Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Zacharius took a gulp of his drink. “I don’t know. He was wearing a mask.”

“Was it a mugging?”

“I wouldn’t call you if I’d been mugged, Nunn, I’d go directly to the police.” He was breathing from his mouth and kept reaching for his drink.

“Okay, Hank, why did you call me?” I sat down on the sofa. Above the gas fireplace that looked as if it hadn’t been used in years hung a large print portraying Che Guevara, and under that, a small Greek Orthodox cross. Zacharius took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“I got an invite to that memorial,” he said at last.

“And?”

“You know she was innocent.”

What else would Zacharius want to talk to me about? “I’m pretty sure she was-now.”

“Now? Now that it can’t help her? Why didn’t you cooperate with me?”

“The evidence pointed to her. That’s what I was called to testify about. That’s what I did. And then everything went in one direction after that. I tried to stop it but I couldn’t. I’m still paying for my mistake, Zacharius.”

He didn’t say anything.

“So what happened to you?” I asked.

“I’ve been asking questions again, about the case.” He tried to smile. “I found this guy used to work security at the McFall at about the same time Chris Thomas disappeared. He used to be a cop at one time-Artie Ruby.”

I’d heard of Ruby. He’d been kicked off the force for misconduct, but I hadn’t known he’d worked at the McFall. So much for my investigative skills. “So the McFall Art Museum hired an ex-crooked cop to provide security. Didn’t they do background checks back then?”

Zacharius shook his head. “Amazing, huh?”

“So who did this to you?”

“I don’t know. Ruby wasn’t happy with the questions I asked him, and about an hour later I was walking home and some guy wearing a mask beat the crap out of me.”

“You think this Ruby had something to do with it?”

“I don’t know.” Zacharius leaned back in his chair. “You know Chris had all sorts of connections. The rumors were true, I’m pretty sure of it. Problem was, Chris never understood you don’t fuck with those guys. They have a way of dealing with deadbeats.”

“And Ruby’s connection to all this…?”

“That’s for you to uncover, Detective.”

My first instinctwas to track down Artie, break an arm and a few ribs. I hate bullies, and I hate rogue cops. But there was more than one way to skin a cat.

I left a note in her hotel room and then drove to a Dunkin’ Donuts and waited. She showed up an hour later. Haile hadn’t changed too much in the last ten years, but her eyes were even more cynical than they were in her youth. She slid into the booth across from me.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Typical call gal,” I said with a smile. “Sorry about that note, but I thought it’d be better than sneaking up on you in your hotel room again. So how are you?”

“Tired of being blackmailed by a disgraced ex-cop whom the world has abandoned,” she said with a sigh. “Excuse me, but I have to get a doughnut. Those sour creams are incredible. Want one?”

I admired her pluck. She came back a couple of minutes later with a cup of coffee and a doughnut.

“I’ve done my homework, Haile, and if you were going to spend a couple of years in jail for what you did the other day, I’ve managed to find some more stuff that will keep you in for a long time-the mail-fraud scheme in New Mexico; the old, wealthy trucker in Montana who died of a heart attack just a month after you married him; then we have your dealings with Chris Thomas, fencing off stolen artwork. I can go on and on.”

She continued munching on the doughnut, then smiled and said, “You’re going to have a hard time proving it though.”

“Maybe I can’t prove it, but I can make life very complicated for you.” She didn’t say anything, so I went on, “I need some info, Haile, and you’re the only person I know who can get it for me. Unfortunately it’ll probably involve screwing an older, greasy guy called-”

“You don’t have to blackmail me to screw a smelly old shit.” She paused. “I will of course charge my standard rate.”

I dropped an envelope on the table that had $400 in it and said, “I come prepared.”

She looked so right on the barstool, as if she belonged there. As if she were born there.

I spotted her long red hair from the doorway. Saw the dip of her shoulders as she picked up her glass. I watched her rattle the ice cube. She took a sip. Her expression didn’t change.

I realized she was eyeing me in the mirror behind the bar.

Artie, don’t get involved , I told myself. I wasn’t in the mood to be nice to anyone, or even pretend.

So why was I still there?

Why do I do anything?

I had that feeling of dread I wake up with every morning. You know. That cold, heavy rock in your chest that makes you pull the pillow over your head and scream into it until you can’t breathe.

Or maybe you don’t know that feeling.

Okay. She saw me watching her. I tried to study her reaction in the mirror. But the neon Sam Adams sign cast a flickering, blue glare over her face.

The drunk on the next stool bumped her arm. But she didn’t spill a drop of her drink. She turned her green eyes on him. Gave him a stare I’ve seen a few times. He raised his shirt collar as if he were suddenly cold and moved away.

Time for more lies .

That’s the way I approach the day.

What’s my favorite film? The Grifters .

Not sure what made me think of it as I stepped on my half-smoked Marlboro and walked toward the bar and its neon glow.

“Hi. Is this seat taken?”

She turned, and her eyes were cold. If I had a collar, I would’ve turned it up. But I was wearing a black turtleneck. Sort of my uniform.

“Is that the best you can do?” Her voice was deep and throaty, a smoker’s voice, but she didn’t turn away.

“I’m a slow starter. But I finish well.”

She lowered her eyelids and flashed a quick half smile.

She wore a designer suit, stylish. A navy-blue pinstripe number. Her legs crossed under the skirt. In the mirror, I saw the white blouse unbuttoned to reveal some skin.

Gave me a pang.

She set the glass down. It had her lip prints on it, a smear of red-brown.

I tried a smile while I studied her. Veronica Lake? Nicole Kidman? She had the looks and the moves, but something was missing.

Maybe I think that about everyone . My problem, right?

I slid down onto the stool next to her. Something about her was familiar, but maybe I think that about every woman I meet. Who knows? I motioned to her empty glass. “Buy you another one?”

She turned the green eyes on me. Green for go ?

“You talked me into it,” she said, rattling the cubes.

“Yeah, that’s me. I’ve got a way with words.”

Artie, don’t sound bitter .

I waved to the bartender, a little blond number who looked about twelve.

That half smile again. “What else have you got a way with?”

I just laughed. It sounded strange to me. Guess I hadn’t laughed in a long time.

So, okay, we had a few drinks. Maybe more than a few. I’m a Jameson guy too. Maybe the only classy thing about me.

We were there a couple hours. And what was I thinking? I was thinking maybe I didn’t have enough to cover the tab. I was thinking about excusing myself to the little boys’ room and then cutting out the back door.

So imagine my surprise when she leaned against me and pressed her face to my ear. She smelled like oranges and flowers. “Can we go to your place?”