Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

“Are you serious? I’m asking for your help, Jack. Can’t you drop it?”

“No.”

Tears glazed Annabelle’s eyes. “Fuck!”

“I want to help,” said Jack. “But you have to tell me.”

“I thought maybe you loved me.”

“So what if I did?” Jack raised his voice. “Why are you still screwing your ex-husband?”

“Don’t.”

“Answer me.”

“I told you the story.”

“You’re lying.”

“Fuck off.”

“No problem.” Jack made for the stairs.

“Wait!” Annabelle grabbed him by the arm. “It’s not what you think.”

“What is it then?”

She let go. Jack could see small red veins creeping into the corners of her eyes.

“Ian signed a pre-nup when we married,” she said, looking at Jack intently. “All he gets is fifty thousand if we divorce. He owes a lot more than that.”

“So what? Sign the divorce papers and off you go.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Why?”

“Because if I do he’ll take me to court. And if it goes to court, he’ll ruin me.” Annabelle walked over to one of the wine racks, reached out with a hand and held on. She thought about something for a while. Then she said: “I had an affair earlier in our marriage. He’s got some tapes, some videos. I can’t let them come out, Jack. Louisa would never speak to me again.”

“Who was it?” The question came out of Jack’s mouth of its own accord.

“Nobody. It was nothing. But he was the father of Louisa’s best friend. He’s still with his wife. And his daughter is still Louisa’s best friend.”

“So it’s not about the money.”

“It is for Ian. And as far as my father’s concerned. He can’t understand why I won’t sign the divorce papers. He wants Ian gone. Of course, he doesn’t know about the tapes.”

“How did Durst get them?”

“Private investigator.” Annabelle wiped away some tears. “Do you understand, Jack? Can you see?”

Above them a door slammed. Footsteps thudded down the hall. Annabelle looked at the ceiling and then rushed up the stairs. Jack took a deep breath. He looked over at the lockers for a moment and then followed, unhurried. The cops were going to love it. Hammond Kasprowicz was going to have a lot of explaining to do. So was Jack.

Annabelle met him at the top of the stairs. It was not her father who had arrived home.

“It’s Louisa,” she said. “You have to go.”

Jack nodded. “You going to call the cops?”

“What choice have I got?”

“None.”

“Call me tomorrow.” Annabelle kissed him on the cheek and walked off down the corridor. She disappeared into the house.

As he left, Jack made as little noise as possible. He closed the front door with the barest click of the lock, and slipped away into the night. How was it that he found himself sneaking through the shadows once again?

At 7.45 the next morning, as Jack was about to head off to Susko Books, somebody knocked on his door. Something about the tone of the knock said: Bad news . Maybe he was just a little nervous. Hearing things that were not there. Maybe it was just a neighbour, over for a cup of sugar. He opened the door. Maybe not.

“They really should have a security system on the entrance here. Anybody can just walk in off the street. Bums, thieves, rapists.” Detective Geoff Peterson smiled. “Stand-over guys wearing brass knuckles.”

He stood in the half-dark of the hall, smug and vaguely threatening. The light from Jack’s apartment threw a shadow that sliced his tall sinewy body like a mayor’s sash. But he looked too shabby for the position. His hands were in his pockets. There were bags under his eyes. His tie was undone and the silvery-grey suit looked slept in. The face was pinched; the eyes loaded. And here was Jack, at point-blank range.

“Any light in here?” asked Peterson, looking down the entrance hall.

“All the bulbs were stolen. You looking for work?”

“What if somebody was waiting for you, hiding over there by the stairs? You open your front door, quick bang on the head, and they help themselves to the plasma TV.”

Lois miaowed in the lounge room. Peterson looked over Jack’s shoulder and grinned. “And then just for the hell of it they play with the cat and a box of matches.”

“Lucky we got you hanging around,” said Jack. “Maybe we could get you a stool for the slow afternoon shift.”

“Might be someone with a gun or a knife. Up under the chin. Inside motherfucker and keep it quiet!”

“You know the lines, Detective. And the way it just rolled off your tongue. I almost forgot you were a cop.”

“They tie you up, ask politely where all the good stuff is. Then they kill the cat if you don’t feel like talking.”

Jack tried to read Peterson’s face but it was like a wet newspaper. Had Clifford Harris called the cops about his assault on Durst? Jack’s guts told him no.

“ Hand over the cash you fuck!” hissed the detective. His eyes were dry and red and a touch on the wired side.

“They’d get a haul, too,” said Jack. “With all the cash I’ve got stashed in my socks and folded inside the hamburger buns in the freezer. Don’t tell anyone.”

“He might have followed you to work, guessed that not every dollar was declared to the tax department. These guys are smart cunts.”

“Smarter than you, Detective?” Jack began to close the door. “I’ll leave you to your hall monitoring.”

Peterson held his arm out and pushed the door open. A hard look of I don’t think so flashed across his face. Jack stiffened, but then he eased off and played it cool. Getting hammered by the cops first thing in the morning was not on his list of things to do today.

He let go of the door and walked back into the apartment. He sat in the Eames chair, reached for a packet of cigarettes on the coffee table and lit up. He leaned back and watched Peterson close the front door.

“How’s Hammond, Jack?”

So the cops knew he was working for the old man. Had Annabelle told them?

“That’s the first thing we’ll book you for: withholding information.”

“Okay,” said Jack.

“Should be able to squeeze out an accessory to assault there, too.”

“Sounds good.”

“You think I’m joking? We found his little collection, Susko. The one you helped get together. And we know all about the burnt books and the notes. That constitutes assault. Tell me, did Kasprowicz get you to light the matches as well?”

Outside the wind swirled dead acacia leaves around the courtyard. Jack turned and watched: maybe it was time he cleaned up out there. Sweeping was good honest work. Therapeutic, too.

“Didn’t your mummy tell you playing with matches would get you into trouble?”

“You’re just fishing, Detective,” said Jack. “But there’s nothing in the pond.”

“Talking the talk, eh? How about we add aiding and abetting the escape of a murder suspect?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Kasprowicz didn’t like that brother of his,” continued Peterson. “Took him to the cleaners for the family money. Then he tried to fuck him with the burnt books. Then he just decided to do him in. And now he’s done a runner.”

“Really? Where’s he gone?”

“Nobody knows. Except maybe you.”

“Try Hong Kong.”

“We checked. They never saw him. Try again.”

“What about up your arse?”

The detective smiled. “That’s it, Jack. Dig the hole deeper. ’Cause you’re going to get good and buried. I got the shovel in the car.”

“Sounds like it’s personal, Detective. Did I fuck your sister or something?”