Ken Bruen - Bust

Detective Simmons was a stocky black man, about forty years old. He was wearing a wrinkled white shirt, obviously discount, sweat stains on the armpits, with a tie wound on loosely. Max was wearing the navy sweat suit he’d changed into before the police came. He knew it was stylish and made him look slim and athletic.

Other officers, forensic workers and a crime-scene photographer were gathered in the hallway, creating a din of voices and confusion.

“Like I told that other officer,” Max said. “I tripped it off by accident. I mean I forgot to disarm it.”

“So the alarm definitely wasn’t ringing when you got home?”

“No,” Max said.

Now Simmons was looking in a small notepad, saying, “And what about the other victim – Stacy Goldenberg. Did you know that your wife was going shopping with her today?”

“No,” Max said. He was starting to feel nauseous again, thinking about how he was going to have to face his brother-in-law and sister-in-law – Stacy’s parents. The vodka in his stomach was shouting, Yo, buddy, how ’bout some more down here?

“When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”

“Like I told the first officer – this morning.”

“You didn’t talk to her at all during the course of the day?”

Max shook his head, trying for that devastated look.

“The past few days, had your wife told you about anything strange that happened around the house while you were gone? For example, did she say any strangers came to the door or rang the bell or anything like that?”

Max, still shaking his head, said, “No. Nothing like that,” acting weighed down with grief.

“So far we haven’t found any sign of forced entry,” Simmons said. “What about keys? Do you keep a spare set with any friends or neighbors?”

“No,” Max said, letting his voice choke a little.

“What about the code to your alarm? Do you share that with anybody?”

“No one knew the code except me, Deirdre, and the alarm company.” Damn, if he could just squeeze a few tears out. How did they do that shit?

“You see what I’m getting at, don’t you, Mr. Fisher? There are only two likely possibilities for how the killer got inside the house. He either broke in before the women arrived, or he forced his way in with them. If he broke in, he would have tripped off the alarm, and if he forced his way in with the women, the alarm would still have gone off unless he forced your wife to disarm it. But even if he did that, it wouldn’t explain how the alarm got set again when he left, and you’re telling me that when you came home the alarm was set. So the only logical conclusion is that the killer – or killers – somehow knew the code to your alarm.”

Simmons gave him a look that seemed to scream, I know you did it and I’m gonna hang you for it, you schmuck.

Trying to ignore the look, pretending he was imagining it, Max said, “You know, I’m really not feeling too well. Is it possible we could do this tomorrow?”

He wiped his dry eyes, as if he were on the verge of some hysterical weeping.

“I understand,” Simmons said, “but it’s true what they say, you know – the first twenty-four hours after a crime is committed is when most criminals are apprehended. If we could just clarify a couple of other things, I think it could help us a great deal.”

An officer came over and started talking to Detective Simmons. Max wasn’t paying attention, staring blindly again toward the activity outside the house.

“This is just routine,” Simmons continued, “but can we go over your whereabouts tonight one more time just to make sure we got everything down right?”

He had a little edge in his voice, making it clear that this wasn’t really a request.

“I was at Legz Diamond’s entertaining a client.”

“And what time did you get there?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere around six o’clock.”

“And you were with a gentleman named Jack Haywood?”

“That’s right.”

“And where does Mr. Haywood work?”

Max told him. Simmons wrote the information down then asked, “And how long were you at Legz Diamond’s?”

He stressed the Legz, leaning on it, letting it show what he thought of those kinds of places.

“Like I said, I got home around ten, ten-thirty, so I was probably there, I don’t know, till about nine forty-five, ten o’clock.”

“And you say you took a cab home?”

“First I dropped Jack off at Penn Station.” Suddenly, Max felt lightheaded again, a little dizzy. “I really don’t think I can handle any more of these questions right now. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t wait to get back to that vodka bottle.

“You want to see a doctor?”

“No. That’s all right. I think I just need to be alone.”

Alone with vodka.

“You might want to think about staying at a friend’s house or at a hotel tonight. We’ll have to be here for a while longer, working on the crime scene.”

“That’s all right,” Max said. “I’d rather stay here.”

Simmons gave him a look, like, Why would you want to stay at the scene of a goddamn bloodbath? Max wondered if he’d fucked up.

Trying to temper it, Max said, “I mean, of course it’ll be difficult, but I’m gonna have to deal with it eventually, right?”

Shit, that didn’t help. Work, brain, work.

“You sure about that?” Simmons said. “Those reporters are like goddamn vultures out there. This is going to be a big news story, you know.”

“I know,” Max said.

“Your number listed?”

Max shook his head.

“Well, that’s one good thing anyway. If you want, I could have someone call Mr. and Mrs. Goldenberg, spare you that at least.”

“It’s okay,” Max said. “I’ll call them.”

That was good, letting the cop know he was a standup guy. Yeah, it was going to be a difficult call but hey, that’s what Max Fisher did, the difficult stuff.

Yeah, right.

Simmons stood, putting his pad away in his shirt pocket, and said, “I’ll be in touch with you again, let you know how the investigation is going. You’re not planning to leave town or anything, right?”

Max thought this over carefully then, as if his whole life had ended, said, “Where would I go?”

Calling Claire and Harold Goldenberg was a whole other nightmare. For Claire, Deirdre’s sister, the murders were a double tragedy. After Max told her, she screamed, “No! No! No!” then broke down, crying hysterically. Jesus, Max should have had that drink first. What the hell was wrong with him? Did he think she’d take it well?

When Harold got on the line Max had to go through the whole rigmarole again. He felt worse for the Goldenbergs than he did for himself. He’d always liked Harold, who had his own practice as a chiropractor in Boston, and he had nothing against Claire either. He didn’t want to hump her or anything, but she was inoffensive. They were both nice enough people, and they definitely didn’t deserve to lose their only kid in a tragedy like this.

Stacy wasn’t so bad either. He never saw her very much when she was growing up, but when she started at Columbia she got closer with Deirdre, her “rich aunt in the city.” It was horrible that she had to die, especially like this. She hadn’t ruined anybody’s life, caused misery for anybody. She was just an innocent college girl who probably didn’t have an enemy in the world. Christ, she was only twenty.

Max felt his entire body getting hot and starting to shake – he wanted to call Angela, remind himself why he went through with all this crap in the first place. But as he picked up the phone and started to dial he stopped himself. That was exactly what Detective Simmons was waiting for. Max knew that Simmons suspected him more than he’d made out – why else would he have asked him if he was planning to leave town? The police had probably tapped his phone lines, put a cop on surveillance to watch his every move. They probably already knew about Angela, and her cousin, and Popeye, and now they were just waiting for Max to give himself away.