Bullet Beach (22 page)

‘It's true,' Kowalski said. ‘One of you is going down.'

‘Where's your money?'

‘On you.'

‘Why?'

‘Because of me.'

They talked more. The plan called for Cross to enter the house, but not until the house went dark and stayed dark for a couple of hours. He searched the boat for an anchor, found it, dropped it quietly off the side, all 30-feet of it. He arranged the stuff in the boat until he created a soft spot. He pulled the tarp over him, listened to the tiny drops hit the poncho and welcomed the damp onslaught of sleep.

No doubt in Cross's mind. They would have killed him right in the boat had they not wanted some information first. And because he was in the house, a few feet from Taupin himself, Cross was pretty sure that once they got what they wanted, he and his nosy ways would be eliminated.

The man with the epaulets – they were on a jacket likely bought from a travelers clothing catalog, one that dried easily and had secret pockets – had the weapon. He spoke softly and with a Spanish accent. He had dark hair and fair skin. He leaned against a cabinet that housed, Cross supposed, the good china.

Because Cross was duct-taped to a maple dining room chair he was unable to move; but he could see the budget motel art on the walls, the sanitized bric-a-brac scattered about, and mostly Raymond Taupin, almost cartoon-like in the simplicity of his physical presence. A blue suit, a white shirt, a red tie, black-rimmed glasses. The fabric of his suit hung on his frame like a plastic shower curtain.

Only once did Cross notice Taupin look at him. It was a demeaning experience. It was as if Taupin had stumbled across a pool of vomit. There was a mild disgust, but in the end it did not affect him because he would have someone else clean it up. It had been embarrassing enough being towed quietly to shore while he slept in the dimmest of morning light. It was a gun pressed upon his sore and weary body that brought him to groggy consciousness. They had towed his boat to shore while he slept. And then Cross had been marched from shore to dining room. But in Taupin's eyes, Cross wasn't worthy of a moment's concern.

Taupin and the man with the epaulets talked quietly in the kitchen. What were they discussing? Probably, Cross thought, whether or not it would be smarter to turn Cross over to the police or kill him. Letting him go with a warning wasn't a likely option.

The man reached in his pocket and pulled out Cross's handgun. How did they get it? He hadn't brought it along. The two chatted and the man was showing Taupin how it worked.

Cross noticed a young girl, the servant, peering around the door. She could see Cross and Cross could see her, but the other two couldn't. Cross, wrists taped to the arms of the chair and mouth taped shut, could move his fingers and he pointed to her, then made two finger movements suggesting someone running. He rolled his eyes in the direction of outside and looked at her as intensely as he could.

The man handed Taupin Cross's pistol. Taupin examined it, weighed it in his palm. Finally he gripped it and shot the man in the heart. There was a brief stunned look on the man's face. He dropped to the kitchen floor.

Cross's heart sank. He remembered the girl, looked at the doorway, hoping he wouldn't see her. She wasn't there and the only good news he could hope for was that she would escape. She had to know she was in danger. Taupin was wrapping things up, fixing the problem. Even so, he was shocked when Mrs Taupin arrived in her white sleeping clothes, looking angry until she took in the body on the floor and Cross restrained.

‘What's going on Ray?'

‘See what a mess you've made,' he said, his back to her. He turned toward her, raised his arm and fired. Upon her white sleeping gown there was an explosion of red. For a moment this all struck him as some surreal play. And he was a very, very captive audience. It was sick, disgusting. He looked at Taupin, looked at him for signs of sadness or anger or even madness.

Taupin came over to Cross, but not to engage him. He appeared to be checking the restraints. That was all. When Cross looked directly at Taupin he saw the eyes of an insect.

‘Carolina,' he called as he retreated into the hallway. He picked up a phone, pressed a button. ‘Carolina, could you come down please.' His voice was calm. Normal. No stress. ‘Carolina!' he shouted something in Spanish. There was no threat in his voice, but it was a firm request one wouldn't normally deny an employer.

