Authors: Kathy Reichs
Ryan said he and Lutetia were now living apart. Admitted he’d made a mistake. Sought forgiveness. Invited me back into his life.
How those words would have thriled me a few months back. Now they kicked up an emotional twister.
How would my sister, Harry, put it? I’d ridden that pony and been thrown.
And that’s where we left it at 2:45. Given the hour, I offered the foldout in the study. Ryan accepted. Birdie and I retired to my bedroom.
Sleep was a very long time coming.
My clock radio said 8:14. Arrows of light were shooting the shutters and the bedroom floor. The house was quiet. Bird was nowhere to be seen.
Morning sounds drifted in through my partialy open window. Birdsong. A leaf blower. On Queens Road, a garbage truck grinding from pickup to pickup.
I felt as anxious as when I’d crawled into bed.
Throwing back the covers, I dressed, did modest toilette, and headed downstairs.
Ryan was at the kitchen table, reading the
Observer.
Birdie was in his lap.
The Viking blues lit up when I pushed through the swinging door.
“Bonjour, Madam.”
My southern parts did that
wee!
thing they do.
“Hey.” I ignored my libido.
Ryan was wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned. Under the shirt, his T featured a fat green lizard and the words
The Dead Milkmen.
Irrationaly, the thing annoyed me.
Whatever happened to AC/DC? Lynyrd Skynyrd? The Grateful Dead? Katy was right. I realy was a dinosaur.
I was also irked by Bird being in Ryan’s lap. He couldn’t wait for me to get up and fil his dish?
“You look good,” Ryan said, taking in my quick pony and slapdash mascara.
“Don’t start,” I said. Joking? Maybe. “Coffee?”
“You know how to make coffee?”
“I observe while waiting in line at Starbucks.”
“I’d help, but the cat might feel rejected.”
The cat never raised its head.
I ground beans and measured water. Sort of. I’m more of a guesser.
“Bagel?”
Ryan nodded. I popped two in the toaster, took cream cheese from the fridge. Got mugs. Napkins. Spoons. Back to the fridge for cream. Back to the drawer for knives. Back to the cabinet for plates.
Ryan’s presence was making me edgy as hel.
Looking for diversion, I flicked on the tiny counter TV. It was stil tuned to the local news channel I’d punched up before leaving for Rinaldi’s funeral.
“So.” Ryan sat back. “What’s up for today?”
I was about to provide a peevish response when the newscaster’s words registered.
“We could—”
“Shh.” I flapped a hand.
“Did you just shush me?”
“—in the front yard of his Pinevile home. Neighbors spotted the body around seven this morning. Authorities believe Finney was shot sometime between ten and midnight last night.”
“Did the woman just shush me?” Ryan asked the cat.
The screen filed with footage of Finney’s smal yelow house. Cruisers and other vehicles lined the curb. The ME van sat with doors winged out. On the lawn, a form lay motionless beneath plastic sheeting, beside it an upended rol-out trash can.
“Jesus.” One hand was pressed to my lips.
“Asa Finney was a self-proclaimed witch. One week ago, Jimmy Klapec’s headless body was found on the shore of Lake Wylie, its torso carved with satanic symbols. A suspect in the Klapec murder, Finney had just been released from police custody. Authorities continue to investigate possible links between the two kilings.”
“That’s the man you spoke of last night.” Al humor had gone from Ryan’s voice.
I nodded.
“Sonovabitch.”
Grabbing my phone, I punched Slidel’s number. Four rings. Five. Six.
“Slidel.” Barked.
“It’s Brennan. What happened?”
“I’m kinda busy here.”
“Summarize.”
“Finney’s dead.”
“I know that.”
“He was putting out the garbage when someone capped him.” In the background I could hear the usual crime-scene noises. Crackling radios. Voices caling out. Others answering.
“A drive-by?”
“Larabee says the gun was fired at relatively close range. Shoeprints in the dirt by the bushes. Looks like someone was waiting for him.”
I struggled to form the words.
“Same weapon as Rinaldi?”
“This was a forty-five. Eddie got it with a nine-milimeter.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Neighbor two doors down saw a Volkswagen Jetta cruising the block late yesterday. Thought it looked suspicious. Got a plate number.”
“What’s your read?” There was no need to spel out my meaning.
“This plays different.”
“How so?”
“It’s sloppy. Eddie’s hit was clean.”
“That’s it?”
