Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery (14 page)

Deuce slid the mouse across the pad and clicked once, presumably to pause the card game, and leaned back in his chair. I took a seat across from him. "Do you just have a board full of shitty choices that you throw darts at, and whichever one you hit, that's what you go with?"

"Who do you suppose is spreading word around? You think Brickmeyer might be the one starting all this?
I
don't talk to anybody but you and Jarrell, and that poor son-of-a-bitch is my lawyer. He doesn't want to ruin his already abysmal odds of defending me in court."

"Clements knows what he's getting into. I know you don't know this, but the black folks around town do. He ain't always been the arbiter of social justice. Man's got some skeletons, but he's spent the better part of thirty years trying to exorcise them."

"So? That's got nothing to do with what I'm talking about here."

"Listen, you don't-" He paused. "Okay, I get it, man. I really do. But you're getting fixated on one thing. Leland Brickmeyer doesn't rack the pool balls the same way you or I do. He's got contacts everywhere, and his hands are calloused from the pud-pulling he does. It wouldn't be that hard for him to ruin you forever."

"I ain't got much else to ruin, Deuce. I think that's why Janita Laveau's got me running around on the end of a long leash. If I nail somebody for her son's death, hey great. If I don't, then oh well. It's just my life that's been fucked up. No big deal."

Deuce reached under his desk and pulled a can of soda from his mini-fridge. He referenced the can with his free hand and raised both eyebrows. I nodded, and he retrieved a second drink from the small machine humming at his feet. After he handed it over, I popped the tab and took a long swig, enjoying the fizzy burn of carbonation.

"That doesn't mean you've got to hold the match so close to the fuse. If he has some hand in this and you can find what, maybe you get vindication. But he keeps the shades drawn pretty tight, and he employs family, and they keep their mouths shut. How much did you get out of Jeff?"

"I know for a fact he's wound tighter than a guitar string."

"He's gonna take over the business if Leland ascends to the halls of Congress, and he knows that. Living in Savannah didn't work out for him, so he's banking on that big promotion."

I took another swallow of Coca-Cola and placed it on the stained Berber carpeting. "Any idea of what he did down there?"

"Shit, I don't know for sure, Rol. I was busting heads in New Orleans, and all I got to go on now is hearsay. You know they never turn off the lights at the rumor mill. It's always chugging along."

"What was it? Drugs?"

"They say he was into the club scene down there, got so used to being out all night that he just blew his day job. Came in drunk or hungover and they just kicked him out on his ass, politician papa or no."

"Huh."

"Interesting postscript to his time in Savannah. Not very long afterward, a criminal investigation into that law firm turned up some fraudulent activity. At one of the oldest firms in the city. The head partner professed cluelessness, but he got a dime in the can nonetheless. I'm not saying Jeffrey Brickmeyer had anything to do with that. From what I know about him, he's responsible, but-"

"Makes you wonder." I guzzled more Coke. The heat and all my sweating was making it go down smooth.

"Definitely does. That's my warning, Rol. You're sticking your butt cheeks right up to the saw blade, and you need to know what might happen if you get too caught up. Don’t get into the inner workings of the Brickmeyer clan. If you're serious about following this to conclusion - and I have no doubt you do - you need to ask yourself
why
. Why would Brickmeyer do such a thing?"

I thought about that for a few moments, listening to the hum of some piece of electronic equipment or another. Then I stood, placed my soda can on the desk. "I appreciate it, Deuce."

Deuce crushed the can with one enormous hand and deposited it into the recycling bin behind his swivel chair. He said, "I'll do what I can for you, but I got my own reasons for keeping off the man's radar. If I hear anything else, you're the first person I'm calling. Just don't say my name too loudly in mixed company. That includes your lawyer. I'm trying to run an upstanding business here."

"Yeah, yeah."

"I'm serious. I'll talk to some people, people who know things, and if I come up with anything, I'll let you know."

I waved over my shoulder and ambled out into the too-bright afternoon sun. I sincerely hoped I wasn't getting him snarled in anything he wouldn't be able to get out of.

*  *  *

I rode to the other side of town and pulled into an empty spot cooled by shade. I threw the shifter into park. Two biddies in flower print dresses gave me the stinkeye as I went in the police station. Church ladies. Teetotalers. I could almost feel their scorn burning holes in me, but like everything else, I ignored the armchair judge routine.

The PD was darker but not much cooler than outside, and I kept my head down to avoid eye contact. Two men I didn't recognize were stretched out in the uncomfortable seats of the waiting area, anticipating somebody's release. Not counting me, they were the only civilians in the place, and they looked like they had gotten tangled in a razor-wire fence and used their faces to break free.

The hallways smelled like bleach and alcohol. I always hated it.

The building itself isn't very big. A block of ten cells in the back manages to accommodate the city's criminals without getting too crowded. There is a separate room for the drunk tank and yet another for violent offenders, the speed freaks, and the toothless wife beaters who wake up in the cell completely unaware of their offenses.

I nodded at Dara, who hesitated but then let me in, past the reinforced door and into the main hallway. Her perfume mixed with the chemical scent of the cleaners and solvents, producing a sickeningly sweet odor. I tried not to let it show, and I didn't slow down. "On my way to see D.L.," I said. "Not my fault he called."

Dara shook her head. "You're lucky he let me know you might drop by," she said. There was no good humor in her insults today.

"Thanks, Dara," I said, throwing her a mock salute, already halfway down the hall. Vanessa and Dara used to be friends, and even though Vanessa had left
me
, Dara blamed me for it. She also implied I was responsible for Vanessa’s addiction. She never said anything outright, but she didn’t have to.

I knocked and walked in at the same time and caught D.L. on the phone with his wife, so I gave an embarrassed wave-and-smile, and then I waited outside until their conversation was over.

