A Deadly Business (15 page)
He pointed at her. “Bingo.”
“Okay, okay.” She pulled out her phone and started tapping on it. “I’ll set it up on mine first.”
“I’m gonna track down Betty and talk to her,” Charlie said. “Find out what she knows. And for that, I figure it’s better if I go alone.”
The nausea was back. “You think Scott was whispering sweet nothings in her ear?”
“Maybe.” Charlie’s eyes flashed over to hers. “Or maybe she killed him.”
L
ook. Let me say this as clearly as I possibly can. This isn’t personal. This is business. You owe my client money.” Vin tapped the end of the baseball bat into his palm. Slap. Slap. Slap.
“Yeah? And?” the kid with the earring asked. He was as skinny as a toothpick, with lank blond hair he had hooked behind his ears like a girl. “You really think I’m supposed to be scared of you?”
At least the kid had finally stopped asking how Vin had gotten into his apartment. Had finally realized he had more important things to worry about.
Despite his bold words, the kid did look scared. His face was pale, his eyes were skipping around, and his feet wouldn’t keep still. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Was he looking for help? But Vin knew he didn’t have a roommate. Or even a girlfriend. Although that last thing was no surprise.
And the only way out of this apartment was through the door Vin was standing in front of. Sure, there were windows, but they were four stories up.
Clearly the kid hadn’t learned a few basic facts about how the business world worked. One was that if you had been entrusted
with a certain amount of cocaine to put on the retail market, then you had better come back with the right amount of money.
And another basic fact: If you looked weak, the wolves would take you down. Rip your throat right out.
In about five seconds, the kid was going to figure that out.
T
he apartment complex was a dingy ivory, two-story, three-sided box that held a small parking lot. Charlie and Mia started by knocking on the neighbors’ doors. At the first two, no one answered. The third was opened by an olive-skinned woman who looked at them through the chain, muttered, “No English,” when Mia asked if she could ask a few questions, and then closed it firmly.
At the next two apartments, Mia heard soft footsteps as someone came to the door, looked out the peephole, and quietly crept away. Did they not want to get involved? Did they not trust anyone who looked official? Did they think she and Charlie were there for something else?
The sixth door belonged to a young woman who lived directly over Dylan’s apartment. She wore a red-and-gold sari. Bracelets clinked on her bare ankles. “I don’t know them, but there is screaming a lot. Screaming and arguing. Too many people.” As if to punctuate her words, someone under their feet hollered, “Shut up!” The three of them looked at each other.
After they showed her a picture of Dylan, the woman said, “This summer he had a . . .” She paused, then covered her eye. “A dark eye.”
“A black eye?” Charlie prompted.
“Yes.” Her mouth twisted as if she were annoyed at herself. “A black eye,” she repeated. “Yes. A black eye.”
“Who gave it to him?”
She shrugged. “Someone who lives there, probably.”
When they knocked on the next door, they heard fumbling, and then finally it swung open. A young girl, not more than five, stood staring at them with huge dark eyes.
“Where’s your mommy?” Mia asked. “Your daddy?”
The only answer was a blank stare.
“Hello?” Charlie leaned in to holler past her. “Hello? Is anyone home?”
Nothing but silence. They could enter if this was an exigent circumstance, if there was concern about the child’s welfare. But she appeared clean and well fed, and the apartment was no messier than Mia’s own house.
Mia crouched down to bring her face level with the girl’s. “We’re going to go now, sweetie. Don’t answer the door again unless you know who it is. And give this to your mom or dad.” She took out a business card and scribbled
Please call me
on it. Then she sent up a wordless prayer for the girl’s safety.
A plump, middle-aged woman answered the door two doors from Jackson’s apartment. Her blond hair had been dyed so often it looked like straw. After offering them seats on a wine-colored couch, she settled down into a recliner.
“I’ve seen that Dylan around, but I don’t know him well. The family hasn’t lived here long, and from what I hear they might be gone soon enough.”
“What do you mean?” Mia asked.
“I heard they were behind on rent. They have so many mouths to feed, I’m not surprised. Jackson and his mom have lived here two years. Maybe more. I used to let him come by, but I stopped about a year ago.”
