Pumped for Murder (26 page)

Danny tightened his grip on the trigger. Phil was too far away to grab the gun from him. Time for shock treatment, Helen decided. She moved closer to Danny and yelled, “But what will I tell Mark?”

“Huh?” Danny Boy looked her way in drunken surprise. He finally saw her.

Helen swung her heavy mug with both hands and hit him in the face. Beer spattered everywhere. Danny Boy crashed into the back bar. The gun went off with a sound like a cannon.

Then there was a great silence.

“I
am such a coward,” Danny Boy said. “I can’t even kill myself.”

The scrawny bartender sat blubbering on the floor behind the bar, wallowing in self-pity. His forehead was covered with a red curtain of blood. The sharp stink of spilled liquor, gun smoke and cordite was overpowering.

Phil moved carefully behind the bar and took the weapon from Danny Boy’s hand. Danny didn’t seem to notice. Phil unloaded the gun. The cylinder did not open smoothly, the way guns did on television. Phil removed the remaining bullets and dropped them into his pocket.

Helen watched, dazed and unmoving. Her eyes couldn’t quite focus, and the gunshot blast had left her ears ringing. She finally managed four words. “Did Danny shoot himself?”

“No,” Phil said. “His head is bleeding because you conked him with a beer mug. He fell backward into the liquor bottles and smashed them. He cut his hands on the broken glass.”

“He fired the gun,” Helen said. “I heard it.”

“He shot the neon palm tree,” Phil said.

Helen noticed that the flickering glow on the wall was gone. “It was dying anyway,” she said, her laugh too high-pitched.

Phil moved quickly out from behind the bar, gently placed the empty gun on a stool, and put his arms around his wife. “You saved him,” he said into her ear. “He’d be dead now if it wasn’t for you.”

Helen burst into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m such a girl,” she said.

Phil held her and said, “Sh, it’s all over now. He’s safe. You’re no girl. You’re an amazing woman. You moved in and saved a life. You risked your own. I’m so proud of you.” He kissed her tears away.

Danny, alone in his private misery, wept and rocked himself back and forth.

The gun blast and broken glass drew the other drinkers. They gathered in a knot near the bar. Bobby pushed his way forward. “He keeps that gun under the register for protection,” he said. “Put it back.”

“Right now he needs protection from himself,” Phil said.

Bobby tried to reach for the gun, but Phil blocked him. He was taller than the flabby bartender and fitter. He glared at Bobby, and Bobby backed away. Phil pulled out his cell phone, called 911 and reported Danny’s accident.

Bobby protested from five feet away. “Hey, dude, that’s not cool. Call his sister, Linda.You don’t have to bring in the cops.”

“Covering up for Danny hasn’t done him any good,” Phil said. “He needs stitches for those cuts.”

“I can take him to the ER myself,” Bobby said. “Nobody has to know. We can say he had an accident.”

“Don’t you get it?” Phil asked. “He’s drunk and he tried to kill himself. I want to talk to his sister. How do I reach her?”

“I’ll call Linda,” Bobby said. “But she’s going to be pissed.”

“Too bad,” Phil said.

Distant sirens settled the debate. Customers slipped out the back door at the sound. Danny’s good-time friends were deserting him.

Helen could hear the gravel crunching in the parking lot as they hastily drove away. By the time the police arrived, only Helen, Phil and Bobby were left standing. Danny Boy wept incoherently on the floor behind the bar, covered in blood and broken glass.

“What have we here?” the lead uniform cop asked. He had sergeant’s stripes, grizzled hair and a weary attitude. Danny continued rocking and mumbling that he was a failure. He didn’t respond to the officer’s questions.

Phil presented his PI credentials, then told the sergeant about Danny Boy’s suicide attempt. He pointed to the gun on the bar stool and handed the cop the rest of the bullets. Then Phil bragged that Helen had stopped Danny from killing himself by hitting him with the beer mug.

“Nice move, ma’am,” the officer said. “Maybe you knocked some sense into him.”

Helen nodded. She followed Phil’s lead. She’d noticed he never mentioned their investigation into Mark’s death. She gave her story, talking quickly and trying to make sure her facts dovetailed with Phil’s account.

