A Dead Issue Page 6

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  I shook my head. “It depends on how it all turns out.”

  We sat in silence for a while. The night air grew a little chilly, and I rolled up my window. I glanced at the Cadillac, top down. Stemcell was going to freeze his ass off when he finally drove off.

  “Family’s a funny thing,” Dusty said. “The way it works, I mean. You’re like Stemcell and his old man. They don’t much get along, but the old man actually pays Stomp to watch out for him—keep him out of trouble. Maybe it’s money.”

  Dusty was talking to fill the void until Stemcell showed up. I knew that, but every comment seemed to hit a nerve—or a truth.

  “My old man was always on the run. Always out of money. But we got along—with each other, I mean. Being poor brought us together. And then when he died . . .”

  Dusty’s voice trailed off and I knew he was not going to finish. Dusty was right. It was the money. Money offers power and my father had plenty of it. We loved each other, on some level—I guess, but neither of us wanted to give up control over my life.

  I looked at the time—2:35 and still no sign of Stemcell.

  “What if he’s not inside?” I asked. “Maybe somebody picked him up.”

  “You’re right,” Dusty said at length. “Tell you what. We’ll leave a message on his windshield that we’re looking for him.” He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a yellow receipt and started writing, using his horn pad for a desk. “Slip this under his wiper blade,” he said handing me the note. It read simply We’ve been looking all over for you. Dusty.

  I slid out into the night air and took a step toward the Cadillac. As I reached for the wiper blade, a dark shape stretching across the front seat caught my eye. Stemcell was lying on his back staring up through the trees with eyes that didn’t blink. And then I saw the spray of blood on the white leather upholstery and a small patch of hair and bone that once was part of his skull.

  CHAPTER 15

  I staggered back from the sight of Stemcell and hit the passenger door of Dusty’s car hard enough to dent it. Dusty must have been watching me and knew in an instant that something wasn’t right. He got out of the car and ran around to me. Instinctively, he peered into the Cadillac.

  “Holy shitbird,” he exclaimed, emphasizing each syllable, backing away as he did until we both leaned against his car. We said nothing—did nothing for a long moment, and then Dusty raced around to the driver’s side and jumped in. He started the engine, and, rather than being left behind in the parking lot of the Britz with a dead man, I jumped in and Dusty hit the gas.

  Once on Northampton Street, Dusty slowed to a legal speed and headed back toward Route 611 and home. A mile or so up river from Easton, I said, “What happened?”

  “He got shot is what happened.”

  “I know that. I mean . . . what do you think? Drug deal gone bad?”

  Dusty looked over at me. “Wouldn’t doubt it. Probably sold oregano to the wrong guy.” He laughed uneasily at his little joke.

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously? I don’t know. He may have had a deal going down, and whoever it was decided it was easier just to shoot him.”

  Dusty fell silent, and every time I glanced at him he seemed more and more troubled. Finally, he looked over at me like he had finally pieced it all together. “This isn’t good,” he announced.

  “Oh, really?” I said. “For a second there I thought it was my lucky day—thought I should go buy a lottery ticket.”

  “Stemcell getting shot in the parking lot of the Britz is going to be big news. What’s going to happen is that people will want to know who’s dirty in there. Do you know who belongs to the Britz? The mayor, chief of police, doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs. And they all stick together. They won’t waste no time finding someone else to blame.”

  “Like two guys in a rusted out Chevy looking for Stemcell?”

  “You got it.”

  “Holy Christ,” I shook my head in disbelief. The night was cursed. We were damned.

  “Stemcell’s going to look like an Eagle Scout in the paper. Town Council will start screaming about cleaning up the streets.”

  He looked over—fear in his eyes for the first time. “And when the heat gets bad, everyone’s going to remember we was looking for him.” Dusty paused and checked his rear view mirror. “Everybody’s going to be covering their ass.”

  “And there goes our alibi,” I added.

  Dusty drove for a while in silence. “Looks like we’ll need an alibi for this.” He threw me a weak smile. “Maybe we can tell them we was at Jonah’s getting shot at.”

  He pulled over into the empty parking lot of the River View Restaurant and made a long, slow circle and pulled back on 611 heading toward Easton again.

  “We have to come clean on this one,” he explained. “We’ll go back and find the body, report it to the police.”

  “Dusty, that’s not a good idea.”

  “It’s what you said at Jonah’s. We tell the police. Then we go home and wait for the shit to hit the fan, but at least we still have an alibi.”

  Dusty drove up Northampton St. and headed north on Biltmore, but before we got to the Britz, we saw the red lights flashing against the buildings on the next block.

  “Too late,” I muttered. Relief washed over me.

  “Maybe not,” Dusty said. “We pull in and tell them we was looking for Stemcell.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “The best defense is a good offense.”

  “What if they take us in and question us for hours like they did Bill and Ray? What if they search us for traces of gunpowder?”

  Dusty looked stunned.

  “Or are you forgetting,” I continued. “Our clothes probably make us look like we’ve just come from the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. You want to chance that?”

  Dusty stepped on the gas and turned left at the next intersection—away from the scene of the crime. He said under his breath. “I’m dropping you off and getting this night over with.”

