McKenna's House, page 20
McKenna watched Bonneville’s expression. It was the reason he’d wanted to come all this way and meet face-to-face.
“And you want money, of course,” Bonneville said.
“You know,” McKenna said, “I asked Prudence about that. She doesn’t want a cent.”
“Slut,” Mrs. Bonneville said, slurring the “L.” They still didn’t pay any attention to her.
“No money?” Bonneville asked, dubiously.
“Not one red cent. She just wants you to leave them alone.”
Bonneville gripped his glass tightly for a moment.
“It goes against the grain for me to just forget this,” he said, “to just … let her get away with this.”
“Force yourself,” McKenna said. “Believe me, it’s in everyone’s best interests.”
“All right,” Bonneville said, “suppose I agree. How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”
“How do we know you will?”
“I’ll give you my word.”
The woman snorted.
“I won’t write this down,” Bonneville said. “That would be like signing a …”
“… confession.”
“Exactly.”
“I guess we’ll just have to agree to take each other’s word,” McKenna said. “A handshake, then?”
Bonneville thought a moment, then said, “And a drink?”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll have another, too, darling,” the woman said.
Both men ignored her.
McKenna followed Jackson back to the front door, having shared a handshake and some good bourbon with Bonneville. He put more faith in the bourbon.
On the outside doorstep he stopped and turned to Jackson.
“What’s your boss’ word worth, Mr. Jackson?”
“What would you like me to say?” Jackson asked, with a smirk. “His word is his bond?”
McKenna shook his head. He guessed he was going to have to rely on the bourbon.
Epilogue
3 months later …
I rinsed my coffee cup and left it on the counter rather than in the sink. I’d reuse it again later, then wash it and put it away. I did this with plates and silverware, as well. It kept things from piling up in the sink, and I didn’t need to buy a dishwasher.
I checked my watch. I had two meetings that day, after which I had to pick Jakey up from school.
My first meeting was business, my second was lunch with Detective Lukas.
I met him in the Market at Zio’s Pizza on Howard Street. It boasted authentic New York Pizza, and had been voted best in Omaha for a dozen years straight. Who am I to argue?
I sprung for the slices—one for me, two for him—and we carried them over to a nearby table, in the window. Lukas was washing it down with a beer, me a diet Coke. The Pizza dough would be bad enough for my sugar, without including a beer. Besides, I’d have to explain my high sugar to Prudence, who had taken to asking me about it every time she saw me.
“How’s business, Mac?” he asked.
“I’m doing a couple of security checks,” I said. “Nothing heavy.”
“That’s good.”
“What’s on your mind, Frank ” We had cultivated a careful friendship over the past three months, at least the kind that had us on a first name basis. “You don’t usually make me buy lunch unless something’s up.”
Lukas wiped sauce from his mouth with a napkin and sat back in his chair. He stared out the window for a moment.
“Frank”
“I have some news for you,” Lukas said.
“Bad news?”
“Not necessarily.”
“So? Give.”
He toyed with his second slice, considered another bite, then left it. Whatever it was it was messing with his appetite.
“The Bonnevilles were killed the other night in their home,” he said.
I had my slice halfway to my mouth and stopped short.
“What? Dead?”
He nodded.
“How?”
“Shot,” he said. “Both of them. And their butler, Jackson.”
“What the hell—” I said. “Are we talking home invasion, or what?”
“No,” Lukas said, “they were executed.”
I frowned. “Bonneville didn’t strike me as the type to have mob ties. I mean Taggert, he was just a thug—”
“Apparently not,” Lukas said.
“What do you mean?”
“Taggart was a button man for the Texas mob.”
“’Button man’?” I said. “What year is this? I thought the Mafia was a thing of the past?”
“Nobody said Mafia,” Lukas said.
“Yeah, used to be nobody ever said Mafia, then along came Mario Puzo and John Gotti—okay, then, what are we talking about, here?”
“Look,” Lukas said, “all I know is what the Dallas police are telling me. They’ve got Taggart in custody, and like him for the executions. The D.A. there feels he has a slam dunk case.”
“Okay,” I said, “so you’re telling me this … why? So I won’t worry about Bonneville going back on our handshake deal? Or so I won’t be looking over my shoulder for Taggart?”
“Have you been?”
I bit into my pizza and said, “Let’s just say I’ve been looking out of the corner of my eye.” There was no guarantee that Taggart would stick to the deal I made with Bonneville, even though I had managed to get him released by not pressing charges—thanks to Lukas’ cooperation.
Oh, wait …
“Dave,” I asked, “are you feeling some guilt over this?”
“I did have him in custody, Mac,” he said. “I released him and he killed those people. They weren’t criminals. They didn’t deserve to die that way.”
“How do you know why they died? If Bonneville was able to call on Taggart, then he must have done some business with Taggart’s boss. That means he was mobbed up. Anything could have happened.”
Lukas looked down at his pizza, then abruptly lifted it to his mouth and took a big bite.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, around the mouthful.
“Sure, I am.”
At least, we both hoped I was.
We left Zio’s and stopped out front.
“How’s Prudence doing?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said. “She’s got a job, and we found her an apartment for her and Jakey.”
“Why didn’t they just stay with you?” he asked.
“Prudence felt they needed a place of their own,” I said. “I can’t blame her for that. She’s a young girl who suddenly has a life ahead of her again. Why would she want to live with an old codger like me?”
“What about Jakey?” Lukas asked.
“He’s in school,” I said. “First grade.”
“Who watches the kid while she’s at work?”
“I do. Us old codgers are good for something, you know.”
“I’m glad things worked out.”
“Yeah,” I said, “it sure looks like they have.”
“Some coincidence, huh?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The Bonnevilles,” Lukas said. “If they got killed for some reason that has nothing to do with Prudence and the kid? Sure works out for … everybody. Don’t it?”
I stared at him for a long minute.
“What are you asking me, Frank”
Lukas shrugged. “Nothing. I’m just sayin’ …”
“I don’t even own a gun,” I said. “Remember?”
“Sure, I remember.”
“I hate guns.”
“Right, right.” He patted my arm. “I’ll be seein’ you.”
He walked away.
Randisi, Robert J., McKenna's House
