Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

“It wouldn’t be the first time that was true, trust me.” Peterson pushed the curtain aside with a finger. “But not Annabelle. She hated Kasprowicz’s guts.”

“That’s nothing new. Why act on it now?”

“New information,” answered the cop blandly. “Opportunity. What else do you need?”

“A dirty cop and a handcuffed sucker.”

Peterson wagged a threatening finger at Jack. “Don’t make me,” he said. He turned back to the window. “Mainly it was she found out Kasprowicz wasn’t her old man. Impotent fuck.”

Jack absorbed the information slowly. The detective glanced at him over on the couch.

“You ever meet that stupid bitch Sabine de Ruse?” he asked. “She was married to Kasprowicz once. She found out he fired blanks. Squeezed money out of him ever since. Then after all these years she let it slip in front of Annabelle one night, pissed. All the botox must have got into her brain.”

Jack remembered something: Kass had had an affair with Annabelle’s mother . He thought about that for a moment. Kass was Annabelle’s real father. That’s why Kasprowicz was putting together his little book collection. A revenge work-in-progress. And Jack had been his research assistant.

What had MacAllister said? You don’t know who’s drinking and who’s paying . Jack was pretty sure he was going to be paying. He turned to Peterson, went to say something.

The detective was holding the mobile to his ear and held up his hand. “It’s me,” he said after a moment. “Park your car further up and wait till I call you. Annabelle’s on her way.”

“That the girlfriend?” asked Jack.

Peterson put the phone back in his pocket. “Fiancée.” He went out of the room and came back with a copper-coloured bedspread. He threw it over the bodies of Celia and Durst.

“Almost there, Jack,” he said, looking down at the bodies. “We’re almost there.”

Detective Geoff Peterson did not appear outwardly nervous but he paced the room, smoked, looked through the window a couple of times. He went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of instant coffee, found a tin full of biscuits. He grabbed one and dunked it into his cup, holding the buttery goodness close to his chin. It occurred to Jack that Peterson had been a kid — once.

Think . Jack tried to wade through the swamp in his head. All he could focus on was how stupid he was. Was he any different from Durst? Suckered by a beautiful woman, completely out of his league. He was like a rabbit that had stumbled into an elephant shoot. And the whole slide into the mess had begun with a handful of goddamn poetry books.

“So whose big idea was all this in the first place?”

Peterson wiped crumbs from the corners of his mouth. “What’s the difference?” He sipped his coffee, then smiled as he swallowed, nodding his head. “Oh, I get it. You’re hoping Annabelle had nothing to do with it. She was forced to join in, had no choice, blah blah blah , mitigating circumstances. Sorry, Jackie boy. She’s up to her tits in it, and she’s standing on a box.” He put the coffee cup down on the kitchen bench and lit a cigarette. “I told you already. Love fucks you up.”

Some time later, the sound of another car. “Here we go,” said Peterson. He grinned and sat on the couch beside Jack. When they heard the knock on the door he called out: “Come in.”

Annabelle strode into the room and took off her sunglasses. Her hair was tied back, accentuating the fine bones of her face, the harmony of her lips, nose and eyes. Hardly any make-up. She was wearing a black V-neck jumper, tight-fitting denim jeans and black suede trainers with white lightning flashes emblazoned on the sides.

Jack sat up a little. “I’ve got the handcuffs ready,” he said. “Just how you like it.”

Annabelle pushed the sunglasses into her red canvas shoulder bag and lifted her chin slightly. She looked down at Jack. She took in a slow breath through her nostrils and eased it out again — a sigh almost, but not quite. Her eyes dismissed him: pity mixed with contempt.

To Peterson, she said: “Well?”

The detective nodded at the bedspread on the floor. Annabelle turned, stared at it, expressionless but for the faintest contraction in the corners of her eyes.

“Both of them?”

“Take a look.”

“I’ll be fine.” Annabelle reached into her bag and pulled out a white envelope that looked like it contained a small paving brick. She tossed it to Peterson. He glanced at the contents then slipped the envelope into his inside pocket.

“What about him?”

“Ziggy’s boys should be here any minute.”

“Then I’ll be off, Detective.”

Peterson stretched, reaching above his head with his long, monkey arms. “No you won’t,” he said through a long exhale. “You’re staying right here.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to meet my fiancée before you go.”

“What are you talking about?” Somebody walked into the room behind her.

“Me.”

Annabelle swung around.

“Hey Mum.”

Peterson had his gun out, pointed at Annabelle. Louisa walked across the room and sat down next to him on the arm of the couch. She took the gun from him, keeping it aimed at her mother. The detective beamed.

“I borrowed your jacket,” she said to Annabelle. “I hope that’s okay.”

Peterson reached out and rubbed her thigh. “It’s your jacket now, baby.”

Louisa leaned over and put her arm around his shoulders. She kissed him on the side of the head, smiled at her mother.

Outside, all at once, rain began pouring down with a roar, pummelling the corrugated-iron roof.

Jack stared at Louisa’s smooth, unblemished nineteen-year-old face. Then he had a look at Peterson’s. Maybe somewhere deep down he had a beautiful soul.

“We’ve discussed it and we want a traditional church wedding,” said Louisa. “Something small and intimate.”

“Who’s going to walk you down the aisle?” asked Jack.

“Maybe you can,” replied Louisa without looking at him. “Or maybe not.” The tone was beyond her years and all the more chilling for it.

“I think Mr Susko might be busy.” Peterson got up, walked over and stood beside Annabelle. The new son-in-law-to-be hugged her to him. She was still staring at her daughter.

“Don’t look so shocked, Mother,” said Peterson. “It’s a lot of money you’re getting. Turn the Pope against God.”

“And I love him, Mum.”

“And I love her, too, Mum .” Peterson was smiling like a spoilt kid born too close to Christmas, who always got two presents. Jack hated those kids.

“Does anybody have a cigarette?” asked Annabelle.

The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack. He snapped the lighter. “That’s it, Mother,” he said in his oily voice. “Just relax.”

Annabelle smoked. “Did he get you a ring?”

Louisa smiled and held up the back of her left hand.

“It’s not very big.” Annabelle dropped her cigarette to the floor, letting it burn. “I warned you about cheap men.”

Peterson gave her a dirty look and stepped on the cigarette. His back was still to Louisa and Jack on the couch. He did not see his fiancée wink at Annabelle.

Jack did. His eyes widened and the muscles in his body contracted. He watched her stand up. For a moment he felt sorry for Peterson. Then the moment passed.

She fired three times. The detective arched his back and then his legs gave way. He fell. No last look at his love. No shocked eyes. No terrible realisation. Nothing.

Annabelle Kasprowicz stretched out her foot and pressed Peterson’s arm.