Alex Kava: A Perfect Evil

Nick saw George Tillie making his way through the crowd, and he was relieved to see the familiar face. George looked as if he had come straight out of bed. His sport jacket was crumpled and misbuttoned over a pink nightshirt. His gray hair stuck up everywhere. His face sagged with deep lines and gray fuzz. He carried his little black bag, hugging it to his chest as he stepped carefully through the thick mud in fuzzy slippers. If Nick wasn’t mistaken, the slippers had little ears and dog snouts. He smiled and wondered how George had ever made it past the FBI sentries.

“George,” Nick called and almost laughed when George raised his eyebrows at Nick’s shoddy appearance. “The boy’s over here.” He took George’s elbow and let the old coroner lean on him as they plodded through the mud and the crowd.

An officer with a Polaroid camera flashed one last picture of the scene, then made room for them. One look at the boy, and George froze. His slumped shoulders straightened, and his face went white.

“Oh, dear God. Not again.”

From a mile away, the pasture was lit up like a football stadium on game night. Christine stomped on the accelerator, weaving her car through the gravel.

Something big was definitely happening. The excitement fluttered in her stomach. Her heart pounded rapidly. Even her palms were sweaty. This was better than sex, or what she could remember of sex.

The police dispatch gave little information. “Officer requests immediate assistance and backup.”

It could mean anything. As she skidded into the pasture road, her excitement only grew. Rescue vehicles, two TV vans, five sheriff cruisers and a slew of other unmarked vehicles were scattered at haphazard angles in the mud. Three sheriff deputies guarded the scene, which was cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. Crime-scene tape-this was serious. Definitely not some drunk teenagers.

Then she remembered the kidnapping-the paperboy whose face had been plastered over every newscast and newspaper since the beginning of the week. Had a ransom drop been made? There were rescue units. Perhaps a rescue was in progress.

She jumped from the car, noticed it still sliding in the mud and hopped back in behind the wheel.

“Don’t be stupid, Christine,” she whispered and slammed the car into Park, shoving the emergency brake into place. “Be calm. Be cool,” she lectured herself, grabbing her notepad.

Immediately the mud swallowed her leather pumps, refusing to surrender them. She kicked out of her shoes, threw them into the back of the car and padded her way in stockinged feet to the crowd of news media.

The deputies stood straight and unflinching despite the questions being hurled at them. Beyond the trees, searchlights illuminated an area close to the river. Tall grass and a mass of uniformed bodies blocked any view of what was going on.

Channel Five had sent one of their evening anchors. Darcy McManus looked impeccable and ready for the camera, her red suit well pressed, her silky black hair and makeup all in place. Yes, she even had on her shoes. It was, however, too late at night for a live report, and the camera remained off.

Christine recognized Deputy Eddie Gillick in the line. She approached slowly, making certain he saw her, knowing one wrong move could get her throttled.

“Deputy Gillick? Hi, it’s Christine Hamilton. Remember me?”

He stared at her like a toy soldier unwilling to give in to any distraction. Then his eyes softened, and there was a hint of a smile before he controlled the impulse.

“Mrs. Hamilton. Sure, I remember. You’re Tony’s daughter. What brings you out here?”

“I work for the Omaha Journal now.”

“Oh.” The soldier face returned.

She needed to think fast or she’d lose him. She noticed Gillick’s slicked-back hair, not a strand out of place, the overpowering smell of aftershave lotion. Even the pencil-thin mustache was meticulously trimmed. His uniform looked wrinkle-free. His tie was cinched tightly at his neck and tacked down with a gold tie tack. A quick glance showed no wedding band. She’d take a chance that he considered himself a bit of a lady’s man.

“I can’t believe how muddy it is out here. Silly me. I even lost my shoes.” She pointed to her mud-caked feet and the red-painted toenails peeking through her stockings. Gillick checked out the feet, and she was pleased when his eyes ran the length of her long legs. The uncomfortably short skirt would finally pay for its discomfort.

“Yes, ma’am, it sure is a mess.” He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable. “You should be careful you don’t catch cold.” One more look, this time his eyes took in more than just her legs. She felt them stop at her breasts and found herself arching her back to split the blazer open just a little more to accommodate him.

“This whole situation is a mess, isn’t it, Eddie? It is Eddie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked pleased that she remembered. “Although I’m not allowed to discuss the situation at hand.”

“Oh, sure. I understand.” She leaned in close to him, despite the smell of Brylcream. Even without shoes she was almost his height. “I know you’re not allowed to discuss anything about the Alverez boy,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear.

His glance registered surprise. An eyebrow raised, and his eyes softened again. “How did you know?” He turned to see if anyone was listening.

Bingo. She’d hit the jackpot. Careful now. Cool and calm. Don’t blow it.

“Oh, you know I can’t say who my sources are, Eddie.” Would he recognize the low hushed voice as seductive or as a line of bull? She had never been very good at seduction, or at least that was what Bruce had told her.

“Sure, of course.” He nodded, taking the hook.

“You probably didn’t even get a chance to look at the scene. You know, being stuck out here doing the real dirty work.”

“Oh, no. I got more than an eyeful.” He puffed out his chest as if he dealt with this sort of thing on a daily basis.

“The boy’s in pretty bad shape, huh?”

“Yeah, looks like the son of a bitch gutted him,” he whispered without a hint of emotion.

She felt the blood rush from her head. Her knees went weak. The boy was dead.

“Hey!” Gillick yelled, and she thought for a second he had discovered the deception. “Shut that camera off! Excuse me, Mrs. Hamilton.”

As Gillick snatched at Channel Nine’s camera, Christine retreated to her car. She sat with the door open, fanning herself with the empty notepad and taking in long breaths of the cool night air. Despite the chill, her blouse stuck to her.

Danny Alverez was dead, murdered. To quote Deputy Gillick, “gutted.”

She had her first big story, yet in the pit of her stomach the butterflies had turned into cockroaches.

Saturday, October 25

Nick gritted his teeth, then swallowed the mouthful of thick, cold coffee. Why was he surprised to find it tasted just as bitter cold as it did hot? It reminded him how much he hated the stuff, but he poured another cup, anyway.

Maybe it wasn’t the taste he hated as much as the memories. Coffee reminded him of all-nighters studying for the LSAT. It reminded him of that excruciating road trip to watch his grandfather die. A trip made after his grandmother had pleaded, and necessary because Nick’s father, Antonio, had refused to be at the old man’s bedside. Even back then, Nick saw the trip as some kind of omen of his own relationship with his father. And he wondered if his father would see the irony if and when the great Antonio Morrelli’s time came due, and his own son would refuse to be at his bedside?