Magic City Blues, page 3
"Probably not as much as I hurt him," she said. She looked around for the server. "I think I'm going to have another margarita before dinner."
"Up to you," I said. "Wither thou goest, I go."
We sat and she drank while I kept an eye out for a busboy carrying a shank. Or an Uzi. The dining room, which had been nearly empty when we first arrived, began to fill up for dinner service. I asked her if she wanted to stay at the club or go somewhere else for dinner.
"Here is good," she said. She had a little trouble with the sibilant s sound. On the other hand, between the wine and the margaritas, she'd had enough alcohol to anesthetize a horse. I walked her to the restroom twice and stood outside the door each time.
She talked very little about anything but her tennis game and the charitable work she did. Abby was something of a normal Birmingham WASP, just like the rest of the ones that had moved from the city proper out into the suburbs. She didn't have to work, so she didn't. She'd been to college — the University of Alabama, naturally — and had a degree in public relations. Mostly what she did was help raise money for worthy causes, play tennis, and enjoy an active social life.
Toward the end of the meal, she tried to turn the conversation toward me.
"You're not exactly what I thought you'd be," she said. "You're not just quiet when I talk. You're really listening, aren't you?"
"It's a way to learn things," I said.
"So tell me about yourself."
"No," I said.
"No? What do you mean, no?"
"You know what you need to," I said. "I'm competent. I'll stand up for you. I won't try to direct what you do unless you endanger your own safety."
She took a final swallow of her drink. She must've been beyond drunk by now, but I couldn't tell it just from looking at her.
"That's cutting it pretty fine," she said.
I shrugged.
"I could make something up, if you'd like. The truth is that I'm not very interesting. What you see is what you get."
She played with the ice in her glass, stirring it around with a swizzle stick, looking for any last bits of tequila she might have missed.
"What about your hopes and dreams?"
"Don't have any," I said.
"Really? I don't believe you. Everyone has dreams. Everyone wants something."
I saw the server and asked for the check. When it came, Abby was still sober enough to sign for everything, which included Britt's drink. She added a tip while I took a big breath and let it out.
"It doesn't matter much if you believe it," I said. "As long as you understand that I believe it. I don't hope. I don't dream. I see what's there. That's all there is."
Abby stood up from her seat, placing her hands on the table. In that moment she reminded me of the last time we'd seen her father, palms down on the big mahogany desk in his office at the top of the John Hand building. Unlike him, she was simply trying to keep her balance. I stepped around the table and took her arm and we went out of the racquet club. Her apartment was too far away to walk, so I opened the passenger door of my Mustang and bundled her inside. She was asleep and snoring lightly by the time I got into the driver's side.
She lived in the Pizitz Building on 19th Street North, a white brick mixed-use building with the bottom floor taken up by an eclectic mix of food stalls, a favorite of the white hipsters who seemed to be flocking back into Birmingham as the city’s urban renewal plans hit their stride.
Most of the WASPs who called Birmingham home didn’t actually live in the city. They lived in suburbs like Hoover or Homewood or Vestavia Hills. The filthy rich lived in Mountain Brook. It said something about Abby that she chose to live in Birmingham proper. Maybe there was something more to her than the spoiled little rich girl I’d seen so far during our time together. I hoped so. I liked her.
I parked on the deck next to Abby’s building and shook her awake. She looked a little embarrassed to have fallen asleep, but neither one of us said anything. We walked across to the Pizitz, got in the elevator, and went up to her apartment.
I knew something was wrong the moment we got off on her floor. Gunpowder leaves a particular smell, and it was fragrant in the hallway. Abby's apartment door was open. I hustled her back down the hall to a stairwell, checked the door, and pushed her inside it. I pressed my keys into her hand.
"Go sit in the car," I said. "Lock the doors. Don't open up for anyone who isn't me or a cop."
"What's going on?" She asked. Her voice was still thickly clotted with sleep and booze. "I don't understand."
