Bullet Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  There was a bathroom downstairs as well as a small refrigerator and a hot plate. There were no windows. Before he was done shedding the miniscule light around the room, he saw another stairway. He climbed up to a landing, where the stairs turned and went up another flight. He followed the steps, came upon a wall, slid it and found himself in a closet full of linen, towels, toilet tissue and cleaning materials. There was a door that opened to the upstairs hallway.

  ‘Damn,’ Cross said, now back in light. He remembered a trip to Charleston and a tour through a home built well before the civil war. What was astonishing then – and now – was that there were a number of back stairways behind the walls. They were unfinished, certainly not meant to be seen. They led to the kitchen and to the sleeping quarters of the slaves who served the household. They served almost invisibly, never using the main stairs, slipping in and out of rooms through closets so no one would see them making beds, cleaning fireplaces, lighting lanterns and drawing the drapery.

  It was becoming clear to him now.

  The Taupins lived rare and strange lives and needed to keep secrets. His thoughts were interrupted by a sound downstairs – a door or window shutting, perhaps. He had only to find out if the person doing the shutting had just left or just arrived. The situation seemed to demand both speed and caution. He chose speed, taking the stairs two at a time on his way down. But he was not fast enough.

  He stood in the area between the living room and the kitchen-family room area, understanding more, putting the pieces together. Even so, it was difficult to shake the feeling that he was lost, that the future was hopeless. Whoever escaped from the house bore Cross’s last chance.

  He went to the window and looked out again. He looked at the boats, the frolicking good time of folks on a wholesome Midwest summer’s day at the lake. He saw the Taupin’s seaplane bobbing at the dock. Every last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  He found her there, in the plane, hiding in the back, under a tarp. It made sense. The girl had nowhere to go. Who would she trust? The neighbors? She had stayed by the house, going in for food and hiding in the plane when the house had visitors. She was obviously terrified, probably of him, probably of the prospect of being deported.

  The drive back was difficult. He used the Taupin’s still active phone line to call Kowalski and tell him what he was doing. While the young woman was convinced – she no doubt felt she had no choice – to accompany Cross back to Indianapolis, suspicion and fear showed in her eyes and cut deep across her face.

  They met at Kowalski’s office downtown, across from the 28-story box that housed the bureaucracy that ran the city and county including the police and the courts.

  Kowalski had rounded up a professional translator, hooked up a small tape recorder, had a basket of sandwiches and sodas, and had calming music playing in the background.

  Cross sat with them, listening to the young Carolina Perez tell her story:

  The two women were cousins. Alejandra Toledo Perez was the woman who disappeared, she said. The two of them were running from death threats. The Perez family ran afoul of a Colombian paramilitary organization and were directed to an organization that apparently specialized in finding safe havens for people on the run. Often this meant a period of illegal status in the new host country.

  She was told there would be a period of time when her freedom would be abridged, but she had no idea that she would be treated the way the Taupins had treated her. Was she ever forced into sexual situations? Kowalski asked through the translator. No. How did she find Raymond Taupin? He was rarely at the lake and ignored her. On the other hand Mrs Taupin was an ‘evil’ woman. She would slap her and poke her when Carolina didn’t understand the request or reacted too slowly.

  And Alejandra, what happened to her? Kowalski asked. One day she disappeared. Nothing was said.

  Kowalski showed her photographs of E. V. Lancaster. He was the one who worked with the organization to place both of them with the Taupins. Kowalski showed her a photograph of Marshall Talbot. She nodded. She saw him sometimes with the Taupin’s daughter. Did she see the young man with Alejandra at any time? No, she replied, but she saw him the day Alejandra disappeared.

  Carolina asked what was going to happen to her. Kowalski told her he was a lawyer. He would see to it that she would have an immigration attorney and that meanwhile he could guarantee she wouldn’t be deported any time soon. She was a material witness. Kowalski also told her he would see to it that she would have some place to stay.

  ‘It won’t be like before,’ he said, patting her arm as the translator spoke those words in Spanish. ‘I promise.’

  There were more questions. Cross was impatient now. He stood, went to the little table offering soft drinks and sandwiches and popped open a Coke. The truth was sitting right there. He could taste the exoneration. But it was tainted with the notion that people like Taupin walked the earth, took what they wanted, discarded what they didn’t. Yet the authorities treated him like royalty.

  ‘I’m going out,’ Cross said.

  ‘Where?’ Kowalski asked, looking worried. Cross had never seen him look worried.

  ‘To do something foolish,’ Cross said.

  ‘I figured. What?’

  ‘I need to talk to Sarah Taupin.’

  ‘The daughter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s either guilty, in serious danger or about to have the shock of her life.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Shanahan tried to sleep, but kept waking up. It was nearing 3 a.m. when he decided to see if they were still serving at the bar downstairs. There were a few hangers-on, most of them in the throes of melancholy. He ordered a Chang beer because it had elephants on the label. He would tell no one that fact.

  ‘I thought you closed at one, that’s what the sign says,’ Shanahan asked the rough-hewn Thai behind the bar.

  ‘That’s the law.’ He smiled. ‘There are many laws.’

