’re good, Rook. Very good. What’s your trick?”

  “Trick?”

  “Your technique, your methodology. How you make an informant divulge tough, personal details. The way you draw patterns and constructs from the intimate matter of someone’s life. In a profession like yours, that trick must work wonders.”

  “No trick, Gerry. I listen. Then ask questions. And listen some more.”

  His voice thickened, nicotine roughing the sound into a rasp. “I didn’t miss your little charade, Rook. You can’t hide from me.” He dropped the dead stub in the cellophane ashtray and crumpled it.

  “What do you mean?” I shifted forward in the chair. My head and shoulders jutted from the shadows into the glare of the overhead spotlights.

  “All these questions, these leading comments. You’re hunting, aren’t you? Stalking. Investigating your ex-wife’s death.” Trembling lips twisted into a sneer. “As if Anniesha still belongs to you. You’re trying to claim her. Still. I suppose it’s your natural instinct, a primitive compulsion driving you to protect her. Even now when it’s too late. When you’ve lost everything. You still have a predilection to rush into the breach. A pathetic need to delve for evidence that might bring you some tepid solace. Give you some respite from your wretched burden of guilt and anger.”

  He stood, shaking his head. “I understand your miserable game, Rook. I truly do. But I’m warning you, dig too far, and you’ll run into an iron deposit of painful facts. Truths you can’t bear to uncover. Excavating will hurt. You will hurt.”

  Lecture done, threat delivered, Gerry Keith sniffed. He trained hard eyes on me. If I was the hunter, he refused to play the quarry.

  I stood, arms clamped to my flanks, a stride forward until our chests touched. I didn’t answer. He didn’t care. No reply was needed. Keith retreated a step. He heaved his shoulders, as if shedding me and my pitiful troubles. He twisted his neck like a boxer, loosening muscles after the bout.

  “I suppose we’ll meet again, Rook.” Thin pink lips trembled under his beard. He hoisted the satchel strap over his shoulder. “Next time, bring your tuition payment.”

  Lit by the overhead lamps, Keith strode down the corridor. At the far end, he shoved a door and disappeared into a classroom. I punched the button for the elevator to the first floor. When I reached the gravel path in front of the Barstall Building, I was still panting hard.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Seven

  Done with Gerry the Red, I took a cab to headquarters. I dug yesterday’s triangle of tuna-on-rye from the top drawer of my desk. That, plus three swallows of coffee served as lunch. I phoned Pearl Byrne at her Poughkeepsie office. If she was Keith’s nightmare, I wanted to talk with Pearl again. Her assistant Pam giggled when I gave my name. I figured she was twiddling her blonde curls for me. Pam said the boss was consulting with a client and would be gone for at least two hours. I left a vague message urging Pearl to phone my cell.

  Instead of waiting at my desk for a return call, I stepped into the scant rain drops of a looming shower, headed to the Swann Center. Allard Swann had summoned me to his office, urgency crackling through his voice during our brief exchange. I hoped to see Carolyn Wiley too. An attendant ushered me into Dr. Swann’s office, her mouth’s tight clasp disapproving of the water I shed on the entry hall carpet.

  Allard Swann didn’t rise from his desk when I entered the room. He waved me to a chair and pushed aside folders to clear the surface between us. He didn’t offer tea or lemonade. He looked at his watch twice before we ended the greetings. Perspiration shone on his brow and nose as he jumped to a formal speech. He sounded rehearsed. Swann’s tone was curt, so different from the oily warmth he’d used the last times we spoke. Something big was up. Nothing good.

  “Mr. Rook, I’m glad you made time to visit this afternoon. I have spoken by phone with Carl Wiley, the son of our resident, Mrs. Carolyn Wiley. He has put me in contact with attorneys who repeated the wishes he delivered to me directly.” Darting eyes, rigid neck, plus shallow wheezing equaled worse than bad.

  I stiffened my shoulders. “I figured they might reach out sooner or later, Dr. Swann. What did they want?”

  “The attorneys have asked me to convey to you the following two points: First, you are to cease any contact with Mr. Carl Wiley. You should not call or communicate with him in any way. If you do so again, it will constitute harassment and Mr. Wiley will take appropriate legal action to stop you.”

