Rough Cut (17 page)

    

    The back seat of Bonnell's police vehicle was surprisingly warm. He'd even been thoughtful enough to bring along a thermos filled with coffee.

    He sat in the front seat, only turned around so he could face both Cindy and me.

    In the windshield behind him I could see the emergency lights from the ambulance and the police vehicles splashing bloody light over the sullen neighborhood.

    "I don't expect there are going to be many people at Mr. Stokes's funeral," Detective Bonnell said. "Not unless they turn out to gloat."

    "I need to talk to you," I said.

    "I hope you're ready to tell me the truth," he said.

    "I am."

    I told him everything about the murders I'd learned to date. Everything-from the embezzlement to the robbery to the disappearance of the security guard named Kenneth Martin. Then I told him about lying for Clay to give him an alibi.

    Bonnell stared at me. "Somehow you don't strike me as the type to lie."

    "I thought of my father in the nursing home. He was an honest man. He would want his son to be. I just want the killer stopped."

    Cindy took my hand, squeezed it.

    Bonnell said, "I ran a check on Stokes. He was not a licensed investigator-he couldn't have been with his police record, which was long and formidable and included convictions for extortion, rape, and armed robbery."

    Cindy leaned forward. "You don't still think my husband committed the murders, do you?" she asked.

    He frowned, a curious expression filling his chunky face. He looked at me, then slowly-almost unwillingly-at Cindy.

    "No, I don't think your husband is who we've been looking for, Mrs. Traynor." He glanced up at me, then back to Cindy. "Your husband's dead, Mrs. Traynor. Somebody murdered him earlier this evening."

    Ten minutes later, the ambulance driver slid in the back seat where I'd been and handed Cindy a sedative.

    She was not doing well. Her first reaction had been tears, but she'd slid immediately into a terrible frozen state that was frightening to watch. Shock, the ambulance driver said.

    Bonnell and I stood outside the car, our breath pluming the night air, several Action News types looking longingly at us-as if our conversation would be the most interesting anywhere in the world if only they could eavesdrop.

    "You got any ideas about what's going on?" I asked.

    "Only one. The guard."

    "Kenneth Martin?"

    He nodded. "It's obvious Martin was involved in the robbery with them. But since we don't know what happened, I guess it's fair to do a little speculating. What if Martin were paying each of them back?"

    "For what?"

    "For double-crossing him. From what you've told me about your partner, Harris, he certainly sounds capable of that. But what would happen if they cheated Martin out of his share of the robbery proceeds, maybe even tried to kill him, only somehow he managed to escape and has spent his time since then killing them one by one? There's no motive as powerful as vengeance."

    "But why would he kill Stokes?"

    Bonnell shrugged. "Simple enough. Stokes figured out who was doing it. Given Stokes's tendencies, he may even have tried to blackmail Martin. So Martin kills him."

    He followed the line of my eyes. The last few minutes of the conversation I hadn't heard totally. I'd been watching Cindy deal with her grief over Clay.

    "Nice lady," he said.

    "Yeah."

    "You should take care of her."

    "I know," I said, turning back to him. I stared at him a moment. "It isn't over yet, is it?"

    "No," he said flatly. "What happens now?"

    "We put out an APB on Mr. Martin, and probably we have a long talk with Mr. Wickes."

    "You think he can help?"

    "Right now, he knows more about the robbery than anybody who's alive-except for Mr. Martin, of course. Even though he wasn't directly involved in it-which is why he's alive, apparently-he knows all the people and what happened to the gems."

    "Yeah, I keep forgetting about the gems. I guess murder has a way of distracting my attention."

    "Somewhere there's a lot of money in gems. Presumably Mr. Martin can tell us when we find him."

    The ambulance driver got out of the back of Bonnell's car.

    I started toward Cindy. I needed badly to see her, touch her, even if only to hold her hand.

    Bonnell stopped me.

    "There aren't any heroes in this," he said. "I know."

