Stone Rain Page 11

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.” I paused. “Stupid, maybe, but not wrong. That’s why I called the police.”

  Flint grunted. “When did you get here?”

  “I guess, around one-thirty. I got here before Trixie.”

  “She wasn’t already home?”

  “No, she’d been away somewhere, I don’t know where, and we arranged to meet here at that time.”

  “So both of you went into the house at the same time.”

  “That’s right.” I remembered something. “As we were going into the house, Trixie thought maybe the door was already unlocked, but she wasn’t sure. You know how, sometimes, you turn the deadbolt, but it’ll still turn even if it’s not in the lock position?”

  Flint shrugged. I went through the rest of it with him, how I’d gone into the basement for some coffee and found Benson. That Trixie came downstairs wondering what had happened to me, screamed, found a note, started to panic. That she handcuffed me to the railing and took off in my car. That she called Sarah at work to rescue me.

  “Hmm,” Flint said. “So what were you meeting her here for…?” He leaned in a little closer, as if there were someone else in the car he didn’t want to overhear. “You can tell me. Nice-looking lady, I gather. Your wife might not understand, but I would.”

  I swallowed. “It wasn’t like that. Trixie and I were friends, from when we used to live on the street. She helped me out when I was in trouble, with that other mess.”

  Flint nodded, remembering.

  “She’d been having trouble lately with the local paper, and wanted my help with it, and I told her there really wasn’t anything I could do, and then she set up this meeting between me and Benson—I thought she was going to be there but she bailed—thinking I’d try to talk him out of taking her picture, but I explained to her I couldn’t do that. But there was a huge misunderstanding, with Benson, and it got me in a lot of trouble at work. I was pretty pissed with her. But she called, said she was going to come clean, tell me what kind of trouble she was in, and I agreed to come out and see her, one last time, to hear her side of the story.” I shook my head. “Good call.”

  “So you weren’t having a sexual relationship with Ms. Snelling?” Flint asked.

  “No.”

  “You weren’t one of her clients? You didn’t get those marks on your wrist some other way? You weren’t coming out here, paying her to do some things for you your wife’s just not too crazy about?” He smiled, like we were just a couple of guys, talking. “Look, it happens. You’re married awhile, you have the kids, the wife’s just not into it like she used to be, and her idea of kinky is doing it with the lights on.”

  “Don’t speak about my wife that way,” I said.

  Flint’s eyebrows went up. “My apologies. That was rude. I was just speaking generally. But you didn’t answer my question. Were you paying her? Were you hiring her for one of her little sessions?”

  “No.”

  Flint kept going over the same ground, again and again. What time I got there, what I’d been doing before my arrival, where Trixie might have gone, did she have any family that I knew of, who might have done this to Benson, whether I’d noticed anyone else around the house. My earlier meeting with Benson, how it had gone wrong, my subsequent demotion at the Metropolitan.

  I was getting a headache.

  “So both you and Ms. Snelling, you had really good reasons to be angry with Martin Benson,” Detective Flint said.

  I thought about that. “The thing is, the damage had already been done,” I said. “The paper got the picture they wanted, they ran it. I think that’s when things started to totally unravel for Trixie. Someone saw that picture, tipped off someone who’d been trying to find her, and they tracked her down to this house. It was the thing she’d been worried about from the beginning.”

  “And what was Martin Benson doing here in the first place?”

  It was a good question. “Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe he was trying to get more dirt on Trixie, and the guys who came to get her found him instead.”

  Flint’s lips pursed out, considering it.

  “Or,” he said, tipping his fedora back an inch and exposing the top of his white forehead, “it could be a whole lot simpler than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Flint took a long breath. “She invited Benson over. She offered him a little demo of what she does for a living. Told him, ‘What the hey, you know what I do, you might as well get the tour.’ Gets him strapped down to that cross thing. Then she kills him.” He ran his index finger quickly across his throat. I shook my head, but Flint continued. “She leaves. She drives around for a while. Calls you. Tells you she’s been out of town, whatever. Arranges to meet you at her place. Makes sure she arrives after you do so you get the idea she’s been away, hasn’t been home for a while. She does this thing at the door, like maybe there’s something wrong with the lock, plants the idea with you that maybe someone broke in. You go inside, everything seems fine, she finds a reason to send you downstairs to get something, the coffee you said. You go down, you find the body. She comes down, acts all surprised. I’ll bet she screamed just right, huh? Made it seem like she was seeing Benson’s dead body for the first time.”

  “No,” I said. “It wasn’t an act.”

  “Oh, it was an act,” Flint said. “A command performance, just for you.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “And the beauty of it is, not only does she have you convinced that she didn’t know anything about it, she’s set it up perfectly, making you her alibi. You’re here before she arrives. So how can it be her? She wasn’t even here. And you’re the one who can testify to that fact. And how shocked she was at finding some guy who’s bled to death in her torture chamber.”

  Flint adjusted his hat. “She used you to try to get Benson to back off. And now she’s using you to cover up the fact that she murdered him.”

  I was going to tell him no one more time, that he had it all wrong. But I wasn’t sure I could say it with complete confidence.

