The Subtle Art of Brutality, page 20
“You look pretty,” he says.
I exhale and do my best impersonation of a man who would let a comment like that pass by. I say again: “When was the last time you have seen your youngest daughter?”
“Please, bro. I want to see her as much as I want to see her mother. Fuck off.”
“Speaking of her mother, you pick up any tricks from that firebug you bunked with?”
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” he says and starts to shut the door. My fist square into his mouth stops it. Ben Boothe crumbles to the floor spitting teeth. I step in, shut the door. We do it here then.
I’m not the kind of guy who minds beating up shitbags. Really, it’s not a problem. Hard to believe, but I’ll go months of back-to-back cases where I keep my hands to myself the whole time. Months.
And then a doozy like Delilah Boothe’s case crosses my desk and I am throwing down on fools left and right.
From the welcome mat inside his place, Boothe tries to explode up at me; prison brawl. Unfortunately for him, my right cross—exactly like my left cross—is just short of a freight train.
My knuckles connect just above his eyebrows. There’s something very satisfying about punching a man in his forehead. I can’t quite put my finger on it but I like it. I punch him hard. Wrecking ball hard.
Boothe’s neck freezes as I slug him. The combo of trying to explode up at me and hitting a brick wall with his face might have done a number on his spine. I think he pooped his drawers. He might have whiplash I hit him so fucking hard.
Boothe plops back down into a sitting position. Lays back. Moans so weakly he might be nine-tenths dead. Hands to his face. Stirs ever so slightly. Rolls to and from on his curved back.
“Where is your fucking daughter, Ben?”
His weak moan becomes a pained, forced groan. Hands to face he says: “I ain’t seen her in two weeks.”
That’s a start. Two weeks. Post disappearance. “Give me the rundown.”
Bloody hands move from his broken mouth to start rubbing his stiff neck: “She stopped by here. Wanted to live with me. I say no. If a broad is staying with me I’m fucking her. Period.”
Flashback. Ben’s pussy disconnect. File it away for later.
“Gives me the big you were never there for us as kids and now here’s your chance to make up for it. I told her to hit the road. I finally get outta prison for boning some lying bitch and now this? Gimme a break. Give me a fucking break.”
Ben rubs his face, fingers the new holes in his smile. Spits more blood, safely away from me. Good for him; he’s learning how it works.
“Keep talking.”
Hate-filled look: “Grubby little bitch says she’ll settle for money,” Ben snarls. Leans up on an elbow.
“You have cash? Just out of prison?”
“Of course I got money, pig.”
“You make her work for it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That means did you make her earn whatever measly cash you gave her?” I squat down beside him; make sure he can see the iron under my jacket. “Grape vine says you didn’t discriminate what you have sex with, Ben.”
He smirks, the kind that says hammer on the head of the nail. Through a blood-smile, holes in the tooth line, fattening lip, he leans away from me and says: “Fucking Darla.”
I stand. “Go ahead and answer my question.”
“That bore of a wife I used to let follow me around will say anything to demonize me.” He gets up. Shaky. Could be trembles from the punch; could be trying to get my guard down. Prison might have taught him that act. I re-position myself and keep an eye on his torso, hands.
“Truth?”
“Who knows? She said a lot of things. Some were true. Sure, I fuck whatever comes along ’cause I like pussy.”
This guy talks like a thread sewing. Weaves in and out; dodges everything.
“Who was this girl you were convicted of raping?”
“Get her name from the cops.” He’s becoming less hospitable by the minute. I go for it.
“Did you molest your girls?”
He looks at me, smoldering eyes that say the next time he runs into me on the streets he’s going to try and be armed. This guy here was hardened by stir.
“I had forty bucks in my wallet and she took it.” Scrawny. All rib bones and sandblasted skin. Wife beater stained by spilt beer, falling cigarette ash and fresh blood. The knuckles in his clenched fists bulge and protrude; the tendons in the backs on his hands flex and become taut like piano strings.
Some humans were birthed as barely tame animals. Later they might become feral. Whatever was decent in Ben Boothe, caused him to fall in love, court, marry, produce children, buy a house, make an attempt at a decent life, it was raped and tossed off to the side by whatever lives behind his eyes now.
And whatever that is, I have broken its mouth and marked its territory as my own.
