J Bertrand - Back on Murder

The back door rattles on its hinges. Whoever’s doing the knocking, he’s hitting wood, not glass, otherwise there’d be shards all across the kitchen floor. I don’t open it. I don’t slit the shades for a peek. Instead, I go to the window overlooking the deck, which affords a flanking view of the back door. Tommy’s my prime suspect, and I’m considering putting a round into him. Nothing fatal, just a nick in the thigh. I know firsthand how annoying those can be.

When I part the shades for a look, it isn’t Tommy at all. I pad into the kitchen, tuck my sig into the snack drawer, then unbolt the lock.

Wilcox glares at me, nodding slowly. “I should have known.”

“Known what?” I ask. Then, when he doesn’t answer: “I meant to call you.”

I beckon him over the threshold, motioning in the direction of the breakfast table, but he doesn’t budge an inch. He wears a gray suit and regimental tie. Already, there are sweat stains on his white, spread-collared shirt.

“I didn’t come here to chat,” he says. “But I heard about your new case. I want you to tell me one thing – and you’d better not lie to me, because I’ll know if you do. Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with Joe Thomson’s death.”

“What?” I take a step back. “Is that what you came here for?”

“I know you didn’t pull the trigger, Roland. That’s not what I’m saying. But are you working some kind of angle here, using me to do it? All that work I did with the DA, and suddenly the guy tops himself. And who do they put in charge of the investigation but you? Questions are going to be asked. It’s already happening. Just so you know, I won’t be covering for you.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” I say.

“Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I didn’t.”

“It was just a coincidence. The guy’s cracking up, he’s feeling guilty about turning on his friends, and in a fit of despair he dumps one in the brainpan. Happens all the time.”

“He didn’t just shoot himself.”

“No? Then what?”

“What do you think?”

He runs the back of his hand over his forehead, mopping the sweat. “I think that if you’re trying to play me here, if this is some kind of windup so you can settle the score with Reg Keller – ”

“They did it,” I say. “I can’t prove that yet, but we both know it’s true. He was going to roll over on them, so they staged his death. What else could it be?”

“Yeah, but how would they find out? You think he told them?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

I’m not going to tell him about my call to Stephanie Thomson and how she tipped Salazar off. The thing about Wilcox is, he likes everything to be neat. Even at our best, my unpredictability could make him nervous. Pulling over on the highway and switching a digital recorder on so Donald Fauk could do his patriotic duty by confessing to his wife’s murder – that had made his skin crawl. He’d have kept Fauk quiet until we could hustle him into an interview room, everything tidy and squared away.

But I knew, in spite of everything I was going through at that moment, a much worse ordeal than a superficial gunshot, a pain I would have endured a thousand gunshots to forgo, I knew that it was now or never with Fauk, whether the confession was orthodox or not.

“You’re upset,” I tell him. “I get that. But you haven’t done anything wrong here, and neither have I. They’re the ones who did this, and they’re going to pay for it. Just stick with me, all right?”

“I’m not lifting a finger for you.”

“Fine,” I say, shrugging off the hurt. And it does hurt to hear him speaking this way. “You don’t have to do a thing. I don’t want you to do a thing, if you get my drift. The thing I specifically don’t want you to do is tell my captain – or anybody else, for that matter – about the deal we had in place for Thomson. They’ll pull me off the investigation if they find out.”

Finally, he steps into the house, a bum-rush over the threshold, getting right up in my face, jamming his finger into my chest.

“You think I can keep that quiet? They’re gonna find out, my friend. Bascombe already talked to a guy in my office.”

I shake my head. “He only knows about the past. Not this. And I’m not asking for a cover-up here. Just keep your own mouth shut, okay? Buy me some time, at least.”

His finger rears back for another peck, then pauses in the air. His eyes drift over my shoulder. I turn to find Charlotte there, wearing my shirt from last night. Her legs look pale in the morning sun. Her eyes blink.

“Stephen,” she says, doing another button up. “What are you doing here so early? What are you doing here at all? I haven’t seen you in… forever.”

He drops his eyes and backs off, mumbling excuses on his way out the door.

“Don’t leave on my account,” she says.

He turns his back on us and goes, not even bothering to shut the door. I hear his shoes tapping the concrete, then his car door slamming and the engine turning over.

“What was that all about?”

I shut the door, turning the dead bolt. “Work.”

While she kicks off breakfast, I go upstairs, running my head under the shower and then dressing quickly, collecting my keys and wallet, my empty holster, my newly charged phone. Coffee is on the table when I return, and so is my pistol.

“I found that in the drawer,” Charlotte says, buttering some toast.

I eat fast, but not fast enough. Just as I’m leaving, my phone starts to ring.

“Who is it?” she asks.

“I don’t recognize the number.”

She walks toward me. “If it’s somebody with information wanting to meet up face-to-face, I’m not letting you out that door.”

“Don’t worry.”

The voice on the other end of the line crackles with nerves, but after a sentence or two I realize it’s the overeager crime-scene tech, Edgar Castro.

“It’s a little early, Edgar.”

“Is it? I’ve been up all night.”

“Are you going to tell me why, or do I have to guess?”

He clears his throat before continuing. “The thing is, I’m getting static here from my boss, like they don’t want me to make a big deal out of this. And maybe it’s nothing, but…”

“Maybe what’s nothing?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” he says. “But I thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?”

“It’d be easier to show you than try to explain.”

“Show me what?”

“Could you come down to the lab?”

I sigh, rolling my eyes for Charlotte’s benefit. She rolls hers back for mine.

“Half an hour,” I say to Castro.

“Excellent,” he replies. I imagine him on the other end of the line, pumping his fist in triumph. Whatever has got him so worked up, it better have the same effect on me.

The moment the gun is in his hand, Edgar Castro’s eyes light up. He uses a serrated folding knife to remove the plastic tie running through the barrel, then eyeballs the breech to make sure there’s not a round in the chamber. When he passes it across the desk, I can sense his reluctance to let go. After double-checking for safety, I release the slide. It slams shut with a familiar metallic snap.

“Everything look right to you?” he asks.

I give the pistol a closer inspection. The blued finish is worn down on the edges, probably from holster wear, and the plastic factory grips have been replaced by checkered cocobolo. Along the front strap, a strip of skateboard tape provides tacky traction. The barrel is stamped.40 S &W, the cartridge our service pistols are chambered for. Thanks to my time clerking in the gun shop as a young man, I have an abiding awe for the trusty.45, but over the years I’ve come to respect the smaller, hotter.40. Apart from the fancy hardwood, this gun is a tool, plain and simple, the same as the one I carry every day.