The Marble Kite (15 page)

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Authors: David Daniel

BOOK: The Marble Kite
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One of the maxims I'd heard Phoebe use—Lincoln this time—was that a lie stands on one leg, the truth on two. There seemed to be a lot of wobbling going on, and, if not outright lies, at least half-truths that had me scratching my head in confusion. Like why was Frank Droney overseeing the case? Was it really about political careers? Had Flora Nuñez loved Troy Pepper or feared him? Was there another man in her life? Was Pepper a killer or simply a man incapable of convincing anyone otherwise? I hadn't forgotten what Ms. Parigian had said about the quiet ones. I set the questions aside and drove over to All Saints Hospital. Roland Cote was walking across the visitors' lot as I was getting out of the car. Seeing me, he came my way, frowning. “What are you doing here, Rasmussen?”
“My bank account's on life support. I visit when I can.” I nodded toward the entrance. “I'm going to try to visit Warren Sonders. You heard he landed here?”
“I was just up there. He blew out an ulcer. Stress'll do that. He should've just gotten out of town and left Pepper to face his punishment alone.”
I wasn't going to mix it up with him, but as I started past, I thought of something. “I saw Patrolman Duross at the victim's funeral earlier.
Was he hoping the real killer would return to the scene of the crime?”
Like any cop, Cote was much happier asking questions than answering them, and adept at bleeding the emotion out of his reactions. He showed nothing.
“Then it must've been for the purest of reasons—like you coming over to wish Sonders well.”
He gave it a quarter inch of grin.
 
 
I bought some flowers in the lobby shop and took an elevator upstairs. A male nurse at the nurses' station had me identify myself, then called down to intensive care and directed me there. A middle-aged woman with the manner of friendly reassurance you wanted in a place like that met me. She had a little glass-enclosed office with views of the patient rooms. “He's resting comfortably now,” she said in response to my question. “We've got him on antibiotics and some other things.”
“What's the outlook?”
“It's a peptic ulcer that perforated. With abdominal bleeding, we don't take any chances, but at least it didn't bleed into the peritoneum. That would be real serious. For now, he's stable and his signs are good. He's known of it for some time, I think, but he hasn't been very careful about treating it. He reminds me of someone in the comic strips. You know, stubborn but likable.”
“Popeye?”
“Crankshaft. You know that one? You can go in and sit if you like. If he wants water, it's okay for him to have it.”
With the blinds drawn, the room was dim and cool. Sonders lay asleep, tethered with IV tubes and sensor wires. In repose, his face was a wrinkled, half-deflated balloon. He had lost his color since I'd seen him last; there was little contrast between his hair and his skin and the pillowcase. I set the flowers on the windowsill and moved across the rubber tile on soft feet and took a chair by the bed. Pop didn't stir except for the rise and fall of his breathing. In the semidarkness, with the delicate sounds of the machinery, I felt as if I were on vigil in a submarine. I half-closed my eyes, settling into the rhythms of the place.
At the sounds of movement I looked up. Pop was awake, gazing at
me with an odd, unfocused gaze. As I stirred, he tried to pull away, but there wasn't anyplace for him to go. “So you're with them?” he croaked. He sounded as if someone had dumped a spade full of dirt into his throat. I got out of the chair and poured a cup of water from a plastic pitcher and offered it, but he ignored it and went on staring at me peculiarly. “You're one of 'em, aren't you?”
“Come again?”
“A cop, right? You're a cop.”
I realized he was dazed, possibly from whatever they were pumping into him. “Drink this.” He took the flex-straw between his dried lips and sipped. I told him who I was and why I was there. Had to tell him more than once. He finally seemed to get it and relaxed a little, and I did, too. “How are you feeling, old timer?”
“More rested than I have in weeks.”
“Good.”
“I'm going to see if I can get them to move one of these beds into my motor home.”
“I think the deal is if you stay in the bed, you've got to do it here.”
He grunted. “That bull working the murder case—whatshisname?”
“Cote. I saw him. What did he want?”
“Probably thought he'd grill me one more time before I took the last chariot to glory.”
I drew the chair closer to the bed. “It's not like that, though, right?”
“Him with the questions?”
“The other part.”
“An old sinner like me? I've got to hang on for spite. Actually, I was half asleep, and I think Cote gave up any idea I'd have answers. Sorry I didn't recognize you for a minute there.” He arched his bushy eyebrows. “You here to grill me, too?”
“Only if you're up to it.”