  “You mean we’re done getting into trouble? You sure you don’t want to do it up right?” I asked. “Burn down an orphanage? Rape a nun? How about we go to the police station and shoot the place up?”

  Dusty looked over and tried his best to smile. Even his wink was slow and tired.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

  CHAPTER 16

  I didn’t think sleep would be possible, but it was—deep and dreamless, a near coma of inactivity. The true nightmare was the events of the day before, and waking did not bring with it renewed energy or a sense that everything was going to be all right when viewed in the crisp light of a new day. Instead, a great weight pressed upon me, driving me down and filling me with dread of things to come.

  I looked at the clock—an hour and a half before lunch with my father. My first impulse was to simply throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and be done with it, but one of those dreadful things to come was going to be a visit by the police. I didn’t want to look like some homeless bum when they got around to making a visit. All through my shower I expected them to pound on my door, and I was relieved when I left my apartment without seeing a squad car parked outside.

  My car wouldn’t start. It was totally dead, but that only completed the miserable outlook for the day—no wallet, no money, no license, no car, no future. I still had plenty of time to walk the seven blocks to the Barcelona, a trendy restaurant favored by my father and the appointed place for our lunch. I walked at a brisk pace, thinking that this might be my last good meal for a while, especially if the police decided to throw me in jail.

  The maitre d' took me to my father’s table and pulled the chair out for me. I nodded a greeting to my father as I sat and adjusted the chair under me. He acknowledged me with a smile.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said as if I had done him a special favor by showing up.

  We sat staring at each other as our smiles faded, ne
ither of us knowing quite what to say. A waiter came and interrupted our discomfort by taking my drink order. I looked at my father’s martini and ordered a beer. The awkward silence continued.

  “Saw in the paper Jonah died,” he said finally.

  I looked up from the menu, and his deep blue eyes held steadily on me.

  “I know,” I said. “The guys who found him were talking about it at Miller’s.

  “The paper was pretty sketchy,” he shook his head. “There was some shooting, evidently,” he paused. “Police said there might have been an intruder.”

  “He wasn’t shot. One of the men said it was probably his heart. I worked for him yesterday. He seemed fine.”

  My father sipped at his martini thoughtfully. There was another long pause.

  “You liked working for Jonah?” he asked, and I had a feeling this was the lead-in to the real topic of the day.

  “Yes,” I said. “It's outdoors. It’s better than . . .” I paused.

  “McDonald’s?”

  “I was going to say, ‘Being cooped up in an office all day.’ But, yes, it is better than McDonald’s.” I found relief in being able to be honest about it. I added, “McDonald’s sucks.”

  My father smiled, “So does being cooped up in an office all day.”

  The waiter came with my beer and took our food order. As he walked away with the menus tucked under his arm, my father placed his martini on the table and looked at me.

  “How’s your brother doing?” he asked.

  I was so shocked by his question I didn’t respond. I stared at him.

  “He applied for a job at Cameron,” he continued.

  I recovered enough to ask, “And you didn’t hire him?”

  “Have you taken a good look at him? Tattoos, piercings, dresses like a zombie? It’s a wonder McDonald’s took him.”

  Again I was stunned. “Have you been spying on him?” I tried to keep my tone friendly, but the accusation was unmistakable.

  He grinned, mildly amused at that suggestion. “No, I hear things. One of the girls in human resources recognized him at the drive-thru.”

  “If he looked like me, would you have hired him?” I asked. It was a deliberate probe. I wanted to see how deeply my father resented his wife’s son by another man. He deflected it.

  “I doubt it,” he said. “Dusty barely managed to stumble through high school.” He paused, possibly weighing the risk of his next comment. “I’d hire you if you came in.”

  Well, there it was. The elephant had joined us at the table and there was no way either of us could ignore it. My resolve to be independent was crumbling under the weight of problems so vast I could barely comprehend them. Freedom had suddenly taken on a whole new meaning.

  There was an uneasy moment as my father stared at me. I saw concern in his eyes as if he shared my discomfort.

  “This isn’t going well,” he said almost to himself. “I’m sorry.” He paused. “I didn’t want to go down that road.” He swirled the olive in his martini and stared into the glass. “You want your own life. I’m OK with that. It’s a dead issue. It’s done.”

  I thought of Jonah. Some dead issues were never done.

  My father sipped at his drink and looked up from the glass.

  “I didn’t invite you here to rehash all that.” He shifted forward in his chair. “I wanted to share some good news, and to ask a favor.” He smiled and we were silent as the tension ebbed. I thought of a new Mrs. Cameron, a best man, and a ring bearer.

  “I’m this close to landing a considerable contract with Caterpillar,” he began, holding an inch of air between thumb and forefinger. “They want Cameron Industries to cast parts for them. It means millions.” He paused to allow that to sink in. “It also means that I’m going to have to spend a lot of time in Chicago hammering out some details.” The waiter brought our food and my father waited until he left before continuing. “I need help,” he said and looked directly at me, letting me know that the help he needed was mine to give.