  “Yeah, I’m not surprised. When I called Carl, our conversation didn’t go so well. He sounded kind of peeved, come to think of it.” I tried a smile, but dropped it when Swann grimaced.

  I figured the next people contacting Carl would be the Seattle police department. They would follow Archie Lin’s prompt about the unsolved death of Jayla Dream Ross. I had no control over official investigations on either coast. How the wheels of justice in Seattle and New York rolled was out of my hands. But I hoped those wheels crushed Carl Wiley to a fine powder.

  Dr. Swann kept droning, his eyes raking a spot two feet above my head. “And second, you are not to visit or communicate with his mother, Mrs. Carolyn Wiley. At all. I’ve been instructed to prevent you from meeting with her here at the Swann Center. And you are not to speak with her by phone either.”

  I puffed, opening my lips so I didn’t whistle on the exhale. I ran a fingernail along a crack in the edge of Swann’s desk. No fresh quip or snappy response to his ultimatum. I’d been expecting it, but hearing Swann pronounce this stark banishment stunned me. Carolyn was attached to me, cared for me. She craved the attention of her son, real or imagined. And I’d been able to give her that. I was attached to her too. Even though she knew nothing of Annie’s death, her soft words and kind touch had soothed my bruised heart. I needed her as much as she needed me. Keeping us apart felt unnecessary and cruel. But it did seem exactly like Carl to deepen his mother’s unhappiness in this way. I’d never met the man in person. Our phone shouting match wasn’t exactly a smooth introduction. But hiding behind Carolyn’s skirts and using her infirmity to cover his own misdeeds seemed to be the pattern of his life. Anger churned in my stomach.

  Allard Swann was just a man in the middle. The good soldier following orders, as the Nazis used to say. So, I squeezed the bile from my voice.

  “Dr. Swann, do you think this is the best thing for Carolyn? Do you think I’m doing her harm by visiting with her? If you tell me you think it’s best for her, then I’ll stay away. I don’t want to hurt her. Ever. But I need to hear it straight from you. Not from some tricked-out lawyers for her rotten absentee son.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Rook. My hands are tied. I’m obligated to obey the wishes of the family in these circumstances. And Mr. Wiley’s instructions are extremely clear. He doesn’t want you around his mother anymore.”

  Swann studied his desk, rolling a heavy black fountain pen into a gutter between two stacks of note cards. Rain slapped the windows behind his shoulders. Minus the anger, Swann sounded as miserable as I felt.

  “So, I guess that’s that. I won’t call, or come by, or write.” I fastened both hands on the armrests of my chair, ready to hoist myself upright. “But if Carolyn asks about me, lie. Tell her I took another job. Say I had to move out of town. That’s why I’m not around anymore. Can you do that for me, Dr. Swann?”

  “Yes, I’ll do that. If she asks, we’ll tell her you’ve moved away.” Swann hesitated. He swallowed, a soggy gulp which soaked his next words in regret. “But you have to understand, Mr. Rook, the way her dementia is progressing, it’s possible she may never ask for you again. Or for her son. Both of you may join all the other faded shadows, lost forever in her past.”

  “Yes, I understand. Thank you for that.” Acid curdled in my gut, clotting like rancid milk. I p
lucked at the knees of my slacks.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Rook. You’ve been of service to us all.”

  I rose and shoved the chair backwards. I tipped my chin toward the square black safe near the sofa. “You keep valuables for the inmates in that?”

  Swann flinched at my harsh term. “Yes. If the family requests, we store our patients’ credit cards, documents, checkbooks, jewelry, phones.” He eyed the steel vault like it might pounce. “Why?”

  “You have a silver bracelet in there? Belongs to Mrs. Wiley?”

  “Yes, that’s right. A fancy hand-tooled chain with a heavy clasp. Really quite lovely.”

  “Return the bracelet to her, Dr. Swann. She misses it.”

  He gulped, then nodded, gaze sweeping the carpet. I’d done my best for Carolyn Wiley. Even if she’d never know it. I left Swann’s office without another word.

  The tight-mouthed attendant escorted me to the front door of the Swann Center. She stood guard on the rain-slicked porch until I reached the pavement.

