Bullet Beach (6 page)

Cross left his four-legged charges – fed and watered – to head into the night. He wasn't sure why he was leaving and had no idea where he was going. But he was compelled to do something. He was not only suddenly claustrophobic, he also felt too closely contained by someone who seemed to hold power over him. Worse, it was an unknown someone. He couldn't just sit in a chair and wait.

The thing was Cross didn't know whether this was personal or not. If it wasn't, what could he do? Whoever it was had taken a shot already. It was too early to know if it worked; but it was likely the person wouldn't strike again – at least not strike him. If it was personal, it meant he had an enemy. Having an enemy wasn't a problem. He'd had enemies before. He wasn't frightened. The problem was that he didn't know who the enemy was. He had no clue, other than he – or she – was capable of murder.

He drove by Wilbert's place on Drexel in the beat-up Isuzu Trooper that Edelman let him take. The lights were out. He pulled in front, sat back, sighed. What next. He could go to a bar. Harry would have shut down by now. The whole idea was boring. He could drink at home and he didn't want to do that either. He could go to a strip bar – at least there was something to look at while he sipped tequila. But those places seemed to get him into trouble. That's how he met Maya's mom. That didn't go so well.

Cross closed his eyes. He replayed the previous night. Something troubled him. The guy was waiting for them. If the murderer had stuffed bodies in the trunk of a random car why would he wait around? The guy waited because he knew someone was coming and he – and this was the thing Cross figured out at that moment – wanted the shotgun to be in their hands. It was an excellent set-up. The bodies and the weapon that were used to kill them, were all tied to Cross and Slurpy.

Cross tried to see the guy. It was dark enough that all he could make out was the man's build. Maybe a little taller than average – six foot something maybe. Fit. Skin not dark, but not light either. Baseball cap. Cross recreated the moment the man aimed the shotgun at him. The man held it at his waist. The man's hands were lighter than his face. Could be he was wearing gloves. That would make sense.

The man knew someone was coming to pick up the Lincoln. Cross could now be sure of that. The only person who could have known someone was picking up the car was Edelman.

‘I know where you live,' Cross said as he sat forward and put the old SUV in gear and headed north. Edelman lived not far from Cross – on 50th between Central and Washington Boulevard. The city was quiet as he took 21st to Sherman Drive then north to 38th and then up Central. He had gone from the small, quality-built, post-World War Two bungalow neighborhood through some tough areas and then gradually up to upper-middle class homes.

The lights were on in Edelman's house. In the back of Cross's mind, he knew what he was doing was not a good idea. But he'd never rest until he had some resolution to the nagging doubts about his own future. A knock on the door. Then again. No one came. Cross remembered Edelman's wife spent most of her time, even in the middle of summer, in Florida. It was an informal separation. He knocked again, this time harder and the door opened.

‘Edelman!' Cross called out. He stepped in calling out again and again, slowly checking each of the rooms. It wasn't one of the giant homes in the area so it didn't take long. The door in the kitchen that went out back was open. Cross stepped out cautiously. The darkness was sudden. He walked around the yard, this time calling out Edelman's name softly. He came to the garage door. He could hear the car running. It was one of those older garages that have two side-by-side doors.

Cross opened it and was swept back by the heat and, while there was no smell, he felt something evil invade his lungs. He stepped out, took some breaths and then held a deep breath, moving in, opening the door on the passenger side. The open door triggered the interior light. No Edelman. He switched off the engine and turned on the headlights. Still holding a hand over his nose and mouth, he saw the body, strung up by rope on the rafters.

Cross backed out quickly, getting far enough away from the garage to breathe fresh air. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and started to punch in 911. Instead he called James Fenimore Kowalski.

‘Usually when you call you interrupt a carefully prepared, long anticipated dinner,' Kowalski said not allowing Cross to speak. ‘It's past midnight. I wasn't dining. I was doing the only thing that's better than a fine meal.'

‘Sleeping?' Cross gave in.

