Cold Justice (19 page)

Chapter 32

Thursday, August 18th, 9:45 PM

TOMMY SALAMANDER was nothing but a two-bit thug. And he
looked the part.

His mother had had high hopes for him, but Tommy never
wanted to conform to her plans. He didn’t want to work for a living, and so,
never did.

This little task from Uncle Boris wasn’t work. It was just
what Tommy was good at. That, and of course, his little drug business. Oxy was
big these days, but he could also supply coke, smack, and for the more
discriminating, some herbal refreshment.

He stood from the couch where he was slumped and glanced at
his girlfriend, her eyes glued mindlessly to the television. “I have to go out,”
he said.

She didn’t look at him, just shrugged one shoulder.

He threw on a worn leather jacket, slammed the door behind
him, and tromped down the back steps, his jackboots thumping on the wooden
stairs. Then around to an alley at the side of the shabby apartment building,
where he unchained his bike, kicked it to life, and roared away, his stringy
hair blowing back.

He knew where the wading pool was at Richmond Valley Park.
He liked to hang around there sometimes and watch the young mothers with their
kids. Not because he liked kids. Not at all. Hated the little brats, in fact.
He just liked to leer at the women. He had often sat in the very bench where he
was heading; wasting away the afternoon, wishing his dim-witted girlfriend looked
more like these.

As he approached the park, but still some distance away, he
could see the girl in a floppy red hat was already there, and waiting. An
overhead street lamp splashed onto the bench. He parked his bike about a
hundred feet away, chained it to a tree, looked around, and strode over.

This should be easy. Just like a walk in the park. He
grinned at his wit.

She was huddled at one end, clutching a handbag firmly on
her lap. She watched as he approached and sat at the other end.

He glanced over at her. She was watching him carefully, and
looked a little frightened.

“Nice evening,” he said.

“Ye... yes, it is.” She looked away quickly.

“Did you bring the envelope?” he asked.

She stared at him, and frowned. “I... I was expecting
someone else.”

“Doesn’t matter. He sent me. Give me the envelope, and I’ll
give you the money.”

“Did you bring it?” she asked timidly.

He pulled a grocery bag from his jacket pocket. He had
stuffed in some paper and rolled it up to make it look pretty real. He showed
her the packet briefly. “It’s here.” He shoved it back into his pocket.

“I need to see it,” she said.

“I showed you.”

“I mean, I need to see the money in... inside the package.”

He frowned at her and spoke bluntly, “After I get the note.”

She was quiet for a moment. He glared at her as she looked
across the park, then at him, and finally down to her lap. Her hands trembled
as she unsnapped the handbag and slowly withdrew an envelope.

She held it up. “Here it is,” she said.

He reached for it, but she pulled it back. “Give me the
money first,” she said.

Tommy looked around the park. Nobody seemed to be around at
this time of the evening. He slid down the bench, squeezing her between himself
and the armrest she huddled against. He put his arm around her shoulder and
grinned at her. She was held fast, unable to move.

“Ok, now give me the envelope,” he said.

She stared into his cruel face for a moment, and then handed
it to him, an uneasy look in her eyes.

He snatched it from her and stuffed it in his pocket. “There
now, that didn’t hurt, did it?” He laughed.

“The... money?”

He threw his head back and laughed again, and then leered at
her. “What money?”

Her eyes narrowed. “The... the money... for the note.”

He grinned and shook his head. “Sorry, I have no money for
you. But I do have this.” He reached under his jacket and slipped out a knife.
It had a six-inch blade, and had seen its share of action.

She began to tremble, her breath quick and short, as he
tested the edge against his thumb, and then touched the tip to her throat.

He moved closer and grit his teeth. “Who do you think you’re
playing with?”

She stared into his savage eyes, narrow now, his mouth
sneering at her, and she trembled. The knife was hurting her. His arm still
gripped her, and she couldn’t move.

Then he laughed and pulled the knife away. His hold around
her shoulder loosened a bit. Her left arm was free. She clutched her handbag
tightly, and swung it with all her force, catching him full in the face.