Cross hoped the girl was not foolish enough to hide in the house. He hoped that she was not only able to escape and save her own life, but also to seek help. Taupin stood in the hallway, looking back at Cross. His head was cocked as if he were listening for something. The sound of Carolina moving probably. Cross only had a few moments to think. He wiped away thoughts of the farm in Eaton, his parents and little Maya trying to find her way in the world without him. He wiped away the despair that was creeping into his thoughts and tried to think as clearly and coldly as Taupin.

It was stone quiet, except for the light rain that pattered against the kitchen window.

Taupin has a daughter, Cross thought. Where was she?

Taupin went to the kitchen window, which overlooked the lake. His eyes followed something and Cross thought that he could see a slight furrowing of the man's brow. Cross was convinced the man wasn't mad. He was coherent. What he was doing was part of a plan, one that would solve a problem or provide an opportunity for gain. Cross believed that Taupin's actions had a coherent purpose. He was not planning a shoot-out with the police. With Cross's gun, Taupin shot the security person – who probably knew too much. With Cross's gun, Taupin shot his wife. She had made the mess, it seemed, and Raymond Taupin had to clean it up. She may have also been a witness against him.

The reason Cross was still alive was also part of the calculation. Cross figured that Taupin was smart enough to make sure the medical examiner would conclude the two victims were dead some amount of time before Cross, himself, was killed. The story would be about Taupin coming home and discovering what Cross had done. In self defense Taupin managed to shoot Cross who, as no one would doubt now, shot the son-in-law and the unknown woman.

There would be no one left to contradict Taupin's story. It would be all tied up in a bow as Kowalski suggested, but in the wrong box. Taupin understood that the perfect crime is one likely committed by one person.

Cross watched as Taupin grabbed a kitchen towel and wiped down Cross's pistol. He came back over to Cross and, without saying a word and standing to the side, forced open Cross fingers. After a brief struggle, Cross's finger was placed on the trigger. With Taupin's pressure, Cross involuntarily pulled the trigger. The bullet zinged through a cupboard on the far wall of the kitchen.

Taupin took the weapon, wiped off all but the handle and the trigger. Fingerprints and gunpowder residue would indict the detective. Taupin was both thorough and, in his own way, creative. He inherited a problem and turned it into an opportunity, just like those books that tell you how to be a success in business. Taupin would not only rid himself of all this pesky murder business, but likely as not cash in a large insurance policy on his wife. Using the towel to hold the tip, he put the weapon on the counter.

He still had not acknowledged Cross as anything more than a piece of the plot. Other than the necessity of putting Cross's identity on the murder weapon, he had ignored him. But Cross hadn't ignored him, watching how Taupin had methodically worked his plan. How long Cross had to live he didn't know. Taupin, knowing it was still early morning and knowing that he had plenty of time, probably wouldn't gamble on the medical examiner's expertise in the interpretation of the time line. After all, he was in no hurry. Maybe Cross had as much as an hour. Maybe not.

Taupin disappeared. It would do Cross no good. His wrists were taped to the chair arms and his ankles were taped to the legs, all limbs wrapped several times. He might be able to scoot, but what would happen when he got to the door? He couldn't open it. And if he did, he couldn't get down the steps. He envisioned his head smashed against the concrete walkway after the tumble. The alternative version wasn't any better. A bullet in the head. Taupin would come back in moments. And that would likely be it.

‘Well Pauline, I see you are on the tracks again,' Kowalski said coming in the lakeside entrance.

Cross gave him as intense a look as he could.

‘Don't worry . . . oh shit . . . ,' Kowalski said, seeing the two corpses. Then, more distracted than usual, he continued. ‘The asshole is up putting some clothes in his car.' He pulled the tape from Cross's mouth.

‘Blood spatter,' Cross said, smarting from the tape removal. ‘He needs to get rid of the clothing with blood spatter. It wouldn't fit his story. He needs new clothing for my blood to spatter on.'

Kowalski went to the kitchen counter, pulled a knife from the woodblock, began to cut his friend's arms free. He did so with an approach far less casual than his entrance.

