Bad People (12 page)

Chapter 13: Barry, Ethan

Barry couldn’t imagine what possibly the police would want with him now. They’d interviewed him right after the murder, and then for months nothing. Why now?

They didn’t come to him, they had called and asked him to come in to see them when he could. That meant something didn’t it? A few follow-up questions was all.

He’d done something he regretted, but that something was not him. It took more than a single bad choice to make or unmake a person.

Barry had no reason to believe the police linked him in any way to Robb’s murder. Any worry that they had was foolish paranoia.

On his drive over to the precinct, Barry tried Connie on her cell again, but she still didn’t pick up. She’d been like that with him a lot recently, or was that thought paranoia too?

He didn’t mention this new police interview in any of his messages to Connie, because he thought talking about it would sound too serious over voicemail. He preferred to slip the topic in with some subtlety once he and Connie connected again.

Barry entered the precinct. It must have been a shift-change or something. A sea of blue uniforms streamed out the revolving door. He tried to part them and get in.

He felt dirty looks. One jowly, mustachioed cop in particular glared at him, offended by the presence of the civilian—this non-cop.

After he made his way past that, Barry asked at the high counter for Detectives Brussels and Starvold. The officer at the counter jerked his thumb and Barry turned in the direction he guessed was the one indicated by this gesture

“Hold it!” shouted the cop. “Name.”

Barry told him, and the cop looked him up in the computer, then typed something. After a few moments a label printer spit out a sticker with a bar code and Barry’s name on it (in that order). The cop handed it to him. “Wear that,” he said, and told Barry a floor and a room number. The room number was also on the sticker, as well as the name “Starvold” in smaller print.

Barry took the slow khaki-colored elevator up, found the room, and recognized one of the detectives on Robb’s murder sitting at one of the desks. The older one, Barry guessed it was Brussels, but he really didn’t remember which one was which. Realizing that, and that he really was indifferent to what the police were doing, made him smile inside for the first time in weeks.

He put his hand straight out for the cop and announced his presence. “Detective,” he said.

“Barry!” said the cop, “thanks for coming in. Let me get a pad and pen.” He found them and stood up. He started away and motioned with the yellow pad for Barry to follow. “Thisward ho,” he said. Barry spotted the other cop—the partner—coming the other way with a Styrofoam coffee. His face was expressionless. He was clearly heading to meet them. Barry felt betrayed by the young detective’s smile now, and his casual manner of greeting, because, clearly, it had all been rehearsed. One at the desk, one stalking the hallway. Two men, one ambition, to catch him unawares. Unfair, like jackals. Were they men? Do men lay in ambush like that for other men?

No.

They all sat down in a room, like the little rooms on
The Closer
or one of those
Law & Order
shows. Starvold motioned Barry to a chair at the table and took a chair himself on the opposite side. Brussels sat at the far end, like the head of the family. Starvold dropped his yellow pad on the table and tapped his pencil up and down, bouncing the eraser.

“Know your folks were bookies?”

“Without further ado…” said Brussels.

“I don’t know why you say that,” Barry responded.

“They took bets: sports bets, numbers, and the like. Back in the day. Out of the family gas station. You remember Mid-Town Mini-Stop on MLK?”

“Of course. My parents’ store.”

“Before they sold to the Koreans. Then the Koreans sold to the Hindus. Did you know they took bets there?”

“If you say so.”

“That’s an interesting response,” said Starvold.

“I don’t wish to discuss my parents with you.”

“And why should he?” said Brussels.

Barry felt drawn to Brussels. Good cop/bad cop worked even while he watched them working it on him. Barry spoke to Brussels, whose wet eyes looked sad and sympathetic now. Barry could look at him, though he couldn’t meet Starvold’s ice-blue eyes. “This is apropos of nothing,” Barry said to Brussels. “Why is he bringing this up? My parents passed.”

“A lot of changes in your life this year,” said Starvold.

“My parents passed. My best friend died. The business is in turmoil. I’m trying to manage things while Connie mourns.”

Starvold: “You considered Robb your best friend? Wouldn’t you say that you’re more on Connie’s side of things?”

Barry turned to Brussels. “What does he mean?”

Brussels, softly: “You told us Connie was your best friend. Previously. Previously you
told
us this, I mean.”

“They are both my best friends. My best two friends.”

“And the comic book store.”

Barry thought he would faint. His vision blurred. He took a breath. “What comic book store?”

“The one you made an offer on last year. And then you took the offer back. Why did you do that?” asked Starvold.

“I changed my mind. Who told you about this?”

“Not the store’s owner,” said Starvold.

Still looking at Brussels, Barry said, “What’s this got to do with anything?”

“You know why I say ‘not the store’s owner’ don’t you? It couldn’t be him we talked to.”

Barry didn’t speak. He stared at his lap.

“Disappeared here a couple months ago, didn’t he?”

“He’s an eccentric,” muttered Barry.

“Guy owns a store and opens every day, six days a week for sixteen years and then one day…poof. That’s eccentric, you’re right.”

“I can’t help you, gentlemen. I haven’t seen Jay Porter in months.”

“Maybe you broke his heart, Barry. Well, he’ll turn up. Store’s still there. Undisturbed. Maybe you could still buy it. All stocked, landlord started to wonder and started refusing deliveries. I don’t know the ins-and-outs. You probably do, being a business pillar and all. Don’t know how you buy a business that been abandoned. But I’ve never heard of a thriving business just abandoned like that. It’s a quandary.”

“As I said, I’m no longer interested in the business.”