He was startled, and reacted by pulling away, just enough
for Samantha to slip out of his grip. She ran.

He had recovered, and was right behind her, spitting out
curses.

He was no fool. Sure, he had the note, and he didn’t have to
give her any money, and she was scared, just like good old Uncle Boris wanted,
but that fear would wear off, and she could identify him. He had to catch her
and finish the job.

He reached for her arm just as she spun around and swung her
handbag again. He ducked, slipped on the grass, and rolled a couple of times.
Cursing again, he stumbled to his feet and continued the chase.

She was moving toward the street. Can’t let her get away.
With one final burst of adrenaline, he shot forward and caught her by the arm
that held her handbag. She stopped with a jerk, and he spun her around. He moved
the blade to her throat, and dragged her behind a row of well-trimmed cedars, a
more private place, to do what he had to do.

She struggled, but he held her firmly, his left arm around
her back, his nose almost touching hers, his eyes on fire.

The body contains a remarkable amount of blood, and when a
throat is slit, assuming the jugular veins and carotid artery are severed,
blood will spray. If one stands too close, this spray can ruin a perfectly good
set of clothes.

Tommy was well aware of that. He was no stranger to this
type of thing. He was careful to stand back as soon as the razor sharp blade
had made its stroke.

Too bad. She was kinda cute.

He watched the process. She didn’t die right away, of
course. First, she tried to breathe. That didn’t work. She was still on her
feet, barely, now beginning to collapse. She might last a few more minutes.
Eventually her brain would become completely deprived of oxygen, and if that
didn’t finish the job, then she would drown in her own blood.

Tommy didn’t like to see that part, so he turned away,
leaned down, wiped his blade on the grass, tucked it back into its sheath, and
looked around.

All clear. Time to get paid.

In a final burst of inspiration, he turned around quickly,
knelt down, freed the handbag from her dying hand, and stuffed it under his
jacket. He sauntered toward his bike, humming to himself.

Tommy Salamander didn’t see the bushes rustling just a few
feet away. He didn’t see the pair of bulging eyes that peered at the
unbelievable scene, and he didn’t see the eyes then disappear, or the dark
figure that hustled across the park, into the darkness, and out of sight.

He climbed on his bike, another job well done.

Chapter 33

Thursday, August 18th, 10:03 PM

ANNIE HAD SPENT the last half hour driving around town,
trying to make some sense of this case. She didn’t know what she expected to
get from Wilda, but she had nothing else to go on, and at least this was
something.

She pulled her car into a slot directly in front of Eddie’s,
stepped out, and dug in her handbag for some coins, shoving them into the
hungry meter.

She turned. A sign still beckoned patrons to come in,
promising affordable beer and good times.

As Annie stepped back into the dinginess of Eddie’s Bar, she
was greeted by the familiar smells and sounds. The music still droned, the
smoke still hung, and the same patrons still hunched over.

Annie went to the counter where Meg was leaning on her
elbows, chin in her hands, her fingers drumming on her cheek, keeping rhythm
with the tune.

“Figured you’d show up again,” Meg said with a wide smile.
She stood and tucked her hands into her apron pockets.

“Couldn’t stay away.”

Meg pointed across the bar room floor to a small square
table near the wall. Annie saw a woman sitting alone, facing her way, sipping
on a glass of beer. She appeared to be in her late sixties, or so.

“That’s Wilda,” Meg said.

“Thanks. I’ll go and talk to her for a while,” Annie said.

Wilda set her glass down and watched Annie as she
approached.

“Wilda?”

“That’s what they call me.” She had a cheerful face, and
when she smiled, her bright red lipstick cut a wide slit across her slightly
pudgy face.

“Can I talk to you a moment?” Annie asked.

Wilda waved to the chair opposite her. “You sure can,
sweetie. Sit down.”

Annie sat and pulled the chair in a little closer. Wilda
looked at her, still smiling, and brushed back a strand of hair that had
escaped from the graying, almost white bundle perched on the back of her head. “I’m
Wilda,” she said.

“My name’s Annie.” She offered her hand.

Wilda shook her hand. Annie noticed she had soft skin. Just
like her grandmother.