D.L.'s office was dark, same as always. He had tacked up dark tapestries - he refused to acknowledge they were dark sheets -  to curb the light coming into the room, and the overhead fluorescent bulbs hadn't been turned on in years. Strategically-placed lamps gave the room an even illumination. D.L. had always complained about his eyes, and being the police chief had finally given him the ability to indulge his peculiarities.

"How's she doing?" I asked, and he responded by raising one side of his mouth and one shoulder in an apathetic shrug. "Better'n you are, son," he replied. "You've been squatting over the soup bowl, so I hear. We're all on pins and needles, waiting to see what comes out."

He was looking older these days, well-built but going flabby in all the normal places. His gut peeked out over the belt, and gin blossoms stood out on his nose as if the veins had been injected with ink.

He gestured with one hand, offering the chair across from him, but I decided to remain standing. Resting my palms on the chair back, I leaned forward and said, "What's up, D.L.?"

"You tell me."

"I think I'm the one who got a voicemail an hour ago."

He leaned up in the chair, grimaced as he stretched his back. I heard a loose, watery pop. "I think you need to put on the brakes, Rol."

"I haven't-"

"It’s why I wanted to talk to you in person.” He paused and then said, “I wish you would have a seat. Standing up the way you are is making me nervous."

"Forgive me if I don't feel welcome."

"Aw, hell, you were always self-centered, but these are not the circumstances for you to take exception to everything. If you're standing up to make a point, well, you've made it."

Beneath his expansive mustache, the ghost of a smile appeared. Cautiously, I sat.

"There," he said. "That's much better. I had no choice but to let you go. In these hard economic and political times, you had to expect the consequences that were handed down to you."

"I hope this whole conversation isn't going to revolve around me and my accident."

"No, no, I suppose it won't. It is going to revolve around you, though."

"I've already gotten that impression." I paused. "Listen, I'm not going to do anything to interfere with the actual investigation. I'm doing Janita Laveau a favor. She wants someone looking out for her best interests."

"And that person is you?"

"I'll try to be impartial."

D.L. sat up, chair creaking, and pressed his hands together on his desk, as if in prayer. It was how I was accustomed to seeing him. He stared at me like the answer to a quadratic equation was suspended above my head. "Rolson," he said, "there is no such thing as a good vigilante. Let me tell you something. We had a preacher, lived in the Junction back in the sixties, hated alcohol. Thought every societal ill could be traced back to it. Round here, I reckon he was right. Wasn't wrong, anyway, not entirely. He used to load up his car, which was a souped-up Mustang, with baseball bats and shotguns and chase down the boys running moonshine into the Bottom on Friday and Saturday nights. Was real good at it, too. Got his name in the paper once for it. Anyway, he took it on himself to chase down two of the McCail brothers - oh, Finnius and the other one, second generation Irishmen, both of them - and they pulled a shotgun on him. He managed to wrench it away and shoot the one brother, not Finnius. Killed him instantly."

"Jesus."

My former boss smiled mirthlessly and squirmed in his chair. I think he might have known the man. "That got a lot of mudslinging going in this town, and it went on for a while. The preacher man, he wasn't able to prove self-defense and he went away. Quit being a preacher altogether and ended up provoking a white supremacist into stabbing him to death in the workyard. Got him right in the forehead."

"I see what you're getting at," I said.

"I'm not sure he did it by accident," he said. "Which makes me worry about you, Rol. It reminds me of that story about the preacher man for a reason. You keep saying that tracking down Laveau's killer is the right thing to do, but I'm not sure if you're trying to convince me, the town, or yourself, or - and I think this more likely - if you're using this as an excuse to self-destruct."

"Trust me, I'm not." It didn’t come out the right way. I didn’t say anything else, because I didn’t want anything I said to remind him of his daughter.

He blew out a long, dissatisfied breath. "I have nothing to threaten you with except jail. Which I will enforce. I catch you peeking at something you have no business peeking at, and your future will be quite grim, son. I'm telling you now to just quit it, because you're only going to get hurt. Everybody's going to get hurt. Everything will change, and all that will be left in the midst of it will be pain and disappointment."

"I think I realize that."

"Well, then, I hope you listen to me."

I thought about throwing it back in his face, telling him that it was
his
investigation, but decided against it. D.L. was a good man, but he was still a small-town cop. Looking at the way he was starting to slouch forward made me sad in a way I couldn’t really deal with. He’d always tried to be a good man, which made him a better cop, so I left it alone.

Maybe I’m not so unbiased, in the end.

*  *  *

As I made my way back outside, I caught up with Ronald Bullen. He was walking to his cruiser, and he tensed up as I approached. "I'm not in the mood, McKane," he said, shaking his head. "Shouldn’t you be looking for something at the bottom of a pint of Beam?"

"Give me just a minute, Ron."

"You're a walking insult. Here we are, trying to get this case solved, and you go behind our backs, behind the back of the man who used to be your father-in-law, in order to settle some business between you and Janita Laveau. The fuck makes you think I want to talk to you?"

"Because I know your brother's back in town."

He slowed his wobbly gait just enough for me to catch up. "So," he said. He was sweating from the heat, the armpits of his shirt boasting wretched dark circles.

"So I know H.W. doesn't come back in town unless he's in some kind of trouble. Maybe a warrant out on him, maybe not. Either way, if it comes out he's hiding from something, I still have enough pull with D.L. to get him hauled in."

"He's all grown up now. He can handle the consequences for whatever he's done."

A battered pickup truck rumbled by, and the old timer behind the wheel waved. Bullen waved back. I said, "He isn't hard to find. Big as he is, I'm surprised he hasn't been found yet."