Our eyes meet. He reads me as I read him. He tries to be aggressive—and he probably is—but any good human animal knows when to fight and when to tuck tail. Call it before the fire gets too hot. Live.
He turns his back on me and walks back into the house.
“You know she’s pregnant, don’t you?”
Stops. Doesn’t turn around. “Naw, she never said nothin’.”
“Is it yours?”
“I don’t want any more kids.” He begins to shuffle off again. “Never wanted the two I had.”
“That much is obvious. Where’d she run off to next, then?” I ask, not following.
“Said an old boyfriend would take care of her.”
“Name.”
“Old boyfriend was his name.” He turns around. Stands there, sunlight from the west coming in through a picture window behind him glowing through his emaciated frame as if it were an X-ray.
“In this next room I have a revolver a friend lets me keep. I’m coming back out to shoot you with it.”
“What is a felon doing with a firearm?”
“Come back here and find out.”
“I don’t think your parole officer will like that.”
He says nothing. He simply walks around a corner. Maybe a kitchen. Maybe a dining room. I stand there; make sure there is no door behind me he can sneak through.
Seconds are molasses. Infinite. Dragging ass. Let’s see what he’s made of.
Nothing.
Time ticks. What is probably thirty seconds finds a way to stretch itself out into half a day. The stale cheap smell of his house permeates me. I light a smoke, finish it. Crush it out on the carpet. Grind it out.
Ben doesn’t come back out. I step out the front door. Leave.
51
Riggens is on the phone.
“Mr. Buckner?” he asks. I’m accelerating on the highway on-ramp. Time to eat.
“Go ahead.”
“Look, I know you don’t want to hear this but I think I’ve got Blane Tapolski dead to rights on the arson.”
“It wasn’t him.”
“Look, I think it was. Remember how I told you he torched some cat’s car back in the day? The guy who smacked his sister around?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, under the hot lights he let us know that was only the first burn job. There are more.”
Shit.
“Yeah. He confessed to starting two other fires since then. Another car, then a house. And, the house belonged to a girl he tried to date but shot him down.”
Shit.
“Really? Did he confess to the Bellview’s fire?”
“Not yet. But I plan on another round of interrogation. It’s just a conversation or two away.”
“Heard from Rudd or Volksman?”
“Sure. I heard from both.”
Good. Hold your chin up high, RDB. Here comes some better news. Got to be.
“Shoot,” I say.
“Rudd told me that before she met you she heard you were an asshole and she made a bet with a co-worker you’d be better than the rumors. Said she lost fifty bucks.”
“Case related? Anything?”
“No.”
“Volksman then?”
“He said the pastrami Reuben over at Macotoni’s Deli at 5th and Brookside was great but the corned beef Reuben was shit.”
“Case related?”
“No.”
I hang the phone up.
52
I’m halfway through the pastrami Reuben at Macotoni’s when the phone rings.
“Mr. Buckner?” Female voice.
“Yes?” I say, wanting this meal to be interrupted. As further proof that Volksman is a liar and a horrible human being with no intrinsic worth, the pastrami Reuben here sucks.
“Mr. Buckner, my name is Belinda Boothe.”
Macotoni’s is great for all things Italian deli; their hard meats, pastas and imported cheeses can’t be beat. I always take a stuffed pepper home with me. But pastrami is, more or less, smoked corn beef, and Macotoni’s smokes their own meats. They suck at working a smoker. All I taste is salt and shittiness.
I grab a smoke. Lean back.
“Thank you for calling me back, Ms. Boothe. Has your mother told you about me?”
“She says you’re like Dog the Bounty Hunter. Only you have better hair.”
I rub my eyes.
“She actually said you cut your hair very close. She said your beard stubble was longer than—”
“Well...anyways,” I say. “Do you have a clue where your sister might be?”
“None. I’m sure Mom has told you Delilah flew by the seat of her pants everywhere. She’s a scatterbrain who runs from the minutest form of responsibility like it was the plague.”
“Can you name any of her friends?”
“None since high school.”
“Go ahead with them, please.”
“Well, Juliette Marsden would pass for her best friend. Candace Bolivia, Jennifer Blades and Tracy something were other gals she hung out with.”
“Boyfriends?”
“She wouldn’t commit to anyone. She dated a lot, and to be honest, Mom and I never met half of them, let alone knew their names. She talked a lot about various guys: Eric, Patrick, Randy, Edmond, Paul, Sterling, Travis. We never knew them. Any. By the time she got into high school I was in the Naval Academy anyways.”
