Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

Detective Geoff Peterson lowered his arm. “Up you get, Jackie boy,” he said, as though nothing had happened. “Over here.”

Jack pressed his forehead into the nylon-blend carpet. It was probably not even 10.00 a.m. yet.

“Don’t make me shoot you.”

With some effort, Jack stood up. A piece of cane chair dangled from the handcuffs. “Ziggy isn’t going to like blood all over his carpet,” he said.

“That’s his problem.”

Jack turned to the bodies: a strange quiet was already emanating from them. A cold, subterranean quiet. He wanted out of there. “Glendenning isn’t going to be happy either.”

Peterson pointed at the couch with his gun. “Sit.”

Jack walked over to the couch.

“Arms out.”

With one hand, the detective snapped the loose handcuff over Jack’s other wrist. It hit the knuckle of the wrist bone, sending a dull vibration of pain up his arm. His whole body was becoming rigid, cold as steel; the pain echoed through his limbs, bounced back and forth, collected in his head. His jaw ached as though a clamp was attached to it, slowly tightening.

He glanced at Durst’s lifeless body again. “I thought you two were best friends.”

Peterson frowned. He held the gun up in front of him, as though he did not know how it got there. He turned it to one side, then the other, admiringly. He continued looking at it as he slowly stretched his arm out and pointed the gun at Jack. He angled his head, closed one eye and aimed. Then he shouted: “Bang!”

Jack closed his eyes. He waited for his heart to slip back down his throat and then opened them again.

Peterson laughed. His eyes were wide. His forehead glistened with sweat. He had a sick grin on his face, like a clown who was starting to hate his job. Then in an instant it dropped away and his face tightened like a fist. He lowered the gun, held it against his leg. “No more chances, Jackie boy.”

He turned and looked at Celia Mitten and Ian Durst, draining into the carpet behind him. “Stupid bitch.”

“Lucky Ziggy’s got more than one construction site,” said Jack. “But you’ll owe him. Big time.”

Peterson said nothing, slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He flipped it open, dialled, waited. “Yeah, it’s me. You on your way? … Ten minutes? Good … That’s right … No longer a problem … We’ll just have to skip a couple of steps.” He hung up. He looked thoughtfully at Jack, his brain ticking over.

“How come I never saw you with Ziggy before?” asked Jack.

“Nobody’s ever seen me with Ziggy.”

“You sure? I bet he’s got a DVD somewhere.”

Peterson stared hard at Jack — no more grinning. “Who says I don’t?”

Now Jack gave a wry smile. “Who says it’d help you?”

The detective thought about that. His face said that he did not like it.

“Got yourself a bit of a situation.”

“Not me, Jack. You.” He snapped open the mobile again and dialled. “I want you to say hello to someone for me.”

“You calling the police?”

The detective ignored him. Somebody answered. “It’s Peterson. You can come down now … Yes, pronto … Hang on, there’s somebody here wants to say hello …”

The detective held the phone to Jack’s ear.

“Yes?” asked the voice on the phone. It was an irritated voice. A woman’s irritated voice.

“Hey Annabelle,” said Jack. “It’s me.” He felt surprisingly calm. Shock did that sometimes.

Silence from the other end.

“Don’t worry, everyone’s dead,” he added. It was as though his mouth was on automatic pilot. “The money’s all yours. You can keep the poetry books as well.”

There was a pause: Jack could hear her breathing. Was she about to say: I wanted to tell you ?

She hung up. Peterson pocketed the phone, a thin smile on his face. He patted Jack on the shoulder. “Love fucks you up, doesn’t it, diddums?”

Jesus Christ . Jack had officially left the sane world. Everybody he knew was demented.

“So the whole time, you and her,” he said, his tone carrying a whiff of admiration. Then he sighed: it was involuntary. The new disappointment was getting heavier by the second.

But knots were quickly undoing in his mind, too. He could see clearer now, the course of events, the steady clicking into place of all that had happened. Mainly he could see that he was an A-class fucking idiot. The first painful step of self-realisation on the road to Nirvana.

The detective slipped his gun into the holster at the small of his back. He grabbed his elbow and eased it across his chest, stretching his gun arm like a discus thrower preparing for a heat.

“Nice plan,” said Jack. “Ziggy fixes you up for delivering Kasprowicz, you get rid of a few relatives and the last bitch standing inherits the whole wad.” Jack remembered what Peterson had said when he shot Durst: May as well be now . How far back had their plan gone? “All you got to do now is marry her,” he added.

Peterson smiled broadly.

“A lot of bodies round the place though, Detective. Must be worth it. What was Kasprowicz, ten million? Twenty million? Fifty? I suppose it doesn’t matter after five.” Jack lifted his cuffed hands, scratched a cheek. “Is Ziggy paying extra or was the deal just you kill Kasprowicz for him and he gets rid of the body? The quick set-up of good ol’ Jack and then everybody catches up for a nice cold beer later? In Rio, maybe?”

The detective was still airing his teeth. “Who said Kasprowicz was dead? That’s going to be your job.”

Jack felt heat rise up his neck. “Where is he?”

“Waiting. Somewhere. For you.”

There it was: the set-up. Nice and simple. We’d like you to hold this gun and shoot . Jack knew nobody was going to give a crap about motive when all the i’s were dotted by forensics. Not when they saw he had worked for Ziggy Brandt once upon a time. Looked like Jack was going to get his initiation after all.

“Sure Annabelle won’t do a runner with the cash?” Jack wanted to change the subject.

“I got insurance.” Peterson’s tone was casual, smug.

Jack watched the detective light a cigarette. Thought some more. Then he grinned, nodded, understood. “The tapes,” he said. “You’ve got the tapes of her in the sack.” It was not Durst at all.

Peterson blew smoke, returned the cigarette pack to his pocket.

“I’m not sure about these modern, open relationships,” said Jack. “They never last.”

“You finished talking?”

“Have I missed anything?”

“You think I’d touch that fucking whore?” Peterson tapped ash to the floor. “You ain’t as smart as you think, Susko. You missed everything.”

Jack waited.

The detective laughed, dragged on his cigarette. “I got the tapes all right, but she ain’t fucking nobody.” He rolled his neck, a little to the left, a little to the right: a couple of bones clicked. “What I got is her asking me to kill her old man. And her uncle. And her husband, too.” He smoked some more, shook his head. “You’d think she would have remembered I’m a cop. We’ve got technology. It’s in all the fucking TV shows.”

“Is that where you got your plan from, too?”

Peterson’s face darkened. “Just the bit about giving you the garrotte.”

Jack hoped Peterson did not see the shiver go down his spine. He nodded at the bodies of Celia and Durst. “Maybe you could throw something over them.” Thoughts were banging around in his head, ringing like bells in a fire station.

There was the sound of a car below. As Peterson went over to the window to see, he said: “She didn’t do it just for the money.”

“Maybe it was for a bit of fun?” Jack’s tone was bitter. “The rich are easily bored.”