He rolled his head sideways on the pillow and sighed. But some of his color had returned. “Feature it, all these years working my butt to the bone, I finally get a break from the grind by blowing a gut gasket. How is everyone?”
“Concerned about you.”
“Mutual. I don't suppose anyone told you when they're gonna spring me?”
“I'm not in that loop. Nicole and Moses are walking point there.”
“Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to be here if that's what the docs say I need. But I prefer my own machines and their big winking lights to these contraptions.
That's
what keeps me going, not all these tubes and wires and …” He trailed off. “Why
are
you here?”
I told him I'd been to Flora Nuñez's funeral. His eyes locked on mine with some of their familiar force for a moment before he sank back into his pillows with a grimace. “I've thought about her. I had Nicole send flowers. That can't have been much fun for you. Any more than seeing Troy Pepper in the joint. He still there?”
“Nothing's changed, but right now you don't need to worry about any of it.”
“I'm determined as ever. We run now, they're right about us. And Pepper is standing under the gallows, as good as hanged.”
I didn't point out to him that Massachusetts didn't have a death penalty. There was an electric chair around somewhere, but no one had fired it up in close to sixty years as far as I knew. Of course, no one had died of rabies in that state in that long, either, but it didn't keep people from worrying about strange-acting skunks and raccoons. Or clowns, for that matter. “About the chat,” I said, “maybe it can keep for another time.”
“No. Now.”
Insisting that he make it brief, I asked him what he could tell me about Ray Embry. Pop shut his eyes and gave his gray-whiskered mouth a pucker. Words came slowly, and I got it that Embry had once been with a circus, one of the biggest, and had traveled with them all over the country and Canada. “Then he got involved with a young woman who ran off from home to travel with him. Well, someone worked up some sort of Mann Act rap against him. It never went nowhere, but it must've shook up the management, or wised them up, because he was out of a job the next season. When I met him, a few years later, he was a department store Santa Claus. Funny thing was, he used to be a damn good clown, had trained under some of the best. Good juggler, too. He did this bit with half a dozen flaming torches. He still practices it sometimes. Anyways, I hired him.”
“So what ax is he grinding?”
He craned a questioning look my way. I hadn't gotten into my plans to meet with the crew that night. Pop said, “He's like a ballplayer who's sent down from the majors. Attitude out to here. When he came to work with us, he acted like he should run the whole shootin' match. He's smart enough. Hell, I was ready to make him a manager, but he … he rubs people wrong. Somewhere in there, though, is a decent guy. Or was once. But he's meaned up over the years.”
The nurse came in and saw her patient was awake. “How are we doing this afternoon?” she crooned.
His face crinkled into crabby lines. “We?”
“Good,” she said. She checked the IV drip and gave him some pills to swallow, which he did obediently. When she'd gone, I told him I was going to let him get some sleep. My other questions could wait.
As I moved to the door, he said, “Thanks for the flowers.”
I nodded.
“And sorry for that crack about you being a cop.”
“You're welcome. You should hear what the cops call me. Rest.”
My cell phone rang ten minutes later. “Are you sitting down?” Ed St. Onge asked.
“I better be. I'm doing forty on the VFW”
“I just got the ballistics back on your exterior decorator. It's the same nine-millimeter that was used in a drive-by in the Acre in June. No one killed that time, but not for lack of trying. We think it was tied to one of the bangers we're interested in.”
“That Vanthan character you asked me about?”
“Vanthan Sok. He runs around with a pair of nickel-finish SIG-Sauers, like some cowboy, and loves to light them up. You see any connection to what you're working on?”
“I can't see one.”
“Neither can I. Well, I thought you'd like to know, another name to add to your fan club. But seriously, if he crosses your path, don't go up against him.”
“Part of that's up to him.”
“I'm not kidding, Raz. He's a stone killer. You see him, you dime him. The sooner we take him off the street, the easier I'll breathe.”
“Eyewitnesses place my client and the victim at the carnival on Saturday afternoon and evening, and again on Sunday morning, and report them having an argument. Pepper and the victim have a past. And he did time in a military stockade,” Fred Meecham said, acknowledging me with a nod.
I picked it up. “When they were in New Jersey, Flora Nuñez had an abortion, apparently, and told Pepper after the fact. He got angry and upset. He admits it. That's why she left and why she applied for the restraining order once she got here.”
Meecham was rubbing at a spot on the arm of his desk chair. “That's going to be a tough hurdle to get over,” he said.
“He told me he'd never have hurt her.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I believe he means it. Which isn't the same thing.”
