Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted (10 page)

D
arla Levine slid
into one of the red vinyl booths at Ray’s Diner and ordered a black coffee. When the waitress brought it, she added three sugars and stirred it lethargically. She watched the ebb and flow of customers, her thoughts dark, but her humour darker still. Popeye was making her life a goddamned misery. She had spent the entire morning at a cat sanctuary forty miles east of Rockville, interviewing some old hippy and her creepy husband about their various rescued fur balls. Her best pumps reeked of cat piss.

She watched the door of the café. Her big chance had come and gone. Over. It was hard enough to get a hot story in a town like Rockville, but one that stretched across the country in such a profound way was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Everything now hinged on Billy, and that was surely a most depressing thought.

She drank her coffee and waited. Shortly after twelve, the door opened and Billy McCann entered, looking every inch the sleazy genius she knew him to be. He wore gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses, crumpled cargo shorts to his knees, what might have once been white towelling socks, and moccasins; he topped this egregious combination with a loud, canary yellow dress shirt. He carried a small brown leather satchel under his arm. Without invitation, he plopped into the booth opposite her and grabbed a serviette to mop the sweat from his face. Various curious heads glanced his way.

‘Shit, hotter than Haiti out there.’

‘You’ve been to Haiti?’

‘Fuck no, why the hell would anyone want to go there?’

He removed his sunglasses and laid them on the table. His eyes looked a little less swollen, although they were still pretty bruised.

‘Hey darlin’, can I get a cup of coffee here?’ he called to the waitress, who was serving people at a different table. She glanced at him in irritation. ‘Be right with you, sir.’

‘None of that fancy, foamy crap; I want a regular cup of regular Joe.’ He turned his attention to Darla. ‘Who pissed in your cornflakes?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The face, what’s eating you?’

‘Work-related anxiety. What have you got?’

He lifted the satchel onto the table and undid the buckles. He removed a slim manila folder and slid it across the surface to her. She reached for it, but he pressed down on it with his thumb.

‘This one is going to cost a little extra.’

‘We already agreed a price.’

‘That was before. None of this information was cheap to come by and you know I don’t like to be out of pocket.’

‘How much out?’

‘You want receipts now, kid? Maybe a neat little ledger of all my expenses?’

Darla’s eyes drifted down to his hand. ‘How much?’

‘Another three.’

‘Are you kidding me?

‘Hell no, I never joke about money.’

‘This is my dime, Billy. Popeye didn’t authorise this.’

‘Come on Darla, you’ve known me how long?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Exactly. So what makes you think I’d wanna stiff you? That’s not business. Trust me, this is good stuff, but it cost me, so now it’s costing you. You wanted a story; well believe me, you’ve got one.’

Darla leaned back in her seat and studied him carefully. Despite their long relationship, Billy McCann was a devious shit whose first and only loyalty was to Billy McCann. Still, what he said made a kind of sense. Even if it hadn’t, there was no point arguing. The truth was she needed a toad like McCann and he needed a regular pay cheque like her. While she mistrusted him on a personal level, she respected his abilities. He was like a ginger aardvark; he could dig through any layer of dirt to uncover any hidden gem. The truth was he couldn’t have cared less what she did or did not think. He was honest that way, she supposed.

‘I’ll have it for you by the end of the day.’

‘Drop it to the office?’

‘Sure.’

She tugged at the folder; eventually he released it and sat back. ‘Hey honey,’ he called the waitress, ‘better give me that coffee to go.’

While he collected his coffee, Darla opened the file. She read down the first page, flipped it over and read some of the way down the second. She jerked her head up. Billy was standing by the counter, watching her.

‘Are you shitting me?’

‘I told you it was good stuff.’

Darla grinned. ‘Good? This is 
dynamite
.’

‘Well then, go blow a story out of the water and quit looking like a wet weekend.’ He tipped an imaginary hat to her, collected his coffee and left.

Darla continued to read, devouring the details of Jessie Conway’s history, all the while thinking about how much she was going to enjoy the look on Popeye’s face when she showed her hand this time.

C
hippy could not remember
a time he had seen Darla Levine smile quite as much as she was smiling right at that moment. It made him nervous.

