P. Tracy - Live Bait

Marty let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Where’s Becky?’

‘Becky, my wife? You mean the one no one in this family has ever met? Well, I think she’s getting Botox injections in her armpits today. Keeps you from sweating, did you know that?’

‘You know what I mean. Why isn’t she here with you?’

‘You mean like, loving wife supporting grieving husband, that sort of thing? Well, first of all we’re not talking, which precludes her being supportive in any way; and second of all, Lily would probably shoot her if she ever set foot on the property; and third of all, frankly, Becky just doesn’t give a shit.’

‘Oh. Sorry, Jack. I didn’t know it wasn’t working out.’

‘Hell, don’t be sorry, Marty. I got exactly what I wanted from this marriage. So did Becky, for that matter. You should see her new boobs.’ He popped open a new beer and drained half the can.

‘You sure you should be doing that, Jack? I thought you were supposed to be in court this afternoon.’

He shrugged. ‘No big deal. It’s just this stupid bicycle messenger who claims he got whiplash when a UPS truck hit him. Weasel-faced bastard. He sees deep pockets, and suddenly he broke his fucking neck.’

‘So you’re blowing off court? Jesus, Jack, you’re going to get yourself disbarred.’

‘They’re not going to disbar me. They can’t. I’m on grief leave. My father was murdered, for chrissake… man, that is just too bizarre, isn’t it? I mean, the guy was almost eighty-five and I kind of expected him to keel over one of these days, but Jesus. Shot in the head? Who could see that coming? So what do you think, Marty? Got any ideas, any clues? Anything we can work with here?’

‘Just let the cops handle it, Jack.’

‘Well, hell, Marty, you are a cop.’

‘Ex-cop.’

‘Don’t give me that. Once a cop, always a cop. It’s in the blood, or something. I’ll bet that little gumshoe brain of yours is going about a hundred miles an hour trying to figure this out. So who do you think did it?’

‘I haven’t really thought about it.’

‘That is such bullshit.’

‘No, it’s not, Jack. I haven’t thought about it.’

Jack tried focusing on him for a long moment. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you? He was your father-in-law, for chrissake. Aren’t you at least curious?’

Marty took three seconds to examine whatever feelings he had left, and decided no, he wasn’t curious at all. ‘It’s not my job, Jack.’

‘Right you are, Marty. It’s not your job. It’s just your goddamned family, is all.’ He turned away, disgusted. ‘Christ. You’re even more fucked-up than I am.’

‘You want to ease up on the language a little, Jack? There are nice people here.’

Jack snorted. ‘You want to ease up on the holier-than-thou shit a little, Marty? There are smart people here, and they can see right through it… hey, you!’ He waved his beer can at a woman examining flowers at one of the outdoor tables. ‘Yeah, you in the tent dress! You want to stop fondling those pansies? And then come on over here, meet the biggest fuckstick on the planet.’

The woman gaped at him for a minute, then turned and hurried toward her car.

‘Okay, Jack, that’s it. You’ve got to get out of here.’

‘Fuck you, Marty.’

‘Goddamnit, Jack, Lily is ready to call the cops if you don’t get out of the parking lot. One last time, I’m asking nice.’

Jack finished his beer and crushed the can against his leg. ‘Listen, you tell Lily if she wants her son out of the parking lot, she can come out here and ask me herself. Otherwise, I’m staying right where I am until the beer’s gone.’

For all of his life, Marty Pullman had been a man who got things done, who saw things wrong, and made them right. That Marty Pullman would have grabbed Jack and jerked him out of the chair and carried him away bodily, if necessary. It made him feel a little strange to realize he wasn’t that man anymore, and probably never would be again. ‘You’re making this a lot harder than it has to be, Jack.’

Jack regarded him for a moment, then smiled. ‘Gee, really? And I always thought things like this were supposed to be a little hard, and all I’m doing is having myself a little wake, Marty. A little private wake for Morey Gilbert, the nicest goddamned man in the world, the man everybody loved, the man who loved everybody, except his son, of course. And isn’t it funny? I’m the only one who showed up. I mean, really, Marty, look at what’s happening here. This place shouldn’t even be open today, but here you all are, business as usual, life goes on, gee, think we can take out five minutes tomorrow to get him in the ground?’

Marty threw the hose down in disgust, grabbed a can from the cooler and stalked back toward the greenhouse. ‘I give up.’

Jack laughed, and then hollered after him, ‘So what else is new?’

For the first five minutes after they left the crime scene at Rose Kleber’s little blue house, Gino sat in the passenger seat like a normal person – out of respect for the dead, Magozzi supposed – but once they hit the parkway, he cranked down the window and somehow manuevered himself so that most of his upper torso was hanging out of the car. It looked uncomfortable, but his eyes were closed and he was smiling.

‘You look like a golden retriever,’ Magozzi said.

Gino took several gulps of fresh air. ‘Another hundred miles and I just might be able to get that smell out of my nose.’ He slumped back into his seat, suddenly depressed. ‘Shit. Now I feel bad. It’s not fair, you know? You die and it’s sad, and then to top it all off, you end up smelling so bad, people can’t even stay in the same room with you. Dead people should smell good so you can stand around and look at them and feel really rotten about what happened.’

‘I’m going to stand around and look at you and feel really rotten no matter how bad you smell, Gino.’

‘And I appreciate that.’

Magozzi turned into the nursery drive and nosed past the hedge into a jammed parking lot.

‘Well, would you look at this,’ Gino said. ‘The bereaved widow is open for business. Hey, is that clown in the lawn chair Jack Gilbert?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Also looks like he’s getting seriously soused. This is going to be a lot of fun.’

Jack seemed genuinely happy to see them. ‘Detectives! I just tried calling you. Did you get him? Did you get the guy who killed my father?’

‘We’re still working on it, Mr Gilbert,’ Magozzi said. ‘We have a couple more questions for you and your family.’

‘No problem.’ Jack wiped the foam off his upper lip and tried to look sober. ‘Anything you want. Anything I can do. Ask away.’

‘Who’s Rose Kleber?’ Gino asked abruptly, watching carefully for a change in Jack’s expression, disappointed when he didn’t see one.

‘Jeez, I don’t know. Why? Is she a suspect?’

‘Not exactly. She lives in the neighborhood. We were wondering if she was a friend of your father’s.’

‘Beats me. Probably was, if she lives in the neighborhood. He knew just about everybody.’ He frowned hard and tried to steady his gaze on Magozzi’s face. ‘So who is she, guys? What’s she got to do with all this?’

‘She was murdered last night,’ Magozzi said.

Jack blinked, trying to process the information as it seeped through alcohol-soaked brain cells. ‘Jesus, that’s awful. Shit, they’re dropping like flies around here, aren’t they? So what are you thinking? Is there a connection? You think the same guy did both of them?’

‘She had your dad’s number in her phone book,’ Gino said. ‘It’s just one of the things we have to check out.’