“No, and not a distinction that's likely to be worth much in court.”
Courtney glanced up from taking notes on a legal pad. “Don't sell your feelings short, Alex. I think they're important to how you work.” I gave her a tired grin.
“All right,” Meecham resumed, “for the sake of argument, let's suppose
a different killer. If someone else did it and planned it to coincide with Troy Pepper's being in town, it raises questions. Like how did the killer know Pepper was in Lowell? Or was it just an opportunity that had presented itself? ‘Let's blame it on the former boyfriend? Tie him up for the murder.' No—it's a stretch, and no jury is going to buy it. Not unless we can come up with an identity for this phantom killer and establish a clear MOM.”
Courtney frowned. “A what?”
“Motive, opportunity, and means,” said Meecham.
Here the latter two were mostly clear, but motive wasn't. The police theory was that the pair had some past history and had acted on that—that Pepper had drawn Flora Nuñez to the carnival and killed her. As Meecham was growing inclined to argue, it had not been a premeditated act; the woman had gone there, and while she was there, something—which was still unclear—had set him off, and in a fit of anger he'd strangled her.
I thought about bringing up Vanthan Sok, the badass St. Onge had warned me about, and tossing him into the mix. Would someone have paid him to shake me up? To scare me off? What for? Why not just shoot me? And what did any of it have to do with Flora Nuñez's murder? Nothing as far as I could see, and we had enough of nothing to deal with without it. The one thing I did bring up was what the young hunters had told me about seeing a green car, possibly a Mitsubishi, on the day of the murder, in the woods behind the meadow where the body had been found. Flora Nuñez drove a green Mitsubishi. Could someone have used it to drive her, perhaps already dead, from somewhere else to dump her and then park the car where it was later found? We kicked that around inconclusively for a while and then quit. Flapping your gums only got you so far; then you had to lay down some feet.
Nicole and Moses Maxwell were assembling the carnival crew in one corner of the Venice Hotel lobby when I arrived shortly before nine o'clock. Seeing me, Nicole hurried over with greetings. Pop had told her of my hospital visit, and she plied me with questions about what I thought of his progress, as though somehow my opinions mattered. I told her that the nurse had said she thought he was on the mend. Nicole seemed relieved.
“How's your other patient doing?” I asked. “Speedo.”
“He's fine. But his real name is Mr. Earl.” She gave a delighted grin, and I had to laugh. “It's an old song, right? I asked him.” She gripped Moses Maxwell's arm as he joined us.
“Mr. Maxwell knows his stuff.”
The jazzman smiled. “That's a myth I have perpetuated by sprinkling my talk with crossword trivia, and otherwise lyin' my fool head off. How are you, Mr. Rasmussen?” We shook hands. I was conscious of his bad fingers and adjusted my grip accordingly. “Thank you for booking this hotel for us,” he said. He wasn't being facetious.
“It isn't much.”
“If the beds sleep good, I'm satisfied. You ready to mingle with the restless natives?”
I followed them over to the corner of the lobby as people drifted in from smoking outside, and soon about twenty-five people were assembled in couches and overstuffed chairs, others standing nearby. Moses opened the meeting with an update on Pop Sonders's condition and a report on where things stood with the city on letting the carnival operate; then he opened the floor to discussion.
Penny Bergfors spoke up. “Bad enough we cain't work,” she drawled, “but without Pop, I got to wonder how long the show can survive.”
“Hold on.” Ray Embry shouldered forward. “That's the trouble with this whole damned outfit. Pop's been living in the past. High time we got our act together, get into the present.”
“What kind of present you got in mind, Ray?” Tito Alvarez asked from a wing chair in the corner.
“I say we get moving again, for one thing. Screw this fool city! Sitting around here waiting for something to happen … This is a road show. It's time we got back on the road.”
There were murmurs of agreement and dissent. I watched Moses Maxwell, trying to read the mood through him. He stood listening, pinching at his little soul patch, not overreacting to the hubbub. Finally he said quietly, “What about Troy Pepper?”
“What about him?” Embry challenged. “He's got to take his own chances. We're not doing him any good sitting here. Or ourselves, either.”
“The dude is right,” said a lanky roustabout with tattoos covering both his arms. “If Pepper was level in the first place, maybe Pop never would've hired him and none of this would've happened.”
“Whoa, whoa.” Penny held up her hands. “Let's get real, folks. Even if we wanted to go, how can we with Pop in the hospital? He's our helmsman … our anchor.”