"Me either," I said, "but I can't check it out if you're here with me. I don't have any way to keep you safe."
She moved off down the stairs, her movements slow and languid, swimming under the influence of the distillery she’d ingested. I waited until she was out of earshot before stepping back into the hallway. By now my nose was getting used to the smell of gunpowder. There was something else underneath the smell, as unpleasant and wormy as the underside of a crawling kingsnake, and I knew what I was going to find when I went into Abby's apartment.
I just didn't know who.
Abby's apartment was immaculate. The floors were silvery ceramic tile polished to a near-mirror shine, and the walls were a creamy white. There was no dust in the place, no dirty dishes in the sink. Fresh flowers stood in fluted vases, and the art on the walls wasn't done by anyone I'd ever heard of, but it all looked original. A pair of matching leather sofas sat in the living room, where a glass coffee table had been shattered by the body's fall.
Britt lay face up, halfway on the ceramic tile floor and halfway on a white shag rug that would never come clean again. He wore an expression of surprise forever etched on his face. Blood seeped from behind his ear onto the floor.
I didn't need to touch the body to tell that he was dead. The hole in the middle of his forehead told me that. Sometime after he'd been shot, his colon and bladder had let go. That was the smell underneath the odor of the freshly fired round. There wasn’t a ton of blood from the wound, but I could see powder burns on his skin. Someone had held a small-caliber pistol to his forehead and pulled the trigger.
I knelt next to the body and found the source of the blood that trickled from his left ear. A bullet hole behind his left ear. There was no exit wound.
Guns kill. It’s what they’re made to do. That's just a fact. Larger calibers mean larger holes. But sometime back, some gangster film had shown that hired killers preferred smaller caliber weapons. It was supposedly the mark of a professional. I don't know how true that actually is — it’s never been my preference — but some of the people who saw those kinds of movies apparently took the idea to heart.
Britt had been the victim of the ol' double-tap: one behind the ear, and one to the forehead, just to make sure. The killer used a small-caliber weapon, nothing bigger than a .25, so that the first shot — the one that actually killed Britt — bounced around in his skull for a little while, turning his brain into so much tapioca.
The second shot was just a way to show off. Like the flourish on an autograph.
Finally, I put my fingers to the big artery in his neck, just as a formality. No pulse, of course. But his body was still warm. It had happened not too long ago, maybe even while we were in the car. We'd missed the killer by no more than a few minutes.
By the time I hit the hallway, I was running. I sprinted down the stairs two at a time, my sweating palm squeaking against the handrail. I hit the exit door with my shoulder and stumbled out into the humid night. The parking deck loomed ahead of me, and I streaked for it.
Abby was locked in the passenger seat, safe and sound. When she saw me, her eyes grew wide. I motioned for her to open the door.
She got out and I told her about Britt. I don't know what I expected, but she took it calmly. Maybe it was her natural demeanor. Maybe it was the booze. I still don't know. But she came with me when I went back upstairs.
I ushered her into the apartment, keeping myself between her and the body, and we went to her bedroom. I checked her closet, the bathroom, and even under the bed. When I was satisfied she was alone, I shut the door.
I slipped my phone from my pocket and dialed 911. Almost before I hung up, I could hear the sirens in the distance hurtling toward us.
FOUR
It was past two a.m. and the crime scene people weren't finished yet. The cops had questioned Abby for more than two hours before they called it quits with her. She'd taken some Valium and was now asleep in her bedroom. I leaned against one of the spotless white living room walls and ran through it with the detective again. No, I hadn't seen who did it. Yes, I'd had an altercation with the defendant earlier in the day. Yes, I could account for my whereabouts. The questions were tedious, and I'd answered them several times over the course of the last few hours. My eyes felt like ground glass, and all I wanted was some sleep.
"You're not exactly the kind of company Miss Doyle usually keeps."