  I slogged the blocks between the center and my office. A dreary fog pressed around my head, erasing storefronts and faces, muffling the clatter of trains overhead and the pleas of vendors hawking purses and jewelry from curbside tables. The rain had ended, but the shower had dampened the sidewalks enough to send steam wafting around my ankles. Twice I checked my phone, hoping I’d missed the buzz of Pearl Byrne’s call. No joy.

  When I reached my block, I ducked into Zarita’s, rather than sink into the dusty gloom of my office. Drinking in a neighborhood bar wasn’t the same as drinking with actual friends. But the presence of familiar, if blotto, faces lent rough comfort all the same.

  Jerome Stewart the bartender nodded at my entrance. He slowed his circular swipes of the gleaming brass counter, the swollen brown knobs of his knuckles flexing as he paused. He slid his dark eyes toward the rear of the room as I passed. Shoulders hunched, his gaunt neck disappeared into the collar of his shirt. The grooves around his mouth deepened as Jerome worked a toothpick between his thin lips.

  I didn’t want to hear what he intended to say. Sure, Jerome was a fountain of local gossip and neighborhood complaints. I’d gotten many useful tips from him over the years I’d drunk at Zarita’s. He’d even hired me to rescue his punk son from several scrapes. But I wanted none of that, not this dismal afternoon. Eyes ahead, I glided past the three old fixtures hugging the bar and headed for my favorite booth in the rear. Jerome knew to bring a shot of Jim Beam dribbled over a single rock. If I wanted a second, I’d ask.

  A thick silhouette in my booth arrested me with a cackle: “I figured you’d turn up some time, kid. Nice to see you again.”

  Smoke Burris sprawled in my seat. His dark face was shiny, his eyes buried in creases of good humor. A blue cloth driving cap was pasted to the back of his head. It matched the sharp blue stripe in his gray knit shirt. Grinning, he patted the table, his paw rattling the Michelob bottle and half-full glass in front of him. “Have a seat, Rook. Take a load off.”

  He’d startled me, but I refused to give that away. I clenched my jaw over a growl. “Thanks for the invite, Smoke.” I slid onto the bench opposite him. “I thought you’d left town.”

  “That was the plan. But my client got side-swiped by true love. Some little Ayanna from the block got her claws into my boy 2-Ryght at the shoe store. You know how it goes: cute chick flips her weave, Dwayne swoons. Then little Dwayne does all the thinking. The boy switched his plans, delayed our departure until tomorrow morning. So, I thought I’d check out the old haunts. Cruised the nabe for a while, then I dropped into Zarita’s to visit my favorite spot.” He waved his eyes over the narrow stall like a king in his castle.

  “This was your booth?”

  “Sure, kid. Didn’t the barkeep tell you nothing about the history of this place?”

  “No. He didn’t mention you.”

  “Maybe he didn’t recognize me. You know, back in the day the bartender was a jive-talking old coot named Freddy. This new one, Jerome, he used to work the kitchen. He turned out a crazy good mac-n-cheese back then. Plus, his sloppy joes stuck to your ribs like nobody’s business. Neighborhood famous, they was.”

  “Now the kitchen only serves cheddar cheese on toast. White, rye, or wheat.”

  “Jerome had a son, Spencer if I recall right. That boy was the image of his dad: black as a thundercloud, undersized, tetchy. Spencer would come to Zarita’s every day after school and throw down in the kitchen right alongside Jerome. Awful good with a knife, that kid. I figured he graduate to a gun soon enough. Wonder whatever happened to Spencer?”

  “Pence is in Vegas now.”

  “Up to no-good, I figure. No surprise. Only one way that boy was goin’ to end up: a small-time hood and a big-time loser.”

  The burly detective stroked his moustache as Jerome set my drink on the table. The bartender’s face was blank; if he’d heard us dragging his son, he didn’t show it. Jerome drifted to his post, I sipped, and Smoke changed the subject.

  “I been meaning to thank you for helping my cuz. Galaxy told me about your little dust-up over at the university.” He eyed the scratches on my cheek and winked. “I hear you went three rounds with the bantamweight champeen of the campus. KO’ed her but good.”