Bobby knew the officer. When it was his turn to talk, the bartender downplayed Danny’s distress. “He gets these moods, Sgt. Rick. You know what he’s like. But it’s nothing serious.This outsider”—he pointed at Phil—“made a big deal out of it.”

“He should,” the officer said. “Danny Boy’s been causing the night shift a lot of trouble lately. It’s illegal to discharge a firearm in city limits, especially a weapon that may be unregistered. Attempted suicide should always be taken seriously.”

“But Linda—” Bobby began.

“I don’t care how important his sister is,” Sgt. Rick said. “I’m not having a homicide. Not on my watch.”

He looked Bobby in the eye. “And if I see any more Incredible Hulks hanging around that back room, I’ll haul your ass to jail. Got it?”

The paramedics had stanched the worst of the bleeding and strapped Danny Boy into a stretcher. They were wheeling him to the ambulance when a short, thick woman marched through the barroom door.

Linda Cerventi, Helen thought. Danny’s sister. Linda’s features were indistinct, as if a mediocre sculptor had made her face by pressing clumsy fingers into clay. Her eyes were angry. She barely gave her bleeding brother a glance before she turned on the officer. “What’s going on here, Rick?” she asked.

“Your brother appears to be drunk,” he said. “We’ll have him tested at the hospital to make sure. Witnesses say he was threatening to kill himself and discharged a weapon indoors. That woman there”—he nodded at Helen—“saved his life. You owe her thanks.”

Linda glared at Helen, and she figured she’d get those thanks when she won the lottery.

“Lucky for both of you, he shot the wall,” Rick said. “He’s on his way to the hospital.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Linda asked. “I thought we had—”

Sgt. Rick stopped her. “I’ve been patient enough, Linda. I’ve respected Danny and you and your precious career. But for the second time this week, Danny’s been a danger to himself and others. I have to think about the safety of the other citizens of Sunset Palms. And I don’t like that side business Bobby is running in the back room. It stopped tonight. Here’s my card with the case number and my phone, if you want to call me. I’ve had enough. Oh, and my name is Sgt. Markban.”

They watched the weary officer depart in silence. Helen wondered if the sergeant had had enough trouble for tonight, enough of Danny or enough of taking orders from Linda. Maybe all three.

“Linda, I tried to—” Bobby said.

“Shut up,” Linda said, her voice like a slap. “You were supposed to watch Danny Boy. You failed. Were you too busy drinking with the boys to keep an eye on him?”

Bobby’s silence was his only answer. Helen wondered if Linda paid Bobby to be her brother’s keeper. “And that back room stays closed. Understand?” The bartender slunk away, and Helen heard a car start up.

Linda turned on Phil. “As for you, what gives you the right to stick your nose in my brother’s business?”

“When he started waving a .44 around a crowded bar, he stepped outside your family circle,” Phil said. “Let me introduce myself. I’m the detective asking for the last two pages of the report on Mark Behr. The Sunset Palms records office was supposed to fax them to me today, but the clerk didn’t.”

“I told Rachel not to,” Linda said. “Mark Behr’s death is none of your business.”

“Oh, but it is,” Phil said. “Unless you want TV reporters here talking about the dramatic rescue of a drunken, gun-toting Danny Boy by an unarmed woman. That would be my agency partner and wife, Helen.” He squeezed her shoulder.

“I’m good friends with Valerie Cannata, the reporter for Channel Seventy-seven,” Phil said. “She would love to feature you and your cozy relationship with the powers that be in Sunset Palms on her investigative show,
Double or Nothing—A Seventy-seven Exclusive Expose
. Two sevens could be unlucky for you, Linda. Sweeps are coming up, and television stations want hard-hitting news.Valerie would like nothing better than to expose the corruption in your town. I could point her toward a good source, a sergeant who’s tired of doing you favors.”

Linda didn’t bother to stall or deny. “What do you want?” she asked.

“Those two pages, Linda. I want them faxed to this number.” Phil handed her a Coronado Investigations card.

“I sent that paperwork to our storage facility,” she said. “It will take three days to get it.”

“You have two,” Phil said.

“I’d have to do a special requisition and get approval from the head of the records department.”

“You can do it,” Phil said. “You’re a big shot. You have two days. After that, I go to Channel Seventy-seven, and Valerie Cannata gets a lucky break on a Double Seven exclusive.”

