Requite (16 page)

Tom picked up the pace of his walk and started to unfold the metal hangers. With no one home, his entry would be a lot easier.

After a left turn on Birdie Court, Tom walked to the last house of the cul-de-sac. The closest neighbors were a half-block back up the street. Tom wasn’t concerned about noise. The brick fence and trees along the edge of the property would hide the entry into Casey’s house if someone looked his way.

No cars were parked in the driveway. No lights were on inside of the house. The only light breaking up the darkness came from the window of the garage. Tom walked over and looked in. The light came from the garage door opener. The garage was empty aside from a classic Chevy that sat on jack stands.

He searched the ground for a rock, stick or anything to jam into the top of the garage door. He could find nothing in the dark. The pocket knife he carried would have to do. Tom went to the single, separate garage door of Casey’s three car garage. He jammed the blade into the top center between the door and the house. The knife was twisted and shoved it in further. The door pushed in from the top creating an opening the width of the blade. Tom bent hooks in the end of the straightened wire hangers and fished them through the gap. In seconds, the hooks found the release latch for the garage door. Tom pulled. The door moved as it came off the track. He lifted it open and allowed himself in. The door was closed and re-latched behind him. He didn’t want the judge to have the slightest clue what awaited him when he got home. Tom headed toward the Chevy.

We hit the front door of Lefty’s a few minutes later. There were a handful of people at the bar and a couple playing pool. Callie went to the bar to say hello and grab us a couple of drinks. I headed to the dartboard, pulled the group of darts out that were already in the board and slid a five into the machine. She sat our beers on the closest table.

“Cricket or 301?” I asked.

“What are those?”

I smiled. “You’re in trouble.”

I clicked Cricket and handed her the darts. “You’re up first.”

“Do you want to bet?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I’d feel like I was taking advantage of you.”

“We should bet.”

“You’ve never even heard of the game.”

“Doesn’t matter. How about this? If I win you come shopping with me Sunday. All day.”

“That sounds awful. Fine, two can play at that. If I win, you come to a gun show with me instead.”

She squinted. “Gun show?”

“That’s the bet.”

She stepped to the line taped to the floor.

I slid myself up onto a chair at our table. “Do you want to know how to play?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“OK.”

She fired the three darts off hitting a triple twenty, triple eighteen and triple seventeen. She turned and smiled. “Was that good?”

Damn, she was gaming me.

I took the darts and stepped to the line. I threw—hitting a one, twenty and an eighteen.

She took her second turn. She cocked her head as she stood at the line thinking about something. Callie took her stance and threw—three triple nineteens. She opened the number and scored a hundred and fourteen points.

I tossed my hands up. “Oh, come on!”

She turned back to me. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You’re screwing with me aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Babe.”

I took the darts, landed two bullseyes and a fourteen. I pulled the darts from the board and handed them to her.

She stepped to the line and threw a hat trick. She laughed and turned toward me. “OK, I may have played a little when I was younger.”

“You don’t say?”

“Hey, I seem to remember you doing this exact same thing to me in pool.”

I smiled. She had a point. I pretended like I didn’t know what I was doing until we upped the wager three times.

Callie wrapped her arms around my neck. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you go shopping with me. How about a back rub instead?”

A bet is a bet. This game just started, don’t get too cocky. You want to just add a back rub to the original wager?”

She laughed. “Definitely. My back has been stiff all day.”

I smirked.

There was no way she could keep that pace up.

I walked to the dartboard and pulled the darts for my turn. I put my toe on the stripe and threw.

The game only lasted a few more minutes—calling it a landslide victory would have been an understatement. She destroyed me. It was like a child playing a professional. I never had a chance. I figured she’d prod at me and spend the rest of the night rubbing it in, but she didn’t. She added one or two little pokes and took her triumph with grace. I think she was worried about my pride.

We had a few more beers and left. I looked through the park at the lit up police station as we passed. The two hours we were at the bar did ease my mind a little, but I wanted to call Hank when we got back to my condo and take his temperature on something. Callie rested her head on my arm as we walked.