The detective was a woman in her late 30s, with an expensive pantsuit tailored to fit. She wore her badge on her belt. Her brown hair was streaked with expensive-looking blonde highlights that fell to her shoulders, and her nails were lacquered with clear polish. She wore cop shoes, thick-soled, good quality leather uppers.
Her appearance told me a couple of things about her: She was feminine, but professional. She was someone to be taken seriously. I heard one of the crime scene techs call her Detective D'Agostino.
But she hadn't asked me a question, so I didn't say anything. Something I learned a long time ago, when I was younger and dumber: If a cop doesn't ask you a question, don't answer them. Never make their job easier.
D'Agostino tried again. "Why don't you tell us what you were really doing with her today?"
"I've answered all of your questions," I said. "Miss Doyle is tired. I'm tired, too."
My answer didn't phase her. If she was irritated, I couldn't tell. Here we were, well past the time of night when any reasonable person would be in bed. The detective looked fresh as a daisy, ready to be pleasant and persistent until she got what she wanted or until the trumpet sound of Revelation, whichever came first.
Just looking at her made me even more tired. Of course, that was part of the affectation she wore. I wondered what it would take to pierce that kind of armor. I kind of admired her.
"I don't like this," she said. "You're a known thug, a legbreaker, been violent all of your life. I like you for this."
I spread my hands.
“Alibi," I said. "You can like me for it all you want. But three things: One, I didn't do it; two, I got a witness who swears she was with me the whole time; and three, I bet you'll find closed circuit cameras that show I was at the racquet club with Miss Doyle until we drove here. Then you'll find security footage of when we arrived. I'm covered."
She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her front teeth with one lacquered fingernail. It gave me pause. I'd known a woman, a long time ago, who used to do the same thing when she was thinking.
"What, exactly, were you doing with Miss Doyle?"
"Family friend," I said. "Just passing the time."
She tapped her teeth again. "You're a liar. And a bad one."
Maybe so. But I don't spill to the cops. At least not when there's nothing in it for me.
"We know who her father is," she said. "We know what you are. You think we won't find a way to connect the dots? Tell me what's going on here."
One of the techs told D'Agostino that they were done with the crime scene. A couple of paramedics zipped Britt's stiffening body into a black bag and carted him away on a stretcher. They wouldn't use the sirens on the way to the morgue. Britt didn't need them.
“I met him earlier today,” I said. “I don’t even know his last name.”
“It’s Parker. How did you meet him?”
I told her, and she tilted her head at me.
“You punched him out? Why tell me?”
“If you’re any good at your job, you’d find out about it anyway. And when you found out, you’d want to know why I hadn’t told you.”
D’Agostino nodded. She knew I was right. I’d been arrested before, and had gone through multiple interrogations. Although I’d never been convicted of anything, I knew how the cops worked. So when I can, I tell the truth. Nothing confuses cops like truth.
When the last of the crime scene people departed, the detective stuck around. When it was just the two of us, she walked around Abby's living space, not searching, just the genuine curiosity of a stranger in a new place.
"Where's your partner?" I asked. "Don't you guys work in pairs anymore?"
The detective snorted.
"Budget cuts," she said. "You don't get two detectives out to work a domestic scene. Are you going to quit the bullshit and tell me what's going on here?"
I decided I liked her. She was like a bulldog after a bone.
"Not today," I said.
"I can guess some of it. You're protection, aren't you?"
I didn't want to lie to her, so I held my silence, which was as good as an admission. Her face brightened.
"So if you're guarding her body, that raises the question: Why does she need to be protected?" Her eyes narrowed. "She doesn't have a sheet. Not so much as a parking ticket. But her father could buy her a lot of innocence, make a lot of things go away. God knows he's got influence all over this town."
Enough.