“I
t’s two in the morning, Helen,” Phil said. “Do you have to go to the gym tomorrow?” The couple had crept into Phil’s Coronado apartment like burglars, trying not to awaken the sleeping complex.

Helen yawned and tossed her white blouse into the laundry basket. Even her shirt looked exhausted.

“No,” she said. “I’m going to jail.”

Phil raised one eyebrow.

“I want to see Evie, the gym member who was arrested for Debbi Dhosset’s murder.”

“I didn’t realize you were friends,” Phil said.

“We aren’t,” Helen said. “She’s innocent, Phil. She didn’t murder Debbi. I want to find the real killer.”

“Very noble,” Phil said. “But Evie’s not a paying customer. We’re a two-person agency with two cases we haven’t solved yet. Can we afford to help her get out of jail?”

“Evie is our free advertising,” Helen said. “We have no budget. You’ve been too busy to hang around the courthouse and latch on to an up-and-coming law firm. How are we going to find new cases?

“We won’t be getting any word-of-mouth business from our current ones. If I prove that Shelby’s husband is cheating on her, she won’t want to tell the world. Gus won’t want publicity about his brother’s murder, not with his family’s past—and that’s if we find Mark’s killer.”

“And prove it after twenty-five years,” Phil said.

“Exactly.” Helen kicked off her shoes, then peeled off her black pants, sparkling with bits of broken glass. The pants followed the shirt into the basket.

“If I save an innocent woman railroaded on a murder charge,” Helen said, “that television reporter you mentioned—Valerie what’s-her-name—”

“Cannata,” Phil said.

“Valerie Cannata will beg for that story,” Helen said. “Florida is a death-penalty state, so I’ll have saved an innocent woman’s life. Valerie could splash our name all over the television. We can’t buy that kind of advertising. TV viewers will see that Coronado Investigations is smarter than the police. We’ll be the agency to consult when someone has a hopeless case.”

“Good thinking, partner,” Phil said. He kissed her.

“How do you know Valerie Cannata, anyway?” Helen asked.

Phil’s face was expressionless. “She’s an old friend.”

“Not that old,” Helen said. “I’ve seen Valerie on television. If I remember right, she’s dark-haired, tall and thin. Did you meet her when you were a PI?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Phil said. “Are you going to compare notes with my old flame?”

“So that’s how it was,” Helen said.

“We were both single.” Phil stripped off his shirt while Helen admired his chest. “Val moved on to someone better. So did I.” He kissed Helen again, a deeper kiss.

“I’m not jealous of your past,” Helen said. “I want your future. You wouldn’t happen to have Valerie’s cell phone number, would you?”

“I might,” Phil said.

“I’m going to ask her for help,” Helen said. “I’ll tell you about it when I get out of the shower.”

She felt better after a steaming shower. Wrapped in a towel, Helen slid into bed beside Phil.

“I found Valerie’s number and keyed it into your cell phone,” he said. “I added her office number. Now tell me why you want to reach her.”

“I think Debbi was murdered, just like that detective said. But I don’t think Evie killed her. Heather gave her a fruit smoothie right before she died. She and Debbi had a big fight over a TV channel at the gym. It was a stupid fight. Heather said that fight poisoned the atmosphere and she wanted to make up and gave Debbi a drink she made herself. What if she’d mixed in some oxycodone and it killed Debbi?”

“Over a TV channel?” Phil said.

“Ever Ready said people have killed for less,” Helen said.

“Possible,” Phil said.

“How about this scenario? Debbi’s two trainers were shooting steroids. The whole gym knew that’s why they went out to the parking lot at three o’clock. They got their protégé hooked on ’roids. They had her use fat burners and bodybuilding powders. Longtime bodybuilders get injured and gulp pain pills. They’d be more likely to give Debbi oxy. The drugs probably came from the back room at Granddaddy’s Bar. I saw one of Debbi’s trainers there.”

“But why kill her?” Phil asked. “I thought they wanted Debbi to jump-start their new careers as serious trainers.”

“Debbi couldn’t compete in her first match—because of their bad advice. She was crazy with rage. Maybe Debbi threatened to expose her inept, drug-using trainers. If that happened, she could end their bodybuilding
and
their training careers. Poor Evie was living at Fantastic Fitness. She was good at hiding. Maybe she saw the trainers kill Debbi and now she’s afraid of them.”