Frederick Zackel - Dead Wrong About the Guy

"Did he say why?"

"Because she only married him for his money."

I perked up. "Did your father have a lot?"

"Well, no. But he was in the Merchant Marines, and he made good enough money to buy her that bowling alley and let her live in the house I was born in."

I slumped. "Merchant Marines."

"Can you help me pin it on her? Look, I'll give you half of whatever I recover from his estate, and all you gotta do is help me prove she murdered my father."

"What about the cops? What do they say?"

Ivy gave up on getting any help from me.

Corky and I walked along the beach.

"When are you going to kill my wife?

"You fascinate me. You're willing to pay a stranger good money to whack somebody you've lived with for twenty-five years. Somebody who still trusts you after all those years." I furrowed my forehead at the conceit. "The betrayal ... "

"What of it? Haven't you ever betrayed anybody?"

I was taken aback. "Never been that close to anybody."

"Yeah, you gotta know them long enough so they can trust you well enough for you to betray them," Corky said.

But I didn't like thinking about myself.

"Why don't you just divorce her? All you gotta do is give up half of everything you got, and she walks with her life."

Corky looked away. He looked like he had bit down on the icy truth inside his heart for the first time. "I know that."

"Half of everything you got still leaves you with half of everything you got. Instead you take a chance on getting busted. You get busted, you don't get a dime."

"If I give her half, there wouldn't be enough for me. I want it all." He looked at me as if daring me to challenge him.

But I was grinning. "You are a nasty man."

Debra met up with us. She looked me up and down and didn't like what she saw. "You're the hitman," she said. The disgust dripped from every word.

"So you know about it," I said. I found that very interesting. "Are you against it?"

Debra was sassy and bold. "No." Again, a challenge.

"Just what do you get out of this? Him? Is that all? How are you going to react if, halfway through this scheme, he falls apart on you and turns you in?"

Debra flinched. "He won't."

"But what if? What would you do?"

Debra came right back at my jugular. "Where did you learn to kill? In the military?"

I said, "Watching TV. Same place everybody learns it."

She loathed me. "How many people have you killed?"

"How about you? How many have you killed? Corky's wife ... how many does she make for you?"

"Tell him to fuck off, Corky!"

Caught between us, Corky found speech impossible.

I was disgusted. "You make a great pair. Which one of you will crumble first?"

"Neither of us will," Debra vowed.

"I don't do it if I think either of you will crumble," I pledged.

"How do I know you're not a cop?" Debra snapped.

I was fed up. "You make it easy." I turned to Corky. "That grand is mine, pal. You don't get a dime back." I walked away.

Corky came after me. "Wait!"

"Let him go, Corky!" Debra called.

I walked away from them. In my mind I had already erased the hit. I was busy thinking how palm trees looked better in Hawaii than in Las Vegas. That discovery surprised me. I looked out at the waves and wondered how much money it would cost to live in Paradise for the rest of my days. There were other islands, too. I wondered ...

Corky grabbed my arm and stopped me. "We need you, please!"

Debra was alongside. She was brutally pragmatic. "Let's talk about killing his wife," she said.

"What do you want done?" I asked her.

"Don't you have any ideas of your own?" she asked.

"Fake a traffic accident," I said. "A routine traffic accident out along the Hana Highway."

"You could cut her brake line," Corky said.

I shook my head. "First thing they check." Thoughtfully, "I can remove one of her motor mounts."

Corky was surprised. "You think that works?"

Debra interrupted us. "What are you talking about?"

"Inside your car," I told Debra, "your engine's held in a metal cradle. When a motor mount goes, your engine twists sharply from the torque. The linkage from the carb gets twisted, too, wrenched out of shape. Your gas pedal goes straight to the floorboards, and your engine's suddenly going full throttle. If you're in gear at the time, you're suddenly moving like a bat outa hell!"

She could visualize that. "I like that, Cork!"

I had a caveat. "That's okay on the freeway, but on something like the Hana Highway, with all its twists and turns and switchbacks, you're out of control at high speed."

Corky scoffed at that. "And all she's gotta do is turn off the ignition and coast to a stop."

I turned to Corky. "Have you ever lost a motor mount? Would you--instantly--know what to do? How many motor mounts has your wife lost?"

Corky gave up. "What if she doesn't die immediately?"

"She'll die fast," I promised.

Debra faced me. "Make it look like an accident," she said, "but make sure she's dead."

I was already grinning. "She'll be dead enough even for you."

Debra smirked back. "You think you're something special, don't you?"

I stood up to Debra. "Are you going to be with Corky when the shooting starts?"

Debra was somber. "That may be too much to ask for."

"I know how we can be together," Corky told her. "I'll be having a drink at the bar. You'll be working behind the bar, pouring the drinks. Sure. That's a legitimate excuse for us to be together."

Debra blinked at that logic. But before she could frame any answer, she heard my laughter mocking them.

Ollie Salazar and I sat in the bank president's office.

He was trying hard to be blank-faced. "Well, yes, Mrs. Debra Lawson was married, but her husband died suddenly two years ago. They'd only been married a short time. There was some talk--still is, in fact--that his death was not ... accidental, which, of course, it was--"

"How did he die?"

"Auto accident. His was the only vehicle involved, actually. He'd been drinking, it seems, and the car slid through a turn and flipped over into a ditch. Could've happened to anyone."

"How much money was involved?"

"More than I expected from a sailor," Ollie said incautiously.

Then I went to the County Coroner's Office. I talked with Timothy, a beautiful young man who worked there. Timothy had gone out of his way to wait on me.

Timothy had a syrupy voice. "My name is Timothy. How can I help you?"

I ignored Timothy's syrupy manner. "I'd like to see the death certificate and the coroner's report in the death of Roscoe Lawson." I read my notes. "April 14th--"

Timothy already knew. "Two years ago."

He turned on his heels and went off for the file. A moment later he returned with a file in his hand. I took it, but didn't immediately open it.

"You knew right where it was," I said.

"His daughter keeps coming in here, having people look it over."

"And what do they find?

Timothy shrugged. "A drunk who fell asleep at the wheel. His car was found upside down in an irrigation ditch beyond the third bend past the sixth bridge on the Hana Highway."

I still hadn't opened the file. "Cause of death?"

"Respiratory failure due to aspiration of blood and fracture of the larynx due to the auto accident."

"Was his throat cut?"

Timothy shook his head. "It was smashed, not slashed. The pathologist said his jaw was broken twice. His tongue clogged his air passage."

"How bad was he boozed?"

"His blood alcohol was point-forty-two."

I was surprised. "The boy was pickled!"

Timothy grew confidential. "That isn't an unusually high count. Most Medical Examiners will tell you winos in doorways need a point-three-five or a point four-oh just to feel good." He shrugged. "You get a DB with a history of heavy drinking, somebody who can hold his liquor--. The rest is natural causes. If there had been foul play, don't you think the sheriff himself would have pulled out all the stops to find his murderer?"