A Kiss Before I Die (5 page)

Foursquare was a town of phone wires strung on poles, old homes and old apartments:  two story homes with large porches, window AC units, peaked attics, and detached garages. There were businesses that appeared to have no business.

Like Vernon Castle, Foursquare was dying, slowly collapsing.  She passed the site of the casket factory fire, the place that had her godfather and father had nearly died in, a place where two other men had died, one at the hands of a future senator. It remained barren ground despite twenty-five years of possibilities, an open wound that maybe the citizens of Foursquare
wanted
. 

She came to a tree-shrouded street, found the number 305, and checked it off her list.
Sandya
, she read and thought.

A gray two story, virtually featureless in character:  windows, door, driveway, and nothing to make it memorable. 

She parked two houses away not wanting its occupants to be aware of her car, if that was possible. She knocked and waited, fidgeting with the stolen badge, loose in her left coat pocket, prepared to use it if needed.

A black child, a girl, impossibly cute, no older than ten, answered the door. 

“Hello,” Sam said, smiling. “I was wondering…” 

“I don’t talk to strangers.” 

And the door shut.

One down and two to go. She could see it coming: the last house she went to would be the one she needed.

After another twenty minutes, she found the second house. It was close to 5:30 when she arrived at the
Salyes
address. She again parked the car at what she hoped was a safe distance.

It was a pretty home and well maintained. There was a screened-in porch. She entered he porch, rang the doorbell, and waited. She knocked. Eventually a man in his late forties opened the door. He held a shotgun in his right hand and asked her what the hell she wanted.

“Spit it out,” he continued. “I got the game on!”

“Yes, I’m looking for information on a man named Fred Burleson and I was hoping you could help me?”

His eyes narrowed.

“I.D.”

“Excuse me?” 

He raised the gun from its loose grip in his right hand to cradle its barrel in his left, the nozzle carelessly aimed toward the doorframe.

“
I.D.
You got an I.D.,
honey
, or are you
deaf?”

She did not take his eyes from his, and from her pocket raised the badge, held it plainly so he could see it.

“Can you see or are you blind?”

“How do I know it’s real?”

She extracted her gun from her pocket, letting it fall to her side, casually, not threatening him, but letting him see it.

“You won’t like jail food. Too much salt.”

The man seemed to reconsider his position.

“What am I supposed to know?” he asked with less bravado. The gun faded out of his left hand to his right, hanging by his leg. “You don’t
look
like a cop.”

“I’m looking for a man named Burleson, Frederick, or Fred, or Freddy. Do you know this man? We’re looking for him.”

“Don’t know him and don’t care to know him. Why do you care about him? What’s your story?”

This was curious. He talked oddly.

That’s when, from inside, she heard the warble and snap-click of a police scanner.

His eyes flickered with recognition and fear.

It was the end of their almost polite conversation.

She rushed at him as the shotgun rose. She pushed into his throat with her right forearm and brought her left knee into his groin, folding him to the ground, flattening him. He was taller than her by nearly six inches, and was somewhere north of 200 pounds. But he went over and the gun fell from his hands. She raised her left elbow and drove it into his right shoulder, just to inflict pain, and then she struck as his throat a second time.

She stood, tossed his weapon into the living room, removed Debozy’s cuffs from her inside pocket, rolled him over, and attached one of the bracelets to his right wrist.

The man was gasping and gagging as she dragged him into the kitchen. Casting about for something to lock him to she settled on the refrigerator. She locked the cuff around one of its feet, dragged him into position, and then locked his second wrist.

“What’s your name, neighbor?”

He coughed the answer.

“Ruggles. Sebastian.”

“Okay, Ruggles, Sebastian,” she said, catching her breath. “What are they saying?”

“Who is what saying?”

The radio sound came from what looked like the dining room.

She thought it funny he thought
she
was dumb, but she didn’t think of laughing and instead lightly tapped the top of his head.

“Stay here for a minute, Ruggles, Sebastian.”

“Up yours…”

The squawking was now the usual nonsense, cops exchanging information about things that didn’t affect her. He hadn’t time to call anyone, she was sure, and when he came to the door, he may have imagined the headlines hailing his heroics in capturing Haskin’s killer.

She patted down him, found a cell phone, placed it in her pocket, and saw his wallet and car keys on the kitchen counter by the sink.

“Hang tight, Ruggles, Sebastian.”

The obscenities followed her out the rear door. She went to the detached garage to steal his car, to place hers inside.

“Oh, for god sakes.”

She didn’t believe in chance or fate but had no way to explain the black Ford Crown Victoria. 

Black trim, black wheels, tinted windows, a row of red and blue lights along the rear window, side-searchlights, cage, and an empty shotgun rack bolted to the dash. There was no insignia but there was no doubt is was an official New York State Trooper car.

She drove to her Camaro, returned in her car and parked it in his garage, removing her personal effects, insurance and registration, and placing the lot of it, including the keys, in the trunk.

In that time off-duty New York State trooper commander Ruggles, Sebastian, had managed to bring the refrigerator out from the wall and was in the process of tipping it with a resounding crash, its contents spilling helter-skelter, breaking his jaw and knocking himself out cold.

Samantha, even though she realized he was injured, laughed loudly with a combination of fright and amazement. She’d done stupid things, and seen people do stupid things but this was extraordinary.

She moved the machine and rolled him to his back. She checked his pulse; he was alive.

