The Last Detective (21 page)

I wasn't able to say anything else.

Starkey trotted away to intercept Lucas and Alvarez. I climbed out of the van and put everything on the ground. My hands were gloved in blood. The wallet and Ben's shoe and the other things were smeared with it. One of the uniforms stepped back like I was radioactive.

He said, “Dude, you're a mess.”

Lucas stepped around Starkey and steamed to the van. She looked inside, then staggered backwards as if she had been slapped.

She said, “Oh, my God.”

DeNice's wallet contained sixty-two dollars, a Louisiana driver's licence for one Debulon R. DeNice, credit cards, a Fraternal Order of Police membership card, a Louisiana hunting license, and photographs of two teenaged girls, but nothing that indicated how he had found Fallon or had come to be dead in the van. I had also found a set of keys, a handkerchief, and two quarters, but that didn't help me, either.

Richard and Myers pushed past Alvarez, and Richard turned white when he saw the blood.

Lucas said, “Mr. Chenier, wait at your car. Ray, they shouldn't be here. Jesus Christ.”

Richard said, “What's in there? Is it—? Is—?”

“It's DeNice. They left his head in Ben's shoe.”

Richard and Myers looked into the van before Alvarez could stop them, and Richard made a deep gasping sound as if something were caught in his chest.

“Holy God!”

Richard grabbed Myers to steady himself, then turned away, but Myers stared into the van. His jaw flexed and knotted, but the rest of him was still. One of the big flies lit on his cheek, but he didn't seem to feel it.

I said, “They left Ben's shoe. Ben's shoe was in that.”

Richard raked his hands through his hair and turned in a frantic circle. I thought about what Pike had said about men like Fallon doing whatever they did for money. I thought about DeNice in the van with the blood and the gore and Ben's lonely shoe, and I knew that they hadn't done this for me. They had done it for Richard.

“They didn't just kill him, Richard—
THEY CUT OFF HIS HEAD!
”

Richard threw up. Starkey looked worried, but maybe because I was screaming.

“Take it easy, Cole. You're shaking. Breathe deep.”

Richard was bent over and heaving. He looked frantic and sick.

I said, “They hit you for ransom, didn't they? They're jamming you for ransom and you got cute with DeNice.”

Starkey and Lucas looked at me. Richard straightened up, then hunched again.

“You don't know what you're talking about! None of that's true!”

Myers said, “You're talking out your ass, Cole. We're doing everything we can to find these bastards.”

“These guys are using DeNice to scare somebody and they weren't trying to scare me.”

Richard's face blotched with fury.

“FUCK YOU!”

Lucas said, “How can you say that?”

“Fallon's a mercenary. He doesn't do anything unless he's going to make money and Richard has money. They're working the ransom.”

Richard lurched forward like he was going to hit me, but Myers took his arm. Richard trembled as if he was coming apart.

“This is all your fault, you bastard. I'm not going to stand here listening to this while my son is missing. We have to find my boy and you're talking bullshit!”

Richard stumbled to his limo. He leaned against the side of it and threw up again. Myers watched him, but his eyes didn't look so flat any more.

I said, “What's going on, Myers?”

Myers walked away and joined Richard at his car.

I said, “He's lying. They're both lying.”

Starkey watched Myers and Richard, then considered the van.

“We're talking about the man's son here, Cole. If these guys were grinding him for ransom, why wouldn't he tell us?”

“I don't know. He's scared. Look what they did to DeNice.”

“Then why all that stuff with you?”

“I don't know. Maybe it started with me about something else but when Richard got here they saw the money.”

Starkey didn't look convinced.

“And maybe DeNice just got too close to them.”

“DeNice wasn't good enough to find them. They arranged some kind of meet because they're hitting up Richard for ransom, and they used DeNice to make sure he pays.”

It was the only way the pieces fit.

Lucas wet her lips, as if the notion of it disturbed her.

“I'd better speak with Mr. Chenier. I'll speak with Mr. Myers, too.”

Starkey said, “Maybe we can backtrace DeNice's moves from last night to see how he got here. We can talk to that other guy, too, Fontenot. Maybe he knows something.”

Lucas nodded absently, then looked back at the van as if it held secrets we might never know.