‘Didn’t I tell you there was something suspicious about her? Didn’t I say her aversion to the press was odd? Nobody turns down that kind of press. 
No one
 is that humble. No one.’

‘I thought Popeye say he want us out of her business.’

‘That, Chippy, was 
before
; before we had this!’

‘I dunno man, he seem pretty mad to me.’

‘Are you kidding me?’

Chippy held up his hands. ‘I’m just saying.’

‘Well don’t say. I don’t want to hear it.’ Darla grabbed her purse from the top drawer of her desk. ‘Go get your camera. We need to hit the road.’

‘I haven’t even ate yet.’

‘Jesus, didn’t you hear a word I said? How can you think about food at a time like this?’

‘’Cause I’m hungry.’

‘We’ll get food on the road. 
Come on
, we’re burning daylight.’

Darla and Chippy left the office and hurried downstairs to the Escalade.

‘Should we tell him where we’re going?’ Chippy asked, pausing by the driver’s door.

‘No.’

‘Aw, man. I’m s’posed to take pictures of the shopping mall for JJ.’

‘Get in, will you. I’ll handle JJ.’

‘He’s gonna be mad.’

‘
Get in
.’

By the time they had reached Lake City, Tennessee, the sun was low in the sky and Chippy, who still hadn’t eaten, was sullen and anxious. His phone had rung countless times until Darla had grabbed it, switched it off and tossed it over her shoulder onto the back seat. They turned off Route 75 and cruised through a well-appointed suburb while Darla checked the GPS for confirmation.

‘Next one over, according to this piece of garbage.’

‘Left or right?’

‘Left.’

They pulled onto a wide, tree-lined street. The homes here were large, but not ostentatious. A number of them were in darkness and shuttered up tight.

‘Quiet,’ Chippy said.

Darla glanced at her notes. ‘Number 148, there! Pull over.’

They parked outside a large clapboard house set back from the sidewalk by a square of lawn surrounded by neatly maintained bushes. Lights glowed from deep within the house and a Toyota sat parked in the driveway behind a yellow Volkswagen Beetle.

‘Wait here,’ Darla said.

‘Yes sir,’ Chippy said, as his stomach rumbled in complaint.

Darla climbed out, checked her hair in the wing mirror and approached the house. She rang the doorbell and heard a dog barking somewhere out back in response. After a minute, a tubby teenager wearing shorts and a tank top opened the door and peered out.

‘Yeah?’

‘Good evening,’ Darla said, smiling. ‘My name is Darla Levine and I’m a reporter with 
The Rockville Gazette
. I’m investigating a person who may have lived at this address at some point. I wonder are either of your parents home?’

The girl looked past her to the street. ‘Is this, like, a joke? Did Mark put you up to this? ’Cause if he did you can tell him it’s not freaking funny.’

Darla kept her smile in place as she removed a card from her purse and passed it over. The girl read it, popped a gum bubble and said, ‘huh’. She turned her head and bellowed, ‘
Dad!
’

Within seconds a large man with hair to his shoulders, wearing jeans and a baggy white shirt, appeared at the door. He did a double take when he saw Darla and she knew immediately he would give her any information she required. It turned out all she needed to know was the name of the old lady who lived down the street.

‘Really, Mr Blench, I sure do so appreciate you taking the time from your busy evening to make introductions,’ Darla said, laying it on thick as she hurried down the street to the house. ‘But it’s really not necessary to accompany me.’

‘Oh it’s no trouble, Miss Levine. Call me Kevin.’

Even by streetlight Darla could tell he was blushing. ‘Are you sure Miss Millar will remember the Daltons?’

‘Oh sure, Miss Millar’s near eighty now, but she’s still as sharp as a tack.’

They stopped outside a house at the end of the road. It was smaller than the others and in need of some repair. Together, Darla and Kevin climbed the creaking wooden steps to the porch. Mr Blench rapped on the door, hard.

‘She’s a little hard of hearing,’ he said, by way of explanation to a question Darla had not asked. They waited. Crickets chirped. Darla tried to ignore the smell of rising damp, or Kevin Blench, whichever it was.

‘Must be exciting being a reporter.’

‘Mmm.’

‘I imagine you get to interview all sorts of famous people.’

‘I sure do.’

