A Fistful of Rain (12 page)

Burchett was nodding. “With the frequency, we can track back to the receiver. But we’ll have to move on that fast. Our perv here most likely already knows his system’s gone down. He might guess we’re on to him.”

“Then get on it.”

“We could call the police.”

“No,” I said. “No cops, no publicity. Bad enough the pictures are out there, I don’t want the whole world seeing me like that.”

“Rick, you’ll have to handle this yourself,” Chapel said.

Burchett smiled, nodded his head at me as if tipping the brim of a hat, and I realized what it was that made him so disarming, and that maybe made him as good as Chapel said he was. A man he might be, but in that gesture, you could see the kid who wanted to be a cowboy when he grew up.

As if to prove me right, he said, “We’ll get saddled up.”

Burchett left with the scary woman, leaving the other guy to remove all the pink flags and the cameras they marked, and Chapel told me that he needed to get back to the office, but that I should call him if I wanted anything.

“You going to call Graham?” I asked him.

“That was my intention.”

“You’re going to tell him about the other pictures?”

“I don’t see how I can’t.”

I nodded, not liking it. It was stupid, maybe, but I knew what would happen as soon as Graham got the news. He traveled with a laptop, and it wouldn’t take long before Click and Van saw the pictures. Click would be bad enough, but the thought of Van staring at those images was hard to take. She’d see it not so much as my humiliation, but proof that she’d been right about me all along.

Chapel left me with his home number, and the number for his mobile, as well as the number for Burchett. He told me he’d get in touch as soon as he heard anything, and that I shouldn’t worry, things were well in hand, now. I walked him to the door, and when he was gone I went to the kitchen and got myself a beer, not really giving a damn what the remaining member of Burchett Security might think of that behavior.

I was halfway through the bottle when I realized just how set up I had been, and that brought some dark thoughts running home. Whoever had done this, they’d done it with a lot of time to spare. They’d done it easily, and covered themselves well.

Which made me think it had been an inside job, someone working with the carpenters or the electricians or someone.

There was only one person who had been inside while I’d been on tour, who could come and go as he pleased.

There was early rush-hour traffic on the bridges crossing the Willamette, and it took me close to twenty minutes to get from my place in Irvington to Mikel’s in the Northwest Hills. His condo was in a cluster of similar units, designed to look like Victorian town houses, off Westover. It was high enough that, on a clear day, you could see all of Portland spreading out to the east, with Mount Hood’s snowcap glistening in the far distance, and to the north, the broken top of Mount Saint Helens.

On a clear day. Not today, not with the evening clouds rolling in, heavy with payloads from the Pacific.

I parked on the street and strode to his front door, trying to think of what I would say if Tommy was there. Probably tell him to get the hell away from me, that I didn’t want to see him, that what I had was for Mikel’s ears alone. I’d seemed able to bully Tommy pretty successfully once already, so maybe it would work a second time.

All of the tenant spaces were empty except for Mikel’s, which was filled by his Land Rover, so I knew he was home, and I figured none of his neighbors were, yet. Tommy hadn’t brought a car when he’d visited me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one.

I knocked and didn’t get an answer, so I knocked again, harder, and still didn’t get an answer. It was starting to tick me off, to make my suspicions seem all the more grounded.

All of his alarm about the picture when he’d shown it to me, his need to hear me say that I hadn’t posed. I’d taken it as concern, but maybe it wasn’t concern as much as guilt. Maybe the cops had been right all along, that Mikel had let one of his friends crash at my place. And maybe that friend had made me his personal hobby, his cottage industry.

“Dammit, Mikel, open up!”

I pounded harder and even threw the toe of my boot, just for the added noise. No response.

I stopped banging the door, mostly to give my hand a rest. A wind had kicked up, making the trees along the hillside whisper. Distantly, I heard the whistle of an Amtrak train sliding into Union Station.

“Fucker,” I muttered, and tried the knob for the hell of it, and it turned easy, and the door came open.

From where I was standing in the doorway, I could see somebody’s leg at the end of the hall, sticking out from the living room. A whiff of alcohol and vomit, the scents of my bathroom, brushed my face.

I moved a couple steps forward, across the threshold. Everything in my chest felt like it was compressing, crumpling under pressure.