  “No, I just set the table. Galaxy batted clean-up.” I’d perfected the art of mixing sports metaphors.

  The bushy moustache jumped as he laughed. “My home girl still got some gangsta in her. Can’t erase the ghetto, no matter how much schooling you swallow.” Smoke flapped a heavy hand in the aisle. A minute later, Jerome re-appeared with another Michelob. I was still sipping, my bourbon less than half gone.

  Smoke noticed my weariness. “Something eating you, Rook? You look poorly around the eyes, tight and gray. Like a eighteen-wheeler flattened you on the boulevard.”

  “I’m alright.”

  “Unh-unh, kid. That BS might work here in New York, where everybody’s playing cute and working an angle. But I’m South Side born and bred. We call it out every time.”

  I didn’t want to share the sting of the cruel setback with Carolyn Wiley. But I could let Smoke know what I’d uncovered about the death of his old boss’s wife. “I found how Norment’s Dreamie died.”

  Heavy folds over his eyes lifted. “What happened to her?”

  “She was killed in a car accident twenty-five years ago. Her body was hidden in the basement of a house on Strivers Row.”

  “Christ Almighty! I’ll be damned!” Smoke dragged a hand over his scalp, then down his nose. “All those years, Old Man Ross tormented himself about her disappearance. Fretting and wondering what he’d done to drive off his wife. Blamed himself for the hurt he caused little Sabrina. Poor man tortured himself with doubts.”

  Smoke sighed at the awful memory. He swiped his eyes and lips before speaking again. “You know how he goes for a haircut the nineteenth of every month? Never fails, Norment’s at the barbershop the same day each month. Once, I asked Sabrina why he always goes that particular day. She said her mother disappeared on September 19. So, each month, Norment visits the barber on the nineteenth, grooming himself in hopes she’ll return. Figure that! Twenty-five years, each month, regular like clockwork. Norment scratching at the past, picking ‘til the scab crumbles and the flesh beneath jumps all raw and pink. Call it superstition or stunt, juju or prayer. I call it torture.”

  Smoke crumpled the paper coaster and dragged it across his nose. The wad left a streak of wet. He dabbed his moustache, then raised his eyes. “How’d they take it, when you broke the news?”

  “It was tough. But they’re coming around.” My words squeaked thin and high, clattering like cheap metal. As if we’d crammed all our pasts in a dented cash box and chucked the key.

  Narrowing his lids, Smoke noted the phony tin in my voice. “And you? You coming ‘round? After your ex-wife got herself killed?�
�� His blunt terms eased the bare facts.

  I swilled bourbon over my teeth. “I’m working on it.”

  His eyes sharpened. “Working? Like investigating?”

  “Yes.”

  “You find anything give an idea of who did the murder?”

  “Something, but not enough.”

  “Spill, kid. It’ll sort you out to talk through it.”

  Maybe Smoke was right. Or maybe the booze was doing its job. Or maybe I just wanted to talk. I took a gulp and plunged. “Fact one: Annie was with a man in her hotel room the night she was killed. Two, whoever shot her did it up close and without a struggle. She felt comfortable with her murderer. Three, she had dinner that night with friends, three people with access to guns. Four, those people stayed at the hotel overnight.”

  Misery blew through me as I sputtered to a halt. I downed the bourbon and leaned from the booth. Jerome caught my sign and scurried with a second shot. I dribbled it over the ice in my glass.

  Smoke watched me take a good-sized swig before he responded. “But you left off fact number five: motive. What could make any of those people want to murder your wife?”

  I shook my head, then twirled the glass until the brown liquor slopped to the rim. “I don’t know. I’m missing the final piece. And I just don’t know.”

  “You listen to Old Smoke, kid. One of those people got the clue. Maybe they know and they’s holding out. Or maybe they’s ignorant as my dog Daley. But for sure somebody’s got the last piece to the puzzle. I don’t know your case. But I do know people. How they think, how they act. Somebody’s holding close a fact you need. You just got to pry some more and it’ll fly loose.”

  Smoke gobbled the beer and smacked his lips over the foam on his moustache. He wasn’t done giving advice. “Here’s an old trick I use: draw a word picture for each of them. Two or three words max. That’ll point you where to look for a motive.”

 

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