“Ever hear her mention a Pierce White or a James Dobbins?”
“She spoke of Pierce for a few weeks. I think she was really into him but whatever they had, it didn’t last long. I know they got fired together.”
“James Dobbins?”
“No. Who was he?”
“He was the boyfriend she got fired with at the next job.”
“Really? I know she lost her job—she told me she was fired—but she didn’t mention any new boyfriend.”
“Huh. Well, it was the same scenario. Different gig, different beau. Same outcome.”
“What now then?”
“She called your mom a few days ago saying she was pregnant and scared. Pierce White has been murdered, James Dobbins found dead—although that appears unrelated. He was a doper. Got caught up in doper stuff.”
“Do you think Delilah murdered Pierce?”
“I have no idea. The way he was killed would indicate someone with whom he was intimate. Doesn’t look right for a stranger murder.”
“Oh...”
“Ms. Boothe, do you think your sister could kill a man?”
“Delilah...I don’t think so. Murder is committing to something.”
“Really? She can’t commit to anything to the point where she’d put off murder for the simple fact that once it’s done, it’s done? No turning back?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm...”
“Mom told me about the fires.”
“Yes. And I’ve spoken to the arson investigators and all three of them are centering their investigations on three separate people—one of them your father—and no one seems to think they are connected.”
“Dad probably did them.”
“Well, even if it was him the investigators refuse to see the glaring connection.”
“Why?”
“Because they suck.”
“And you think Dad didn’t do it?”
“He might have set the fires, sure. I spoke to him and he was rather noncommittal about anything.”
“Okay.”
“But, even more so, Delilah went to him for help a few weeks ago. Know why she would do that?”
“Out of options. She was out of options. Had to be. Plain and simple.”
“Can she not make it on her own?”
“Not really. Delilah was a failure to launch. I don’t really remember a time where she lived alone for very long. Maybe between roommates but she’d just fill the void with a boyfriend. She’s too much of a social creature. I think she associates surviving with other people. To survive she needs another presence to take care of her. Like an enabler of sorts.”
“Okay.” I need to start looking for someone else she’s living with then. “Your father, he said he gave Delilah forty bucks and sent her on her way. Is your mom not an option to her now?”
“Not if she doesn’t have any money. Plus, Mom would just harp on her about straightening up. Always has. Delilah doesn’t want to listen to anyone, let alone Mom.”
“Alright. So she goes to your father and bums money.”
“Really? Dad? She didn’t stay?”
“Said an old boyfriend would take care of her. Know anyone?”
“Not Pierce or that Dobbins guy?”
“It might be that Dobbins dropped her off at your dad’s. Either way both are dead so if they were taking care of her, they’re not now. How would she get money right now, today, you think?”
“Mr. Derne. Or the same way she got it before: playing people’s emotions.”
“Mr. Derne says he hasn’t given her anything. He cut her off. You trust that?”
“Yes. Mr. Derne was always there, but he was old school. Stern. Stern Derne.” She laughs an empty chuckle at her rhyme.
“Anything else then?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Ever since I joined up I get family updates in snapshots. I get the sanitized versions. It’s hard to see things for what they are when you are being told them over the phone. You know?”
“I do.”
“About the fires...” Belinda says. “Why won’t the other investigators look at one suspect for all three?”
“One guy thinks that Mr. Derne pissed off the mob. He has done work for them over the years that landed in civil court. If his was the only fire I’d at least see where that path takes me but it doesn’t make sense otherwise.”
“And the other fire? In Delilah’s old house?”
“The wife had an ex-boyfriend who is starting to confess to other arsons. That investigator thinks it’s only a matter of time before he confesses to this one as well.”
“Well, that makes sense.”
“Yeah, but things like that happen. A crime occurs, you attach a suspect to it—even if it is purely circumstantial—you investigate and you find out that suspect has committed other crimes just like the one you are working but the suspect didn’t commit this crime.” I exhale. Long week. “Things like that happen. They’ve happened to me. They’re happening now with the fire.”
“I see.”
Silence between us.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asks.
“Yes.” I think of a kind, pleasant way to ask, and then decide on how I always ask things. “Did your father molest you growing up?”
Silence. Different quality than the last one.