"You want a drink?" I asked, and got up to rummage through Abby's kitchen cabinets. I found a bottle of Basil & Hayden bourbon in the fourth door I tried. Ah, well. Beggars can’t be choosers. A couple more tries led me to some heavy lowball glasses. I put them on the kitchen counter and poured a couple fingers' worth of bourbon into each of them, then went to the fridge and added a couple of ice cubes. D'Agostino watched me the whole time.
"You're confirming my theory," she said.
I shook my head and handed her a glass. She held it carefully in both hands.
"You're not a friend, and you're not in a relationship with Miss Doyle. You didn't know where she kept the liquor or glassware. You keep shifting about like you're in a new place."
I took a sip from my drink, feeling the liquor integrate down into my body, making me feel a little inflated and whole, as it always did. Some of my exhaustion lifted, even though I knew it would only be temporary. D'Agostino used both hands to lift the glass to her lips. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the smoky aroma of the liquor. Her eyelashes were long and thick, but if she was wearing mascara, I couldn't tell it. She set the glass down carefully.
"Are you wearing a gun?" She asked.
I shook my head. "First patrol guy on the scene frisked me as soon as they found out I had a sheet."
She snorted. "So where did you hide your weapon?"
"It wouldn't be fair if I told you, would it?"
She put her glass down on the counter.
"Restroom is down the hall, right?" I nodded, and she headed that way. A couple of minutes went by and she came back out, a look of disappointment on her face.
"You were hoping I'd hidden it in the toilet tank? Detective, everyone's seen The Godfather."
She smiled — the first genuine smile I'd seen from her — and something that felt like a glacier in my heart cracked. The force of genuine warmth and amusement from D'Agostino was so physical that I nearly staggered.
"Can't blame a girl for trying," she said, and picked up her drink. This time she drank a little whiskey. We sipped in silence for a moment. It was past three a.m. I yawned, suddenly aware of how bone-tired I was. Whiskey is good for a temporary lift, but the comedown is steep.
"I'll want you and Miss Doyle to come down to the station later today to sign your statements."
"Sure."
"You were being honest, weren't you? You don't know who did this."
I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to keep the tiredness at bay.
"No reason to lie about it," I said. "Well, not yet, anyway."
“I don’t know how to take that.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t know how I meant it.” Another yawn stretched my face. My entire body felt like taffy, pulled and stretched nearly beyond its limits. I watched D’Agostino finish her drink. I tossed mine off, too.
“I’ll be more charming when I’ve had some rest.”
“I’ll take that as my cue to get the hell out,” she said. “But I’m serious. I want both of you at the station tomorrow. Today, I mean.”
“Gimme four hours of sleep, and I’m all yours.”
She shot me a look, but I kept my face blank. A few minutes later, she left. I took a quick tour around the apartment, making sure the windows were locked and the deadbolt on the door was secure.
My gun was where I’d put it, taped securely to the back of one of the original oil paintings that hung on Abby’s walls. I stripped the tape off and checked the loads out of habit. No one else had handled the gun, but it had been out of my sight for several hours. It was a habit that might save my life one day. Then I retrieved my holster from Abby’s underwear drawer. She was snoring gently in the bed behind me. I tried not to look at the gossamer bits of barely-there ephemera that passed for her underwear, but that was impossible. She was an attractive young woman, and the knowledge of what she was wearing — or what she wasn’t — played in my head.
Sleep. I needed to sleep desperately. I put the holster back on my belt and slid the gun home until the spring pressure clicked and it was secure.
Sitting down on one of the brown leather couches was heaven. I remember leaning back, feeling my neck and shoulders relax. The next thing I knew, it was early afternoon and the sun was shining brightly through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was just after one p.m., and my mouth tasted like an unwashed army battalion had camped in it. In the kitchen, I scared up some coffee and filters. While it dripped, I poured a short shot of the previous night’s bourbon and drank it down. The world came into soft focus. When the coffee finished brewing, I poured a shot of whiskey into a ceramic cup on top of the brew. I stirred with one of Abby’s spoons — heavy plated silver — and then went to her bedroom.