“This isn't a simple missing person case anymore.”

Starkey said, “No. If it ever was.”

Lucas looked back at Ben's shoe, then considered me.

“I have some Handiwipes and alcohol in my car. You need to take care of yourself.”

Starkey stayed with Lucas and Alvarez to question Richard and Myers about what they knew. I took the Handiwipes and alcohol to my car. I took off my shirt and shoes, then poured the alcohol over my arms and hands. I got off as much of the blood as I could with the Handiwipes, poured on more alcohol, then used even more Handiwipes. I put on a T-shirt and an old pair of running shoes that I kept behind my front seat, then sat in my car watching the cops. Lucas, Alvarez, and the Parker Center detectives were bunched around Richard and Myers. Richard shouted that they didn't know what they were talking about. Richard was freaking out, but Myers was as calm as a spider waiting at the edge of its web. I stared at the van and saw what they had left in it even though I was a hundred feet away. I would always see it. I would never be able to stop seeing it. They had cut off his head, and the men who did it had Ben.

My cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. It was Pike. I told him about DeNice. I told him about going inside the van. My voice sounded strange, as if it was muted by fog and wind. I kept talking until I heard him telling me to shut up.

He said, “I found someone who can help.”

I started my car and left.

19
            

Ben

E
ric and Mazi treated Ben differently after Mike shot the man. They stopped to pick up In-N-Out burgers on the way back to the house (double meat, double cheese, and an order of onion rings and fries for everybody). When they reached the house, they didn't lock Ben in the room or tie him; they let him sit with them in the empty living room while they ate and played cards, and gave him an Orangina. They were a lot more relaxed. Even Mazi laughed. It was as if killing that man had freed them.

After they finished the burgers, Eric made a face.

“Man, I shoulda passed on the onions.”

Mazi said, “Yes?”

Eric broke wind loudly.

Mazi said, “Ewe body is rotteen.”

They sat in a circle on the floor. Ben snuck glances at the gun that bulged under Eric's shirt, trying to think of a way to get it. All he thought about for most of the afternoon was getting the gun, shooting them, then running to the house across the street. When Mike came back, he would shoot him, too.

When Ben looked up from the gun, he saw Mazi staring at him again. It creeped Ben out, the way he did that.

Mazi said, “He theenkeeng about ewe gun.”

“Big fuckin' deal. He did all right out there. He's a natural-born killer.”

Ben said, “I can shoot.”

Eric raised his eyebrows, glancing up from his cards.

“That's right, you're a coonass. You people hunt before you can walk. What kinda shooting you do?”

“I have a twenty-gauge shotgun and a .22. I've been duck hunting with my uncles and my grandpa. I've shot my mom's pistol.”

“Well, there you go.”

Mazi said, “Waht meenz koonahz?”

“A coonass is a Frenchman from Louisiana.”

Eric liked it that they were talking about guns. He reached under his shirt, and took out the gun. It was big and black, with a checked grip and worn engraving on its side.

“You wanna hold it?”

Mazi said, “Stop eet. Put ewe gun ah-way.”

“Fuck off. What could it hurt?”

Eric turned the pistol from side to side so Ben could see.

“This is a Colt forty-five Model nineteen-eleven. It used to be the standard-issue combat sidearm until the Army went pussy with this nine millimeter shit. A nine holds more bullets, but a nine ain't shit; you don't need more bullets if you hit your target with this.”

Eric waved the gun toward Mazi.

“Take a big nigger like Mazi here, he's strong as a cape buffalo and ten times as mean. You can shoot him all day with a nine and he'll keep comin', but you put one of these in him, you'll knock him flat on his ass. This gun's a stopper.”

Eric waved the pistol back to Ben.

“You wanna hold it?”

Ben said, “Yeah.”

Eric pressed something on the gun and the magazine fell out. He pulled the slide. The gun coughed up a bullet and Eric caught it in the air. He handed the gun to Ben.

Mazi said, “Mike see thees, he keek ewe ass.”

“Mike's off havin' all the fun while we do this, so fuck'm.”

Ben took the gun. It was heavy, and too big for his hands. Eric set the magazine on the floor, showed Ben how to work the safety and the slide, then handed back the gun so that Ben could do it himself. The slide was hard to pull.

