Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  “No, thanks.”

  “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “You ever see a little girl with Sid’s nephew?”

  “A little girl? No. Does he have a daughter?”

  “Is Sid hard of hearing?”

  “No.”

  “What does the nephew drive?”

  “A little green sedan.”

  “What make?”

  “Don’t know. Sorry. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “You know, I think I will take something to drink after all. Maybe a glass of ice water? If you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, sure. Be right back.”

  While the tap was still running in the kitchen, two patrol units pulled to the curb in front of Sid’s house. The detective called out “Thanks for your help,” then stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He had a quick conversation with the two uniformed officers, telling them what was what. One of them moved along the side of the house and positioned himself against a chain-link fence, where he could keep an eye on the backyard. Make sure nobody snuck out the rear. The other officer followed behind as the detective approached the front door and knocked firmly.

  Weird how you feel at moments like this. You want it to be something, and you want it to be nothing. You want to catch the perverted scumbag who would abduct a little girl, but you want old Sid to be okay, too. Sometimes you can’t have it both ways.

  He knocked again, so hard that his knuckles hurt. Called out loudly, “Mr. Bertram? Mr. Bertram, sir, are you in there? It’s the police.”

  Gave it thirty seconds, then knocked again. Pounded, really. “Mr. Bertram, we are concerned for your welfare.” He opened the screen door and tried the doorknob. Locked.

  He motioned to the uniformed cop, standing ten feet behind him, and the cop came closer. In a low voice, the detective said, “Check the garage. There’s a window on the side. See if you can get a peek through the blinds.”

  While the uniform was gone, he pounded again. “Mr. Bertram, please come to the door. It’s the police. Are you okay?”

  The uniform came back and said, “All I can see is the fender of something green.”

  The detective nodded. The nephew’s vehicle. The uniform retreated to his spot ten feet behind.

  The detective pounded again. “Mr. Bertram, we are going to enter your home.” He was practically shouting. This was all being recorded via the mike transmitting to the uniform’s dash cam. Good. Documenting the authentic concern they all had for the welfare of an elderly gentleman. Establishing that they had the right to enter. “This is the police. We are going to break a window and enter—”

  He heard the sound of the deadbolt unlocking. Then the door opened just a crack, with a security chain stretched across the gap. Young man looking out. Looking frazzled. Puzzled. Might’ve just woke up.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  The detective identified himself. “Are you Daniel Wayne Bertram?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sid Bertram is your uncle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he home right now?”

  “He’s sleeping. So was I.”

  The detective grinned. “Sid managed to sleep through all my banging?”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  “Would you check, please? I need to speak to him.”

  Bertram frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Just need to speak to your uncle. Won’t take but a minute.”

  “But I…really, about what?” Pale. Nervous.

  “Mr. Bertram, I’m going to ask you to remove that chain and open the door.”

  “Why? What’s—”

  “Mr. Bertram, please—open the door so we can talk.”

  “But—”

  “I just need to ask you and your uncle a few questions, then you can get back to your nap.”

  Bertram absolutely did not want to comply. That was obvious. But what choice did he have? He said nothing. A muscle twitched under his right eye.

  “Mr. Bertram, I need to check on your uncle’s welfare. I have a responsibility to do so, and I can legally enter this home to see if he’s okay.”

  Bertram did nothing. He was no longer making eye contact. The detective realized that his entire body was tense. Heart thumping hard. He could feel the comforting weight of the revolver holstered on his hip, under his jacket.

  “Mr. Bertram, I am about to kick this door open. You need to open this door. Right now.”

  Daniel Wayne Bertram was beginning to cry. His face was bunching with emotion. He nodded, then slowly closed the door.

  The detective was ready. If it took more then three seconds for Bertram to unhook the chain and open the door again, he’d kick it in. Or go through a window.

  But the door opened again. Bertram didn’t even attempt to step out on the porch and close the door behind him. His body language said that the pretense was over. He was beaten. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  He was sniffling.

  “Step outside, Mr. Bertram.”

  He did as instructed. The uniformed cop stepped up and guided Bertram off the porch, out into the yard, just to keep him out of the way for the next few minutes.

  The detective entered the house. Called out. Nobody answered. Had his revolver in his hand now, because you just never knew. Maybe Bertram had a partner.

  He poked his head into the kitchen. Nobody. Just the hum of a large freezer. With a lock on it. He was pretty sure he knew what he would find in there. But that would have to wait.

  He turned from the kitchen and went down a hall. Slowly. Listening. Three doors, all closed. One left, one right, one at the end. Bedrooms, most likely. No rhyme or reason, he chose the one on the left. Opened the door.

  And there she was.

  Not tied up. Not gagged. Just sitting quietly, as she’d no doubt been warned to do. Holding a stuffed bunny rabbit. No expression on her face whatsoever.

  The missing girl.

  Hannah Ballard.

  49

  It’s so trite, I can hardly stand it. The whole waking-up-in-the-hospital routine. But if you get shot, and you lose a lot of blood, and the doctors and nurses manage to keep you alive, that’s where you’re going to wake up. The hospital.

