Deadly Interest (26 page)

“
Spit it out,
Bart.”

He took a deep breath and stared up at the
cement beams again. “I have a problem,” he said. Then, with what
appeared to take every ounce of his courage, he bit the side of his
lip, tightened his face and then said, while exhaling: “I’m an
alcoholic.”

Okay, so that wasn’t exactly the surprise of
the day. I waited.

“
I was out of control when
I came to see you. I just don’t have any answers. I don’t know what
to do . . .” He watched himself shuffle, then looked directly at
me. “I was doing good until Ma died. I mean, I wasn’t perfect or
nothing, but I was going to meetings and all. And today, I been
good all morning. But I don’t think I can get back in the program
until I get some answers. You can do that for me.”

“
I don’t have any
answers,” I said, in as calm a voice as I could muster.

“
I know that,” he said
quickly, his hands coming up to stop me from leaving, even though I
hadn’t made a move. “I know I screwed up here, but I know you’re
trying to find out who killed Ma and I’m getting
desperate.”

“
Desperate? How so?” I
prompted.

“
Okay, listen,” he said.
“Let me level with you. I should of done that right at the start,
huh?” He shook his massive head, a wincing expression on his
down-turned face. “I should of told you the truth.”

Apparently, a sober Bart was a somber
Bart.

“
Tell me now,” I
said.

His left hand twitched, making a movement as
if to grab the hip flask, suddenly stopped by some unseen power. I
waited, shivered. “You cold?” he asked.

I was. With only a thirty-second walk
separating my car from the elevator, I’d chosen to drape my coat
over my arm, rather than wear it. “Yeah,” I said. “Come on, we can
talk in my office.”

As we walked through the hub of busy workers
to my office, I felt like a zoo trainer leading a well-behaved
gorilla through their midst. Resisting the urge to reassure them
with “It’s okay,” I simply smiled and, when we got to my office
door, gestured him in. Jordan stared at me with her, “What the hell
are you thinking, girl?” look on her face.

As Barton got himself settled, I turned to
her. “Would you mind holding my calls for a while?”

Her eyes flicked toward my open door, then
back to me. “You’re not going in there alone with him, are
you?”

Frances had apparently alerted Bass, and now
he came toward us, his little legs bustling our direction as fast
as they could. “He’s here?” Bass asked, not bothering to keep his
voice down. Leaning backward slightly to look into my office, he
held out his hands. “What’s he want?”

“
I plan to find out,” I
said. I didn’t want to leave Barton alone for very long. Not until
after I’d had a chance to talk with him. There was no telling when
his self-control would falter and he’d reach for that flask
again.

“
I’m coming with you,”
Bass said, little hazel eyes glinting with bravado. “You never know
if he gets out of hand; you might need protection
again.”

I opened my mouth to make a caustic remark,
then thought better of it. “Fine.”

Barton stood as we entered. Mrs. Vicks would
have been proud to know he occasionally had manners. When he spied
Bass, Barton’s face colored. He stammered. “She said it was okay to
come up here,” he said, pointing at me.

Bass shook a warning finger up toward
Barton’s face. “You just better not try anything this time.”

“
I won’t, sir.”

Sir? The absurdity of the situation seemed
to be lost on everyone but me. Barton Vicks could probably bench
press Bass without breaking a sweat. When Big Bart had said he was
desperate, he evidently wasn’t kidding.

“
Look,” I said, taking
control of the conversation as we sat. “I’m willing to listen to
what you have to say, Bart, but let’s just get one thing straight.
I don’t have to tell you anything.” I said, gauging his reaction,
“Nada.”

He nodded, blank-eyed, eager to please. “I
know that.”

When under the influence, this man, to my
mind, easily possessed the capacity to murder someone. But now, in
this listless, sober state, I couldn’t picture this sloth-like
creature hurting a soul, least of all his own mother.

“
Then what brings you
here?”