“Someone realy wanted this guy dead. Six slugs worth.”
Dial tone.
Slamming the phone, I began pacing the kitchen. How had this happened? Had Slidel and I put an innocent man at risk? Was Finney guilty and someone felt the need to take him out?
What someone?
The someone who kiled Klapec? Rinaldi? Slidel thinks not Rinaldi.
What would I tel Jennifer Roberts?
Feeling the soft pressure of hands on my shoulders, I turned. Ryan’s eyes were filed with concern.
“Come.” I alowed myself to be led to the table. “Sit.”
I dropped into a chair.
“Deep breath.”
I inhaled. Exhaled.
Ryan handed me a mug, then sat back and assumed a listening posture.
OK. Cop stuff. Safe ground.
I told him what I’d learned from Slidel.
“Was Finney robbed? Was the house burglarized?”
I hadn’t asked. Retrieving the handheld, I phoned Slidel again. Six rings, then I was roled to voice mail. I didn’t bother leaving a message.
I took a swig of coffee. “I can’t help feeling Finney’s death was my fault.”
“CT.” Ryan used one of our codes. Crazy talk.
Grabbing the phone, I dialed again. As before, Slidel ignored my cal.
“Crap.” The device hit the table with a sharp crack.
Ryan’s brows floated up, but he made no comment.
I raised my hands in frustration. “Why Finney?”
Knowing the question was rhetorical, Ryan didn’t answer.
“Nothing in this investigation makes sense. Cuervo, a
santero,
hit by a train. Rinaldi, a cop, shot in a drive-by. Finney, a witch, gunned down at his home.”
Ryan didn’t interrupt.
“Klapec, a chicken hawk, kiled by Satanists and dumped by a lake. Hel, we don’t even have a cause of death in that one.”
I lifted, then smacked down my mug. Droplets jumped the rim and landed on the table.
“And now the asshole detective I’m working with won’t take my cals.”
As if on cue, the phone rang.
Without thinking, I snatched it up.
“About time.” I didn’t even come close to civil.
“It’s Larke Tyrel, Tempe.”
I closed my eyes. At that moment, my battered nerves couldn’t take more strain.
“Good morning, Larke. How are things?” OK. That sounded calm.
“Not good.”
My upper teeth clamped onto my lower lip.
“You spoke to the media after I gave direct orders to the contrary.”
“Lingo was campaigning at Rinaldi’s funeral.”
“I don’t care if the man was doing tai chi naked on the statehouse lawn.” Tyrel was also struggling to keep his voice even. “With regret I must inform you that your services are no longer needed by this office.”
My face went hot.
“Lingo is dangerous,” I said.
“So is a renegade soldier under my watch.” Tyrel paused. “And there’s the matter of the drinking.”
Shame flamed my skin with a hot effervescence.
“I’m sorry,” Tyrel said.
For the second time in minutes I found myself listening to a dial tone.
“Tyrel’s pissed?” Ryan guessed.
“I’m fired,” I snapped.
“He’l cool down.”
“Andrew Ryan, the voice of wisdom.” I watched black clouds swirl on the surface of my now tepid coffee. “How can you possibly know what Tyrel wil do?”
“I know you.”
“Do you? Do you realy?” Suddenly, I was colapsing inside. “Months go by, nothing. Then you blow in out of nowhere with your sad story. ‘Poor me, things tanked with Lutetia. I’m al alone. How about a booty cal?’”
I knew I was ranting, couldn’t help myself. Finney was dead. Slidel was snubbing me. Tyrel had just fired me. Ryan wasn’t at fault. But he was there in my face so he took the hit.
“And look at you.” I flapped an agitated hand at Ryan. “You’re almost fifty. Who the hel are the Dead Milkmen?”
“Beats me.”
“You’re wearing the T-shirt of a group you don’t even know?” Disdainful.
“I figured it was a charity for the widows and orphans of deceased dairy workers.” Delivered deadpan.
That did it.
I laughed.
“Sorry.” I laid a hand on Ryan’s arm. “You don’t deserve this. Lately, I’m certifiable.”
“But cute,” he said.
“Don’t start, big boy.”
Frustrated, I got up and poured my coffee down the sink. In my condition, caffeine was probably not a good plan.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. I grabbed it.
Slidel’s disposition had improved. Slightly.
“The Jetta is registered to a Mark Harvey Sharp in Onslow County. No police record. We’ve got a cal-in down there. Should know something soon.”
