Killshot (1989) (9 page)

"This everything?"

She nodded, holding her hands in front of her, sort of hunched in with her head bent, looking down at the floor.

"Are you Indian?"

The girl shook her head.

"You look Indian. You ought to use something on your hair. You know what I mean? A shampoo with a conditioner in it. Give it some body."

Man, she sure looked Indian. Thinking it made him think of the Bird. Which got him thinking along another line, staring at this girl. He said to her, "Look at me."

She raised her head but couldn't seem to fix her eyes on him, they kept jumping around.

"You sure you're not Indian?"

She was biting on her lip as she shook her head, not chewing her gum now.

Richie said, "Well, it don't matter." He reached behind him, brought out his nickel-plate .38 and shot the girl square in the forehead.

* * *

Now, that was exciting, when it happened spur of the moment. The way the Bird worked it, that's what it seemed like, work, like a job. And thought, Jesus Christ, the Bird. Richie turned the van around in Algonac and headed back out into the country. All the excitement, he forgot he had to pick up the Indian.

What it did was settle his mind, made him realize he'd get another crack at the ironworker. If the Bird was at the guy's house and the guy's truck was still at the 7-Eleven . . . Tell the Bird it was a kick, man, using a shotgun. The Bird would say yeah, but you missed. And he'd tell the Bird not to sweat it, the guy would be coming home soon. Tell the Bird no, there aren't any witnesses, I done what you told me. Hand him the take from the holdup. Oh, here, I almost forgot. You proud of me? See, I went in there to get some sunglasses, account of I misplaced the ones I had. I been trying to remember . . .

It was quiet out here, starting to get dark. Richie slowed down, aware that he was coming up on the ironworker's house, but still in his mind thinking about those goddamn sunglasses, the last time he'd worn them--and was startled, Jesus Christ, to see the Bird appear at the side of the road, coming out of the brush with his arm raised. Richie was past him by the time he braked to a hard stop. The Bird came up to the van in a hurry. He got in saying, "Let's go. Get out of here."

Richie didn't say anything quite yet. He waited till they were up the road, in sight of the highway they'd take to Marine City. All the things he was going to tell the Bird were forgotten. What he finally said was, "Shit, I remember where I lost my fucking sunglasses."

The Bird sat there in his own mind for a while. Finally, all he said was, "This ought to be good."

Chapter
9

A STATE POLICE INVESTIGATOR told the Colsons they would be hearing from the FBI. With suspicion of criminal activity across a border it had become a federal case.

Wayne said, "You mean you suspect these two guys are criminals? We're moving right along, aren't we?"

After two more days of police from various jurisdictions marching in and out, police cars in the drive, in the yard, police cars creeping by at night flashing high-beam spots on the house, lighting up their bedroom, Wayne stood on the side porch to deliver a speech. He said:

"I got a speeding ticket out at Detroit Metro one time, forty in a twenty-five zone, over there to pick up my wife coming back from visiting her dad, in Florida. It made me think, if you can get stopped for driving too fast at an airport, if the traffic is that light, it doesn't say much for our economy, does it? But that's not the point I want to make. The point is, it's the only time I've ever been stopped in Michigan for a moving violation. Ohio's a different story. That drive down I-Seventy-five is so goddamn boring you can't get through it fast enough. But soon as you try, they nail you, there's Smokey with his goddamn hat on, every bit as serious as you guys. What I'm leading up to, I want you to understand I've never been arrested or had any trouble with police. I've never swung at a cop, I've never talked back to one, even in Ohio, till the other day, over at the real estate office. I said why don't you go over to Walpole and find out who's driving an '86 Cadillac. If you did, you'd have caught the two guys and Lionel Adam would be alive. But what you guys'd rather do is sit around and drink our coffee and ask the same goddamn questions over and over. How many times you gonna ask me if I saw both guys at the Seven-Eleven? How could I if one of them was here? How many times you gonna ask me what the guy was driving after I told you I didn't see his car? Or did I actually see him shoot the girl? Why is there any question who did it? Who else could have? How many times you gonna go look at that bullethole in the chickenhouse? My wife told you she fired the shot and has a sore shoulder to prove it. She told you she wasn't trying to hit him and you act like you don't believe it. Not one of you has said nice going or it was a brave thing my wife did. Had she shot the son of a bitch would you arrest her for it? I don't see where you guys are doing a goddamn thing besides drink coffee and bump into each other. You sure as hell don't communicate among your different groups or we wouldn't be getting the same goddamn questions over and over."