Might as well say yes.
53
“Belinda?” I have to ask. She hasn’t so much as breathed since I brought it up.
“Mr. Buckner, I have no idea how you would get such a—”
“Your mom hinted at it,” I say, snorting smoke. “Your dad dodged it like a bull was coming and he was wearing all red.”
“Dad...he, uh...we might have...oh, oh I wish Mom would keep her damn mouth shut! I have worked so hard to get beyond this and I have, I really have, and now fucking Delilah has to go and disappear when she knows how worked up Mom gets over her little angel with dirty wings and she starts telling people things and—”
I wait. I light another smoke. Wait more. Her rant ends and time stretches out. Finally I hear her sniffing back small cries.
Whisper, confessional: “Dad touched us a little. I described it to my therapist as ‘exploratory.’ Nothing more. I think he was...weighing his options. That’s all.”
“You said ‘us.’ Delilah too? One of your friends who spent the night?”
“My sister. She brought it up one time. Her experience was the same as mine. No intercourse, no...just, as I said, exploratory. I told her to tell me if it happened again. She never did.”
Exploratory could mean a few things but I’ll leave it alone.
“Tell your mother?”
“No. No one.”
“Not a teacher, not a policeman? Not a stranger on the street?”
“I said no one.”
“What about her? She tell anyone?”
“Who knows. Delilah has this way of starting to confess things that she thinks in the moment are great ideas and then as the words are coming out she just clams up. Thinks better of it.”
“Your mom said the same thing.”
“I hate that about Delilah.”
“You think your dad got her pregnant?”
“Oh God! Could he have? I mean Jesus, how could she—”
“The timelines don’t readily match up but I seriously doubt anyone has told the truth so far. Hell, for that matter Delilah might not be pregnant. But if she is...and if Delilah is as desperate and out of options as you say she is...I don’t know her. You do. Could she exchange help from your father for sex?”
“Mr. Buckner, I—”
Cuts off. She moans. I wait.
Belinda Boothe vomits. I hear it splash on the other end of the line. She chokes out the words, “I have to call you back,” and hangs up.
Tough thing to hear.
I’ll take the puking to mean two things.
One, Belinda worries that Delilah would do it.
I exhale and do my best impersonation of a man who would let a comment like that pass by. I say again: “When was the last time you have seen your youngest daughter?”
“Please, bro. I want to see her as much as I want to see her mother. Fuck off.”
“Speaking of her mother, you pick up any tricks from that firebug you bunked with?”
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” he says and starts to shut the door. My fist square into his mouth stops it. Ben Boothe crumbles to the floor spitting teeth. I step in, shut the door. We do it here then.
I’m not the kind of guy who minds beating up shitbags. Really, it’s not a problem. Hard to believe, but I’ll go months of back-to-back cases where I keep my hands to myself the whole time. Months.
And then a doozy like Delilah Boothe’s case crosses my desk and I am throwing down on fools left and right.
From the welcome mat inside his place, Boothe tries to explode up at me; prison brawl. Unfortunately for him, my right cross—exactly like my left cross—is just short of a freight train.
My knuckles connect just above his eyebrows. There’s something very satisfying about punching a man in his forehead. I can’t quite put my finger on it but I like it. I punch him hard. Wrecking ball hard.
Boothe’s neck freezes as I slug him. The combo of trying to explode up at me and hitting a brick wall with his face might have done a number on his spine. I think he pooped his drawers. He might have whiplash I hit him so fucking hard.
Boothe plops back down into a sitting position. Lays back. Moans so weakly he might be nine-tenths dead. Hands to his face. Stirs ever so slightly. Rolls to and from on his curved back.
“Where is your fucking daughter, Ben?”
His weak moan becomes a pained, forced groan. Hands to face he says: “I ain’t seen her in two weeks.”
That’s a start. Two weeks. Post disappearance. “Give me the rundown.”
Bloody hands move from his broken mouth to start rubbing his stiff neck: “She stopped by here. Wanted to live with me. I say no. If a broad is staying with me I’m fucking her. Period.”
Flashback. Ben’s pussy disconnect. File it away for later.
“Gives me the big you were never there for us as kids and now here’s your chance to make up for it. I told her to hit the road. I finally get outta prison for boning some lying bitch and now this? Gimme a break. Give me a fucking break.”