  “I’m offering you a job,” and he paused, searching my face, gauging my reaction before continuing. I tried not to show any emotion. “I’m not talking about working at Cameron Industries,” he said. “I’m talking about outdoor work like you did for Jonah—lawn work, general maintenance, security.”

  I held my poker face.

  “I want you to care for the house while I’m away—outdoors, no time clock. You can keep your apartment, but I’d like you to stay there at night. You can have your old room in the Crow’s Nest or move into the Farmhouse. I don’t care. Any way you’d like it. I’ll even pay your rent for your apartment so you can move back when I return.”

  He stopped and looked at me. “Have I rambled enough?”

  I nodded and gave him a smile.

  “I’ll pay you a good salary—with an advance. You can use any car you want—treat it as your own.”

  He stopped and folded his hands on the table and leaned forward, pleading for a reaction.

  “What’s the catch?” I asked.

  “No catch, no strings. Look,” he said, trying to be as earnest as possible. “I need you. I trust you. You are my son. Someone else watches the house, they’ll rip me off. All I need is someone to oversee the place. You really won’t have that much to do. The cleaning service and lawn service are all taken care of. All you have to do is be a presence there. Let them know you’re watching. You have the Cameron name. People will respect that.”

  He paused and renewed his smile. “When I rehearsed this little speech, I was going to offer to pay your tuition at one of the colleges close by.” His face broke into a gentle smile. “But I thought that would be pushing it.”

  “It would have,” I said and then stopped.

  He looked uncomfortable and he shifted a little in his seat. It was almost a squirm. I pursed my lips and looked down. In a calculated move, I shook my head sadly.

  “A salary,” I said in a tone that was almost a reprimand. “And college tuition?”

  He gave his head an embarrassed tilt—an admission of transparency.

  I stared at him for a full five seconds, knowing that whatever came out of my mouth next was going to change my life forever.

  “I’ll take it.”

  I walked home from the Barcelona wrapped in the warmth of a compromise. I still had a measure of independence and my father’s blessing as well. It gave me hope. Things would work out. Even Jonah’s death would sink into oblivion—eventually.

  But all that faded when I saw the man on the sidewalk in front of my apartment.

  CHAPTER 17

  He was surveying my car, walking around it, bending down inspecting the fenders, bumpers, and tires as if he were about to make an offer to buy it. He was huge, stuffed into a blue suit not quite large enough to contain his bulk. The sleeves of his jacket were pulled back to reveal his white shirt, and the cloth of his jacket stretched across his back like a sail ready to split. A nose hung from his ruddy face like a small punching bag below a set of eyes that were at the same time sad and intense. His brown hair was evenly cut at a half inch and stuck straight out with the uniformity of the nap on a tennis ball.

  As I neared, he turned toward me and didn’t seem at all surprised by my presence. Evidently, he had seen me coming and timed the end of his inspection to coincide with my arrival. I had expected a visit from the police, and seeing him in advance gave me the chance to compose myself and get control of my pulse, which went into high gear as I wondered what clues he had discovered on my car.

  “Mark Cameron?” he asked in a voice that was neither friendly nor threatening.

  I stopped walking and faced him.

  “Detective Frank Devereaux. Fannett Meadow Police.”

  I stuck out my hand, and he looked at it until I withdrew my offer to shake—a not too subtle message that this was an official visit.

  “You’ve seen the papers?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No, but I heard Jonah died last nigh
t. I kind of thought someone might want to talk to me.” My voice was even, confident, without a trace of fear or deception.

  Devereaux gave me a look that bordered on suspicion. “And why would we want to talk to you?”

  “Well, why are you here?” I asked in a disastrous attempt at humor. Devereaux’s eyes narrowed and I knew instantly that I had started out on the wrong foot.

  “Sorry,” I apologized and waited for his eyes to soften. When they didn’t, I continued. “I thought you’d want to talk to me because I worked for him yesterday. We might have been the last to see him.”

  “We?”

  “Me and Dusty. We do odd jobs for him. Help him out around the farm. We ran into the guys who found him—Billy and Ray. They’re friends of Jonah—drinking buddies. That’s how we found out he died.”

  Devereaux nodded as if to say he knew them. “Where’d you run into them?”

  “At Miller’s,” I explained. “We went there after work.” I was about to launch into the story of how we were there when they came in, but Devereaux held up a beefy hand.

  “Look,” he said, “This isn’t the place to be doing this. Let’s go to the station where we can talk. Do this right.”

  Police headquarters, away from the comfort of my territory and into the total discomfort of his—a strategy meant to intimidate. It was working.

  “Can you drive?” I asked. “I don’t have my license.”

  He ushered me to his car and I was relieved when he pointed to the front seat.

  At the police station, he led me to a small interview room downstairs at the end of a long hallway of offices. The room was bright and shadowless with two chairs, a simple table, and a small camera mounted up near the ceiling in a corner. I was about to become a TV star. Devereaux pointed to the chair I was to use—the one the camera was aimed at—and closed the door behind him. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small spiral note pad and a Bic pen.

  “So you met Billy and Ray at Miller’s,” he began. “Let’s start there. What did they have to say?”