Dave Zeltserman: Bad Karma

Daniels took his hand and gave Shannon a half-hearted smile. “I don’t want to appear like a prick, especially since it probably looks like I’m going out of my way not to help you, but do you mind telling me who your client is?”

“The owner of the condo is being sued by Taylor Carver’s mother. I was hired by his lawyer, Paul Devens.”

That ignited a spark of interest in Daniels’ eyes. “Eunice Carver brought a suit against the landlord, huh? Any idea why she thinks he’s responsible?”

“A deadbolt lock was rusted.”

The spark faded as Daniels shook his head. “That lock might’ve needed a few drops of oil, but it was functional.” He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial tone. “Now don’t get excited, I’m not going to be discussing this case, only giving you my opinion of Eunice Carver. I know I should be more understanding, especially after what she’s been through, but she’s a piece of work. So’s her other son, Randall. You’ll see.” Daniels looked away from Shannon. “Linda’s family’s no bargain either.”

Almost as if he were watching a movie in slow motion, Shannon could see the change in Daniels’ expression as if a thought had just occurred to him. As he turned back to face Shannon, a soft, easy smile showed, but it was edged with violence. “You’re not trying to dig up dirt on these two kids, and make it look like they got what they deserved?”

“No. What I was hired for, and the only thing I’m willing to do, is find out who killed them. Whatever else I might find out along the way is staying with me.”

“How’s that going to help your client?”

“I don’t know if it will. But it might show that a rusted lock had nothing to do with the murders.”

Daniels nodded as he thought it over. “Well,” he said. “I’ve got work to do, as I’m sure you do also. Let me walk you out of here.” Neither of them talked as Daniels led the way through the squad room and to the street. Once outside, Daniels asked Shannon if he had any ideas.

“Not many. I guess first thing I’ll do is look into whether this was drug-related.”

Daniels shielded his eyes against the sun. “If I wasn’t worried about someday having a defense attorney grill me on whether I ever had any inappropriate discussions about this case, I’d probably tell you we’ve found nothing to suggest the victims were involved with drugs.” His gray eyes narrowed as he met Shannon’s stare. “At least I’d probably tell you something like that,” he said.

“If you did, then I’d probably have to thank you and admit I have no good ideas at the moment.”

“Welcome to the club,” Daniels said.

When Shannon had first moved to Boulder, he drove a few times through Loveland for skiing and would see nothing but open prairie once he got past Longmont’s city limits. That was five years ago. Now it seemed as if Longmont had been stretched out with more and more subdivisions erasing miles of prairie. Once he got onto US 287 there was some open space, but it was peppered with new construction-mostly McMansions, four thousand plus square foot homes loaded with cathedral ceilings and bay windows. This trend continued well into Loveland proper, but eventually Shannon got to a part of town where the houses were older and more modest. Past a trailer park, he found Eunice Carver’s address. The house was barely a shack, probably no more than four rooms. A chain link fence surrounded the property, the yard mostly dirt mixed with a few weeds. Tires, a stove from the fifties, and a worn-out looking sofa were sitting in the front yard. As Shannon made his way up the walk to the door, a yellow and white pit bull mix charged out from under the sofa. When the dog got close to Shannon, it threw itself at him, but a chain around the neck snapped it back. The dog let out a yelp, then was back on its feet, frothing at the mouth and nearly airborne as it tried to get at Shannon’s throat.

Shannon eyed the dog cautiously and edged away from it. The front door opened and a kid, maybe eighteen, wearing a stained sleeveless muscle shirt and shorts that fell past his knees stepped out. He was thin and had a squirrelly look about him, with long greasy blond hair, bad skin and eyes that were too small and set too close together. His sleeveless shirt showed off greenish-colored tattoos on his pale and nearly skeleton-thin arms. Even though he had none of Taylor Carver’s good looks, Shannon could tell that they were brothers.

Randall Carver gave Shannon a quick look, then focused on the dog, yelling at it to shut up. “Buttercup, shut the fuck up!” he warned a second time. To Shannon’s surprise, especially given the frenzy the dog had worked herself into, she listened to him, cocking her head to one side as she paid full attention to the kid. Randall looked back at Shannon. “Who are you?” he asked.

“My name’s Bill Shannon. I’d like to talk to Eunice Carver. Is she home?”

“What do you want to talk to my ma about?”

Shannon walked towards the front door, stopping when he got a few feet from Randall. Up close, the younger Carver smelled like a mix of sweat and bad cheese. The kid’s eyes darted from left to right as if he were trying to make up his mind whether to stand his ground or flee.

“I’m investigating Taylor’s murder,” Shannon said. From behind he could hear Buttercup growl.

“Are you a cop?”

“I’m a private detective. You’re his brother, Randall, aren’t you?” Almost as if his head were attached to some invisible string, the kid nodded. “I’d like to talk to you also,” Shannon said. “Is your mom home?”

“Let me see.” Randall stuck his head into the house and yelled, “Ma, there’s a guy here wants to talk to you!”

A woman’s voice yelled back, “What about?”

“Taylor. He’s some sort of private eye.”

There was a silence within the house. Then, “Tell him I’m busy!”

Randall turned to Shannon and smiled, revealing teeth that were the color of chewing tobacco. “My ma’s too busy to talk with you,” he said. “And so am I.”

“That’s too bad. I would’ve thought the two of you would want to help find the person who murdered your brother. This won’t look good when your lawsuit goes to court.”

“How do you know about ma’s lawsuit?”

“I’d like to tell you, but you’re too busy to talk now.” Shannon turned and started towards his car, making sure to give Buttercup a wide berth. Randall stuck his head back in the door, yelled, “He says you not talking won’t look good with the lawsuit!”

“How does he know about that?”

“He won’t say!”

“Goddamn it!” There was a long silence that was broken only by Buttercup’s growling, then, “Tell him I’ll talk.”

Randall yelled out to Shannon, “Ma says she’ll talk!”

Shannon turned from his car and headed back towards the house. Buttercup stood with her head pushed forward as she watched Shannon, all the while growling disapprovingly. Randall, his face locked in a sullen stare, led Shannon into a small room that served as a combination living room and dining room. The same perspiration and rotten cheese smell that came off of Randall permeated the house. Shannon’s ordeal with Charlie Winters and his horrific stench of decay had left him hypersensitive to certain sickly-sweet odors. Over five years later, odors like the one in this house still physically affected him. This one brought a dull throbbing to the back of his head. Shannon tried breathing in only through his mouth to avoid the smell but it didn’t help much.

As Shannon looked around, he was surprised at what he saw. While the room was dirty, it had newer and more expensive furniture than Shannon would’ve expected, including a large plasma TV set that covered a good part of one wall. Off to the side was a small kitchen where Eunice Carver sat at a three foot square oak table, a cigarette between two fingers and a cup of coffee to her right. As Shannon entered the kitchen, he noticed that a new stove and microwave had been installed.