Ben rubs his face, fingers the new holes in his smile. Spits more blood, safely away from me. Good for him; he’s learning how it works.
“Keep talking.”
Hate-filled look: “Grubby little bitch says she’ll settle for money,” Ben snarls. Leans up on an elbow.
“You have cash? Just out of prison?”
“Of course I got money, pig.”
“You make her work for it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That means did you make her earn whatever measly cash you gave her?” I squat down beside him; make sure he can see the iron under my jacket. “Grape vine says you didn’t discriminate what you have sex with, Ben.”
He smirks, the kind that says hammer on the head of the nail. Through a blood-smile, holes in the tooth line, fattening lip, he leans away from me and says: “Fucking Darla.”
I stand. “Go ahead and answer my question.”
“That bore of a wife I used to let follow me around will say anything to demonize me.” He gets up. Shaky. Could be trembles from the punch; could be trying to get my guard down. Prison might have taught him that act. I re-position myself and keep an eye on his torso, hands.
“Truth?”
“Who knows? She said a lot of things. Some were true. Sure, I fuck whatever comes along ’cause I like pussy.”
This guy talks like a thread sewing. Weaves in and out; dodges everything.
“Who was this girl you were convicted of raping?”
“Get her name from the cops.” He’s becoming less hospitable by the minute. I go for it.
“Did you molest your girls?”
He looks at me, smoldering eyes that say the next time he runs into me on the streets he’s going to try and be armed. This guy here was hardened by stir.
“I had forty bucks in my wallet and she took it.” Scrawny. All rib bones and sandblasted skin. Wife beater stained by spilt beer, falling cigarette ash and fresh blood. The knuckles in his clenched fists bulge and protrude; the tendons in the backs on his hands flex and become taut like piano strings.
Some humans were birthed as barely tame animals. Later they might become feral. Whatever was decent in Ben Boothe, caused him to fall in love, court, marry, produce children, buy a house, make an attempt at a decent life, it was raped and tossed off to the side by whatever lives behind his eyes now.
And whatever that is, I have broken its mouth and marked its territory as my own.
Our eyes meet. He reads me as I read him. He tries to be aggressive—and he probably is—but any good human animal knows when to fight and when to tuck tail. Call it before the fire gets too hot. Live.
He turns his back on me and walks back into the house.
“You know she’s pregnant, don’t you?”
Stops. Doesn’t turn around. “Naw, she never said nothin’.”
“Is it yours?”
“I don’t want any more kids.” He begins to shuffle off again. “Never wanted the two I had.”
“That much is obvious. Where’d she run off to next, then?” I ask, not following.
“Said an old boyfriend would take care of her.”
“Name.”
“Old boyfriend was his name.” He turns around. Stands there, sunlight from the west coming in through a picture window behind him glowing through his emaciated frame as if it were an X-ray.
“In this next room I have a revolver a friend lets me keep. I’m coming back out to shoot you with it.”
“What is a felon doing with a firearm?”
“Come back here and find out.”
“I don’t think your parole officer will like that.”
He says nothing. He simply walks around a corner. Maybe a kitchen. Maybe a dining room. I stand there; make sure there is no door behind me he can sneak through.
Seconds are molasses. Infinite. Dragging ass. Let’s see what he’s made of.
Nothing.
Time ticks. What is probably thirty seconds finds a way to stretch itself out into half a day. The stale cheap smell of his house permeates me. I light a smoke, finish it. Crush it out on the carpet. Grind it out.
Ben doesn’t come back out. I step out the front door. Leave.
51
Riggens is on the phone.
“Mr. Buckner?” he asks. I’m accelerating on the highway on-ramp. Time to eat.
“Go ahead.”
“Look, I know you don’t want to hear this but I think I’ve got Blane Tapolski dead to rights on the arson.”
“It wasn’t him.”
“Look, I think it was. Remember how I told you he torched some cat’s car back in the day? The guy who smacked his sister around?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, under the hot lights he let us know that was only the first burn job. There are more.”
Shit.
“Yeah. He confessed to starting two other fires since then. Another car, then a house. And, the house belonged to a girl he tried to date but shot him down.”
Shit.
“Really? Did he confess to the Bellview’s fire?”
“Not yet. But I plan on another round of interrogation. It’s just a conversation or two away.”
“Heard from Rudd or Volksman?”