“Meg told me you come in here a few times a week, and you
knew Abby Macy a little bit?” Annie asked.

Wilda sat back, adjusted her sweater at the shoulders, and
crossed her legs. “Sure sweetie, I know Abby,” she said as she reached out,
worked a cigarette out of the pack in front of her, and tucked it into her
mouth.

Annie didn’t know exactly how to tell Wilda about the death
of Abby. “Were you aware Abby is... dead?” she asked.

The cigarette hung, unlit, as Wilda’s eyes popped. Finally,
she removed the smoke. “What? Dead? How?”

“The police say she killed herself, but I am pretty
convinced she was murdered.”

“Murdered. My goodness, such a sweet girl. Who on earth
would do a thing like that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I was hoping you could
help me.”

“I don’t know how I can help, but if I can, then I am
certainly more than ready.” She shook her head. “Gosh. This is so...” She
searched for a word. “Unbelievable.”

Annie nodded. “It sure is.”

Wilda popped the cigarette back in her mouth and flicked her
Zippo. A faint smell of lighter fluid hung in the air as the tobacco caught,
and glowed. She took a long drag and inhaled deeply. She puckered her lips and
the smoke furled out and wafted up. “So how can I help, sweetie?”

Annie suppressed a cough. “Do you remember if you were here
last Sunday evening?”

Wilda thought a moment, then, “Sure, I remember now. I was
chatting with Abby. She was here when I came in. All dressed real fine. I was
thinking she looked like one of those nice church ladies. Then I got to feeling
guilty, cause here it is, Sunday again, and I should have went to church.”

Annie smiled.

Wilda continued, “I ain’t been to church since my Frankie
passed. That’s a good six years ago now, I guess. Stead, I just come here, way
too much.” She paused. “Anyway, what were you askin’ about, honey?”

“I just wondered if Abby was here on Sunday. You answered my
question.”

“Yeah, she was feelin’ pretty down that night. Usually is,
but gets better as the night goes on. But that night, she seemed worse than
usual,” Wilda said, as she drained her glass. She set it down carefully and
waved a hand toward Meg.

“Did she tell you why she was so down?”

“Oh, yes sweetie, she told me all ‘bout her son that passed.
It’s a sad thing, that. Didn’t have no kids myself, but I had a sister that
died a long time ago. Just a young thing, she was. That’s not a good feelin.”

Annie heard a snore. She turned and saw an old man, his head
dropped on the table, one hand still wrapped around a glass, the other hanging
by his side as if reaching for the floor.

Meg brought Wilda a fresh glass of beer and removed the
empty one. “You two having a good chat?” she asked.

Wilda flashed her smile. “Sure are Meg. Don’t get to talk to
anyone so decent too often.”

A guy across the room was calling Meg. She nodded his way,
shook the sleeper back to reality, and went back to the bar to pour another
drink.

“Wilda, what did Abby drink when she was here?” Annie asked.

“Wine. Just wine.”

“Did she ever drink vodka?”

“Oh, no. Always drank just the house wine. Sipped at it all
night. Never touched any of the strong stuff.” She chugged at her drink, took
the last drag of her smoke and tossed it in the ashtray. The smoke continued to
curl up, slowly dying.

Annie listened to the six-foot-deep voice of Randy Travis
for a moment. “Did she ever talk about Philip, her husband?”

“Oh, yes. She went on and on about that man. Never had a bad
thing to say ‘bout him. She always felt bad she was coming in here and leaving
him alone. But still, she kept coming.”

“Every night?”

“No, no. Just maybe two or three times a week. Can’t be
sure. I’m not here every night myself. Just when I get to feeling lonely.” She
looked around. “Not that this place gives me any company. But somehow, makes me
feel better.”

“Misery loves company,” Annie quoted.

“Yeah, it does. Just seeing others worse than me makes me
feel better.” She laughed. A little titter of a laugh, and asked, “So, were you
a friend of Abby’s?”

“No, my husband and I are private investigators. Abby's
husband hired us to see what happened to her.”

“Ohhh. Private investigators, huh. Gee, is that as glamorous
as on TV?”