  Here’s a guy, Shanahan thought, who was a lion tamer, keeping the belligerent locals, irrational criminals, and an assortment of crazy or clueless tourists from killing each other on the premises. It took a special kind of personality and a special kind of knowledge to do that. The other thing that wandered through Shanahan’s mind was that the world was a small place. There were bars like this everywhere, places where outsiders, people off the grid, people who had nothing in common with the folks with regular jobs and reality show addictions, gathered.

  The old detective was a long way from that glowing moment that drinkers feel, that ‘lit’ period before caring slips away. He had no trouble identifying Channarong standing at the entrance to the bar, looking around. When he saw Shanahan he jumped a bit, then waved and headed toward the old detective’s table.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to be awake,’ he said, a tired smile on his face. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I’m not. Didn’t expect to see you. A drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He sat. ‘I came down because I was concerned. I couldn’t locate the real Billy the Kid and from what you told me, I suspect there’s something wrong.’

  Shanahan nodded.

  ‘I take responsibility for my recommendations,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re not hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘No. The maid died.’

  Channarong shook his head. ‘Have you located your brother?’

  ‘Not really,’ Shanahan said, equivocating on purpose. ‘Maybe you can help.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Shanahan took a hit of his beer. ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘You weren’t where you were supposed to be. The owner told me the story. So close, you know, we never know, do we?’ He looked at Shanahan. ‘Anyway you’re becoming a legend around here now. And people talk about such things.’

  ‘It’s not a big place, is it?’

  ‘Yet it appears people can get lost if they want to.’

  ‘You have something specific?’ Shanahan asked.r />
  ‘Just wanted to let you know I was here. That I’m willing to help. Breakfast maybe?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Coffee Shop at the Expat Hotel at nine?’

  ‘OK.’

  The Expat, on Pee Road, was cheery – another of those places that could be anywhere, but it was in Phuket and inland a bit from the beach on a dead-end soi. Shanahan thought Channarong picked the coffee shop for its western-accommodating breakfast menu. Making Shanahan feel ‘at home’ was unnecessary but considerate, he thought. The inside was dominated by red, a kind of American wholesome country look tempered by the Thai mind. He arrived early intentionally and had finished his first cup of coffee and got through the newspaper before Channarong got there at the agreed-upon time.

  ‘Decided on a little vacation?’ Shanahan asked as Channarong, looking fresh and pressed, slid into the other side of the booth.

  ‘Why not enjoy my work,’ he said.

  ‘Anything new in Bangkok?’ A moment of puzzlement crossed Channarong’s face. ‘Any new word on Fritz?’

  He shook his head ‘no.’ ‘And Maureen, where is your beautiful friend?’

  ‘Back home,’ Shanahan said. ‘Work. Clients. She was feeling guilty.’

  Channarong didn’t buy it but he didn’t argue. ‘Do you have any idea who is trying to kill you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t want me to find Fritz.’

  Channarong nodded.

  The charming waitress came. Channarong ordered tea and something called johk. Shanahan ordered scrambled eggs and toast.

  The johk turned out to be some sort of porridge with an egg floating on top.

  ‘I couldn’t call you,’ Channarong said. ‘I was worried that somehow I wasn’t living up to our agreement.’

  ‘And that agreement?’

  ‘To help you find your brother.’

  ‘You’re off the hook, Channarong. You’ve done all you can do. I can reimburse you for your trip, but cannot continue to pay for services.’

  ‘It appears you are in danger.’

  ‘All the more reason to end the relationship.’

  He nodded, more in the sense that he understood, not that he agreed.

  The two of them talked very little and when they were done with breakfast, they shook hands. Channarong refused any money to pay for his trip down. It wasn’t part of the agreement, he said. He couldn’t take anything. As he turned to go, Shanahan stopped him.

  ‘Why are you here, Channarong?’

  Channarong smiled, put his hands together in that prayerful way, and left.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  As was often the case, Cross acted in opposition to the little voice inside him that said, ‘Don’t do this.’ The little voice also called Cross ‘stupid’ and deserving of the horrible things that would happen to him.

  He drove to Woodruff Place, Center Drive. He believed that Sarah Taupin would go there, not to Fishers to be with her father and certainly not to the lake. He believed that she, at least intuitively, knew her father was capable of cold and calculating acts to get what he wanted. With her mother gone, he believed she would be more comfortable on her own.

  Standing on the porch, looking through the screen door, and seeing her packing boxes, he realized he was not completely right, merely right enough. She was there, but she had no plans to stay.

  He knocked lightly on the wood frame of the door. It rattled a bit. She jumped. She had been lost in her own thoughts and she looked toward the doorway as if she expected a tiger.

  Sarah flicked on the porch light. She didn’t recognize Cross.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is Cross. I’m a private investigator.’

  She may not have recognized his face, but she did his name. She froze.

  ‘I believe your life may be in danger.’

  He had no more than uttered those words than he saw Raymond Taupin enter the living room from the hall. He held a cell phone to his ear.