Several cels opened sleepy eyes in my subconscious.
What?
No answer from my id.
It was the cemetery al over again.
Ignoring the subliminal stirring, I told Slidel I wanted to be present when he interrogated the driver.
“Why?”
“Because I do.”
Dial tone.
More pacing. Pointless activity. Dishes. Cat litter.
I was sure I wouldn’t hear from Detective Dickhead again. I was wrong. Slidel caled back. Background noises suggested he was now in his car.
“We got us a suspect. You won’t believe who was driving that Jetta.”
32
TWENTY MINUTES LATER RYAN AND I WERE EXITING THE ELEVATOR on the second floor at Law Enforcement. Slidel had initialy denied my request, finaly relented. We could watch, but not participate in the interrogation of the man in custody.
Slidel was at his desk. Ryan expressed sympathy to him for the loss of his partner. Slidel thanked Ryan for traveling to Charlotte to attend the funeral.
“There was never any question. I admired the man. And liked him.”
“They don’t make ’em like Eddie no more.”
“No, they don’t. Had it been the reverse, Rinaldi would have come to salute at my grave.”
Slidel held up tightly curled fingers. “Brothers in the uniform.”
Ryan high-fived Slidel’s fist with one of his own.
The two spent a few moments recaling the time the three detectives first met.
Then we got down to business.
Slidel phoned to see if the interrogation room was up and running. It was. We trooped down the hal, Slidel in the lead.
Same one-way-mirror window. Same battered table. Same chair once occupied by Kenneth Roseboro, later by Asa Finney.
The chair was now holding the man suspected of kiling Finney.
The suspect was around forty with flint gray eyes and short brown hair shaved into whitewals. Though smal, he was fit and muscular. Tattooed on his right forearm were the Marine Corps logo and the words
Semper Fi.
I was stil struggling to wrap my mind around the man’s identity.
James Edward Klapec. Senior.
Jimmy Klapec’s father had been stopped twenty miles south of Charlotte driving the Volkswagen Jetta spotted by Asa Finney’s neighbor.
Klapec’s eyes kept sweeping his surroundings then dropping to his hands. His fingers were clasped, the flesh stretched pale on each of his knuckles.
Leaving Ryan and me in the corridor, Slidel entered the room, footsteps clicking metalic through the wal-mounted speaker.
Klapec’s head jerked up. Wary eyes folowed his interrogator across the room.
Tossing a spiral onto the table, Slidel sat.
“This interview is being recorded. For your protection and ours.”
Klapec said nothing.
“I’m sorry about your loss.”
Klapec gave a tight nod of his head.
“You’ve been read your rights.” More statement than question.
Klapec nodded again. Dropped his gaze.
“I want to repeat, you have a right to a lawyer.”
No response.
Slidel cleared his throat. “So. We’re good to talk here?”
“I kiled him.”
“You kiled who, Mr. Klapec?”
“The satanic sonovabitch who murdered my son.”
“Tel me about that.”
Klapec sat almost a ful minute without speaking, face pointed at his hands.
“I’m sure you know about Jimmy.” Halting.
“I’m not judging you or your boy,” Slidel said.
“Others wil. The press. The lawyers. They’l paint Jimmy as a pervert.” It was obvious Klapec was treading carefuly, choosing his words. “I didn’t agree with the choices Jimmy was making.” Klapec swalowed. “But he deserved better than I gave him.”
“Tel me what you did.”
Klapec looked at Slidel, quickly away.
“I shot the cocksucker who kiled my boy.”
“I’m gonna need specifics.”
Klapec inhaled, exhaled through his nose.
“Since Jimmy’s murder, I start every morning with the Charlotte paper online. Cops don’t bother with nobodies like me and my wife, so we have to rely on the news to know what’s being done about the murder of our own son. Sad, eh?”
Slidel rotated a hand, indicating Klapec should continue.
“I read what this commissioner said about Finney.”
“Boyce Lingo?”
“Yeah. That’s the guy. Lingo made sense about the cops being handcuffed and the courts being paralyzed. About the common citizen needing to take action.”
My eyes met Ryan’s. I knew what was coming.
“They proved him right by setting the murdering sonovabitch free. Lingo was dead-on.” Klapec’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed. “Jimmy was a homo. Even if a trial took place, they’d make him look bad. I knew justice for my son would have to come from me.”
Klapec’s words were sending chils up my spine.