Act of God (38 page)

“Right.”

“And you didn’t have time to show your gun before you had to use it?”

“He’d knocked me down and was standing over me, about to split my head open.”

The townie lit a cigarette. “Doesn’t say much for your agility, you can’t clear your holster before a guy with a shovel gets close enough to whack you.”

“I’ve been having some troubles with my knee and shoulder.” I pulled up my left pantleg so he could see the bottom of the brace. “My doctor can give you the medical backup, you need it for the reports.”

The statie said, “You’re a little hurt, it was kind of stupid coming out here alone, what you suspected and all.”

“That’s just it, though. I only suspected. There wasn’t any solid evidence of Houle being the killer except for suspicion and what I hope you find under that shed.”

“You mentioned shock before. Seems to me you aren’t exactly broken up over shooting this guy.”

“I’m not. He killed two people in cold blood, his wife and Teagle.”

Cross said, “So you came out, figured to trap him in some kind of statement.”

I turned back to her. “That’s what I was hoping for. And he gave me some of it, like I’ve already told you. The rest I’m just filling in, but I think I’m right about most of it.”

The townie drew on the Marlboro. “Of course, with our citizen dead here, we’ll never really know for sure.”

I said, “Even if he’d given himself up peacefully, a lawyer would have told him to take the Fifth when you questioned him and to stay off the stand come trial.”

The statie said, “Meaning we’d never really know, period.”

“That’s right.”

The townie coughed, stubbing out his smoke on the lawn. “Par for the course.”

Cross folded her pad. “So what about Rivkind?”

I looked at her. “What about him?”

“From what you’re saying, this Houle did a copycat on Teagle to throw us off because Houle was two thousand miles away when Rivkind got killed.”

“That’s what Houle told me, anyway.”

“He had his real estate company send us stuff that bears that out.”

I nodded.

Cross didn’t. “So, who killed Rivkind?”

“Can’t tell by me.”

Cross looked at the town detective and the state trooper. All three shook their heads.

From over by the shed, one of the lab techs said, “Hey, Sergeant?”

Cross twisted around in the lounge. “Yeah?”

“We got a white female, one of these plastic fertilizer bags over her head.”

Cross and the other two left me for something they could believe in.

I went down the steps and opened the door. The wiry waiter in black came halfway across the empty dining room, then recognized me and hurried back toward the kitchen. Grgo Radja came out and we met at the center of the room.

“You here for dinner, still too early.”

“Just for a talk.”

“I talk all I want with you.”

“I think I figured out who did the killings.”

The smudgy eyelids closed halfway. “Yes, so?”

“Maybe we could sit for a while, go over it.”

Radja watched me a moment, then indicated with his head to follow him to the table we’d used before. He didn’t take out a cigar or call for drink.

After we were in the chairs, he folded his hands on the tablecloth. “So talk.”

I told him about Roger Houle and Darbra Proft and what they did to Houle’s wife.

“I tell you first time I see you, there is something wrong with that Darbra. But man she throw wine on, him, too?”

“Yes.”

A sad ticktocking of the head.

I said, “But he couldn’t have killed Abraham Rivkind.”

The eyes came all the way open. “How so?”

“Houle was out-of-state. Now that he’s dead, though, there won’t be a trial in his case, so it doesn’t look like there’ll be any more investigation into Darbra or the Rivkind killing.”

“Houle is dead, no more police or you about Mr. Rivkind?”

“Not about his killing or … anything, I would guess.”

Radja smiled, the hooded eyes almost closing. “You understand me last time, maybe?”

“Maybe. Finally.”

“Better you did. You have time for plum brandy with Grgo?”

“A little slivovitz would be nice.”

Radja smiled some more and yelled in Croatian toward the kitchen.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1995 by Jeremiah Healy

cover design by Brendan Hitt

978-1-4532-5313-7

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