The Girl Who Ran Off With Daddy (27 page)

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure.”

“No, I don’t remember it, Stewart. But I was always a very sound sleeper. Not so much anymore. Too many aches and pains.”

I sat there twirling Thor’s bracelet a moment. “I’ll come back when I can, Mother,” I told her quietly. “Will that be okay?”

“I suppose it will have to be,” she replied stiffly.

She bent down and kissed my cheek. Then she headed back inside, limping a little. She seemed to be favoring her left hip. I hadn’t noticed that before. I wondered how long she’d been doing it.

“It’s pretty down here.”

“It is.”

“Peaceful.”

“It certainly used to be.”

We were seated on two of the weathered teak Adirondack chairs that were grouped down by the salt marsh. I was drinking a Cream Stout, Clethra a vodka and Diet Coke. The ospreys were hunting in the shallows. And the sun, which had only just broken through the clouds, was setting over Whalebone Cove, bathing the water and the golden autumn leaves and us in an orange-amber glow. Lulu lay at my feet in the grass. Sadie, the barn cat, was crouched nearby stalking a mole. It was calm and quiet down there, so quiet you couldn’t hear the press vans out on the road. Almost.

“He had cancer, Clethra,” I said, wondering when the last time was she got some good news. “He would have been dead in six months.”

She didn’t react at all. Just stubbed out her cigarette on the ribbed sole of one of her Doc Martens, staring out at the water. “I guess that means his sailing expedition was bullshit.”

“That’s certainly one word for it.” I sipped my stout. “You didn’t know?”

“He never talked personal with me,” she said with glum resignation.

“What did he talk about?”

“His philosophies of life, mostly,” she replied, hugging her knees with her arms. “Like about how life is a grand adventure, shit like that. He was real inspirational.”

“You didn’t know him at all, did you?” I said, not unkindly.

“I grew up in the same house with him.”

“Like I said, you didn’t know him at all.”

“He just never really talked much about himself. He was more into trying to get me to think about things and question …” She stopped, gazing at me imploringly. “Geez, y’think that’s why he never fucked me? On account of he was sick?”

“Possibly. What about Arvin?”

“What about him?” she demanded.

“Did Thor ever talk to him about things?”

“No way. As far as he was concerned, anything Arvy needed to know he could find in
The Thinking Man’s Diet.
Like, that’s totally why he wrote it. So he wouldn’t have to do the face time thing with him. Which totally bites, don’t you think? People living in the same house and not communicating, I mean.”

“Have you been talking to my mother?”

“Have I
what?
”

“Never mind.”

“It’s like he gave us gifts or something, okay? Like he gave Arvy that book. Like he gave me … I don’t know what he gave me. Nothing, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. He gave you notoriety. Which in today’s world translates into a career. If you want it.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Don’t let that worry you. No one does.”

She sipped her drink, studying me over her glass. “How come you got so mad at that cop Munger this afternoon?”

“How come you ask so many questions?”

“Because
you
do.” She was a quick learner. I had to give her that. “How come?”

“He accused me of killing Thor so I could have you for myself. He thinks we’re doing the wild thing, you and me.”

“Oh.” She pondered this. “That would never actually happen, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t. Actually or otherwise.”

“No way,” she agreed, nodding. “I like you way too much to do that to you.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I’m bad news when it comes to guys. Like, I totally fuck ’em up—Arvy’s a mess, Thor’s dead, Tyler’s dead …” She sighed mournfully. “Is there something really, really wrong with me, Hoagy?”

I drank the last of my stout. “No, Clethra, there’s nothing wrong with you. But there’s something terribly wrong with someone else.”

We sat there in silence. The orange glow in the sky changed to purple.

“Can I ask you something else, Hoagy?” she wondered, chewing fretfully on her plump lower lip.

“You can ask me anything.”

But before she could we heard car doors slam up at the house. Footsteps crunched on the gravel. I could see Slawski up there knocking on the kitchen door. Slawski and somebody else. I waved to them. They spotted us and came on down across the pasture toward us.

The someone else was Very. He wore a tweed jacket and trail pants, and moved most gingerly across the mown stubble, as if he were trying to cross the slippery deck of a ship in roiling seas. The man was not used to walking on anything that wasn’t pavement.

“Welcome to God’s country, Lieutenant,” I called to him.

“Check, dude, I didn’t know you lived in one of
these
places,” he exclaimed, somewhat wide-eyed.