  ‘Come away from the door,’ he said to Sarah and then apparently interrupted by an operator, said, ‘Hello, yes, my name is Raymond Taupin.’ After telling them that the man who murdered his wife was at the door, he provided the Woodruff Place address.

  Cross wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a small, grim smile cross Taupin’s poker face. It didn’t matter.

  ‘Your father killed your mother,’ Cross said.

  Sarah didn’t move.

  ‘Come away from the door,’ Raymond said, flipping his cell phone shut. ‘The police will deal with him.’

  ‘I know you don’t want to believe me, but I have a witness. And you, like your mother, are a detail that needs taken care of. You need the protection of the police.’

  ‘He’s a lunatic, Sarah. Four bodies. Your mother, for Christ’s sake. Come away from the door.’ He moved toward her. ‘Shut the door and lock it now.’

  ‘Sarah, I’m not sure why your father killed them, but he did. I think you should come outside, get away from him. Please, for your own safety.’

  Taupin reached what appeared to be a zombie Sarah. He shut the inner door without even glancing at the detective. Cross could hear the locks click into place. He moved to the three steps on the porch and sat facing the street, waiting. There were streetlamps on the broad grassy median that ran the length of Middle Drive. It was so quiet now. He shut his eyes and listened to the night, hoping to hear approaching sirens, but heard only the faint sound of traffic on Tenth Street, blocks away.

  He pulled out his cell and punched in the number for Lieutenant Collins.

  He knew full well that Taupin was capable of killing his daughter – and that he now had Cross’s visit as cover. ‘Yes,’ Taupin would say, ‘that man killed my entire family.’

  Collins’s rings ended with a voice telling him to leave a message.

  ‘Taupin is with his daughter. I have reason to believe he might kill her.’

  There were sirens now. Getting louder.

  A black Ford Victoria and several patrol cars pulled up. But Cross was deeply disappointed. It was Swann, not Collins who approached him, ordering the uniforms to get inside the house with whatever means necessary.

  ‘I thought this was Collins’s case,’ Cross said.

  ‘There’s “was” and there’s “is.”’

  ‘I see.’

  Swann was unlike either Collins or Rafferty, but like most cops. His suit was just a little wrinkled and too tight, bought no doubt a few years earlier, before he put on the inevitable few pounds a decade. His tie had been pulled away from his neck and the top button of his shirt was no longer buttoned. However lax about his dress, Swann was wound pretty tight by the rules. Cross would have bet his life that Swann had never taken a bribe, never looked the other way. He was by the book and in that way also contrasted both Collins and Rafferty. That it was Swann who responded was an indication that Saddler’s long leash had been replaced with a short chain and a choker ordered from higher up.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Swann asked, one foot on the second step.

  ‘I came to warn Sarah that her life was in danger.’

  He shook his head, looked at the sky. Not getting an answer from above he leaned down, putting his face inches from Cross’s. ‘You are accused of killing his wife, his son-in-law, two of his staffers and an unknown woman . . .’

  ‘The maid from the lake house. A Colombian woman.’

  ‘You’re coming in,’ he said, but his train of thought was hijacked by the discussions inside the house.

  Cross used the moment to call Kowalski.

  ‘Going downtown,’ Cross said.

  ‘You know,’ Kowalski said, ‘we don’t have an uptown, do we? Some places have an uptown as well as a downtown.’

  ‘Swann seems to be in charge.’

  ‘Shit,’ Kowalski said.

  ‘Haven’t you given Saddler the tape?’

  ‘To her office, I did. I’m not sure she’s had a chance to hear it.’

  ‘Can we m
ove this along a little bit?’

  ‘I’ll meet you downtown. What’s going on at Woodruff Place?’

  ‘Taupin’s here to protect his daughter.’

  ‘Dad of the year.’

  This time there was no conference room. They were in an interrogation room – the size of a closet. Kowalski leaned back in the corner of the dingy little room. Swann’s jacket was off and the tail of his white shirt had escaped from his waist. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  ‘You say Taupin pulled all of this off,’ he said, ‘but Taupin’s passport indicates he was in Mexico City before, after and during the first two murders.’

  ‘He’s the type to have it done,’ Kowalski said.

  ‘Let Cross do the talking, OK.’

  ‘He’s the type to have it done,’ Cross said. ‘Lieutenant please, talk to your colleagues. We’ve got a recorded statement from Taupin’s maid that says she saw me taped to the chair when Mrs Taupin was murdered.’

  ‘So you say. But your only witness is your attorney, remember? And now you’ve got some third-world, illegal immigrant testifying in Spanish about something you probably told her to say. Is that about right?’ Swann didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We have you with both sets of bodies and God knows what went on with Edelman. I count five deaths and you look good for all of them.’

  ‘So what’s with Saddler and Collins?’ Kowalski asked.

  ‘Yesterday’s news,’ Swann said. ‘Why don’t you make it easier on all of us and just tell us what happened? What is it you’ve got against Taupin?’

  ‘Didn’t even know who Taupin was until I was set up with the corpses.’

  ‘DA says it’s you,’ Swann said. ‘Arraignment tomorrow.’

  ‘News at eleven,’ Kowalski said.