“Mikel?” I asked.

This time, when he didn’t answer, I knew why.

My brother lay on his side, the way he must have fallen, and there was dark blood down his front and his back, seeping into the white carpet. His eyes and his mouth were open, and I knew he had been in pain when he died.

I took it in, then saw the rest. The empty cans scattered on the carpet, the overturned chairs, the broken lamp.

My vision started to swim. I put a hand out on the wall, caught myself, tried to remember to breathe. The alcohol and puke smell was stronger. Something cracked, vibrating in my body, through my chest. Like I was the wishbone at somebody’s dinner party, like I was the losing end.

I heard myself moaning, though whether that was in my head or out of my mouth, I’m not sure. The wind outside got louder.

And again, it started to rain.

CHAPTER 15

Somehow I kept it together long enough to make it home, but I was fighting panic when I came through the door, and I nearly forgot to turn the alarm off before it started screaming. I shucked out of my jacket and went into the kitchen, and I cracked the seal on a new bottle of Jack and drank from it standing there, pulling again and again until the burn was too much and I had to stop for air.

I didn’t even bother with a chair, just slumped to the floor, bottle in my hand, feeling eleven again, feeling the world spinning out of control once more.

Not again, I thought. Not again, please not again.

I was in the backyard, face up to the falling rain, a new bottle in my hand, when the cops arrived. I’d been out there for an hour or so, singing to myself, and when I heard the car stop and the doors slam, I knew it was them, and decided to be a model citizen and go around front to meet them.

At the side of the house I leaned, turning my head so I could peek around the corner. The car was one of the Portland PD unmarked ones, white but glowing a little orange in the light from the street. It had a radio antenna mounted on the center of the trunk.

There were two of them at the door, up on my porch, a man and a woman. Both of them were white, and I couldn’t tell their age. The man was saying, “. . . know who she is, right?”

“I don’t fucking care who she is,” the woman said.

The man grunted and leaned on my doorbell again.

I said, “Over here.”

They turned and looked at me, doing a good job of not acting like I’d surprised them. Objectively, I must have looked like a drowned rat, my T-shirt and jeans soaked, my hair stuck to my skull. The woman came off the porch first, reaching into an inside pocket, the man following her.

“Miriam Bracca?”

“You found her,” I said, and pulled at the bottle again.

The woman hid annoyance by flashing her badge. “My name’s Hoffman. This is Detective Marcus.”

“Sure,” I said. “So, did you find him?”

Marcus glanced at Hoffman, but Hoffman didn’t take her eyes off me. “Find who?”

“Tommy.”

“Tommy?”

“My. Dad.”

“Why would we want to find your dad?” I thought Marcus was trying to sound very casual, but that it didn’t work, and that he sounded cagey instead.

“ ‘Cause he killed my brother,” I said. “Killed my mother, too, but that was a long time ago. Mikel, that was new. I think he did that today.”

They watched me, so I took another drink from the bottle.

“Maybe you’d better come with us,” Hoffman said, and she came forward to help, but I backed up and waved her off.

“Why? I haven’t done anything.”

“How did you know Mikel Bracca was dead?”

The woman had to be an utter fucking moron. “Because I saw him. I went over there this afternoon to talk, well, not talk, to yell at him, but he didn’t answer the door and it was open, so I went in and he was there and he was dead.”

“Okay, yeah,” Hoffman said. “You’re going to come with us.”

“I’m not,” I said, indignant.

“Yeah, you are,” she said, like she really wasn’t very interested, and she took handcuffs out from beneath her jacket and her partner was now at my side and taking the bottle out of my hand, and when I protested, he didn’t care, and when I tried to back away farther, he tried to grab my arms. I flailed and fell back with a splash, and the bottle fell and didn’t break. Then they were both helping me up, and my hands were behind my back and I couldn’t move them and that hurt.

“I want my lawyer,” I said.

“I’ll just bet you do,” Marcus said, and he led me to their car.

CHAPTER 16

They made me kiss the Breathalyzer, and ran a wet cotton swab over the backs of my hands before putting me in a cell to sober up. I passed out, only to be roused by an officer who dragged me to an interrogation room upstairs. It was cold, and even though my clothes had mostly dried, I sat there shivering. The drunk had gone, leaving me with a thickness in my head.