The implications of the metaphor were a little too frightening to work through, but I knew what she meant. She was confused and uncertain; they all were.
“Then maybe we need to put someone else in charge,” Embry said.
“The show ain't about any one person.”
“What? Replace Pop?” Nicole looked aghast.
“No one's irreplaceable. Besides, I don't think he's been level with us, either.”
“That's a dirty filthy lie!” Nicole cried.
“Is it?” Embry's grin was like a joke only he knew the punch line to.
“Come on, girl. Did Sonders ever tell you about the offer he got from an outfit that wanted to buy him out? He ever tell any of you?”
Tito Alvarez pushed up from the chair, his ponytail swaying. “The hell you sayin', man?”
“This outfit wanted to invest some money in the show. Wanted to upgrade it.”
I caught Moses Maxwell's eye as he stepped forward, one hand raised in a calming gesture. “I can tell you all about that, and put your minds to rest.” His hand looked like a spider with broken legs. “First place, it wasn't no genuine offer—just mostly talk. And the people talkin' wanted to buy the show for chicken feed. If that deal went down, a lot of us would've been out of a job long since.”
“That what Sonders told you?” said Embry.
“It's what I seen and heard for myself.”
“
You'd
be out of a job, maybe. What are you doing here anyway, Moses? I mean, you were a musician, right? A piano man. What've you got to do with a carnival? Want to tell us that? I never figured that one out.” The words came rapidly, like coal clattering down a chute.
Maxwell maintained his dignity, but he was shaken. He licked his lips but said nothing. No one else spoke up, either. Perceiving his advantage, Embry pressed. “Sonders has got reasons why he doesn't tell us things. Sure, he talks that all-for-one, one-for-all shit, but I think that's all it is is talk. I mean, hell, bottom line, it's his show. He's going to do what's best for
him.
” Nicole fidgeted and looked lost, unable to keep up with the caustic flow of words. “Truth is, I don't think he's been level with us at all.”
I cleared my throat. “Who here is?” I said.
People turned to where I'd been standing by the wall, out of the way. Embry looked flummoxed for a moment, but he recovered fast. “What's any of this got to do with you, pal?”
I saw the question rise on the faces of some of the other people, too. I stepped forward. “Who here is level?” I said again.
“What are you, crazy? Everyone here is,” Embry cried.
“Completely level? Right out front about everything?” It bought a
silence. To plug it before it grew too loud, I said, “Okay, form a line over there.” I pointed. “Every one of you who doesn't have some secret, something to hide, that he'd rather not share with anyone, step over there. Come on, I'll go first.”
I stood right where I was.
The know-it-all, Embry, marched over. He was a tall man, big in a way that spoke of power underneath the heaviness. For a sticky second, I thought he intended to attack me, but he stopped, laced his arms across his chest, and turned to the others. “Let's go. Show him.”
In the stillness, the old hotel went on with its life: A desk phone rang, music tinkled faintly from the bar, an elevator hummed.
Penny Bergfors laughed. “Ray, you're a finer person than I had y'all figured for. Yes, indeed.”
Embry's face blazed crimson right up to his bare scalp. “Don't let this two-bit rent-a-cop push us around.” But whatever momentum he had faltered; although there was some muttering in the group, no one else moved to join him. Embry searched their faces. “Alvarez,” he said. “Come on.”
His badgering flickered on for a time, the way a fire will after the fuel source has burned low, but no one joined him, and soon Moses Maxwell and Penny, and even silent Red Fogarty, prevailed on their coworkers to forgo any big decisions for now. Moses promised to keep them updated on Pop Sonders's condition and got me to agree to speak with Fred Meecham about the city's cease-operations order. “Now,” Moses said, “it's late. We'll talk again when we're not all running on empty. If anyone's of a mind to have a nightcap, I'll buy.”
About half the crew took him up on the offer. I joined him and Nicole and we repaired to the hotel bar, but I imagined that I could feel Embry's angry eyes drilling me the whole way.
 
 
“I betcha this bar hasn't moved this much juice since Repeal,” Moses Maxwell said over a glass of Hennessy five-star. “What do you think, Mr. Rasmussen?”
“It probably moved more
before
Repeal,” I said.