‘Who’s the most famous person you ever interviewed.’

‘George Clooney,’ Darla lied.

‘The actor?’

No, the construction worker
, Darla thought, wondering why it was that the gods seem to conspire against her at every turn. She reached out and knocked the door again, harder than Kevin had.

‘State your business,’ an aged voice said. ‘I have a loaded gun and I am not afraid to use it.’

‘Miss Millar, it’s Kevin. From 148?’

‘I know which house you live in, Kevin. I am old, not dumb.’

Kevin glanced at Darla and flushed. ‘Ma’am, I’ve got someone here who would like to have a word with you if you have the time.’

Darla heard a number of bolts slide back. Then a very small old lady carrying a very large old gun looked out.

‘Well, what do you know,’ she said, looking Darla up and down. ‘You finally took my advice, Kevin. You bought yourself one of them mail-order brides.’

Yep, Darla thought in a surly fashion, at every turn.

C
aleb parked
the Taurus a little way down the street from Barbara Cross’s home and waited patiently until dusk set in. If he guessed her habits correctly, he figured he would not have long to wait. Sure enough, shortly before ten, Barbara Cross left her townhouse, dolled-up to the nines, and began to walk east.

Caleb got out of the car, crossed the street and trailed her for two blocks to a small, funky looking bar. He waited for a few minutes then entered after her. He eased his way past a number of people and found a seat at the bar. It was crowded; the patrons were young and hip, mostly students from the local college.

Caleb ordered a beer and watched Barbara do the rounds, flitting from one group of people to another, steadily drinking as she did so. She was animated, laughing loudly and gesticulating, but Caleb could sense her desperation from across the room. She was downing vodka – straight with a twist of lime. She was drinking a lot of it.

The fifth time she came to the bar to order a drink, he made his move.

‘Excuse me, ma’am.’

She glanced at him, sized him up and disregarded him in seconds.

‘Yeah?’

‘Can you give me the time?’

‘Sure, it’s …’ she squinted at her watch, ‘just gone eleven.’

‘Oh, okay, thanks anyway,’ Caleb sighed and shook his head. ‘I should have known this would happen.’

She leaned her arms on the bar and looked at him quizzically.

‘I’ve been stood up.’ He gave a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘It happens.’

‘That is does.’

‘Guess some people think it’s okay to treat folk like dirt.’

That was all it took to get her to sit by him and start talking. Of course, it helped that he had known what buttons to push. But even without the firsthand knowledge, Barbara Cross was ridiculously easy to manipulate. By the time she had put away another four vodkas she was as pliable as wet clay.

The next part was trickier. Caleb needed to leave the bar alone in case anyone asked questions later on. He waited until she went to the toilet, then gathered up his things and signalled to the barman.

‘For my tab,’ Caleb said, tossing some notes on the counter.

‘What about your date?’

‘Not my scene, man.’

The barman shrugged. Caleb stood up and left quickly. He waited in the doorway of a store front. As he had anticipated, she left the bar soon after him, weaving down the street heading in the direction of her house. He caught up to her one block over.

‘Hey, wait up!’

She turned towards the shout and he could see from the mascara tracks on her face she had been crying.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I thought you were different. Guess…’ she hiccupped into the back of her hand, ‘…guess I was wrong.’

‘I’m real sorry I had to leave that way. But when I went to order more drinks I saw I’d left my wallet in the car and had to go get it. When I got back the barman said you’d paid your tab and hightailed it. Why didn’t you wait?’ He raised his hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I thought we were having a good time.’

Barbara frowned and squinted up at him. ‘You told him you’d be back?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘He didn’t say that. He said you’d split.’

‘If I’d split I wouldn’t have had to run all this way to catch you up.’

‘Oh.’ She looked confused. ‘You’re not lying, are you?’

‘I don’t lie.’

She smiled a little uncertainly. ‘Do you want to have that drink? My place is real close by.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Come on.’

She linked his arm and Caleb wondered idly what is was about Category B people like Barbara and Art. Why was their value on life so low that they were eager to relinquish it freely? He thought of them, and the many like them, drifting through life with a big bullseye painted on their backs. If they were lucky, the predator was not looking as they drifted by. If not … well, if not there were people like him.