“
These
places, Lieutenant?”

“Y’know, where nobody ever raises their voices and everybody is blond and thin and named Wippy or Weezy and they all play tennis and sail and go to the dump Saturday morning in their twelve-year-old station wagons.”

“We don’t call it the dump,” I informed him politely. “We call it the landfill.”

“I love this!” Very gushed, gazing around at the trees. “But school me, dude. Are there bats?”

“There are.” At my feet, Lulu let out a moan of consternation. “But we don’t let them worry us. Say hello to Clethra Feingold, Lieutenant.”

“Evening, Clethra. I dig your ring,” he said, meaning the one in her nose.

She just stared. At the soft dark eyes. At the wavy black hair. At the shoulders bulging in the tweed jacket. Very had magical powers over certain types of women. Clethra’s type, evidently.

“This must be quite some ordeal for you,” he suggested kindly, smiling at her.

“I’m okay,” she said, with a careless toss of her head.

“Get your gents a beer?” I offered.

Slawski said no. He was on duty—uniform, silly hat, the works. Very said he wouldn’t mind one. I started to get up.

Clethra stopped me. “I’ll get it.” And off she scampered to the house, seemingly eager to let Very check out her ripe little butt. She was certainly wiggling it hard enough.

But he wasn’t having any. Not so much as a peek. He sat in one of the chairs. Slawski stood, his arms crossed, posture perfect.

“Where’s Klaus?” I asked him.

“In my ride.”

“He’s welcome to join us.”

“He’s trained to remain there.”

“He doesn’t have much fun, does he?”

Slawski squared his jaw at me. “He’s a professional.”

“Speaking of which, I saw your close personal friend Chick Munger this afternoon.”

The resident trooper took off his hat and examined the brim, turning it in his huge hands. He said nothing.

“Chick seems to think I’m his prime suspect,” I went on. “I’m afraid it got rather ugly between us.”

“I’m not excusing the man,” Very said tactfully, “but he’s under a lot of pressure to deliver. I been there, believe me.”

“He called you a pomegranate, Lieutenant.”

“He called me a
what?
”

“And he made fun of your name. He said Romaine Very was a funny name.”

“Why, that turd!” Very bristled, his left knee starting to quake. “That second-rate fucking turd! I’ll eat his fucking lunch! I’ll—”

“Careful, Lieutenant. Remember your brain waves.”

Very stopped short. He forced a sickly sweet smile onto his face. Right away he started the deep breathing thing, in and out, in and out.

“Toxicology findings on Thorvin Gibbs came in,” Slawski informed me. “They found a .23 percent blood alcohol level in Gibbs’ body at the time of death. More than twice the legal limit. Man was prime-time drunk.”

“Too drunk to be conscious?” I asked.

“Gotta figure he’d be dazed at the very least,” said Very.

“Did he often drink at ten in the morning?” Slawski asked me.

“He drank when he felt like it. Thor Gibbs did everything when he felt like it.”

Clethra returned now with Very’s Cream Stout. She’d brought one for me as well. We both thanked her. She sat, sneaking shy looks at Very.

“Was Thor drinking heavily the morning he was murdered?” I asked her.

“Um … no. At least, I don’t think so. He was planning to take a swim.” She looked blankly from me to Very to Slawski. “How come?”

Her question sat there in the air a moment. No one wanted to touch it.

I was about to when Slawski said, “The lieutenant and myself are en route to the Barry Feingold residence in Essex. Munger be doing some questioning there this evening at 7
P.M
.”

“We thought you might want to tag along, dude,” said Very, tasting his stout.

“That’s most considerate of you.”

Very and Slawski exchanged a look.

“Straight up, dude,” Very explained reluctantly, “we bring you along we got a legit reason to be there—you being the man’s prime suspect and all. Otherwise …”

“Otherwise we don’t,” Slawski said, between clenched teeth.

“Oh, so that’s how it is.”

“Whoa!” Clethra was gawking at me, incredulous. “
You’re
the prime suspect?”

“What is this, Trooper, a turf thing?” I asked Slawski.

“More of a protocol thing,” he answered. “It seems I invited Lieutenant Very out when it should have been Lieutenant Munger’s privilege to do so. Least that’s how he sees it. Consequently, Very here ain’t exactly been invited. And I certainly haven’t been.”