I cracked the door of my condo and waited for Butch. He blasted through the opening as soon as the door moved. He’d been waiting. Instead of bolting down the hall to the neighbors, he jumped into Callie’s arms.

She caught him and rubbed his head. “Did you miss me, Butchy?”

“Butchy?” I asked.

Callie smiled.

I looked at him in her arms. “Traitor.”

We headed inside and closed the door.

“Hey, I need to give Hank a ring quick.”

“That’s fine, Babe. I’m going to go get ready.”

“For what?”

She walked over and sat Butch down on the couch. Callie smiled and stretched her back. “Don’t you owe me something?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She went to the bedroom.

I pulled up a stool at the breakfast bar and pulled out my phone. It was a quarter to eleven. I hoped Hank wasn’t asleep. I dialed him up.

It rang eight or nine times before he answered.

“Kane. What’s up?”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. Karen and I just got back. Went out to eat and went dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Yeah, we’re taking a Salsa class over at the arts center.”

“Geez, Hank. If you didn’t want me to bust your balls about that kind of stuff, you shouldn’t keep serving it to me on a silver platter.”

“Whatever. What’s up?”

“Something has been bugging me. I wanted to run it past you.”

“Shoot.”

“The Miller’s bank account. They were getting around ten grand a month right?”

“Right.”

“Who, that’s involved with this case, has that kind of money?”

“The judge.”

“Exactly. That, along with him carrying a gun, just isn’t sitting right.”

“Well, just because he’s wealthy doesn’t mean anything. The gun is odd. Did you look to see if he had a concealed carry permit?”

I tapped my fingers on the granite of the breakfast bar. “No. Cap wanted to deal with it. Even if he did, how many people have you encountered, who have a permit, stuff a gun in their waistline?”

“None.”

“Right.”

“OK. So what does your gut tell you? Think there is something more there?”

“I think we need to find out one way or the other.”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have another round of questioning with him.”

“Alright. We’ll pitch it to Bostok in the morning and see what he says.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll be in by eight.”

“See you then.” Hank hung up.

I slid off the stool and headed for the bedroom. The light was off. A candle flickered on the far nightstand. Callie’s bare body was half under the sheets. Her arms were folded under the pillow that her head rested upon. She faced me.

“Ready?” she asked.

It had been hours. Tom went room to room in the house wielding the tire iron he got from the trunk of the classic Chevy Nova in the garage. The house was empty. He sat on the couch with the tire iron on his lap. The lights were off. From his position he could see out of the blinds to the driveway. He’d be able to see lights coming down the street. He waited. An hour passed.

Lights up the block caught his attention. Tom retreated from the couch to the edge of the room. As he leaned against the wall, he caught the flash of headlights through the blinds. Tom crouched and made his way to the front window of the living room. The sport utility pulled up the driveway. As he stared out, he heard the garage door open.

Tom raced through the living room and kitchen. Around the corner was the laundry room and the door leading out to the garage. He stood, back against the wall, behind the door waiting for Casey to enter. He watched the door’s knob, waiting for the slightest flicker of movement. As the knob began to turn, Tom raised the tire iron. The judge walked, his back faced Tom. The judge flipped the switch on the wall to turn on the light. As soon as the door closed Tom took a step and swung. The tire iron found its mark at the back of Casey’s skull. The judge sprawled face first to the floor. He rolled over. Casey’s eyes locked on Tom, he pulled something from behind his back.

When Tom noticed what it was he tried to dive out of the way. The judge fired a flurry of shots. One caught Tom in the left shoulder. The following shots found the wall of the laundry room. Tom dropped the tire iron as he hit the wall. His eyes focused on the judge pointing the revolver at his head. Tom smiled.

The judge squeezed the trigger.
Click
. Casey pulled the trigger three more times. C
lick, click, click
.

Tom leaned against the washing machine. He held his left shoulder where the bullet entered and knelt down to pick up the tire iron. The judge tossed the gun on the floor beside him and scooted himself against the wall.

