The Subtle Art of Brutality, page 17
“So Mr. White is your prime suspect?” I ask.
“I’m looking into Darla Boothe’s ex-husband,” Rudd says, turning a pencil over in her hands. “His record shows he has beef with women, he and his ex-wife have a long-smoldering feud over their life together and he shared a cell with a firebug before he got out. Less than a month later the last known address of his ex-, his daughter and his daughter’s new daddy burn down.”
“The last known address for his daughter was her mother’s place.”
“Tomato, tomato, Mr. Buckner. It all burns the same.”
“No,” I say, “Ben Boothe’s record says different. He’s too impulsive. He’s got nothing on there saying he thinks before he acts. He just flips out. Did it when he abandoned his family, did it whenever he’d get drunk and call his ex-wife, threatening. Hell, he let his anger get the best of him in the divorce proceedings. They hauled his ass out of court when Darla Boothe started getting everything. And the rape? Just one more example. No plans. No forethought whatsoever, let alone the brains to plan three different arsons using three distinctly different MO’s on the same night and get away with it.”
“He hasn’t gotten away with it, Mr. Buckner.”
Okay. She’s getting old now.
“Find him?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“He is renting a small home over on the east side. Off of 142nd and Regal.”
“Alibi?”
“A girl vouches for him. Picked her up at a bar. Spent the night.”
“Her name?”
“Not your concern.”
“So Mr. White is your prime suspect?”
“I didn’t say that. I have serious doubts Ben Boothe was with the girl,” she says, removing her stylish frames and rubbing one lens with a cloth. “She spoke in vague terms, acted like she was reading from a script. Their stories lined up but they weren’t very complicated either.”
The best lies are simple and formed from kernels of truth. I bet Boothe met her at the bar, maybe bought her a drink. Got a blowjob in the shitter. Patted her on the head and left here there as he went to the next bar. It’s not hard to buy her some drugs as a bribe and tell her if anyone comes sniffing around, showing a badge, you and me went back to my place for the whole night. Got it?
“Is she dirty?” I ask.
“Long history of petty things.”
“Obstruction? Resisting? Dope? Disorderly conduct?”
“All of it. Why?”
“Obstruction, resisting and disorderly all point to someone willing to lie and make life harder for the police. Respect issues. No cooperation, lying, misleading, avoiding, all disrespect. It equals obstruction. Escalating a situation, throwing a fit when the police try to control that situation, resisting. Fit throwing equals disorderly.”
“And the dope?”
“Junkies, as a species, are liars as well. Comes with the territory.”
“So what? How does it add up?”
“She is...a liar.” Am I the last investigator left on the planet? “If you think she lied to you as an alibi and she has a history of lying to police, then squeeze her. She’ll talk.”
“I’m not like you, Mr. Buckner,” she says with a tone that tells me she very clearly differentiates her breed and my own.
“That’s obvious,” I say and openly stare at her breasts.
She groans and adjusts her shirt over her business cleavage. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“I guess I don’t.”
“Ponder it for a while, then,” she says and closes her notebook. She’s finished. Simple as that. Body language says done. I pity the poor schmuck in her life.
We’re quiet for a beat and then I turn to my favorite turd in the world.
“Volksman, what’d you think?” I ask.
“I’m wondering why you’re here at all, RDB.”
“I’m here on Mr. Derne’s behalf.” True but skewed. Doesn’t matter.
“He hired you to do the real police’s job and investigate his tragedy? Didn’t tell me that.”
“Doesn’t have to. Consider me saying what I have so far a favor to you. Face it, Volksman, without me working this case it’ll never get solved.”
“Fuck you,” he says
“Any other thoughts? Case-related?”
Huffs, plays along. “He’s an older man. Sweet but grumpy. Friends and neighbors say he’s warm-hearted, generous. They also says he’s a dude who has a penchant for popping off here and there. Blows his lid, then gets all great again. You know the type.”
“Booze?”
“Asshole.”
“You think he did it?”
“Hardly. Owns a small business in rock masonry and has been in litigation with various other businesses for years. Hell, the job he and his crew did at the new General Bank of America over on Tillson last year is being scrutinized for shoddy work. Five years ago he did some landscaping for a new business office over off of 38 West and he got sued for it.”
“Small businesses catch grief sometimes.”
“He also crossed Erminio Andretti.”
“Mob?” Erminio Andretti is the latest in a line of Andrettis who have run a semi-functional mob family in Saint Ansgar. I’ve personally dealt with a few of their people both as a cop and as a PI.
My dealings as a PI were more fun. Their main torch man was a goof named Paulie Torreno. I make a note to look him up. He has an ear in the fire; he might have heard some buzz. Or, he might have done them.
“Yes, mob,” Volksman says, annoyed. “Six years ago he was redoing the stone front to Andretti’s Italian restaurant over in the hills and they had some dispute. Some bullshit over the price of Arkansas River rock versus Missouri limestone. I dunno. Anyways, they wound up in court and Derne won.”
“Why wait six years?” I ask. “Andretti’s dad and older brother both were as impulsive as a two coked-out dudes starring in their first porno. They wouldn’t wait six minutes to sweep the trash from their front porch, let alone six whole years.”