The State Police investigator told Wayne to take it easy, to look at facts. There was no apparent connection between the Cadillac and Lionel Adam's murder. Investigating one did not lead to the other. Lionel's body hadn't been found in the marsh till three days later.

Wayne had been told that much. Duck hunters had come across the body, shot three times in the chest. "But what day was he killed? Haven't you found that out yet?"

"When we do we'll let you know," the investigator said. "How's that?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Wayne said. "You might also let me know, when you get around to it, why they want to kill us. My wife didn't do nothing to them. Is it they want to shoot her on account of me? Who are these guys? They've been around here a week almost and you can't find them? Where the hell are you looking?"

Local police and county deputies walked off as Wayne spoke, got in their cars. The State Police investigator waited till he was through, then went out to the woods where evidence technicians were still looking around.

Carmen said, "That was some speech," and took Wayne in the house. "But what good is yelling at them? It just gets them mad at you."

"That's the whole point of what I'm saying. They act like it's our fault. Did I antagonize the two guys? Did you aim at the one when you shot at him? I would've, I know that, and if I hit him I'd be in jail up in Port Huron awaiting trial."

"They've been nice to me," Carmen said, "but you rub them the wrong way. Why did you go into all that about getting the speeding ticket and driving through Ohio?"

"Because those are times I got pissed off at cops and didn't say anything, when maybe if I had I would've felt better."

"You feel better now?"

"Not much. Let's have a beer."

Carmen said, "That sounds like a good idea." She said, "You know how when you cross your t you put the bar above the stem?"

"You said it meant I was witty."

"It does, but sometimes--I've never told you--there's sort of a downward slant to your t bar and that shows a quick temper."

"I'll work on crossing it straighter," Wayne said, "see if I can improve my personality."

"You might just try to lighten up," Carmen said.

Later on, when the FBI special agent called and asked if it would be convenient for them to stop by, Carmen said yes, of course. When she told Wayne they were coming he didn't say a word and Carmen wasn't sure if that was good or bad. She had never seen her husband in a fight or a situation where he ever hit anyone, but believed it could happen almost anytime now.

Two of them, both wearing dark suits, got out of the Ford sedan. The one on the other side of the car walked off toward the woods. Carmen saw the State Police detective out by the tree line looking this way. The one that got out from behind the wheel had thick dark hair, beginning to show gray, and was nice-looking. He nodded to them on the porch saying, "Mr. and Mrs. Colson, I'm Paul Scallen, I called you earlier. May I come up?"

Carmen said, "Please." Wayne didn't say a word.

The man was taller than she'd thought, growing as he came up the steps, taller than Wayne and older, probably in his late forties, showing them his credentials now in a case with a gold shield pinned to it. Carmen saw FBI in big light-blue letters and his name printed over it in black, much smaller. Paul Scallen. It said he was a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States Department of Justice. On the bottom part was his picture and more writing too small to read. Carmen wondered if there was a difference between a special agent and just a plain agent. She liked his rust-colored tie with the blue shirt and dark-gray suit. No hanky in the pocket. He looked like a businessman.

Wayne was staring at the credentials. Carmen wondered if he was reading the small print until he said, "That's the same color as the guy's car"--meaning the light-blue FBI letters--"a big goddamn Cadillac nobody can seem to find."

Swell, Carmen thought. Here we go.

She was surprised when the FBI man said, "You noticed that too," sounding a little surprised himself. "It was the first thing I thought of when I saw the car. The Windsor Police found it at the airport, the one over there."

"So they're gone," Wayne said.

Carmen thought he sounded disappointed. It seemed to perk up the FBI man, who said, "Well, not necessarily. They found it the same day Mrs. Colson chased one of them off, I understand with a shotgun." Giving Carmen a nod as he said it. "And the other one killed the girl in the store. So they didn't fly out and they haven't come back for the car. The Windsor Police have it under surveillance, but we think the two guys dumped it."

Wayne said, "But you don't know if they're still around."

"We think they are."

"You're not sure though."

"Let me say we have reason to believe they are."

"You check the car registration?"

"It belongs to a company in Toronto. We contacted the police there, they followed up and were told the car was stolen. But we don't believe it. We think they gave the car to one of the guys to use. For another matter first, something that happened in Detroit the day before they came to the real estate office." The FBI man looked at Carmen. "I understand you work for Nelson Davies."

"I did; not anymore."

"Well, I can understand, after what happened."

"That wasn't why I quit."

"Wait a minute," Wayne said. "What kind of company loans a car to a guy that kills people?"

"A company that hires him to do it," the FBI man said. "A company that's operated by the organized crime people in Toronto. Mafioso, just like the ones we have here."