  14

  When he was done with me, Flint let us both go. Sarah got in her Camry and drove off without saying a word. She either didn’t care whether I got back to the city, or assumed that I would be taking Trixie’s car, since I had the keys to it.

  I didn’t know whether Flint was going to want Trixie’s car for his investigation. I couldn’t see why, since the murder hadn’t taken place in it. If it were peppered with incriminating evidence, she’d hardly have left it behind and taken mine.

  When I was in the back of the police car, Flint had asked me for a full description of my Virtue, including plate number, which I happened to know, since I’m good with licenses, phone numbers, and the like. He was on his cell right away, passing on the description.

  The thing was, I needed wheels. It would probably be easier to take the car and say sorry later, if I had to, than ask Flint for permission to drive off in it now.

  I got into the front seat of the GF300, settling into the leather upholstery. One glance at the dash told me this was a more complicated vehicle than my Virtue. A multitude of buttons and switches, including about a dozen on the steering wheel itself, and a tiny screen in the middle of the dash that had to be some sort of navigation system. Turn on the car, and a map showing the car’s exact location would probably pop up.

  There were some bits of paper in a recessed tray between the seats, what looked like gas receipts, a car wash ticket. Impulsively, I grabbed them and slid them into my jacket pocket, then started looking for the ignition so I could slip the key in and get on my way.

  There was a sharp rapping on the driver’s window and I jerked my head around to see a very annoyed Flint looking at me through the glass.

  I fumbled around, looking for the power window button. Flint, tired of waiting, opened the door and said, “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

  “Heading back into the city,” I
said.

  “Not in this car you’re not,” he said. “Get out.”

  I did as I was told, handed the keys to Flint. “But Trixie took my car. She said I could use hers.”

  “Oh, gee,” said Flint, putting the keys in his pocket, shrugging elaborately. “If it’s okay with her, then I guess it’s fine.” He shook his head in disgust. “Do you really work at a newspaper? Have you ever even seen a crime show on TV?”

  “I guess your forensic people have to go over the car,” I said.

  Flint smiled. “You can catch a train back downtown. There’s a station only half a mile from here. I’ll have one of my people give you a lift.”

  It was almost an hour before I got back to the paper. I figured Sarah had returned to the office, and I felt I had no choice but to follow her there. There was still some shit left to hit the fan and land on me, and I figured it was going to happen somewhere in the vicinity of Magnuson’s office.

  I wanted to head straight to Sarah’s office, to try to make her understand the bizarre set of circumstances that had brought us to this point, to ask her to forgive me for the stupid things I’d managed to get myself into lately, and most of all, to tell her that I loved her more than anything in the world.

  But I didn’t have the nerve.

  Instead, I wandered over to my new desk in Home!

  “You missed cookie time,” Frieda said when I walked past her desk. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly five. “Where have you been all day?”

  I sighed, too tired and too depressed for any sort of smart answer. “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about me around here for much longer,” I told her, dropping into my computer chair. The red message light on my phone was flashing.

  “What are you talking about?” Frieda said.

  “The clock’s ticking,” I said. “It’s only a matter of time before Magnuson suspends me, or fires me outright. I just hope he doesn’t fire Sarah too. None of this is her fault.”

  Frieda wheeled over a chair and sat close to me. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody in this much trouble.”

  I smiled weakly. “Me neither.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Her concern seemed genuine, and I felt badly for all of my sarcastic outbursts the last couple of days.

  I shook my head. “I imagine I’ll be out of here before I can finish your linoleum story.”

  She looked sad. “And you were doing so well with it. Finding out where the word comes from and everything. That was real initiative.”

  “Yeah, well.” My phone rang. I looked at it tiredly and figured, with all that was happening, I’d better answer it. It could be Flint, or one of the kids. Part of me wanted it to be Trixie, telling me where she could be found, that she would wait there for the police to arrive. And there was part of me that didn’t ever want to hear from her again.

  Frieda excused herself as I reached for the receiver. “Walker,” I said.

  “Hi, Mr. Walker. Brian Sandler here.”

  I shook my head. Who? “Hi,” I said. “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”

  “Sandler? City health department? You called me this morning about an incident at Burger Crisp? I left you a couple of messages.”

  It took a moment for me to put it all together. “Oh yeah, right, of course,” I said, glancing at the flashing red light on my phone. “I’m sorry. It’s been kind of a long day.”

  “Anyway, I just wanted to put your mind at ease. Everything’s fine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I paid a visit today, after your call this morning, to Burger Crisp and spoke with Mrs. Gorkin, and her daughters, Gavrilla and Ludmilla, and I was satisfied that everything was in order.”

  Godzilla and what?

  “But how could that be? Their freezer was off for hours, my son Paul said at least one customer returned to the store feeling sick and—”

  “I understand your son was fired from Burger Crisp. Or he quit.”

  “I told you that this morning. That he quit, was fired, after this incident.”

  “That’s not how the Gorkins explain it,” Sandler said, a hint of condescension in his voice.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mrs. Gorkin says they’d already fired your son, that he wasn’t doing a very good job, couldn’t get the hang of it, and that then the two of you came back making all sorts of wild accusations.”