‘You live a petty, unimaginative life.'

‘Not really. But you were having sex, I take it.'

‘And you've destroyed it,' Kowalski said. ‘How do you do that?'

‘It's a gift. Please apologize to her. It is a her, isn't it?' Cross had completely given in to the silliness of the universe and played along.

‘I was just about to find out when you rang,' Kowalski said. ‘Now it's your turn to talk.'

‘OK,' Cross said with mock-enthusiasm. ‘I'm standing outside of Edelman's garage . . . at his home. He is hanging from a rafter inside and if the hanging didn't kill him he would likely have asphyxiated on the carbon monoxide from the running engine of his automobile. If anything, the man was thorough.'

‘And you discovered the body?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you are alone?'

‘Yes, depending on whether or not Edelman's soul has left his body.'

‘Have you called the police?'

‘No.'

‘Call them. I'm on my way.'

After Cross called and failed to get connected to Collins, he provided the dispatcher with the information, after which he went around to the front of the home and sat on the stoop. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and neck. It was still pretty warm out. Then there was the stress. This wasn't a happy ending for poor Edelman. It wasn't likely to have a happy ending for him either, Cross thought.

The lights on the neighborhood porches started coming on when the fire truck arrived. The firefighters arrived before the police and Cross directed them to the garage. A couple of undercover cops arrived shortly after and two marked cars followed in moments. What was once a quiet, dark street was now bustling with flashing lights and various vehicles.

One of the uniformed cops told Cross he'd have to hang around, that someone from the homicide section was on the way. Someone from the coroner's office entered the area behind the garage. Cross went back around front to get out of the way. He could hear the growling engine of Kowalski's Harley several blocks away. The lawyer pulled in at the same time as the big black Crowne Victoria parked across the street.

He had hoped for Collins. Instead he got Lieutenants Swann and Rafferty. Swann was an older cop with a not quite shaved head and Wal-Mart suit. He was what cops were supposed to be in an ideal world – by the book. Rafferty was a con artist. He was bigger and softer than Swann, but like Collins he dressed a bit too well.

‘Who's this?' Rafferty asked when Kowalski stepped between Cross and the arriving officers.

‘My attorney.'

Rafferty laughed.

‘What are you doing here, Cross?' Swann asked.

‘We have to talk first,' Kowalski said.

‘It's all right,' Cross said to Kowalski, then turned to Swann, ‘I wanted to talk to him.'

‘To Edelman?' Swann was taking notes.

‘Yes. He was the only who knew that the Lincoln was being repo'd.'

‘The one with the bodies in the trunk?' Swann asked.

‘That one, yes.'

‘Why is that?' Rafferty looked bored. He glanced around.

‘He wanted the car picked up that night and he wanted me to do it.'

‘So you were upset?' Swann asked.

‘Of course.'

‘You were not just upset, you were pissed.' Rafferty said. ‘You were so pissed you might have killed him.'

‘I didn't get the chance,' Cross said.

‘Why don't we make arrangements to talk in the morning?' Kowalski said.

‘We need to get some facts now,' Swann said in even tones. ‘Maybe he's the perp. Maybe not. But he's a witness and I am going to get a statement, attorney or not.'

‘Tell them exactly what happened here tonight,' Kowalski said to Cross, ‘and not a dime's worth more.'

Cross told them how he came to find Edelman in the garage. Swann took notes dutifully.

‘Come by tomorrow morning,' Swann said. ‘You can bring your lawyer if you want. Nine, OK?'

‘Where's Collins?' Cross asked.

‘Your place,' Rafferty said, ‘having a look around.'

SIX

After a visit to the Gem Center and a few other places known for what was referred to as ‘colored stones,' and Shanahan's business card with his Thai contact information written on the back had been appropriately distributed, he and Maureen went sightseeing. Channarong, after guiding them to some of Bangkok's most exotic landmarks, would take the late afternoon and evening off and return to the hotel in the morning.