"You say they gave the car to one of the guys," Wayne said. "Which one, the Indian?"

"Part Indian, Ojibway, part French-Canadian. His name's Armand Degas, at least that's who we think we have here. We know he was seen on Walpole Island last week and we assume, if it's the same guy, both you and Mrs. Colson got a good look at him." The FBI man paused, staring at Wayne. "You had to have been pretty close to hit him with that iron-working tool. What do you call it, a sleever bar?"

Wayne nodded and seemed to think about it a moment, Carmen wondering what he was going to say next.

"What I should've done was broke a few bones, put those guys in the hospital, in traction."

Now the FBI man was nodding. "That's not a bad place to question suspects, when they're in pain and can't move."

Carmen watched. Neither one of them smiled but it didn't matter. She could sense that all at once they had tuned in to each other's attitude and were going to get along fine from here on. Now Wayne was asking Scallen if he wanted a beer. Another good sign. Or he could have instant coffee; they were temporarily out of the real stuff. Scallen said no thanks, he didn't care for anything, but went into the kitchen with them and took a place at the counter. Carmen turned on the overhead light. She watched Scallen take a white envelope from his inside coat pocket. Wayne asked her if she wanted a beer and she hesitated because a federal special agent was sitting there and then said, okay, why not? Wayne said, "We're not working, he is." Scallen smiled. He said to Carmen, "That slug barrel gives a kick, doesn't it?" Carmen touched her shoulder and rolled her eyes just enough. He said, "It took an awful lot of nerve, what you did, to stand up to a man like that." Carmen said she hoped she'd never have to do it again. She saw Scallen taking two black-and-white photos out of the envelope, laying them on the counter. Wayne popped open the cans of beer and handed one to her saying, "My wife's a winner, that's why I married her." She saw Scallen half-turned on the stool, waiting.

He said, "Are these the two men?"

She felt Wayne's arm slip around her shoulders, his hand creeping down her arm, moving with her to the counter. They looked down at the photos, posed, front-view mug shots: the photo of the Indian, Armand Degas, dark; the photo of the other one much lighter, pale skin, a drugged expression.

"There's no doubt in my mind," Wayne said. "They look different there, but those are the guys."

After a few moments Carmen nodded and looked up at Scallen. "If you get them, you want us to identify them in court, is that it?"

"There's nothing we'd like more," Scallen said. "But I should tell you something about them first, before you agree to do it. These guys are both pretty bad."

Carmen pointed to the one with long hair. "What's this one's name?"

Scallen glanced at the photo. "Richie Nix. He's a convicted felon with a number of federal and state detainers out on him. That means he's a wanted criminal."

Carmen said, "Richie?"

"That's the name on his birth certificate."

She was looking at the photos again. "Both of them have killed people?"

Scallen nodded. "That's right."

Wayne said, "You know they're the ones killed Lionel?"

Scallen nodded again. "Bullets taken from his body match the three that were found in Nelson Davies's office, they dug out of the wall. And, the same gun was used to kill the girl in the Seven-Eleven, when Richie Nix was trying for you."

Carmen looked up. "Is that what you want to tell us?"

"There's more," Scallen said.

Six P.M., nine miles north in Marine City, Armand found a gas station where it looked like only one man was on duty, a run-down place that offered discount prices. Armand drove Donna's red Honda up to the row of pumps, got out and told the man to fill it up and check the oil and the tires. The gas-station man looked at Armand but didn't say yes sir or okay or you bet or anything, just looked at him and walked over to the car. He wore a hunting cap cocked to one side and was older and bigger around in his dark-brown uniform than Armand, but seemed worn out, not much life in him.

Armand went inside the station, picked up the phone on the desk and dialed a number in Toronto. Standing away from the plate-glass window he watched the gas-station man take the hose from a pump and stick the nozzle into the Honda's filler opening. A voice came on the phone saying this was L and M Distributing and Armand said, "This is the Chief. Let me talk to him." He waited, watching the gas-station man move to the front of the Honda and raise the hood while gasoline continued to pump into the tank.

The son-in-law's voice came on saying, "The fuck're you doing? Where are you?"

Armand said, "You don't want to hear about the old man, 'ey?"

There was a pause before the son-in-law said, his voice lower, "It was in the papers, pictures of both of them."

Armand said, "Both?" And said, "Oh. Yeah, I forgot. Listen--what he said, don't tell me it was in the papers. I'm the only one heard it."

"Where're you at?"

"He told me you're a punk, you not gonna last six months. He told me to tell you that. Listen--but the main thing, I need a car, a clean one with papers. I want you to arrange it."