“Maybe Erminio learned from their mistakes.”
“No. If he had he’d have rebuilt their family by now. If anything the family has a weaker hold on things than they did before he was the head.”
“Point is Derne’s got enemies with deep pockets. Nothing pisses off a businessman more than being cost money. Derne’s company—innocently or not—has done it.”
“Recently?”
“Here and there over the past thirty years.”
“So a patient businessman is unhappy with his rock masonry and waits thirty years before he burns down three houses just to try and get Derne?”
“Mob. They’d do it.”
“The mob would drag him out to the Bay and drown him or take him over the airport and execute him while a plane flies over. How do you connect the fires then?”
“Don’t have to.”
“Seriously, Volksman?”
“Rudd needs to investigate her case, Riggens needs to investigate his, and I need to investigate mine.”
“Can’t you see the obvious connection here?”
“Again, RDB: I don’t have to.”
“Oh, I see,” I rub my face. “The standards for investigator have been lowered that much, eh?”
“Say what you want, RDB. Don’t think I don’t know it was you who leaked the Filipino girl thing around here.”
“It wasn’t me,” I say. “I wouldn’t have to. It was a running joke in the department that your wife would follow you around town. What kind of cop doesn’t know he’s being tailed by his own lady?”
Volksman is that kind of cop. It’s true: his ex-old lady suspected him of cheating and followed him for weeks until he led her right to his other woman.
Volksman’s left eye twitches: tell. Big time. He shoots up out of his chair. I rear back to swing. Clevenger catches my fist. He’s one of only a few people who can do that and actually stop my punch. He’s had practice for years now.
Standoff. Clevenger knows just how bad I’ll fuck up Volksman. Volksman knows it too; he’s just too big a cocksucker to care about his hospital stay right now.
Clevenger’s got both his hands gripping my right fist. I think about throwing a left cross and drilling Volksman into next spring but I don’t. This is Clevenger’s show and even if I don’t have to face the music—Volksman will never press charges—I don’t want to put my old buddy’s ass in a sling.
I ease up. My eyes still on Volksman’s. Clevenger lets go, presses me backwards. Same to Volksman. He backs away easily; he doesn’t need to be told he’ll lose the fight and welcomes Clevenger making distance. Although Volksman still plays the gangster theatrics—tough talk, throwing his arms up, acting like he’s not going to get his ass handed to him—so he can look good. In reality he looks like a retard doing a chicken dance.
His neck and face flush red. His thin chest puffed out as far as it will go. His arms out to his sides in that come on posture. All done so he can look like he didn’t need Clevenger to stop me from demolishing him.
“Scram, Volksman,” Clevenger says. “If Reichman were still alive you could bitch at him for laughing about the Filipino girl.”
“Sure. Blame the dead guy to protect your fucking butt buddy,” Volksman nearly shouts. He grabs the packet of paper Clevenger gave him and throws it. Clevenger’s neatly organized case rains down in a thousand white squares. The gentle way they flutter through the tension in the room, the quiet paper snap each sheet makes is an explosion.
I smile, say, “Even your fits of rage are girly-weak, Volksman. But thanks for playing with the big boys.”
“Fuck the both of you,” he says, wasting no time heading for the door. “You’re the kind of cop nobody likes to be around, Clevenger.”
Clevenger makes an act of looking to both sides before acting shocked that Volksman would say such a thing. “Who? This guy?” Clevenger asks, pointing at himself.
“Yes, you.”
“Why on earth are you being so downright hateful?”
“Because you’re his little protégé and everybody hates that piece of shit.” Volksman points to me. “Don’t think there’s a person on this force who knew RDB that doesn’t see his ugly fucking face when they look at you. Not one.”
Volksman storms out like a child. Nobody says anything for a moment. Rudd starts gathering her things and Riggens looks like a sixth grader who just had front row tickets to the big fight between jocks. I can tell he’s fighting showing his giddiness.
“Rudd,” I say. She stops and looks at me. “Do you like being around Clevenger here?”
Her smile is shallow and all-business. “Detective Sergeant Clevenger is fine with me, Mr. Buckner.”
“Do you like being around me?”
“I don’t know you so I can’t comment with any authority.”
“Well...we can fix that.” I wink. She gets my drift immediately. I get her return drift immediately. I don’t like it.
“Thanks, Mr. Buckner, but the only thing that upsets my stomach more than a man covered in tattoos and scars is pure, unadulterated, testosterone-induced arrogance. That takes you out of the running to even hold the door open for me. My dead corpse wouldn’t spread its legs for you.”
“Holy shit,” I say.
“Good day, Detectives.”
Rudd leaves. I watch her go and decide her ass is too big for me. Clevenger gives me that look he always has when I get shot down like that. He’s had practice for years now. Riggens looks positively giddy. Waiting to see if I bat a thousand for clearing the room.
I look to him. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed. “Riggens, would your corpse spread its legs for me?”
44
Riggens doesn’t answer the question but he doesn’t leave either.