“Sure. I heard from both.”
Good. Hold your chin up high, RDB. Here comes some better news. Got to be.
“Shoot,” I say.
“Rudd told me that before she met you she heard you were an asshole and she made a bet with a co-worker you’d be better than the rumors. Said she lost fifty bucks.”
“Case related? Anything?”
“No.”
“Volksman then?”
“He said the pastrami Reuben over at Macotoni’s Deli at 5th and Brookside was great but the corned beef Reuben was shit.”
“Case related?”
“No.”
I hang the phone up.
52
I’m halfway through the pastrami Reuben at Macotoni’s when the phone rings.
“Mr. Buckner?” Female voice.
“Yes?” I say, wanting this meal to be interrupted. As further proof that Volksman is a liar and a horrible human being with no intrinsic worth, the pastrami Reuben here sucks.
“Mr. Buckner, my name is Belinda Boothe.”
Macotoni’s is great for all things Italian deli; their hard meats, pastas and imported cheeses can’t be beat. I always take a stuffed pepper home with me. But pastrami is, more or less, smoked corn beef, and Macotoni’s smokes their own meats. They suck at working a smoker. All I taste is salt and shittiness.
I grab a smoke. Lean back.
“Thank you for calling me back, Ms. Boothe. Has your mother told you about me?”
“She says you’re like Dog the Bounty Hunter. Only you have better hair.”
I rub my eyes.
“She actually said you cut your hair very close. She said your beard stubble was longer than—”
“Well...anyways,” I say. “Do you have a clue where your sister might be?”
“None. I’m sure Mom has told you Delilah flew by the seat of her pants everywhere. She’s a scatterbrain who runs from the minutest form of responsibility like it was the plague.”
“Can you name any of her friends?”
“None since high school.”
“Go ahead with them, please.”
“Well, Juliette Marsden would pass for her best friend. Candace Bolivia, Jennifer Blades and Tracy something were other gals she hung out with.”
“Boyfriends?”
“She wouldn’t commit to anyone. She dated a lot, and to be honest, Mom and I never met half of them, let alone knew their names. She talked a lot about various guys: Eric, Patrick, Randy, Edmond, Paul, Sterling, Travis. We never knew them. Any. By the time she got into high school I was in the Naval Academy anyways.”
“Ever hear her mention a Pierce White or a James Dobbins?”
“She spoke of Pierce for a few weeks. I think she was really into him but whatever they had, it didn’t last long. I know they got fired together.”
“James Dobbins?”
“No. Who was he?”
“He was the boyfriend she got fired with at the next job.”
“Really? I know she lost her job—she told me she was fired—but she didn’t mention any new boyfriend.”
“Huh. Well, it was the same scenario. Different gig, different beau. Same outcome.”
“What now then?”
“She called your mom a few days ago saying she was pregnant and scared. Pierce White has been murdered, James Dobbins found dead—although that appears unrelated. He was a doper. Got caught up in doper stuff.”
“Do you think Delilah murdered Pierce?”
“I have no idea. The way he was killed would indicate someone with whom he was intimate. Doesn’t look right for a stranger murder.”
“Oh...”
“Ms. Boothe, do you think your sister could kill a man?”
“Delilah...I don’t think so. Murder is committing to something.”
“Really? She can’t commit to anything to the point where she’d put off murder for the simple fact that once it’s done, it’s done? No turning back?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm...”
“Mom told me about the fires.”
“Yes. And I’ve spoken to the arson investigators and all three of them are centering their investigations on three separate people—one of them your father—and no one seems to think they are connected.”
“Dad probably did them.”
“Well, even if it was him the investigators refuse to see the glaring connection.”
“Why?”
“Because they suck.”
“And you think Dad didn’t do it?”
“He might have set the fires, sure. I spoke to him and he was rather noncommittal about anything.”
“Okay.”
“But, even more so, Delilah went to him for help a few weeks ago. Know why she would do that?”
“Out of options. She was out of options. Had to be. Plain and simple.”
“Can she not make it on her own?”
“Not really. Delilah was a failure to launch. I don’t really remember a time where she lived alone for very long. Maybe between roommates but she’d just fill the void with a boyfriend. She’s too much of a social creature. I think she associates surviving with other people. To survive she needs another presence to take care of her. Like an enabler of sorts.”