  I didn’t fade in and out, I simply woke up, more clear-headed than I would have expected, fully cognizant that I was in a hospital room. The TV mounted high on the wall was tuned to some old black-and-white movie.

  There was a woman sleeping in a chair in a corner of the room. At first I thought it was Jessica, and then I realized it was Mia. I also realized that I was glad it was Mia, rather than Jessica.

  On my left, there was a window looking out over a parking lot. It was daytime, with the sun low in the sky, but I couldn’t tell if it was early morning or late afternoon. The left side of my chest was throbbing like a son of a bitch. When I attempted to sit up a little bit, it got worse. So I decided I was fine where I was.

  There was some large medical device looming to my right. I couldn’t turn my head enough to get a good look at the screen on the front of it. I had an IV in my right arm, but that was about it. No tube down my throat or mask over my face.

  More than anything else, I was curious. What day of the week was it? How long had I been here? What had happened in that house? Why did—“Hey.”

  I looked at Mia. She was smiling and coming up out of the chair, joining me beside the bed. She looked very tired, but still beautiful as hell.

  “Hey, back,” I said. “What day is it?”

  It didn’t hurt to speak as much as I thought it would. Let me rephrase that: Speaking didn’t make me hurt any more than I already was.

  She said, “Friday morning. Eight o’clock. About thirty hours since you got shot. How long have you been awake?” she asked.

  “Just a few minutes. Your snoring woke me.”

  For half a second, she bought it. Then she grinned. “You must be feeling okay.”

  “Not too bad, b
ut enough with the small talk. Was it Tracy Turner?”

  A look came over her face. Pride, I think. Or just pure, off-the-charts satisfaction. She nodded. “Yeah. It was her. She was in there.”

  “She’s okay?” She nodded again.

  Yes.

  I closed my eyes and just took a moment to savor that information. For the second time in my life, I felt a sense of relief so profound as to be indescribable. You see, Tracy Turner—and my daughter Hannah—were two of the lucky ones. Children who had survived abduction.

  I felt Mia’s hand close over mine, so I opened my eyes.

  “I was worried about you,” she said.

  “Mere bullets cannot stop me. Not for good, anyway.”

  “This one came pretty close.”

  “Yeah?”

  Her eyes were welling up, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Where did it hit me?”

  “Low on your chest. Through the ribs on your left side. It could have hit your liver or your kidney, but all it got was your spleen. They removed it.”

  “That’s okay. I keep an extra in the freezer.”

  “Do you even know how lucky you are?”

  “Enough that I feel like a cliché. See, if that bullet had been just an inch higher…”

  Her face clouded. “This isn’t funny.”

  “Uh…you seem a little angry.”

  She gave me a look that said, Of course I’m angry, you incredible dumbass.

  I said, “What, uh—”

  “You shouldn’t have gone in there without me. Did that never occur to you?”

  Oh. Right.

  “I called the cops,” I said feebly. “I waited for them to show up.”

  “Yeah, but I’m your partner, remember? Remember the talk we had after you went to Pierce’s place?”

  “You probably shouldn’t say that too loud.”

  “I deserved to know what was going on, Roy. What if the tables had been turned? What if I’d seen Tracy Turner with Erica Kerwick and I’d decided to handle it all by myself?”

  “Point taken.”

  “And maybe, with two of us going in, you wouldn’t have gotten shot. Even better, I would’ve talked you out of it. It was a pretty dumb plan, you know?”

  I was tempted to mention that the plan had worked, but now there were tears running down her cheeks. I realized that I hadn’t handled things as well as I should have, regardless of whether I’d found Tracy Turner or not. Mia deserved better.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I apologize.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Seriously,” I said. “Won’t happen again. Promise.”

  She finally met my eye and I saw a bit of forgiveness in there. This time, I took her hand.

  “Tell me the rest,” I said. “It was Sean Hanrahan?”

  She nodded slowly. “He shot you.”

  No big surprise. “Where is he now?”

  “He’s dead, Roy. That Rollingwood cop who came in behind you—his name is Pryor—he shot him. Then he stopped your bleeding until an ambulance arrived. You owe him big time.”

  “How is Tracy?”

  “She appears to be fine. No evidence of any abuse or mistreatment at all, although it was probably pretty traumatic seeing her Uncle Sean get killed.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it was, but I am absolutely not going to feel any remorse for that.”

  “I know, and nobody is saying you should.”

  “What are Patrick Hanrahan and Erica Kerwick saying?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Still won’t talk. Everyone knows they were involved, but nothing’s happening. Same as before.”

  “So they haven’t been arrested?”

  “Not yet. Apparently Ruelas got search warrants for Hanrahan’s house and office, and Erica Kerwick’s house, too. Don’t know if they’re finding anything. If it makes you feel any better, Patrick and Erica are getting crucified in the media.”

  It didn’t make me feel any better, but I didn’t say that. I tried to concentrate on the fact that Tracy was safe. And there was a pretty good chance she could describe what had happened to her in the eight days she’d been missing.