She dashed upstairs and peered into the rooms:  at a glance, she knew he lived alone. There were no wedding pictures or family portraits or anything to indicate that Mr. Ruggles had anything in his life other than work. She saw a den with what appeared to be awards, recommendations, and honors although she could not read a word of them.

She felt a tinge of sadness for him as she bounced down the stairs to rejoin him.

He remained flat out knocked out.

She knelt beside him.

His eyes fluttered as if dreaming.

She dialed 911 from his house phone, landline, then dialed 911 from his cell phone, and walked away with operators asking what the emergency was. One call might be ignored, but two wouldn’t be.

There was no reason for this man to die.

The Camaro screamed
fugitive
and the black Crown Vic bellowed
cop
. Its only value was in its police radio, which she heard report the 911 call from the state trooper’s house. The dispatcher reported both calls from both lines and somehow knew it was a cop’s address. She pulled over, looked at her map, assuring herself she was on the right path, literally, absolutely.

She dug into her pocket for another caffeine tab. She popped it in her mouth and flicked the cap off the trooper’s bottle of
Arrowhead
, swallowed the pill and did a spit take at the same time. The bottle held vodka, not water. She threw it out the window into the falling snow. Using her map and sense of direction, she navigated to
Scananonga.

The green Ford Taurus was in the driveway of a large brick home. The home had ample yardage, detached garage, and like the others was a two-story. It was beautiful.

She parked in the driveway, behind the Taurus, leaving enough room to move either car swiftly, and left the trooper’s car running. She took assured strides to the front door, rapped the door and rang the doorbell.

A boy, it seemed, a young man of maybe twenty, came to the door and without prompting said, “Hello, officer. Come in.”

She felt clumsy about his blind acceptance but realized he’d seen the car, heard the car, and possibly seen the back of her jacket.

She thanked him and commented, “I’m sorry to intrude on you like this.”

“Do you have any word on my father?”

She saw him more clearly.

He was a younger version of the man she’d found in her driveway. He was the same height, pale skin, almost blond hair, a slightly larger frame with evidence of muscle. She imagined he was a wrestler; his shoulders seemed wider somehow, his body in an appealing triangle, V-shape. He was a cute
boy
. She was conscious this was how men looked at her: judging face and torso, calculating appeal. 

“Well, no. But I’d like some more information if I can acquire it. I’m from Syracuse and was given a very short briefing and was hoping that I could speak to your mother.”

“Come this way,” the young man said, leading her into the living room.

She glanced to the right, some type of sitting room or parlor, to a side hall to the kitchen, up the stairs, and followed him.

He gestured.

“Pop a squat.”

“Thanks.
Is
your mother home?”

“She’s out right now. Maybe I can help.”

He sat across from her.

“You nervous?” he asked.

“Caffeine,” she said honestly. “I can’t drink coffee so I take these tabs and well, I took one too many I guess.”

She smiled. The boy smiled.

“I was informed your father was a former Foursquare police officer and he retired and went into business on his own, insurance fraud investigations and the like. Is that correct?”

“It sure is ma’am.”

“Now beyond the obvious statements and questions about possible enemies, I’d like to know who he was working for before he disappeared.”

“Mom might now that one but I sure don’t. She and dad sometimes talked business, but dad was generally tight lipped. You guys haven’t figured that out yet?”

“Not that I’ve been told. As I say, I’ve been thrown into the mix with very little to go on. That’s why I thought I‘d start here. Did he travel out of the area often? Was he primarily in this county?”

“He worked up and down the corridor, Utica to Syracuse, you know. Can you excuse me for a minute? My little brother’s taking a nap. I need to check on him.”

“Please…”

She stood with him.

“Be right back,” he said.

He headed to the front door and stairs and disappeared. She heard his footsteps on creaking stairs.

She looked around the room. A fireplace. A mantle. A photograph of Mr. Burleson, Mrs. Burleson, and the son. Mrs. Burleson was pretty. Another photograph of the three of them. A photograph of the boy on his own, posed with a baseball bat, down on one knee. A photograph of the boy in a graduation gown and mortar.

Two parents; one son.

She went into the kitchen, gun in hand, saw keys on a rack, found the key for the green Ford Taurus and put it in her coat.

She heard the boy walk down the stairs and she faded left, out of the kitchen and caught him with a shotgun cradled in his hands, barrel held high.

“How is he?”

The boy was confident.

“Who are you?”

He did not turn to face her.

“You’re not wearing a radio or a trooper hat and you don’t have a badge. That and you’re wearing an FPD jacket, so lady, you ain’t a cop. Besides, you’re prettier than any cop I ever saw. Who are you?”

“Put it in your left hand then throw it on the couch.”

He complied.

“On your stomach, please.”

Again, he complied.

She wasn’t going to bother with his name. She didn’t want to know it. She already felt like she knew too much.

“So many guns,” she said. “How much trouble do you think I’m in?”

“A lot. Where’s my dad?”

“Was he working for that lawyer, Wilcox?”

She was behind him, not over him, far enough that if he flailed he would not reach her. She did not think he was dumb enough to try but young men tend to think they are impervious to death.

“You have a gun?” 

She fired a shot into the wall.

The boy remained still, silent, and, she hoped, frightened.

“Was he working for Mr. Wilcox?”

“I don’t know.”

“And your mother?”

“What about her?”

“Where is she?”

The boy relaxed.

“Probably with Mr. Wilcox.”

The tone, the inflection, related a sadness she had experienced.

She asked gently.              

“Why makes you say that?”

“She’s marrying him. She’s divorcing dad.”