    "But I'm glad you told me the truth."

    "So am I."

    He nodded to his car. "Go take Mrs. Traynor home. She should probably stay at your place tonight."

    "Thanks."

    "Good night, Mr. Ketchum."

    He let me precede him to the car. I opened the door and put my hand inside for Cindy to take. There was nothing to say. I held my hand there, feeling cold and tired and scared.

    Finally she took my hand.

    "We should go home," I said.

    "Home?" she said.

    "My place."

    She leaned over and kissed me. "Home. That sounds good."

    

    

    My place looked as dark as Denny's had the night I'd found him dead. I almost didn't want to leave the car. Cindy had fallen asleep with her head on my shoulder.

    I raised her face gently and kissed her and then we started out into the night, her sleepy as a wakened child.

    "I love you," I said, and kissed her.

    I got the apartment door open and pushed it in and stood back to let her precede me. It was then that I caught my first glimpse of Merle Wickes and the gun he was holding. It looked to be the same gun he was fondling the day before when he'd apparently been contemplating suicide.

    "Clay's dead," he said. Merle had been waiting in the dark. I found the switch and turned the overhead on.

    "You mind if I put her to bed?" I said.

    By this time, the sedative having taken effect, Cindy didn't seem even slightly aware of Merle's presence. I had plopped her down on the couch, where she sat now zombie-like, staring straight ahead.

    Merle smiled nastily. "You like fucking dead men's wives?"

    "You like walking around without any teeth?"

    Even with the gun, Merle was not a brave man in the face of real anger.

    In the bedroom, I pulled back the cover, then began stripping Cindy to her underwear. I clicked on the electric blanket and pushed her fondly beneath the sheets. I stood staring at her a long moment, loving her.

    Merle was pacing when I got back to the living room. He was so caught up in his thoughts he didn't hear me come up from behind him. He looked silly with his lounge-singer hairdo and the gun dangling from his slender fingers.

    "Thanks for ruining my company," I said.

    I pushed him hard and he went crashing into an end table, slamming his knee hard and crying out in a high voice.

    "You're on the hook for an embezzlement rap, Merle, and I'm going to make damned sure that charges are pressed." I glared down at him, still angry. "You can't do anything right, Merle. You can't even have a mistress. Clay was sleeping with her." I laughed. "You're a wimp, Merle, and I'm about to prove it."

    "What's that mean?" he said petulantly.

    I walked over to him. He raised the gun as if to hold me at bay, but he did absolutely nothing when I reached down and took it from him.

    "It means," I said, "that the police are looking for you right now. But before I call them I want to know where Kenneth Martin is."

    "Kenneth Martin? You're crazy."

    "The guard, Merle, the guard who helped Clay and Denny and Gettig steal Mrs. Amis's gems."

    Merle seemed to swell up momentarily. Cockiness shone in his eyes. He took himself out of his slouch and laughed. "You think you've got this all figured out, don't you?"

    "I've got it figured out enough that I know Kenneth Martin is killing people because they double-crossed him."

    "Kenneth Martin is dead, you moron. I saw him myself- where they buried him after they shot him."

    All I could do was stare at him. "Then who the hell is doing the killings?"

    "I don't know."

    "Bull," I said.

    "Look, if I knew, don't you think I'd tell you? There's a good chance whoever it is wants to kill me next. That's why I'm here. I'd hoped maybe you'd figured things out." Now he was the more familiar Merle. Pleading. Wimpy.

    "Get out of here, Merle," I said.

    "God," he said, "this is a good place to hide." He was desperate now. "Please. Please, Michael."

    "Get out, Merle."

    "Whoever it is, he'll kill me."

    "Maybe that'll be better than prison. That's where you're headed, Merle, and you're not tough enough to survive."

    "God, Michael, you were always a decent guy before."

    "Yeah," I snapped, "and look where it got me. I've been embezzled out of a business and I'm stuck in the middle of murders I had nothing to do with."