Shanahan was pleased to see Maureen enjoying herself. Maybe not just Maureen. In Indianapolis, where he'd spent the last couple of decades, people drove to parking lots and then went inside a building, whether they were searching for food or movies or merely a place to wander. No one walked, not even, it seemed, to bus stops. Bangkok's streets were alive at all times. People walked, rode bikes and scooters, boarded and rode tuk-tuks, taxis and buses and hopped on the Skytrain for long trips or on to boats to travel the city on the canals. People spilled out everywhere.

When Thais were hungry they stopped for a moment at one of the thousands of outdoor food vendors to pick up something to eat. These were mobile kitchens, fueled by charcoal, sometimes under small awnings, where the richest and poorest of Thais dined side-by-side, eating crepes or satays, coconut rice pancakes, grilled fishcakes, hot and sour noodles and many items that Shanahan could not identify. The sizzling of the grills and the aroma of the food added to the sounds and scents of the city.

Maureen was a curious and adventurous tourist. She nibbled her way back to the hotel. By late afternoon she had taken a short nap and a quick shower. She swam a few laps in the pool on the top floor, the city spread out three hundred and sixty degrees below her. Shanahan climbed up a few flights of stairs from their room to check on her and noticed that there was a guard posted on the stairwell of each floor, where he could also monitor people arriving by elevator. They did not stop him or even seem to notice. Was it for safety? Probably not, Shanahan thought. It was more likely the uniformed guards were there to keep freelance masseuses from taking the action away from those employed by the hotel.

Maureen, in her one-piece black swimming suit and white swimming cap moved effortlessly, parting the otherwise still water. Back and forth, again and again. When she had completed the last lap, she climbed out of the pool, took off her cap and shook her auburn hair free. The two of them went downstairs, showered and dressed. Maureen was already looking forward to a nice meal at a restaurant of Channarong's recommendation.

The guide also suggested the two of them go to the Patpong night market with the admonition not to buy anything.

‘Lots of fakes and even if you find something you like, you can get it cheaper at other night markets.'

They arrived early, and while initially disappointed, Maureen was enthralled watching the transformation of a busy street into a lively, magically lit marketplace. Dozens of shirtless, muscular young men hauled out trunks, tents, poles, tables and electric lights. The construction seemed choreographed, but no doubt the extraordinary coordination came from repetition. Night after night they would do this, eventually turning an empty street into a marketplace, back-to-back stalls of fabrics, carved wood, metal Buddhas and jewelry. On the sides were the regular businesses – many of them sex clubs, judging by their names. The music poured out from their doors.

It was Shanahan's nature to always be prepared for the worst. He looked around, realizing the futility of noticing anyone following them. Not only was it crowded, it was also dark.

Afterward, they strolled past stalls where vendors hawked the best names in designs – Rolex, Louis Vuitton and Gucci.

‘Last chance for a real Georgio Armani,' Shanahan said to Maureen.

‘It's probably Georgio's shady cousin Antonio.'

The two grabbed a tuk-tuk that took them down to the river.

‘I want you to step into Thai culture slowly,' Channarong told them earlier, explaining that the market and the restaurant were both favored by tourists. ‘You will see the real Thailand, I promise you.'

A teak-paneled boat picked them up and took them to the Supatra River House, which was across from the Grand Palace and where they dined on fresh, steamed fish. They sat outside, looking down at the reflection of the lights on the Chao Phraya River. Maureen was relaxed, happy, welcoming all the new sensations with the joy of a child at an amusement park. For him, underlying the calm he very much wanted to portray was impatience. He had come to do what he had come to do. He felt he was frittering away the time. It took him until the taxi-ride to the hotel to come to terms with reality. He had only set things in motion.
Tried
to set things in motion. Nothing may come of it. Something may come of it. But at the moment he could do very little. He relaxed. After all, wasn't he in an exciting city with the most beautiful woman in the world?

In the morning, Channarong met with them at breakfast. At one point he sensed Shanahan's renewed restlessness.