The three of us are at the dry erase board. “Delilah Boothe” still circled in the middle. I reach up to start writing something brilliant and the white barrel of the marker turns to water in my hand. Spills down, mixing with the black print on it. The names and lines on the board drizzle into blurry streaks. My brain is shattered with a freeze I can taste. My eyes explode with needles of burning everything and I think the marker falls from my hand. I stand very still. Light is blinding me and I close my eyes against it. But the light is coming from behind my eyes and sealed lids do no good.
I stumble back on step and roll my foot on the marker. I almost fall and then the bubble pops. Clevenger is up on his feet. I feel the palm of his hand between my shoulder blades as he holds me upright. We’ve been at this for some time now. The color washes away and the world rights itself. I’m still cleaved in half but I reach down and snatch up the marker from the floor. Uncap it.
Clevenger doesn’t ask. He knows when he’s done. He sits. I huff out with a long exhale and steady myself on my feet. Then, it’s ops normal. I tap her name with the marker and start writing.
“Okay, so she loses the house and Derne sells it to the couple. Tyler and Abigail Bellview,” I say. “It burns down and you catch it. Have you looked into their background at all?”
Riggens nods. “Pretty clean, actually. Both have a few traffic tickets from over the years but nothing else. He was an MP in the Army in Tulsa for one tour. Did the usual stuff there, no huge busts or anything.”
“Just blah? No nothing?”
“Not really. Unless he busted someone on base and they came back for revenge now. But really, on paper anyways it seems like that was a quiet four years.”
“No crazy friends?”
“No.”
“Crazy work associates?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“Run-of-the-mill. Boring. Law abiding, tax-paying belong-to-the-neighborhood-watch family.”
“Okay,” I say, needing a smoke. “Abigail?”
“Her? She’s a stay-at-home mom; last job was three years ago before the kid.”
We all see the little girl in our minds and push her memory away. No one likes thinking of dead children.
“The jobs were mostly retail and cash register stuff. No titty dancing or prostitution. No former bosses who showed up on radar as bad people. I interviewed the last three of ’em and they don’t recall her having any enemies at work nor do they recall any other employees with records of arson.”
“What about personal life? Family, friends?”
“You got me thinking Delilah Boothe now. It fits.”
“Like anybody before now?” I ask.
“Little bit. My eyes have been creeping towards an ex-boyfriend of hers from high school. A guy by the name of Blane Tapolski. Right after they graduated he went into the pen for setting fire to another kid’s car. Unoccupied, if you’re wondering. I guess the victim dated Tapolski’s older sister and the relationship went sour. The kid smacked her a time or two and Blane decided to even the score.”
“Did Abigail break up with Shitski to date Tyler?”
“Shitski? You mean Tapolski?” Riggens asks.
“RDB calls anybody with a Polish last name ‘Shitski,’” Clevenger says. “He’s that kind of asshole.”
“Oh. Well, kind of. Abigail was dating Tapolski their senior year, they graduate, Tapolski sets the fire, she breaks up with him, gets subpoenaed to testify against him in court, offers nothing relevant—they’d already broken up so it’s not like he told her about it—he goes off to the clink, she dates and marries Bellview.”
“Shit,” I say. I draw it out on the board.
I step back and think to myself. The word MOTIVE screams. What is it? I tap it with the marker and tap it again. Riggens and Clevenger stand there, pondering also.
taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap
“One person,” I say.
Clevenger: “On the surface. Yes. One person.”
“Who?” Riggens asks.
“It’s pretty obvious,” I say. I write “Delilah Boothe” under the word MOTIVE.
45
“So you think your missing person is our arsonist?” Riggens asks.
“Not entirely, no. But looking at these three fires, yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“There’s still motive. I can see revenge against Derne for evicting her and the Bellviews for buying what she thought was her place—”
“And killing Pierce White,” Clevenger says.
“Yeah, but why now? Why not burn his shit to the ground also?”
“Three different arsons, three different MO’s. Maybe she’s more clever than we give her credit for,” Clevenger says.
“Maybe.”
“Her mom?”
“Not her own mother,” I say. “She took her in. She was doing what Derne was not. I’ll have to talk to her again and see if there is something she’s not telling me that would make me think Delilah would do this.”
We stare. Clevenger takes the dry erase marker and writes “Pierce White” under the three arsons and draws a box around it. BODY COUNT: 1.
Under all that: TOTAL BODY COUNT (SO FAR): 4
“We should look into her other boyfriends,” Clevenger says.
“Yeah.” Riggens says. “Maybe she’s on a cock-slaughter-fest.”
“It makes sense tying White to Delilah because she lost her good job with him, and it began the domino effect that lost her the house,” I say.
“So the next boyfriend—the one she lost her second job with—he might be next.”
“Weird coincidence,” I say, wondering how to put this in front of Riggens. I wouldn’t say anything at all about Dobbins but I see Riggens picking up a trail. “I was looking him up. He lives in Three Mile High. A buddy of mine up at the PD there said her second boyfriend was found shot to death in his pad—”
“I knew it!” Riggens shouts. “Cock-slaughter fest! I knew it. I knew it.”
“No,” I say, trying to get him off this one. It looks good, I know that. It would make sense if we were pinning this whole thing on Delilah but I don’t like it. Also, I know why Dobbins is dead.