Barton shifted in his seat, his girth
prevented from escape by the chair’s wooden arms. “I have another
problem too,” he said, staring at the floor. He sucked on his
droopy bottom lip for a long moment. “It’s not just the drinking.
I’m in deep for some big money. I like to go to the track
sometimes, and I’ve been having some bad luck the past few
months.”

The gambling problem. Score another point
for David.

He lifted his eyebrows, still facing
downward. “I don’t see a way out of it this time. I owe a shitload
of cash and I don’t got enough to pay it off. I don’t make big
bucks the way some people do.” He’d lifted his head at that
comment, and I saw a remnant of the anger he’d had the other
day.

“
How much are we talking?”
Bass asked.

Barton’s shoulders heaved.
“Twenty-five.”

“
Twenty-five thousand?”
Bass repeated.

Barton’s eyes widened as though saying the
words aloud made them more real. “Yeah,” he said, giving a panicked
nod of his head.

I thought Bass’s mouth would drop; I know
mine did. We exchanged glances. All of a sudden David’s
admonishment that fifty grand would be a shot in the arm to Barton
screamed out at me.

“
And you don’t have that
kind of money?” I asked.

“
Hell, no,” Barton said.
“But I sure know that my ma did. She told me she was socking it
away for me. Matter of fact, she told me that she put a bundle away
every month.”

That tidbit tap-danced through my brain as
Bart plodded onward about his mother’s plans for him. Mrs. Vicks
had written those even-amount checks every month for about fifteen
years. It reminded me that Owen Riordan hadn’t gotten back to me on
that issue yet.

I tuned back in.

“
She must of said it a
hundred times,” Barton continued, “she said that she was looking to
take care of my future. She said even if I didn’t see it so clear
myself—that she was taking care of everything for me. So you see,
she must’ve got everything set up. All’s I’m asking for is that
somebody gives me my due. And I don’t think I should have to wait,
no matter what that guy at the bank told me.”

“
Which guy?” I
asked.

“
The guy with the fruity
name. Owen.” Barton strung the name out, sing-song. “He told me
that he went and filed the will, or some shit like that.” He opened
big hands in a gesture of frustration. “And now I can’t get any
action on it till he gets it back.”

“
I know that they have to
file a will within thirty days of the person’s death,” I said, “but
doesn’t he have a copy on file?”

I could almost see the proverbial light bulb
go on over Barton’s head. “Hey . . .” he said, with dawning
realization. “Yeah. Why do I have to wait till he gets it back? All
I want is to see what she had.”

Despite the fact that my stomach churned at
the thought of this big lug benefiting from Mrs. Vicks’ death, I
knew that if he was indeed the sole beneficiary, he had every right
to pursue his interests in that regard. I, however, had no
obligation to help him. I’d done enough.

“
Well, then,” I said,
“Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”

“
Maybe you could get it
for me?” The corners of his mouth tugged into something akin to a
smile, his fleshy dollop of double-chin sagging
lugubriously.

“
Not a chance.”

Bass had angled his chair so that he could
observe our conversation more than actually participate himself,
though in the world of body language, his positioning was anchored
to me. Now, his head twisted back and forth between us, like he was
watching an old-fashioned game of pong.

“
Maybe,” Barton said,
looking helpless as he shrugged, “maybe you could loan it to me and
when I help you solve it and get that reward, I could pay you
back?”

“
Reward?” Bass and I
repeated the word together.

“
Yeah. You didn’t know
about it?” Dark eyes sought reassurance.

“
No,” we answered
together, again. I could hear the surprise in Bass’s voice and I
sure the heck felt it in mine.

“
What reward?” I
asked.

“
That bank guy is offering
a fifty-thousand dollar reward for anyone who comes up with
information to find who murdered my mother.”

“
The bank guy?” I asked.
But I knew. David’s phone call. That must’ve been what he wanted to
tell me.

As the man with the answers all of a sudden,
Barton affected a swaggering tone. “Well, yeah,” he said, as though
it were common knowledge. “She worked there for over twenty years.
They oughta do something—don’t you think?”