‘And why are you still alive?' Kowalski asked.

‘Time of death. The story is that I killed them and he finds me hovering over the body and shoots me.'

‘His problems are solved he thinks,' Kowalski said. He started to reach for the gun on the counter.

‘Don't,' Cross said. ‘We're screwing up all sorts of evidence. Why are you here?'

‘You want me to leave?' Kowalski smiled. ‘I tried calling you at about five this morning. Your phone is dead. I thought it'd be a great ride up here. And it was. Nice lake.'

Taupin had come in and had done so quietly. He apparently saw that the chair was empty and he ran for it, back out the street-side door. They heard him hit the door. Kowalski and Cross went in pursuit, but could only watch as Taupin, in his Toyota, headed down the road.

‘A Toyota, for God's sake!' Kowalski said as he pulled out his cell phone. He checked the time, punched in some numbers. ‘Not even a Goddamn Lexus. The cheap-ass bastard. Lauren Saddler,' he said into the phone. He waited. ‘Kowalski.' More time. ‘Get me Saddler right now. It's about a couple of homicides.' He turned to Cross while they were fetching the assistant DA. ‘You have a lot of s'plainin' to do, Lucy.'

He advised Lauren Saddler to grab the sanest of the homicide detectives and come up to Lake Wawasee. Told her to get a chopper if she could. He also told her to take care of the locals. He had no idea who policed the lake community. Saddler would have to take care of that angle.

TWENTY-TWO

‘Let me get this straight,' Maureen said, ‘you found your brother. You had a nice chat. He said he had something to do that would keep him occupied, really kind of telling you to stay out of his business. And he said that you should go on home.'

‘Yes,' Shanahan said as they walked down the quiet beach. It was empty. They had spent the day before – after Shanahan woke up – shopping and eating and generally being in a crush of people on the other beach. This morning they were the sole inhabitants.

‘Yet you bought a gun?' she asked.

‘I rented a revolver,' he corrected her, instantly regretting it.

‘Oh, that changes everything. Now I understand.' She picked up the pace of her walk, temporarily leaving Shanahan behind.

‘You think we should go back?' Shanahan said.

She stopped, turned back.

‘He was here last night, but we don't know if he's still here. Even if he is, it is doubtful we can find him. And if we find him, we might lead whoever he's running from directly to him. Strikes me he knows what he's doing. He's managed to stay alive roughly the same number of years as you.'

Shanahan nodded. ‘All true.'

‘But?'

‘An uneasy sense. I can't explain it.'

‘I don't really want you killed.'

‘That's very sweet.'

‘You have a few good years left,' she said, smiling.

‘I hate to see him not enjoy the prize of his life,' Shanahan said.

‘And you?'

‘I have my prize,' he said, kissing her on the forehead.

‘I think we can allow you to skip ahead a few grades. I'll talk to the principal.' She paused to look at a large ship sliding along the horizon line.

When he looked back he saw four people coming their way. He couldn't see their faces. An early morning haze erased the detail. He was pretty sure they were the Germans from the other day. He was pretty sure they were drunk.

Shanahan touched Maureen's arm. ‘Let's go up,' he said.

She gave him a look of amused puzzlement.

‘Up, away from the water.' He looked toward the forms and her eyes followed his. The stumbling forms shouted in German. ‘Probably nothing,' Shanahan said. ‘But they could be trouble.' Had Maureen not been with him, he would have traveled on.

She nodded and the two of them moved up the slight hill and into the tall, coarse dune grass.

‘You have your gun with you, right?' she asked.

‘No. But I wouldn't want to shoot them anyway. Too much paperwork.'

In a few moments the four Germans were passing below them. He could not understand a word they were saying.

Shanahan and Maureen were quiet until they were out of earshot.

‘You don't think they are connected to what your brother is doing?' Maureen asked.

‘I don't know,' Shanahan said.

‘There are thousands of people here from all over the world. Tourists, expatriates . . .'

‘Criminals,' Shanahan added.

‘Being at the same bar. Isn't that just too coincidental?'