Richard Greener: The Lacey confession

“You haven’t told me why-why her? Why do all this?”

“You already know why, Walter. You simply haven’t put it together yet. You don’t need me to tell you. It’s the gold. It’s always been the gold. From the time I first told her abo ut Lacey and his father-in-law and the Czar’s gold, that’s all she talked about. She became obsessed with those people-the Georgians. I got some Russian cigarettes for her, just as a hoot, you know. She asked for more. She started smoking them. She wanted the gold. It’s all been about the gold.”

“There is no gold,” said Walter.

“Oh?”

“None.”

“None?”

“You won’t find the answer in Lacey’s confession. Because there is no answer, no hiding place. No tons of gold coins.”

“You…” Devereaux’s laughter brought him to a coughing fit. “I’m sorry,” he said, recovering. He wiped his nose and rubbed his eyes, a genuine smile still sitting wide across his face. “You bought Roy Rogers’ act. Imagine that. I’m just a stocks-and-bonds boy! And you bought that. You? Holy shit!” Then he laughed again. “There’s more gold than you ever dreamed of. It was for her. It was all for her, you

… idiot.”

Walter rose from his seat, crossed the room to where Louis Devereaux sat and placed his. 9mm pistol on the small table next to Devereaux. “You killed Harry. You’re responsible. You’ve got a choice to make, Louie. You can pick this gun up-there is a single round in the chamber-otherwise unloaded. Just one shot. You can take that one bullet and go out of here with at least a touch of dignity. Or I can shoot you. Your decision.” Devereaux looked at the pistol, then up at Walter, and again at the gun. “I know what you’re thinking,” said Walter. “I’d think it myself. But I need to tell you that if you pick up that gun and so much as point it in my direction, Tucker Poesy will put two in the back of your head, probably in the little soft spot just below the skull, and probably get both in the same hole. She’s that good.”

“You use this one all the time?” mocked Devereaux. “Tucker Poesy’s behind me? That’s a good one.” He didn’t exactly laugh out loud, but he smiled and the devil’s grin filled the room with a smell like acid on metal.

“Hi, Louie,” she said.

Louis Devereaux picked up the gun. He knew it was an untraceable weapon that would stay behind. For the first time he noticed that Walter Sherman was wearing gloves, thin white cotton gloves. Only Devereaux’s fingerprints would be on the handle. He didn’t look at Walter again. In fact, Walter saw him close his eyes. He put the gun up to his head, against his temple, by his right ear, and pulled the trigger.

The house belonged to Linda Morales. It was far enough outside Ponce to be called a retreat. That’s how she referred to it-my retreat, she would say. Few knew about it and fewer still knew where it was. There was nothing spectacular about the house itself. It was nice, but not unusual. Pushed into the side of a hill, nearly at the top-very much like Walter’s place on St. John-her view was a thing to behold. The whole of the Caribbean Sea lay at her footsteps. Walter Sherman had made his life’s work finding things others could not. Finding Conchita Crystal’s Puerto Rican retreat was no challenge for The Locator. He had resources everywhere. He used one to keep an eye on the place, to let him know when she arrived. Hours later, he was there. Unlike his own house, where the driveway snaked around and down the hill, this one had a drive straight up to the house. He parked his car at the bottom, off the road, behind some bushes, and walked. He rang the bell and waited.

“Walter,” she said, as if she was expecting him for cocktails and dinner. “Come in. You look wonderful. Have you done something… to yourself? You look great.”

“A little surgery,” he said.

“No. You’re not the kind.”

“Coronary bypass.”

“Oh,” her hand covered her open mouth, but he could see she was careful not to touch those delicious lips of hers. No smudges.

“It’ll do wonders for you. You should try one.”

“When? What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I came to pay my respects, offer my condolences.”

“Oh, really,” now he saw the chest heave and the muscles around that marvelous mouth tighten. “What for? Who’s died?”

“Louis Devereaux. I’m sure you’ve heard by now. They say he killed himself. Shot himself with the only bullet in a Glock nine millimeter. They found the gun in his hand. Did you know, if you shoot yourself in the head, you die so quickly your fingers cannot release the weapon. That’s true.” Chita said nothing. She stood there, like she was waiting for her director’s instructions. Stage right-stage left-kick and move-smile, smile! “That was a nice Glock. I bought it, on the street in Washington, a few hours before he killed himself with it. You still can’t say anything, can you?”

“I… I…”

“I know all about it, Chita. I know about you and Devereaux. His phone records. Your cell phone. The two of you go back a long ways. How? How did that happen? You and Devereaux?”

Conchita smiled. It was that warm, wonderful smile she was so famous for, the one Walter had seen and taken some measure of pleasure in before. “He called me. Just like he called you. You couldn’t just call me, not Chita Crystal. Not in those days. I had people who had people. But that’s exactly what Louis did. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Louis Devereaux. I’m a big fan. Let’s have dinner.’ That’s how. I needed help. He was there.”

“It never occurred to me,” said Walter. “The two of you. I see it now, but I don’t know why Harry. Harry was-what to you? Why him?”

“I don’t work as much as I used to,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you that? You should have listened.”

“The money? The Czar’s gold coins? The money was for you?”

“Of course. Look at me. This is my little bungalow, my most modest accommodations. Conchita Crystal is a business-no, she’s an industry. And, unfortunately, she ain’t what she used to be.” She saw Walter looking at her. She never doubted her appearance. She lived on it. Still did. That’s not what she was losing. It was the income. Simple and to the point. Conchita Crystal did not make as much money as she used to. Her lifestyle had not adjusted to her new economic conditions. Her motives were so simple. She needed the money.

“Devereaux had money,” he said, astonished that she should worry about her future in such a way-that she would kill for it-that she would kill family. “You had nothing to worry about.”

She laughed. “You don’t know a thing about real money, do you Walter? Louis told me about Lacey, years ago. He told me about Kennedy and he told me about the gold.”

“Still… I…,” he stammered.

“You cannot imagine what it costs to be me,” she said.

“So, it really was pure, dumb luck,” Walter said.

“You know about me and Louis. We were made for each other, truly we were. I love him. He loves me in a way he can’t love anything or anyone else. You’ll never know how good that feels.” Conchita Crystal was crying again. This time Walter didn’t give a flying fuck.

“He knew Lacey’s instructions were to open his will four days after he died,” Chita said. “It never mattered what day it was-when the old man died. The fourth day was a Saturday, but it could have been any day. Louis could have made it happen anytime. But we got lucky, with Harry.”

“But that was the American Embassy. What did that have to do with Lacey’s will?”

“Don’t you see? Come on, you’re the fucking Locator! And you still don’t see it.”