“Why?” Charlie asked.
“Because he started changing.”
“What do you mean,
changing
?” Mia pushed her feet into the floor, trying to move into a more comfortable position. The couch was so overstuffed she and Charlie were in danger of rolling into each other.
“These days he hangs out at the mini mall a couple of blocks away.” She waved a hand over her shoulder to indicate the direction. “Sometimes late at night. Sometimes even during school hours. And half the time he has a cigarette. Once I said hello to him and he said something disrespectful back. I’m sure it was because he was with a couple of other boys, but still . . . As a mother, I feel he’s been given too much freedom.”
She turned out to be the last person who was home and willing to answer the door. It was time to go to try the boys’ apartments.
There was no answer at Manny’s. Charlie raised his hand to knock at Dylan’s door but then held off. A woman was yelling at someone, her voice rising and falling. As far as Mia could tell, it was a one-sided rant.
When Charlie did knock, it was more than a minute before anyone came to the door. The woman was scrawny, with thin, greasy-looking brown hair. It was hard to imagine how one baby had managed to come out of those skinny hips, let alone ten.
The apartment behind her was dark, all the blinds drawn. Two stained couches were jammed into the living room, facing a darkened TV and a coffee table piled with dirty dishes. Mia squinted. Were there other people in the room?
Charlie was only halfway through introducing himself and Mia when the woman shook a finger in his face.
“I know who you are! My baby’s gone and it’s all your fault.”
“I’m not the one who dropped a shopping cart on someone’s head, Mrs. Dunford,” Charlie said mildly.
She gritted her teeth at that. “It’s Clark now. Ms. Clark. And
Dylan didn’t do it either. You’ve got the wrong boy. Even if he says he did it, that don’t mean anything. That boy will say anything people tell him to.”
“And will he do what anyone tells him to do?” Charlie asked.
“Yes,” she said, then realized the trap she had fallen into. “I mean no. I mean, he’s not right in the head. But he would never do what you people say he did. And I don’t have to talk to you and I don’t have to let you in.”
A familiar stench reached Mia’s nose. Her eyes had adjusted to the lack of light. In the far corner of the room, a little kid who couldn’t have been more than five was changing a baby’s diaper.
“But we want to hear your side,” Mia said. “We want to learn more about Dylan.”
“I’m sick of you people. You always think you can make things better by sticking your nose in. Well, not this time.” And with that she closed the door in their faces.
“No electricity?” Charlie said as they turned away.
“It looks that way. And I think I smelled more than poop in there. Maybe rotten food. So it might have been that way for a while.” What would it be like to live in a place where the fridge and the oven were nothing but useless boxes? Where having too many people in a bed was a plus because at least they kept each other warm? She pinched the bridge of her nose. “When we’re done here, I’ll call someone I know at Children’s Services. They can at least do a welfare check.”
Finally they knocked on the door of the apartment Jackson shared with his mom. She answered so quickly that Mia wondered if she had been secretly watching them go from door to door. She was a slight woman who covered her mouth with her fingers when she talked. Her nails had sparkly purple polish. She invited them inside, where they sat on a brown plaid couch that had seen better days. Better decades.
“My son is a good boy,” Regina Buckle told them. She must think they hadn’t seen Jackson’s records. Or maybe in her world a kid
could have the kind of record Jackson did and still be a good boy. “But I haven’t been the best mom. I’ve had to work all kinds of hours at all kinds of jobs. It’s hard to find anything that pays good when you’ve only made it through ninth grade. That was why I was so proud of my baby when he started tenth grade this year. It means he’s doing better than me.” Her hand slipped, and for a moment Mia saw her teeth. One of her eyeteeth was missing.
“Are you working now?” Charlie asked.
“No. I was working at a food cart, but it, um, closed.”
“And Jackson’s dad?” Mia asked, even though she already had guessed the answer.
“He’s not in the picture.” Regina bit her lip and then looked up at them through thick dark lashes. “I should tell you something, though. My boyfriend just got busted for selling pot. He’s the one who owned the food cart. Now I don’t know how I’m going to pay rent this month.”