Bass ran a hand down his face, rubbing his
chin. “When did they tell you this?” He shot a questioning look my
direction.

I shook my head. This was the first I’d
heard of it.

Barton shifted in the chair again. “When I
went over there yesterday. I wanted to talk to them about the will
and that’s when they told me they sent it out for some kinda legal
reason.” He licked fat lips till they glistened. “They didn’t want
me being there. Said that it was bad for business and that I should
go home. Said they would get ahold of me when the will came
back.”

“
Who did you talk to?” I
asked.

“
Fruity guy.”

“
Owen?”

“
Yep,” he said. “He told
me he’d call me back at Ma’s house. I’m going to be moving in there
now, you know—it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than staying in a
hotel.”

I didn’t know that, and I said so.

“
Yeah, well, when I first
came down I thought it’d be quick, you know . . .” He had the
decency to look away. “That I’d be walking away with enough that I
could afford a hotel for a couple of nights. I guess not, huh?”
Making a see-saw motion with his head, forgiving himself his
mercenary tendencies, I supposed, he continued. “So anyway, Owen
tells me that if anybody can come up with evidence to get somebody
convicted, then the bank will give them this reward. He said that
the cops think the murderer was looking for something. I figured
I’d look around myself, maybe I’ll solve it and then I can collect,
right? What the heck?”

“
No wait,” I said. “I’ll
do it.”

Detective Lulinski had said that the
intruder had been looking for something in Mrs. Vicks’ house. Maybe
Barton was guilty, maybe he wasn’t. But truth would be better
served by my poking around in there, than by his.

He squinted at me. “Uh-uh,” he said with a
solemn shake of his head. “I’m not sharing this money with
nobody.”

“
I don’t want the reward,”
I said. “Honest. I just think that . . .” my mind raced, trying to
come up with a plausible reason to let me look around without Big
Bart breathing over my shoulder. “I think that I might be in a
better position to recognize . . . clues,” I said.

Lame, very lame. But this guy was no rocket
scientist.

He appeared to consider it and I could
almost see relief wash over his features at the prospect of having
the work done without having to do it himself. Eyes narrowed my
direction. “You ain’t kidding me about not wanting the reward?”

“
No, swear to God,” I
said, doing a funny little cross-my-heart movement.

It was enough for him. “Okay,” he said,
sucking on his lower lip again. “But maybe I should move back in
anyway. I mean . . .” He didn’t finish, but I knew where he was
going.

“
What do you say, Bass?” I
turned to him. “Think the station can pick up the tab for Barton’s
hotel for a couple days?”

Hazel eyes hardened my direction. Bass kept
a grip on the station’s money like it was his own. I knew he wanted
this story, but the question now was whether or not he was willing
to cough up some cash to help it along.

I smiled, all innocence. I had him in a
touchy spot, where he had to make a decision that twisted his
tender parts. One of my favorite parts of the job.

“
Sure,” he said. “Send me
copies of your bill. We’ll reimburse you.”

This was fun. Getting money out of Bass was
like getting the Pope to start handing out birth control pills.

To Barton, I said, “I have your permission
to look around the house,” without phrasing it as a question.
“We’re clear on that, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Clear. And I
get the money.”

“
If
there’s money,” I said with weight. “And now,” I said, with a
dismissive handclap, “why don’t we all get started on what we need
to do.”

Barton left amid much thanking and
groveling. When he tried to shake my hand for a third time, I
pretended to be busy at the computer. Bass stood in my doorway and
watched until Barton cleared the office doors and had stepped into
one of the hallway elevators.

“
What’s with you?” he
asked as he sat back in the chair he’d recently vacated.

“
Something the detective
said,” I said, shrugging. “Don’t know that I’ll find anything of
interest, but I feel like I have to try.”

“
Aren’t you the one who
told me off the other day? ‘I’m not getting involved.’” He made
little bird wing gestures and spoke in a falsetto voice, “‘Let the
police handle it.’”