Marcus came in first, carrying two paper cups of coffee, one in each hand, and a legal pad clamped beneath his arm. Now that I could make him out, he looked parked in his late thirties, not unattractively so. He was maybe five foot ten or eleven, not as big as Tommy or Mikel, but with the kind of broad shoulders that Van went nuts for on a guy. The suit he was wearing was dark, charcoal and black, with a black tie and a white shirt, and even after what was probably a long night, he looked neat and pressed.

Marcus gave me a grin as he reached the table, offering me one of the cups. I decided to thank him.

“Sure. You want an aspirin?”

“Aspirin would be great.”

“I’ll see if we can find you some,” he said, and he went out again, leaving the pad and a pen behind on the table along with his coffee.

I waited and drank coffee and waited some more, and it seemed another long time before he returned. He had a paper cup of water this time, and aspirin, and Hoffman, too. She’d brought a file with her, and held it with one hand as she took a position leaning against the wall, where she could keep an eye on both of us. Marcus took the seat opposite me, and slid over the water and the aspirin.

I took them both, draining the cup, then thanked him again.

“Not what you’re used to, I’d guess, huh?”

“What?”

He indicated the empty water cup. “Tap water.”

“No, it’s . . . it’s great,” I said.

He smiled and leaned back.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“Do you want to be?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s see if you can help us out here, and then you won’t have to worry about that.”

“It’s just that I have a lawyer,” I said. “I’m thinking I should probably call him.”

“If you want to, sure, but it seems like a waste of his time and your money to me. We’ve just got a couple questions.”

I looked over at Hoffman, idly tapping the end of her file against the cinder block wall. The look she returned was utterly flat, like she was looking through me, almost like I wasn’t there at all. Her hair was light brown, and she wore it full but short, and it ended about the middle of her neck. She had navy slacks and a black blouse and a black jacket. Like her partner, she seemed fit, but unlike him, she seemed long, rather than compact. I’d seen enough lately of how costumers dressed women to know that Hoffman knew she was attractive, and didn’t mind letting others see that, too. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and I didn’t see any jewelry on her, either.

I looked back at Marcus, who sat waiting patiently.

“I guess it’s okay,” I said.

“Yeah, I’m sure it will be,” he agreed, and he uncapped his pen. “So why don’t we start with you finding your brother, okay?”

I told him how I’d found Mikel, what I’d seen. He didn’t interrupt, scribbling on the pad, and when I glanced at Hoffman, she was still looking through me. It was making me uncomfortable.

When I finished, he asked me to tell it to him again, just to make sure he’d gotten it all down right, and after I’d told it all a second time, he nodded and smiled and leaned back in his chair.

“So why were you in such a hurry to see your brother?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, c’mon, Mim. This has been easy so far, why make it hard now?”

“I really would rather not.”

“Was it to score? Is that why you went to see him?”

“Oh, God, no,” I said. “No. Jesus.”

“You know your brother dealt?”

I shrugged.

“But he didn’t deal for you?”

“No. I’m fine with alcohol. Anything stronger, I retain water.”

He grinned. “No sign of that.”

“He never gave me drugs, I never bought drugs from him. That’s not what happened, anyway, this isn’t a drug thing. It’s Tommy.”

“So you said. Why do you think that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well, it may be, but I’m asking you.”

“Look,” I said, trying to be patient. “Tommy’s a drunk, okay? It runs in the family. When I was eleven he got loaded and ran over our mother with his pickup, and he did it on purpose, and that’s the worst example of what he did drunk, but not the only one by a long shot. He got out of OSP a little while ago, he was staying with Mikel. Tommy got loaded and angry and shot Mikel.”

“Not the other way around?” Hoffman asked. “Not Mikel got loaded and angry and your father just defended himself?”

“Mikel didn’t drink. He didn’t use, either. He just sold the stuff.”

“Yeah, that makes it so much better,” Hoffman muttered, and went back to tapping her folder.

“Did Mikel own a gun?” Marcus asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Did Tommy?”

“Well, he must have, because he shot Mikel.”

Marcus nodded, as if my logic was unimpeachable.

“Was Mikel violent?” Hoffman asked.

