Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“Huh?” This from Daddy O’Malley.

“What the hell are you trying to pull here?” says Rambowski. “Have you made a connection between this … this …”

Ceepak helps out: “Potassium chloride. When delivered in a lethal dose, it causes the heart muscle to stop beating, leading to death by cardiac arrest.”

“So?” says the lawyer. “Is there any connection between what you found and my client?”

“Not at this time. However, we have established that your client, Mr. O’Malley, was a frequent visitor to the house.”

“No you have not,” says Rambowski. “Not to my satisfaction.”

“You wanna see the videos?” I ask.

Every drop of blood drains out of Mr. O’Malley’s face.

“Goddamn that Johnson. Arrogant prick.”

“Pardon?” says Ceepak, like we’re at a tea party and somebody just farted.

“Keith Barent Johnson! He’s the one who wanted the cameras in every bedroom! Said the videos were the only thing that got him through July and August when Bruno rented out the house to tourists and we all got busy making our nut for the year, couldn’t screw around with the girls.”

Mrs. O’Malley’s sister has her purse in her lap and is twisting the straps like crazy. I think right about now she’d like to tear one off and use it to strangle her brother-in-law.

“Gentlemen,” says Rambowski, “let’s talk about why we’re actually here. This morning you intimated that you had enough evidence to arrest Mr. O’Malley for the murder of Ms. Gail Baker. Is that what you intend to do, now that you’ve uncovered somebody’s stash of potassium chloride, even though, if I might remind you, Ms. Baker did not die from a heart attack?”

“We have not yet written up an arrest warrant,” says Ceepak, somewhat reluctantly.

“Good. Because my client has an ironclad alibi. Patrick?”

I can tell Mr. O’Malley is still thinking about the lethal injection and the heart attack.

“Hmm?” he says.

“Tell these gentlemen about the telephone call. Thursday night.”

Mr. O’Malley sits there. Nods a couple of times.

“Dad?” Kevin prods him.

“Right. The phone. Okay.” He reaches into the coat of his seersucker suit. Pulls out a cell, which he places on the table in front of him. “This is my main phone. 609-555-9566. I didn’t want to turn it over earlier because, frankly, there are some rather embarrassing text messages and photographs stored in the memory. I should’ve erased them.”

The sister-in-law flings daggers at him with her eyes. When she runs out of those, her eyes chuck spears.

“Anyway, we dug through the folders and, yes, you will find Ms. Baker’s final text message,” says the lawyer in what I take to be a stupid move.

“It says, ‘I need 2 c u now,’” reports Kevin. “It arrived, as indicated in the phone records, shortly after midnight, first thing Friday morning.”

Wow. The whole team is helping us out.

“The phone call to the mayor’s house is in there, too,” says Mr. O’Malley.

This is pretty incredible. I’m leaning back in my seat, they’re making this so easy. Ceepak, however, is leaning forward. Elbows on the table. Hand stroking his chin.

“Now, whoever had the phone,” says the lawyer, “erased the message they texted back to Ms. Baker from the ‘Sent’ file.”

Ceepak’s ears perk up. “What do you mean by ‘whoever had the phone?’”

“I must’ve grabbed the wrong one when I left the office on Thursday night,” says Mr. O’Malley.

“And how could that happen?” asks Ceepak.

“Easy. We have a half dozen of these things sitting in chargers behind the counter at King Putt. Same make and model. We use them like walkie-talkies as we travel around town, managing our properties. Anyway, I just called Skippy at the golf course. Told him to find out who the hell had my phone Thursday night. Whoever it was, he’s your goddamn killer.”

“Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak, “while I appreciate your being candid about the embarrassing evidence on your cell phone-”

Big Paddy slides the phone down the table like he and Ceepak are playing air hockey. “Here. Take it. Maybe you can un-erase the text message whoever did this thing sent back to Gail.”

Ceepak blocks the shot. Moves the cell sideways. “Rest assured, Mr. O’Malley we will attempt to do just that. However, so far, all we have is your word that you were not in possession of this phone Thursday night into Friday morning.”

Mr. O’Malley gestures toward the sister-in-law. “That’s why Frances is here.”

The big woman crosses both arms over her chest. Her Irish, as they say, is up. She looks like she might explode.

“Frances?” says Mr. O’Malley.

“What?”

“You said you’d tell them.”

“That I did, Patrick. However, that was before I heard how you poisoned Jackie.”

“Frances, I did not kill your sister.”

“Then what’re you doing with this heart attack drug these gentlemen are talking about?” she says, flicking a hand in our general direction.

“Ms. Ryan,” says Rambowski, “as I told the police, there is no link between the potassium chloride they found in some house on-”

“Bullshit, you fucking goddamn liar!”

As my mother used to say, she has a mouth on her.

“What? You needed the damn insurance money to pay back the shylocks you borrowed from to build that monstrosity on the boardwalk? Mark my words, first nor’easter blows through town, that thing is toppling over like a house of cards made out of matchsticks!”

“Frances, I swear on my children,” says Big Paddy, “I did not kill Jackie!”

“Sure you did. You knew she was overweight and smoked and had a history of heart problems so you just nudged things along a little is what you did.”

“Ms. Ryan, if I may,” says Ceepak. “As Mr. Rambowski has pointed out numerous times, there is currently no link between Mr. O’Malley and the potassium chloride. In fact, I suspect someone may be attempting to frame your brother-in-law. To spoon feed us enough clues that we will rush to judgment and recklessly lock him away for life.”

“Who?” demands Big Paddy. “Who’s trying to set me up?”

Ceepak’s got a good poker face. Doesn’t glance over at Kevin. I would’ve.

“We can’t say for certain, sir. Not yet.” He turns to Ms. Ryan. “But tell me, Ms. Ryan, why did you come here this morning?”

“Because I’m too goddamn Catholic,” she says. “I can’t lie. Even when I want to.”

Ceepak nods. At least that part of their religious beliefs overlaps.

“I called Frances late Thursday night,” says Mr. O’Malley.

Ms. Ryan nods. “Right before midnight.”

“Then I went over to where she was staying.”

“Place called the Mussel Beach Motel.”

The two bitter enemies are completing each other’s sentences like an old married couple.

“Here is the record of that call,” says barrister Rambowski, pushing a sheet of paper across the table toward Ceepak.

“It’s on one of the other lines attached to our Verizon account. 609-555-9567.”

Ceepak studies the phone bill.

“He was drunk,” says Ms. Ryan. “Bawling his eyes out. Said he had to come see me.”

“So I drove over to the motel,” says Mr. O’Malley. “Brought a bottle of whisky.”

“We split it. Down by the pool. I called Paddy a goddamn sonofabitch for the way he treated my sister. Whoring around all over town. Jacqueline knew what Patrick was doing all those nights he didn’t come home-and it wasn’t working at the office, not in the middle of February when no one plays putt-putt, that’s for damn sure. In fact, Jackie had known about his chippies for years.”