Homicide Related (5 page)

It was two minutes past eleven according to the clock on the stove by the time Dooley flicked on the kitchen light, picked up the phone, and punched in his uncle's cell phone number. His uncle answered on the third ring. Dooley heard music in the background. What was that—a radio? A sound system?

“Are you playing poker or having a party?” Dooley said.

“Go to bed,” his uncle said, pissed off about something—again.

“Good luck with the cards,” Dooley said. He hung up and then stood there for another minute, staring at the phone. He reached for the receiver again but pulled back at the last minute. Some things it was better not to know. Hell, a
lot
of things it was better not to know, even if trying not to think about them drove you crazy.

“How'd you make out at the game?” Dooley asked the next morning when his uncle came into the kitchen.

“I'm the one who does the checking up, not you,” his uncle said. He glanced at the coffeemaker. “So, how about it? You make it to the library?”

“What?” Dooley looked at his uncle, whose sharp gray eyes were drilling into him. What kind of question was that? “Yeah. Of course.”

“How was it? You get any work done?” There was a hook in his voice, like he was trying to catch Dooley out.

“I got done what I set out to do,” Dooley said. He was relieved when his uncle stopped staring at him and turned his attention to pouring himself a mug of coffee. “So, who all was there?”

His uncle, who was opening the fridge to get out the milk, glanced at him. “Where?”

“At the poker game.”

“Why?”

“Just making conversation,” Dooley said.

“Who wants conversation? I haven't had my coffee yet, for Christ's sake.” He slammed the fridge door. “Don't you have school?”

Jesus, not only was he still in
that
mood, but he was in it to the power of ten. Dooley gulped down the last of his own coffee and put his mug in the dishwasher.

“I'm working tonight,” he said. “I'll grab something to eat on my break. I'm off at eleven.”

But his uncle was seated now and had the paper open to the metro section, to the crime stories, and was sipping his coffee as he read. Thank God for that.

At nine o'clock, Kevin came up to the cash where Dooley was working, slid the “Sorry, this cash is closed” sign onto the counter, and stood there watching while Dooley finished with a customer who was renting a couple of new releases. The other two customers in Dooley's line shuffled over to Linelle's cash. After Dooley had bagged the customer's movies and handed him the receipt, he turned to Kevin.

“What?” he said, thinking Kevin was going to ride him for a couple of freebies he'd given to a woman who had come in twenty minutes earlier itching for a fight. Seems she had rented some Disney piece of crap for her kid and had got
all the way home,
as she put it, making it sound like she'd trekked across a couple of continents instead of driving her SUV a total of four blocks (Dooley had checked her address in the computer) only to find that the case contained the director's cut of
Basic Instinct,
which fact she had discovered only when she went into the TV room to check on her kid (a twelve-year-old boy who, if you asked Dooley, had outgrown Disney a minimum of five years ago) and caught him replaying the scene where Sharon Stone uncrosses and crosses her legs. Not only was the woman
incensed
at the
incompetence
of whoever had put the wrong disk in the case (from the way she looked at Dooley, Dooley believed she had decided on him as the prime suspect) and the
slack attitude
of whoever had
neglected
to check that the case contained the correct disk (Dooley hadn't even been working the first time the woman was in the store), but she was also
appalled
that her son had been
exposed
to such
inappropriate
material. She had pointed dramatically to the kid, whom she'd dragged back to the store with her and who didn't look nearly as
appalled
as his mother. In fact, when Dooley winked at him, the kid had grinned, but boy, he'd wiped that look off his face when he sensed his mother turning in his direction. Well, whatever. Dooley apologized, even though he hadn't been at fault, and let her have two Disney movies, no charge. When she demanded that he double-check the disks, he not only managed to say “Sure, no problem,” without a hint of sarcasm, but he'd showed her the disks so that she could reassure herself that her son wouldn't be subjected to any more
inappropriate material
. He'd even thrown in a free candy bar for the kid, mostly because he felt sorry for him.

But, no, that wasn't what Kevin wanted to talk to him about.