We were standing by the door with our glasses—brandy for
Maxwell, bourbon for me. The carnies were hunkered around tables and the ancient oak bar, keeping a bartender busy with drink orders. The tensions of earlier hadn't been resolved, but for now they seemed to have been set aside. Maybe it was just the prospect of a hotel bed for a change, or the idea that Pop Sonders was going to be okay. I saw Nicole table-hopping, a Shirley Temple in hand, and I realized that everyone liked her and she them. Her function was more complex than I'd first imagined. She was the social glue of the group, a tuning fork that brought cadence, a softener of some of the rough edges of these people. Nicole would have tossed a maraschino cherry at me if I'd tried to say this, but it was there. These people were a family; this fact had been lost on me till now. Although there almost certainly was a hierarchy, with its own pecking order, it wasn't obvious. Men and women seemed to be equals, as did young and old, and there was energy here that it felt good to be near. Nicole caught my eye and waved. I smiled back.
Moses Maxwell was saying, “There's always a little …
contretemps
. Just like in my days playing music. We'd be in some town—shoot, this is fancy compared to most—and hear a train goin' by, you know, hootin' out there in the night and, like as not, one of us would say, ‘I believe I hear the old Lackawanna.' And we'd laugh. That's what it is, too, y'know? It's about wanting something bad enough you're willing to deal with what you got to deal with. I guess Pop's dream is that little six-letter word for a just-right society.”
“Utopia?”
He chuckled. “I think he knows there ain't really no way you can do it in the big world, but maybe, if you're lucky, you can make it turn out in a small way. Only it's hard work. When you're just a sideman, you get spared some of that. But when you're the headman … whew. I know that from when I had my band.”
“But you made some good music,” I said.
“Could've made more. We had a contract to record some more, but my fingers didn't work so good then. I urged the others to carry on, said finding a piano player wouldn't be hard, but they said no. So that record you got—hang on to it, it's all there is.” He grew a little somber, though maybe it was just the nostalgia of remembering. I couldn't imagine anyone being sentimental about having his fingers broken. He mustered a
smile. “Sometimes I see one or two of the old cats, and it don't go by without someone mentions hearing the old Lackawanna.”
“Is that where you people are now—you folks here?”
“You meanin' should Pop sell the show?”
“He's got a lot on his plate. It would be a way of dealing with some of it.”
He sucked his mouth in, as if he were getting ready to blow a lick. The little tuft beneath his lower lip stuck out. “It's Pop's call. What he says, I go with.”
Tito Alvarez came over, grinning. He'd taken his hair out of the ponytail and it hung dark and thick to his shoulders. He gestured to us with a beer bottle. “What you distinguished gentlemen drinking? I hate to see grown-up dudes with empty glasses.”
“I'm not crazy about it myself,” I said, “but, alas, I have some things to do. Buy a
cerveza
for you and whatever Mr. Maxwell wants.” Over his protest I gave Tito a twenty. The three of us shook hands and said good night. As I got outside, Nicole caught up to me.
Her eyes shone. “I said my prayers for Pop, and for all of us. For you, too, Mr. Rasmussen.”
“Thank you.”
Her face clouded. “You think it's true that God knows the names of every star in the sky?”
“Well … you know the names of all those dogs, don't you?”
“Do you believe that prayers get answered?”
When I hesitated, she shook her head. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask that. I'm too nosy sometimes.”
“No, it's fine. I think they probably are answered, but not always in the ways we want them to be.”
Her face unclouded slowly, and she smiled. “Good night, Mr. Rasmussen.”
I got my car, and as I drove past the hotel, I noticed someone emerge from a lighted side exit and start along the sidewalk, peering about as though looking for a taxi. It was Ray Embry. I pulled up, opened the window, and leaned across the seat. “Need a lift someplace?”
He bent to peer in, then straightened at seeing me. “I was hoping to get a cab.”
“Unless you phone ahead, you're not likely to catch one cruising over here. Get in, I'll save you a fare.”
He hesitated a moment but then got in. “I'm going back to the carnival if it's not out of your way. I want to get some things from my trailer.”
Neither of us brought up our earlier differences of opinion. “How'd you get to be a clown?” I asked.
He looked over. “How'd you get to be a private cop?”
“Fair point.”
He grunted. “Being a professional clown isn't something you fall into. It calls for skills—it's part mime, part dance. There's juggling. It's got a tradition, a time-honored one. The royal courts had clowns, jesters, fools. It was something rulers considered important. I used to believe that making people laugh helped them, made them healthy, made society stronger. Now …” He shook his head. “Clowns aren't in the mix anymore. People sink themselves in front of the TV night after night and get canned laugh tracks.” He waved a hand at the passing night, where in darkened houses television sets glowed. “I think people are numb to any real joy.”

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