“So if your boyfriend smoked pot, what about Jackson?” Charlie asked.
“No! He knows I don’t put up with any of that.” She seemed unaware of any contradiction.
“Hasn’t he been picked up with pot and alcohol?”
“Those weren’t his. He has bad friends who asked him to hold things. He’s too trusting.”
And that’s how it went with Regina. Her son was a good kid who sometimes made honest mistakes. She didn’t believe—couldn’t believe—that he had done what they claimed he did.
As Charlie was driving them back, Mia’s phone rang. She listened without asking many questions, then hung up, her heart heavy.
“Who was that?” Charlie asked.
“Someone from my office. I guess the inpatient facility that was treating Manny decided he was ready to talk to us, but Manny must not have agreed. He locked himself in the bathroom and tried to cut his wrists.”
Charlie swore softly under his breath. “Did he succeed?”
“They said he didn’t cut deep enough to do any real damage.” Mia sighed. “But no matter what end of this case you look at, all you see is pain.”
T
his coffee smells good and burnt.” In the squad’s break room Charlie dubiously sniffed the cup he had just poured. He was talking to Andy Gibbons, another homicide detective. Yellowing reminders taped to the walls exhorted them to clean up their spatters and to remember that their mother didn’t work there. Despite the homemade signs, the space was a mess, had always been a mess, and would always be a mess.
“It’ll put hair on your chest,” Andy said, reaching for the glass carafe.
“How’s it going with that double murder?” Charlie asked.
The other detective shrugged. “Seems pretty open and shut. Two dealers fighting over territory and the girlfriend was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He threw back a swallow of his coffee as if it were rotgut whiskey. “How about you?”
“I’m working that shopping cart case.”
“I saw that on the news this morning. So stupid. So the lady died?”
“No. At least not yet. Right now the focus is on deciding whether to charge the kids who did it as adults or not.” Charlie took another slug of his coffee. “And I’ve been looking into a traffic accident in
Puyallup County that I’m pretty sure was no accident. But I guess they don’t see it the same way, even though the death investigator should have picked up on some discrepancies.”
“Good luck with that,” Andy said. “That place is positively inbred. If I remember right, their death investigator is married to the sheriff’s sister.”
Charlie blinked as a piece of the puzzle fell into place. No wonder the sheriff had been so adamant that no mistakes had been made. It wasn’t a cover-up. Or at least not a traditional one. Puyallup was covering up their own incompetence. They might have done the same no matter who was in the accident. And minus a literal smoking gun, nagging them to reopen it was not going to do any good.
Back at his desk, Charlie called the number listed on the accident report for the first responder. He had debated about using his work phone but decided on his personal cell.
“Hello?” The man had a thin voice with a bit of a quaver. Charlie pictured an old guy in a fishing cap.
“Is this Alvin Turner?”
“Yes?” He sounded suspicious, as if Charlie had interrupted his dinner hour to try and sell him something he didn’t need.
“This is Charlie Carlson. I’m a friend of Mia Quinn. Last April you were the first person on the scene after the accident that killed her husband, Scott Quinn.”
“Oh yes. That was a terrible thing. Terrible.”
“Mia is just now coming to terms with what happened. She is wondering if it might be possible to meet with you.”
After a long pause, the old man cleared his throat. “I’m not sure there’s much I can tell her.”
“It would really help to ease her mind.”
“But he was dead—or at least very close to it—when I got there.”
“Even knowing that would be good for her. And I promise it won’t take much of your time,” Charlie said, not knowing if that was true or not.
Turner continued to sigh and demur but finally agreed to meet them at the site of the accident the next day at six p.m.
Next Charlie turned his attention to the woman who might have best known Scott at the time of his death. Not Mia, but Betty Eastman, the young woman with the old lady’s name. It didn’t seem that long ago that Charlie would have started his search by looking up Betty’s phone number and street address in the white pages. Did anyone use a paper phone book anymore?
Sometimes Charlie felt like a dinosaur. He usually wasn’t home in time to watch the nightly news on TV, but when he was he got the feeling that no one under the age of fifty was in the audience. The ads were all for drugs for shingles or erectile dysfunction.