“Your uncle called,” Kevin said, something in his tone telling Dooley that he was relieved his uncle hadn't showed up in person. Dooley's uncle scared the pants off Kevin. He had ever since that night Kevin had been up at cash, calling customers who had items out past the return date and telling them that they had exactly twenty-four hours to drop the items back into the store's drop box before a charge for the full replacement value would be applied to their credit cards. Dooley hadn't been paying attention other than to note that Kevin was talking to these particular customers like they were deadbeats who needed to be taught a lesson. Less than fifteen minutes later, the electronic buzzer above the door sounded and Dooley's uncle appeared in a T-shirt, pajama bottoms, and slippers, his hair wild, suggesting to Dooley that he had leapt into his car out of a sound sleep. Dooley's first thought: I screwed up somehow and he's here to yell at me. But Dooley's uncle didn't even seem to notice Dooley. That's when Dooley saw that he had a DVD case in his hand—something he must have rented for Jeannie. He marched straight to the counter and waved it under Kevin's nose. “Did you just call me?” he demanded. Jesus, he was pissed off. “Because if you did, I'm here to tell you, you take that tone with me again, and I personally am going to take this
item
”—he waved the DVD case at Kevin—“and insert it into
your
drop box.” Kevin looked like he was going to piss his pants. He opened his mouth and reached for the phone beside the cash. Dooley's uncle dropped a hand onto Kevin's arm. “And don't try to intimidate me by threatening to call the cops. I
am
a cop, you knucklehead.” His uncle slapped the DVD case onto the counter and marched out of the store. Kevin, white-faced, glanced over at Dooley and for the next couple of days—Dooley was pretty sure it wasn't his imagination—he treated Dooley a little nicer.

“Did he say what he wanted?” Dooley asked.

“He said he wants you to go home.
Immediately.
” The last word came out sounding exactly like Dooley's uncle.

“What for?”

“He didn't say.” Sub-text:
And I sure as hell didn't ask.

“He didn't want to talk to me?”

“He just said, ‘Tell Ryan to come home immediately.' He asked me if I thought I could handle that. He's never going to get over that phone call, is he?”

“Probably not,” Dooley said. He ducked out from behind the counter.

“I'm not paying you for missed time,” Kevin said.

Right.

As soon as Dooley got out of the store, he took out his cell phone and speed-dialed home.

“Is everything okay?” he said.

“You got my message?” his uncle said.

“Yeah.”

“So get home.”

“I'm on my way, but—”

“Just get here, Ryan.”

Something was wrong, but what? His uncle's voice didn't have that edge of annoyance to it that signaled to Dooley that he had done something his uncle disapproved of or was pissed off about. But it didn't sound right, either. It sounded flat. Tired.

Three

T
here was a car parked outside Dooley's uncle's house, blocking the driveway. Dooley's first thought: No matter how tired or preoccupied or annoyed his uncle was, if (when) he saw that car, he'd be on the phone to one of his cop buddies. Pretty soon after that, the owner of the car would have to shell out big bucks for a fine and towing fees at some inconveniently located police impound lot, and Dooley would have to listen to his uncle bitch about it for days (“What kind of numb-nuts parks his car right across the mouth of someone's driveway, for Christ's sake?”). As Dooley passed the car on his way into the house, he took a closer look at it. Scratch that scenario. His uncle didn't have to call one of his cop buddies. The boys in blue were already here—in fact, they had just come out of the house and were on the porch—which was enough to make Dooley wish he was back at the store. Dooley's uncle was one thing. Yeah, he was a hard-ass. But his cop days were in the past. He ran a dry-cleaning business now. He could (and did) give Dooley a hard time, but he couldn't lock him up and throw away the key. Dooley's uncle's friends were something else, especially the ones who were still on the job. Sometimes, like on poker night, Dooley would walk into the house, come up against a wall of true blue, and have to fight the reflex to plant his hands and spread 'em. But what were cops doing here tonight? Dooley's stomach clenched as he made his way up the front walk.

The cops, two of them, both in plainclothes, were coming down the porch steps. They looked at Dooley as they passed but didn't say anything, which told Dooley that they weren't here to see him. But the somber expressions on their faces also told him that they weren't old pals of his uncle who had been here on a social visit. Dooley heard two car doors open and then close again. He glanced at the cop car. The two cops were in it, but so far the one behind the wheel hadn't started the engine.

The front door was unlocked. Dooley pushed it open. Yeah, something was definitely wrong. His uncle was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. He looked up when Dooley appeared in the doorway.

“Sit down, Ryan,” he said, still in that flat, tired tone.