  “What is Tracy saying? She could be the key to all this.”

  “I agree, but if she’s giving them anything useful, Ruelas isn’t sharing it with me. He’s kind of pissed off. Won’t return my calls.”

  “What the hell does he have to be pissed about?”

  “I imagine he’s just generally upset that you were right, and you found Tracy. From what I understand, that’s a guy thing. Jealousy. Macho posturing and all that.”

  “You’re going to tease me while I’m flat on my back?”

  “Can you think of a better time? Besides, I don’t want you to get a big head.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, when I leave, and you start channel surfing, you’re likely to hear people calling you a hero.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because of the way I faced down the North Korean army singlehanded?”

  She rolled her eyes. Her hand felt good in mine. Natural. Nothing self-conscious about it. I found myself hoping she felt the same way. For just a moment, we fell silent, just grinning at each other, and I thought we might kiss. Of course, I couldn’t lean upward, toward her, so I was waiting for her to bend down. I know she felt it. I think. Or maybe I got my signals crossed. Or maybe it was whatever pain medicine they had me on.

  But the moment passed. She released my hand.

  I noticed a large bouquet of flowers resting on the windowsill.

  “Who are those from?”

  “Heidi. She stopped by a couple of hours ago.”

  “That was nice.”

  “She’s a sweet gal.”

  “I’m glad you think so. She’s our biggest client.”

  I was starting to get sleepy.

  “I’m glad you’re okay, Roy.”

  “Me, too.” My eyes closed.

  “I’ll come back later this afternoon, okay?”

  Not long after Mia left, after I’d slept for about an hour, I was visited by an investigator from the Rollingwood Police Department. His name was Barber, and he wasn’t there long. That’s because, as soon as he identified himself, I said, “Man, I’m not saying a word about anything. You want to charge me with something, go right ahead.”

  “I just need to hear your account of that night. For the record.”

  I said, “Nope.” He opened his mouth again, but I said, “Seriously, dude. Don’t bother.”

  It was a lost cause for him. I’m sure his department didn’t like the way I’d forced their hand—getting an officer involved in a fatal shooting—but what were they going to do? Hassle a man that had been branded a hero?

  “Well, I tried,” he said. Then he gave me a wink, shook my hand, and took off.

  I was released on Monday, stitched and heavily bandaged, but feeling halfway decent. Mia picked me up in her Mustang and took me to my apartment, where I was pleased to see that none of Ernie Crenshaw’s spray paint remained on my front door. I’d never seen it cleaner.

  There were various notes, business cards, and letters stuck between the door and the frame. These were from well-wishers—friends and neighbors—as well as eager reporters wanting to get the first interview. I was glad that none of them were hanging around the premises.

  Mia followed me inside, then went back out to her car and wheeled in an ice chest filled with enough food to get me through the next several days. Fruits. Veggies. A lasagna. A casserole. Some baked chicken.

  “So, I’m like a shut-in now?” I said.

  “You shouldn’t be going anywhere. Just rest and relax. Recuperate.”

  “That’s all I’ve been doing for three days.”

  “Other than flirting with the nurses.”

  “Can you blame me? Did you see that redheaded one?”

  “I did,” she said. “He was cute.”

  “
Well played.”

  I started to put the food away—using just my right hand, because it hurt to move my left side at all—but she stopped me and began to unload it herself. I watched.

  “Thank you,” I said. “This was really thoughtful.”

  “Hold your thanks until you try some of it. I’ve never claimed to be a good cook. Gross. What is in this Tupperware container?”

  “Uh…”

  “It’s gray, and I don’t think it’s supposed to be.”

  I was thinking back on the hand-holding at the hospital. Maybe it was just a gesture of concern. Of friendship. Nothing else meant by it. “You should come by tonight and eat some of this with me,” I said.

  She kept unloading the ice chest, rearranging the contents of my fridge in the process. Making sure nothing else looked deadly. “How about tomorrow night?”

  “What, you have plans tonight?”

  “I do, yeah.”

  She didn’t say any more. Didn’t make eye contact.

  “What, a date?” I said.

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Please. For the love of all things holy. Tell me you’re not going out with Ruelas.”

  She stopped unloading and looked at me. “Are you truly that much of an idiot?”

  “Of course I am. Haven’t I made that clear?”

  “No, not Ruelas. Just a guy I met at the gym a few weeks ago. I can call it off if you want.”

  “No, tomorrow night is great,” I said.

  An hour later I was alone again, settled on the couch, zoning out in front of the TV.

  There was still nothing new on the case, according to media reports. Part of the problem was that Kathleen Hanrahan was not allowing police to speak to Tracy. I wasn’t sure what the law prescribed in such a situation. Could the cops demand access to interview a six-year-old witness? Could Kathleen tell them to take a hike?

  Here, as with the investigator who’d visited my hospital room, the cops had to walk on eggshells or suffer the wrath of the public. Maybe the cops were being patient because they had already gotten all they could from Tracy—but it was unclear whether they had even had a chance to ask her questions. Legally, they wouldn’t have been able to interview her without a parent being present.