“Sort of grew out of comics, I guess.” Starvold waved his hand. “I’m just breaking your balls. That’s all I have. Detective Brussels.”

Brussels shook his head very slightly. “Thanks for coming in Barry.”

No one made a move, but Barry assumed Detective Brussels’ words, that he could leave. Barry shifted forward. No change in them, they just kept looking at him. He pushed to his feet.

“See your eye healed up.” Said Starvold.

Barry’s hand went to the bone beside his left eye. The bone still hurt where Luke had hit him that day in the library, but the outward bruise was long gone. “I walked into a door,” Barry reminded them. They’d already asked him about that when they interviewed him before. He turned to go.

He paused when Starvold said: “I remember.” You’ve been steering clear of dangerous doors, that’s smart. Say, how’s your partner doing. Ms. Wexler? Is she doing okay?”

Barry walked from the room. He didn’t look back, but felt their staring eyes all the way.

Chapter 14: Tommy, Ethan

Brussels regarded his partner. “He’s not going to break. Not on this.”

“Tough character, uh?” Starvold made a wanking gesture.

“You don’t think so? Maybe not what you’re used to, but that little fucker is one repressed cocksucker. Whatever’s in the fucked-up fuzzy head is buried deep.”

“So why bother?”

Brussels made himself shrug. “Satisfy my curiosity.”

“Satisfied?”

“No. You should have asked him about the Wexler woman while he was still at the table, so I could’ve seen his face.”

“You could have asked him.”

“Wouldn’t have pissed him off if I did it. Wanted to see if it pissed him off when you did.”

“He didn’t turn around. That says something. What’s your theory? That he did it for her—I mean, at her behest, or that they did it together?”

Brussels scoffed. “So you agree we have to have a theory now?”

“A theory would be nice,” said Starvold.

“That’s what we’re talking out here.”

“You’re still working out your personal issue using Connie Wexler.”

“Nope.”

“She didn’t know the comic book guy.”

“That we
know of
. And I’m not convinced that’s got anything to do with this.”

“Other than Barry Taupe’s partner getting murdered and this comic book guy he almost bought the store from disappearing.”

“The buying thing we only have from the friend. The accountant,” Brussels reminded him.

“That’s Erika.”

“The other best friend of Connie. What is it about this lady. I never heard so many fucking ‘she’s-my-best friends’ in my life.”

“That’s women. Friendships,” said Starvold.

“But Barry Taupe too.”

Starvold pushed his unwritten on tablet across the table, put his hands on the table, then rested his chin on his hands.

“I want to drop this thing. Move on the something else.”

Brussels sneered. “Leave a grieving widow without closure.”

“Yeah. I know you’re concerned about her feelings. Robb Hart was a shit bag. Anybody could have done it. She had no idea what he was up to. Vegas PD didn’t have anything. And since the department already turned down my Vegas trip request…”

“So you don’t mind somebody getting his brains spread all over his own garage under your nose. Good to know.

“Not under my goddamn nose. Anything else we dig up is only going to embarrass this family further.”

“Okay. Now you’re the fucking boss, I guess.”

“Tommy,” said Starvold, “I think we should let this one cool awhile. If something comes our way, like a raccoon digs up the comic-book owner’s body in Barry’s back yard, or…”

“How about if somebody walks in and confesses, would
that
work for you too?”

“Yes..”

“No skin off my ass. Doesn’t fucking matter to me. I hate the bitch anyway. As you said.”

“Maybe a fresh pair of eyes.”

“On what?”

“This case.” said Starvold. “What else?”

“You want to bring another couple guys in on this?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Except that two fucking seconds ago, you said we should drop it altogether.”

“So?”

“So I sense an undercurrent to your thoughts.”

Starvold sat back up. “Okay ..?”

“You don’t want off this at all. You want
me
off.”

“That’s not it, Tommy.”

“You think I’ve decided it’s the woman, and you don’t agree. You can still fuck her if she’s guilty. We could work that in, if that’s the problem.”

“That’s not the problem. You’re the fuckin’ problem.”

“Now comes the truth.”

“Don’t make it out to be something it isn’t. We’re fine, I just don’t know what it is about her and you, and I don’t fucking care. You’ve got your family things to deal with now, and you don’t talk about them, so I don’t know. But this lady didn’t do anything for you to hate her, and you’re fucking my shit up with all your nonsense.”

“So it’s
your
shit now.”

“I guess it is.”

“Then maybe I should take a half-day. Get out of the way, while you save the widow Hart or Wexler or whatever the fuck she’s calling herself this week.”

“You’d think you of all people would have sympathy for her situation. Raising a teenager now and all.”

Tommy ignored the last part. The dig. “I’m fucking going home.”

And go fucking home he would. He walked out of the interview room, out of the precinct, and got into his car. He even caught a glimpse of Barry Taupe pulling out of the visitor’s parking lot.

Tommy drove south, got caught in the I-5 traffic, headed home to Red Valley. Thought about calling, decided it was better not to. He kept his hands at ten and two, trying not to shake. He pulled into the driveway at 3:10. He left the car in the driveway, and climbed out: getting so fat even getting out of the car was fucking work. Got in the house, dropped the keys on the kitchen counter. Cereal in the cabinet. Trix, Granola, Cheerios, milk in the fridge, big plastic jug of milk unopened. Bananas on the counter. Seven.

“Crystal?” he called out, not expecting an answer. He went upstairs to his daughter’s room. The door was open slightly and he tapped it. She was staring at the screen. She acknowledge him by a twinge in her shoulders, which is the most he ever got. She had a bench that she sat on, and old piano bench dug up from somewhere and the was where she sat all day on her computer.