  Anger swept over me like a hot wind. “That’s total bullshit, Mr. Sandler,” I said. “My son was working, flipping burgers on the grill, when I came in and he told me what was going on. He wanted to keep me from eating my meal. He was scared for me.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Walker, but your story doesn’t jibe with theirs.”

  “Or their story doesn’t jibe with mine. You really think I’d call the health department with a pack of lies just to get even for something, which didn’t even happen?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Walker.”

  “Look, did you test the food? Isn’t there something you can do, take it into a lab and dissect the microbes or count the bacteria or something and determine whether it’s contaminated?”

  “Of course. But I didn’t see any need in this case.”

  “Are you serious? Okay, look, we’ve got an entire meal from Burger Crisp in our fridge. I could bring it down to you, you could have it tested, you’d know then whether the Gherkins—”

  “Gorkins.”

  “Sure. You’d know then whether they’re telling the truth.”

  “Mr. Walker, I’ve taken this as far as I can. I don’t think there’s anything here for you,” and he hesitated, “or your paper to get involved in.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” I asked. “You’re worried that I, or someone else here at the paper, might be planning to do a story on this?”

  “I never said nor implied that,” Sandler said. “The paper is welcome to do whatever story it wants, but there’s none here, and I don’t think the Metropolitan would like to find itself the subject of a million-dollar libel suit.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I haven’t written a single word yet, and already you’re threatening me with a lawsuit.”

  “It wouldn’t just be me,” Sandler said. “I’m sure the Gorkins would do whatever they had to do to protect their reputation and their livelihood.”

  My hot wave of anger had turned into a chill. I was pretty sure I’d just been threatened, and with more than just a lawsuit.

  “I’m just going to go out on a limb here,” I said, “and ask you how much Mrs. Gorkin pays you to look the other way. It’s probably a lot quicker, and cheaper, to pay off an inspector than bring an establishment up to standard, am I right?”

  Sandler’s response was slow and measured. “I’d be very careful about throwing around those sorts of allegations, Mr. Walker. I think the smartest thing you could do would be to let this go. There’s nothing there. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “It’s becoming very clear.”

  “Thanks very much, Mr. Walker, for bringing this to the health department’s attention,” he said formally. “And watch your back.”

  He hung up.

  I replaced the receiver feeling numb. I dialed in for my messages, and both had been from Sandler, asking me to call him. The son of a bitch had threatened me. And he’d more or less passed on a threat from Mrs. Gorkin and her daughters as well.

  What else could possibly go wrong today—

  “Zack?” I turned around in my chair. It was Frieda. She gave me a pained smile. “Mr. Magnuson’s secretary just called. He’d like to see you in his office.”

  I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as I walked through the newsroom. Word spreads fast. The city desk would have already been tipped to a murder in Oakwood, and chances were that if Dick Colby had been on the phone to Detective Flint, he might already know of my involvement. All I needed, as I took my last steps toward Magnuson’s door, was someon
e to announce, “Dead man walking!”

  Sarah was already there. Her eyes were red, and there was a wadded tissue in her fist.

  “Mr. Walker,” Magnuson greeted me from behind his desk. “I was trying to recall the last time one of my reporters found himself handcuffed in a hooker’s basement next to a man who’d had his throat slit. And you know something? Nothing comes to mind.”

  “Yes, sir, I don’t suppose it does.”

  “I’m suspending you, effective immediately, with pay, which is mighty generous of me if I do say so myself, while the police and the courts and the CIA and the Masons and the Shriners for all I know sort this fucking mess out. I’m also putting Colby on it, see what he can learn. Call the guild, file a grievance, I don’t much care. But when you walk out of this office, keep on walking until you hit the street.”

  I thought, considering everything, that I had gotten off easy. I was expecting to be fired outright. Or, possibly, shot.

  “Of course, this leaves Frieda short someone once again,” Magnuson mused. “You were barely there long enough to warm a chair,” he said, looking at me. “But fortunately, I can solve her personnel problems immediately. Sarah, you can report to her tomorrow.”

  Sarah was dumbstruck. “Sir?”

  “Is that a problem?” he asked.

  “Mr. Magnuson, with all due respect, not only do I not feel I should be punished for any of my husband’s alleged misbehaviors, but I’m in a different job classification. I’m an editor. You’re proposing moving me to a lower job classification, to a feature-writing position. You can’t do that.”

  Magnuson said nothing for a moment, then a sense of calm came over him that was nothing short of chilling. “Ms. Walker,” he said, “I can do anything.”

  He swiveled his chair around so that he could work on his computer, and it was clear that we’d been dismissed. Once outside his door, Sarah burst into tears.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said. She stormed off toward the center of the newsroom. I almost had to run to keep up with her.

  “Honey,” I said to her, “I’m so sorry. That was totally unfair. Not what he did to me, but what he did to you.” I reached out, touched her arm, but she yanked it away. There wasn’t anyone in the room who was still looking at their screens. “You should go to the guild, you should fight this—”