Ben held the gun tightly. He pulled back the slide and locked it in place. All he had to do was shove in the magazine, release the slide, and it would be loaded and cocked. The magazine was right by his knee.

Eric took back the gun.

“That's enough.”

Eric jammed in the magazine, jacked the slide, then returned the loose bullet to the magazine. He set the safety, then put the gun on the floor in front of him.

“Fuck all that shit about no round in the chamber. You gotta keep one in the box and good to go. If you need it, you won't have time to dick around.”

They played cards all afternoon as if they did this kind of thing every day. Ben sat close to Eric, thinking about the gun being loaded and cocked with one in the box. All he had to do was release the safety. He rehearsed doing it in his mind. If he got his chance, he wouldn't have time to dick around.

Eric went to the bathroom, but brought the gun with him. When he returned, the gun was back in his pants, but now Eric had clipped it onto his far side. Ben told them that he had to go to the bathroom, too. Mazi brought him. When they came back to the cards, Ben sat on Eric's side near the gun.

Mike didn't return until almost dark.

When he walked in, he said, “Okay, we're set.”

“Ewe find dee plaze?”

“It's Delta, man. Everything's rigged and ready to rock. They won't see it coming.”

Eric said, “Fuck all that, I wanna know if we're getting the money.”

“After they see what's in the van, I'd say yes.”

Eric laughed.

“This is so sweet.”

“I'm gonna grab a shower. Get your shit together. Once we leave here, we won't come back.”

Ben stayed close to Eric. If they worked it the same as before, Mike would leave by himself, and Ben would go with Eric and Mazi. Ben planned to sit as close to Eric's gun as possible. He could make himself throw up so that Eric would turn away, or drop something so that Eric would have to pick it up.
Hey, buddy, your shoe's untied!
A chance would appear, and Ben wouldn't have time to dick around. He would stay with Eric like a second skin.

Ben's mom had told him about something called visualization, which all the best tennis players do to help their game. You imagine yourself smashing a perfect service ace or a killer passing shot, and you see yourself winning. It's a mental rehearsal that helps you do the real thing.

Ben imagined every possible scenario for grabbing Eric's gun: Eric getting into the car ahead of him, Eric getting out, Eric bending over to pick up a quarter, Eric chasing a bug—Ben only needed one brief moment when Eric's back was turned, and Ben would do this: He would lift Eric's shirt with his left hand and grab the gun with his right; he would jump backwards hard as Eric turned, and release the safety; he wouldn't yell
Stop or I'll shoot!
or anything stupid like that; he would pull the trigger. He would keep pulling the trigger until they were dead. Ben visualized himself doing it just like that—POWPOWPOWPOWPOW. It's a stopper.

Suddenly, it was time. Mike came from the back of the house with a short pump-action shotgun and a pair of binoculars.

Mike said, “This is it, ladies. Showtime.”

Eric shoved up from the floor like it couldn't come too soon, pulling Ben with him.

“Fuckin' A. Let's get it on.”

They slung their duffel bags and trooped through the house. Ben was so scared that his ears buzzed, but he stayed close to Eric. A battered blue compact that Ben hadn't seen before was waiting in the garage next to the sedan. Eric steered him toward the compact.

Eric said, “Okay, troop, step lively.”

Behind them, Mike said, “Hang on.”

They stopped.

“The kid's coming with me.”

Mike took Ben's arm and turned him toward the sedan. Eric climbed into Mazi's car. Ben pulled back from Mike.

“I don't want to go with you. I want to go with Eric.”

“Fuck what you want. Get in the car.”

Mike pushed him into the passenger side, then got in behind the wheel with his shotgun. The garage door opened, and Mazi and Eric drove away. Ben watched Eric's pistol go with them, cocked, good to go, with one in the box. It was like seeing a life preserver drift out of reach while he drowned.

Mike started the engine.

“You just sit still and be cool like before, and everything will work out all right.”

Mike put the shotgun on the floor so that it rested between his legs. Ben looked at it. He had a twenty-gauge Ithaca shotgun at home and had once killed a mallard.

Ben stared hard at the shotgun, and then stared at Mike.

“I know how to shoot.”

Mike said, “So do I.”

They backed out of the garage.