Tom towered over Casey. His knuckles were white from gripping the weapon.

“Tell me why.”

The judge didn’t speak.

Tom paced the laundry room back and forth. Casey wasn’t talking. He went to the judge and placed the tire iron under his chin. “Tell me why!”

The judge remained quiet. He would give Tom nothing.

The tire iron was pulled back and swung into the side of Casey’s face. It connected with his jaw. Tom felt bone and teeth shatter through the metal of the weapon. Blood spattered the wall.

Tom pointed the weapon at him. “Tell me why! My wife was still alive you piece of shit! She could have been saved!”

Judge Casey’s crushed jaw hung open to the side. He made noises as if he was trying to speak. Blood ran from his mouth onto his shirt. Tom wouldn’t get his answer.

Tom swung again, and connected with Casey’s ear. It was a fatal blow.

“She was pregnant!”

Tom swung again—this time a blow to the top of Casey’s skull. His head left a mark of blood against the cream colored wall. His body collapsed to a laying position.

With his right hand, Tom pulled the body through the house to the middle of the living room. He wanted the judge to be found before he decomposed and his message was no longer legible. The pocket knife was flicked open. The blade dug Tom’s last name into the judge’s battered head. He stood and opened the blinds for the window next to the front door. Anyone who looked into the house would spot the Casey’s body.

Tom made his way to the bathroom to look at his shoulder. He flipped on the light and pulled off his sweatshirt and undershirt. Blood covered his entire left arm. He tried to move it up and down to determine if the bullet damaged bone or just passed through the meat. Tom winced from the pain of each movement.

“It looks like it still works.”

Tom turned his body to look over his shoulder in the mirror. The bullet had passed through. He ran his hand across his shoulder to the back. The bullet passed through meat without hitting bone. Blood pumped down his arm. He couldn’t go to the hospital. He needed to take care of it himself. The first thing he had to do was control the bleeding. He dug through the cabinets of the bathroom looking for anything of use. There was nothing. Tom took the belt from his waist and cinched it around his shoulder. His other hand held it tight. He walked from the bathroom to the kitchen. Drawer after drawer was checked. Tom came up empty. The only thing he found worthwhile was a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard. Tom unscrewed the cap and filled his mouth with a huge swig. He continued on to the garage, carrying the bottle along with. As soon as he turned on the light he found what he needed. A fishing tackle box sat on the shelf. Next to it, a roll of duct tape. He grabbed them both and walked back inside to the bathroom. A single hook lay amongst the scattered fishing lures. He picked up some fishing line and tied on the hook using a clinch knot. The belt from around his shoulder dropped to the floor. A splash of whiskey went over the wound and the hook. Tom took another huge drink—readying himself for what was to come.

He plunged the hook into his flesh. Tom squirmed in pain each time he passed the hook through the skin of his shoulder. It took him almost thirty minutes to close the holes on each side. Tom splashed whiskey over his shoulder and inspected his work. It looked as if it would hold.

He grabbed a washcloth from the rack in the bathroom and draped it over his shoulder. The duct tape was used to secure it.

He left his bloody undershirt and sweatshirt on the floor of the bathroom. Whiskey in hand, he walked up the stairs to the master bedroom in search of clean clothes to wear. The walls leading up the stairs were covered in photos of the judge and Jessica. The older photos of the family had a woman as well—Jessica’s mother maybe. Tom flipped each photo off the wall as he walked up. They shattered on the marble stairs. He found the master bedroom at the back of the second level hallway. The room was almost large enough fit Tom’s old house inside. The king size bed was elevated a foot from the floor. Glass doors led to a walk out deck overlooking the pool. Tom brought the whiskey bottle to his lips for another drink.

Inside the bedroom, past the sitting area, he made a left toward the master bathroom—finding two walk in closets. He flipped on the light switch and entered the one on his left. Endless shirts, jackets and suits lined racks on both walls.