Steven Womack: Dead Folks' blues

“He’s asleep right now. Is it important? Who is this?”

“Ma’am, I hate to bother you. But this is important. This is Harry Denton. I’m a private investigator. He knows who I am.”

Her voice changed from sleepy to irritated. “Can’t it wait until the morning?”

It could wait until the morning, but I couldn’t. “Mrs. Spellman, it’s real important. And it’ll only take a minute. Please?”

“Oh, all right.” There was a shuffle of blanket as she handed the phone over to Spellman.

“Yeah?” his gruff voice answered.

“Lieutenant Spellman, this is Harry Denton.”

A long sigh came over the phone. “Damn it, what do you want?”

“I hate to bother you so late.”

“Then how come you’re doing it?”

“Just one quick question, then I’ll let you go back to sleep. The night of Fletcher’s murder, when you interviewed other people in the hospital, his friends, notified his family, all that good stuff, did you tell anybody I got hit in the head?”

“Aw, damn it, Denton, you woke me up to ask me that?”

“Yeah.”

There was a long pause, and I could hear something that almost sounded like growling over the phone. “I been investigating murders nearly twenty years, Denton. I got better sense than that.”

“So you didn’t tell anybody?”

“The only people who knew you got hit in the head were the people who saw you in the hospital and treated you.”

“And you didn’t tell anybody the next day?”

“No, nobody. What’s this about, Denton? You holding out on me?”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said blankly. “I’ll let you go back to sleep now.”

I hung up and sat there in bed, staring at the silent, flickering images on the television.

Now I knew.

I didn’t have to wake up the next morning; you can’t wake up when you’ve never been asleep. I’ve had some long nights before, but this was the longest night I’d ever spent. Even when things were at their worst with Lanie, when we lay next to each other, silent and sleepless, it was nothing like this. There was a kind of unreality about it, as if I’d gotten myself cast in a remake of some film noir classic. Only this was very real, and the difference between what this felt like and reality was the same as the difference between a gunfight on television and a gunfight in your neighborhood.

I washed down the last of a tasteless biscuit with cold coffee, then started toward the door. The kitchen clock read 7:35, too early for me to be up as a rule. But these were days without rules. I put my hand on the doorknob, then stopped. I couldn’t do this alone. I needed help. Rachel would need help. It’s time we all came clean with each other.

I walked back into my bedroom and called Walter’s office.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “He’s not in yet.” I was surprised anyone was in yet, but after all, the sharks feed early.

“Can I leave him a message? It’s urgent. In fact, it’s an emergency.”

“Go ahead. I’ll see he gets the message.” Her voice was concerned, serious.

I gave her Rachel’s address. “Tell him to meet me there as soon as he can. It’s very important.”

“Can I tell him what it’s about?”

I couldn’t leave that in a message. “Just tell him to be there.”

The drive over to Rachel’s left me brittle, like the time Lanie wanted me to meet her for lunch. I knew she was going to divorce me; I knew that was what she was going to tell me. But I went to lunch anyway. It was like that today.

I turned onto Golf Club Lane and drove quickly to Rachel’s driveway. I imagined Walter’s BMW pulling out just as I pulled in; the thought made me laugh out loud.

The Ford chugged up the driveway, squealed to a stop behind Conrad’s Jag. I wondered if she’d keep the Jaguar, now that she had all that money. I rang the bell a few times, with no response. But the cars were there. Odd, I thought.

I walked around the side of the house, down the driveway a few feet, and stood in the sun. The storm front had long since moved through. It was a beautiful, sunlit day. The sky was deep blue; even the air temporarily clean.

Rachel shot into view, running at a good solid clip from up the street to my left. She disappeared behind a line of hedges, then came back into sight running the street in front of the house. She moved quickly, with an ease and grace that gave me an ache in my chest. Rachel really was beautiful, on the outside anyway.

She turned into the driveway and slowed as she saw me. Her arms dropped to her side, and she loped up next to me, glistening with sweat and breathing hard.

“Harry,” she panted. “What-”

“Hi, Rachel,” I said. “How’re you doing?”

“Tired. Out of breath. Glad to see you, though. C’mon inside.”

She walked past me, head down, shaking her arms and shoulders to stay loose. She pulled her keys out of her fanny pack, turned off the burglar alarm, and opened the kitchen door. Inside, the remnants of a breakfast eaten solo remained on the table.

“Let me run upstairs and get a towel,” she said, pulling off the fanny pack and laying it on the table. “Be right back.”

She left the kitchen and went down the hall. I heard her footsteps on the stairs. The fanny pack was lying there; I reached over, unzipped it, spread it open wide.

Inside the dark pouch, I could see what looked like a black plastic box. I pulled it out. A button on the side, four metal contacts on the end. Just like Lonnie showed me.

I shoved the stun gun back inside the pouch, zipped it shut. Damn, I thought.

Footsteps padded down the stairs, then through the hall. She stepped into the kitchen, hair combed straight back, face rinsed, towel around her neck.

“Good run?”

“Yeah, almost an hour. Great way to start the day. You want coffee or something?”

“Sure.” I stepped around the counter to get out of her way.

“You look like you’ve been up all night, darling. Been on a stakeout?”

“Something like that.” It hurt to have her call me darling.

She opened a bag of gourmet coffee. I recognized the store’s gold sticker. They imported it special, mixed the blend themselves, ground it right in front of you. Real class.

“Harry,” she said, pouring water into the coffee maker, “how come you’re here?”

My heart made a big thump inside my chest. I shut my eyes, tried to get centered, get ready.

“Rachel, we have to talk,” I said.

She turned to me, fidgeted with a couple of coffee mugs, sugar, milk pitcher. “About what?”

“I found out how Conrad was killed.” She stopped cold, her eyes meeting mine for a split second, then turning away again.

“We know how Conrad was killed, don’t we?”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant how he came to be killed.”

“Really? Who killed my husband?” she asked. “If you know who killed him, you should tell me.” Her voice was soft, almost far away. But a deep red color rose in her cheeks.

“The way I see it, whoever killed Conrad was paid to do it. A contract job. Paid by somebody who knew their way around the hospital, knew pharmaceuticals. Somebody with medical training. Somebody who could get into a hospital, steal what was needed, then make sure the hired killer did it right.”

She laughed, a short, nervous snicker. “Well, that narrows it down. Only about a thousand suspects.”

“It does, Rachel. It narrows it down a lot.”

“So who was it?”

“The only person I can find who not only had the knowledge and the opportunity, but the motive. Homicide 101, Rachel. I should have figured it out sooner. The first thing you ask is ‘Who benefits?’ ”