    "Please, Michael. Please let me stay."

    I raised the gun and aimed it dead center in the middle of his face. "I wouldn't push your luck, Merle."

    All he said was, "Maybe I'll turn myself over."

    I said nothing.

    "Well," he said, as if he were starting a sentence. But it was a sentence he never finished. He could see I didn't want to talk. He left.

    

    

    An hour later I was knocking back my third bourbon, hoping to kill the anxiety enough so that I could lie back on the couch and sleep.

    I turned the light out and closed my eyes and felt a sudden torpor rush through me. I felt old and used up and very, very unwise. I thought of Merle out there, running, terrified. He'd been our last best hope-the guy both Detective Bonnell and I thought could clear everything up. The guy who could lead us to Kenneth Martin.

    Only Kenneth Martin was dead, killed by the three men who were themselves dead now.

    The phone rang.

    I sat there and stared at it as if I were a bush native and had never seen such a newfangled instrument.

    Finally, maybe the tenth ring, I picked it up.

    Even over the phone her weariness came through oppressively. The widow Kubek.

    "Something is wrong," she said. "Somebody is in his room now. I'm scared."

    "Call the police," I said.

    "I can't, Mr. Ketchum. Maybe it's him. Maybe he's in trouble. I'd just be making the trouble worse if I called the police."

    I didn't want to tell her. Couldn't. That I'd leave to the good grace and long experience of the police. "I'll be right over," I said.

    Before leaving, I checked on Cindy, then looked up Bonnell's name in the phone directory.

    He hadn't been asleep, either. He sounded almost happy that I'd called him. I said I'd see him there.

    

    

    I had no trouble breaking the speed limit. I didn't see a single patrol car in the entire eight-mile trip. Only the ghostly flash of yellow stoplights against the dawning sky.

    Bonnell's car was waiting when I arrived.

    He put out a surprisingly friendly hand when I walked up the stairs and met him in front of the room where Kenneth Martin had lived.

    Mrs. Kubek was there, too, wrapped inside a frayed and faded housecoat, looking frail and old. Only her rage animated her face. She glowered at me as I greeted Bonnell.

    "I didn't want the cops called," she snapped. "I didn't want any trouble."

    "Mrs. Kubek-" I said, about to explain that her lover was dead and was beyond the grasp of earthly trouble. But then I stopped myself. "You don't know who was here tonight?"

    "It wasn't Kenneth," she said.

    I looked at Bonnell. "You think we could speak alone?"

    "Sure," he said. He turned to Mrs. Kubek. "Maybe we'll talk in Mr. Martin's room, if you don't mind, Mrs. Kubek."

    "He didn't do nothing wrong, Kenneth. He didn't."

    "I'm sure he didn't," Bonnell said, soothing as a country priest.

    She had one more laser-like glower left for me. Then she left.

    We went inside. I closed the door and said, "Martin's dead."

    "What?" Bonnell said, surprised as I'd been. I told him about Merle Wickes's visit. "Damn," Bonnell said. "Then who's been doing all the killing?"

    I couldn't help myself. I found his question amusing. "I thought you were the cop, not me."

    He smiled. "Yeah, I see what you mean."

    I looked around the room, at its cleanliness and orderliness. It was a testament to Kenneth Martin's determination to lead a civilized life even if he had to do it in bad conditions.

    "Reminds me of my uncle's room," Bonnell said. "He was a railroad man, lifelong bachelor. I used to come up and visit him. Since he didn't have any kids of his own, he always had plenty of money to spend on me."

    I thought of Martin's little nephew in the photograph I'd seen the other day. Martin probably would have had his nephew visit him, too-if the nephew and his parents hadn't been killed in a car accident.

    Bonnell sat down in a straight-back chair. "You think it might have been Wickes here tonight?"

    "I don't think Merle could have driven from my place to here in time."

    Bonnell frowned, studied aspects of the room some more. "Not much here that's helpful."