I glared at her. “No.”

“What about your father? Tommy?”

“Of course he’s fucking violent, I just told you, he murdered our mother!”

Hoffman’s expression curled, got a little tighter, and I finally realized what I was seeing. She didn’t like me. Maybe it was principle, maybe she was one of those fuck-you-rock-star types. Whatever. It was fine. I didn’t think I liked her much, either.

“When was the last time you saw your brother alive?” Marcus asked.

“Yesterday morning. He came over to my house.”

“So you saw him the day he died.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“What’d you talk about?”

I shook my head. “I really can’t say.”

“You can’t or you won’t?” Hoffman sounded snotty about it.

“I don’t want to, how about that?”

She turned her attention to her partner. “This is a waste of time. Let’s get this over and book her.”

“Tracy, calm down,” Marcus said.

“No, she’s pulling this bitch rock-princess act, she doesn’t give a damn her own brother was murdered, she’s holding out on us, the only reason to do that is guilt, far as I’m concerned.”

Marcus appealed to me. “Mim, you’ve got to help us out, here.”

I looked at him, then at Hoffman, then back to him, then figured it out.

“Good-cop, bad-cop, right? That’s what you’re doing now?”

“Actually, we’re both good cops. My partner’s just a little annoyed that you’re holding out on us.”

I considered, then asked, “Have you found Tommy?”

“We’re not talking about Tommy, we’re talking about you,” Hoffman said.

“Why won’t you answer my question?”

“Why did we find blood in your bathroom?” she asked.

The question threw me, coming unexpectedly. “You searched my house?”

“We had a warrant.”

I showed her my right palm. “I cut my fucking hand. I bleed when that happens.”

“Have you disposed of any clothes?”

“Disposed? What, you mean like thrown out?”

“Yes, I mean like thrown out.”

“No.”

“We only found blood on one shirt, not much. Most of it seems to be on the towels and a pillow and its case.”

“That’s because most of my bleeding was on the towels and the pillowcase,” I snapped.

“Lot of blood,” Hoffman said. “I’d think it’d have gotten on some clothes.”

“It didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was naked when I cut myself,” I told her.

If she had a mental image, it didn’t impress her.

“What about Tommy?” Marcus asked. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Thursday morning. First time I’d seen him in fifteen years was Thursday morning.”

“Did your father say anything about Mikel when he came over? Did he indicate that he and your brother weren’t getting along?”

“We didn’t talk about that.”

“What did you talk about?”

I glared at Hoffman again. She took it the way she’d taken everything else so far. “He told me he’d heard my music and that he wanted to be my dad again.”

Marcus asked, “Did he ask you for money?”

“No.”

“Did you
give
him money?”

“No.”

“I’m asking because you seemed uncertain there, for a second,” Marcus said.

“I offered him money. He didn’t take it.”

“I get the impression you don’t like your father. Tommy.”

I bit off a laugh. “No, I don’t.”

“So why offer him money? Did you want him to leave you alone?”

I shook my head a little, then nodded a little. “Yeah. No. I wanted him to leave me alone, but that’s not why I offered him money. I thought that maybe that was what
he
wanted, but he didn’t take it, he just left.”

Hoffman sighed. “So you offered him money to leave you alone? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, I offered him money to admit that he had meant to kill my mother, that it wasn’t an accident.”

“You said it was murder,” Marcus said.

“I say it’s murder, he says he was too drunk to remember. He pled to manslaughter.”

“Why don’t you tell us what you and your brother talked about?”

I shook my head. “If my lawyer says it’s okay, I’ll tell you, but I really have to talk to him first.”

Marcus shrugged. “It’s your choice, like I said, but—”

“Yeah, I know, but I really want to talk to my lawyer,” I said. “Right now.”

Marcus’s smile melted, and he capped his pen and flipped the pages of his legal pad, then got to his feet with a little sigh. Hoffman shoved off from the wall, went to the door, and leaned out to call to someone. A uniformed officer appeared in the doorway, and Hoffman told him that I wanted to use the phone. The officer nodded, glancing at me, then did a double take.

“You go with him,” Marcus said. “He’ll take you to a phone.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, it’s the least we can do,” Hoffman said. “After all, you’ve been so helpful.”