“No way,” said Clethra. “I’m, like, that’s so
petty
.”

“I heard that,” Slawski concurred.

“Can he do it, Lieutenant?” I asked Very.

“Long as it’s his investigation he can.”

“Well, that settles it then—I’m going with you.” I took a drink of my stout. “Care to join us, Clethra?”

She hesitated. “Um … no.”

I studied her, sensing the first hint of daylight. “You sure?”

“Like, I would
maybe
come, okay?” she admitted, squirming in her chair. “Only, Dwayne’s bringing a pizza over at eight. Like, we’re gonna hang out. I mean, if it’s okay.”

“It’s okay.”

“Who’s Dwayne?” Very wanted to know.

“The hired man I told you about,” Slawski said.

“We’re just friends,” Clethra added quickly, for Very’s benefit. “I can take care of Lulu if you want,” she told me.

“Thanks, only Lulu’s coming with us. Her kind of deal.” I turned to Slawski. “Unless Klaus will have an ego problem.”

“Why should he?” Slawski demanded crossly.

“His pride ought to be severely wounded by about now, don’t you think? Frankly, he’s done
bupkes
so far. Lulu’s carrying him.”

Slawski shook his head at Very. “Don’t he ever cut this shit out?”

“Not in my experience,” Very replied brightly.

“When the time comes, Piffle Man, you’ll see what Officer Klaus can do,” Slawski warned me, glowering down at Lulu. “And so will she.”

“If you say so, Trooper.” I got to my feet. “C’mon, amigos. Let’s ride.”

“That girl’s putting up a mighty brave front,” commented Very as we tore down Joshua Town Road in Slawski’s cruiser. Mr. Serenity was riding in back with Officer Klaus. Lulu was up front between Slawski and me. Klaus she ignored. Or pretended to.

“How so, Lieutenant?” I asked him.

“Check it out, dude,” he explained. “Her whole world’s collapsed around her, and there she is trying to act like everything’s cool. Which it’s not. Damned shame, really. Seems like an okay kid. Major set of zoomers, too.”

“Why, Lieutenant, if I didn’t know you better I’d swear you were hot for her.”

“I’m hot for whoever killed Tyler Kampmann and Thorvin Gibbs.” He poked me in the shoulder. “Think it coulda been her, dude?”

“Lieutenant, I don’t know what to think anymore. You’re welcome to stay with us tonight, by the way. We have plenty of room.”

“Thanks, dude, only—”

“He’s crashing with us,” Slawski informed me.

“Us?”

“Klaus and myself.”

I tugged at my ear. “Tell me, Trooper, does Klaus sleep with you or does he have his own room?”

Slawski didn’t respond.

“Don’t tell me he stays in the cruiser all night.”

Slawski still didn’t respond. Just nodded to himself, pleased. “Uh-huh. You done got that right, Lieutenant.”

“Told ya,” Very said.

I frowned, perplexed. “Got what right?”

“It
do
be just like street noise,” Slawski agreed. “After a while, you don’t even hear it no more.”

It was completely dark by the time we turned off onto the long, narrow dirt road through the forest to Barry’s house. It was not easy going. There were no streetlights, no house lights. The road was bumpy and twisting. Slawski kept the pedal to the floor, his brights on, his huge hands gripping the wheel tightly. We were maybe a quarter mile from the house when we came hard around a curve and there she was—staggering blindly down the middle of the road, flailing her arms, her face and her chest bloodied.

We nearly ran smack into her.

Slawski had to go skidding into the ditch or we would have. A thick growth of forsythia stopped us inches short of the trees. By the time we scrambled out of the car she was facedown in the road, blood pouring out of the wounds to her head and neck and shoulders. They were sharp wounds, deep wounds. And there were so damned many of them. Slawski snapped a command at Klaus, who went crashing off into the brush. Then the trooper radioed for an ambulance, wasting no time. But it was no use.

Baby Ruth Feingold was already dead.

W
E WERE STILL STANDING OVER
Ruth in the middle of the road when Klaus came loping back, panting heavily. He was not in what I’d call tip-top shape. But he was well trained. Sat right there at Slawski’s heel, gasping for air, while he awaited his next command.

“Attacker must have cleared out already,” Slawski concluded, patting him stiffly, like he was a piece of furniture.

Very crouched over Ruth with Slawski’s flashlight, examining the wounds. “I’d say some kind of ax made these.”