“Okay.” I need to start looking for someone else she’s living with then. “Your father, he said he gave Delilah forty bucks and sent her on her way. Is your mom not an option to her now?”
“Not if she doesn’t have any money. Plus, Mom would just harp on her about straightening up. Always has. Delilah doesn’t want to listen to anyone, let alone Mom.”
“Alright. So she goes to your father and bums money.”
“Really? Dad? She didn’t stay?”
“Said an old boyfriend would take care of her. Know anyone?”
“Not Pierce or that Dobbins guy?”
“It might be that Dobbins dropped her off at your dad’s. Either way both are dead so if they were taking care of her, they’re not now. How would she get money right now, today, you think?”
“Mr. Derne. Or the same way she got it before: playing people’s emotions.”
“Mr. Derne says he hasn’t given her anything. He cut her off. You trust that?”
“Yes. Mr. Derne was always there, but he was old school. Stern. Stern Derne.” She laughs an empty chuckle at her rhyme.
“Anything else then?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Ever since I joined up I get family updates in snapshots. I get the sanitized versions. It’s hard to see things for what they are when you are being told them over the phone. You know?”
“I do.”
“About the fires...” Belinda says. “Why won’t the other investigators look at one suspect for all three?”
“One guy thinks that Mr. Derne pissed off the mob. He has done work for them over the years that landed in civil court. If his was the only fire I’d at least see where that path takes me but it doesn’t make sense otherwise.”
“And the other fire? In Delilah’s old house?”
“The wife had an ex-boyfriend who is starting to confess to other arsons. That investigator thinks it’s only a matter of time before he confesses to this one as well.”
“Well, that makes sense.”
“Yeah, but things like that happen. A crime occurs, you attach a suspect to it—even if it is purely circumstantial—you investigate and you find out that suspect has committed other crimes just like the one you are working but the suspect didn’t commit this crime.” I exhale. Long week. “Things like that happen. They’ve happened to me. They’re happening now with the fire.”
“I see.”
Silence between us.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asks.
“Yes.” I think of a kind, pleasant way to ask, and then decide on how I always ask things. “Did your father molest you growing up?”
Silence. Different quality than the last one.
Might as well say yes.
53
“Belinda?” I have to ask. She hasn’t so much as breathed since I brought it up.
“Mr. Buckner, I have no idea how you would get such a—”
“Your mom hinted at it,” I say, snorting smoke. “Your dad dodged it like a bull was coming and he was wearing all red.”
“Dad...he, uh...we might have...oh, oh I wish Mom would keep her damn mouth shut! I have worked so hard to get beyond this and I have, I really have, and now fucking Delilah has to go and disappear when she knows how worked up Mom gets over her little angel with dirty wings and she starts telling people things and—”
I wait. I light another smoke. Wait more. Her rant ends and time stretches out. Finally I hear her sniffing back small cries.
Whisper, confessional: “Dad touched us a little. I described it to my therapist as ‘exploratory.’ Nothing more. I think he was...weighing his options. That’s all.”
“You said ‘us.’ Delilah too? One of your friends who spent the night?”
“My sister. She brought it up one time. Her experience was the same as mine. No intercourse, no...just, as I said, exploratory. I told her to tell me if it happened again. She never did.”
Exploratory could mean a few things but I’ll leave it alone.
“Tell your mother?”
“No. No one.”
“Not a teacher, not a policeman? Not a stranger on the street?”
“I said no one.”
“What about her? She tell anyone?”
“Who knows. Delilah has this way of starting to confess things that she thinks in the moment are great ideas and then as the words are coming out she just clams up. Thinks better of it.”
“Your mom said the same thing.”
“I hate that about Delilah.”
“You think your dad got her pregnant?”
“Oh God! Could he have? I mean Jesus, how could she—”
“The timelines don’t readily match up but I seriously doubt anyone has told the truth so far. Hell, for that matter Delilah might not be pregnant. But if she is...and if Delilah is as desperate and out of options as you say she is...I don’t know her. You do. Could she exchange help from your father for sex?”
“Mr. Buckner, I—”
Cuts off. She moans. I wait.
Belinda Boothe vomits. I hear it splash on the other end of the line. She chokes out the words, “I have to call you back,” and hangs up.
Tough thing to hear.
I’ll take the puking to mean two things.
One, Belinda worries that Delilah would do it.
