Fostering Death (18 page)

“What’s ‘nothing’?”

“Just that you took some crystal meth I was supposed to sell off me and when you got busted with them, you rolled over on the guy who was supplying Marcus.”

“What was he dealing?”

“That’s just it. Only weed. So I didn’t think it’d cause too much trouble.”

“Aren’t doing too much thinking there, are you?”

“You just don’t understand, Jesse.” Aaron sniffed. “I got to do something, or I’m in real trouble.”

“I think you’re already in real trouble. When the cops find out what they want to know from you, you’re going down for whatever they can pin on you.”

“That’s not what I mean. I promised some guys I’d get some oxys for them.”

“Who?”

“Zee.”

“The guy from the Tabernacle?” The one I wasn’t sure existed.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not making any sense at all. Why would you get him oxys?”

“Cause he gave me some money to go get crystal meth, but I used it all myself.”

“Stupid.”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you gonna get oxys?”

Aaron pressed his lips together and looked toward the door. He must have decided he couldn’t make it past me. “At the old lady’s house. In the garage.”

I was pretty sure I knew, but I asked, “Which old lady?”

“The one who died.”

“Why in the garage?”

“I dunno. Zee said he took all the oxys he could find and hid them in the garage. Hid them so even if they brought in a dog, they’d never find them.”

“Why didn’t he just take them with him?”

“If he got stopped leaving, he didn’t want to have anything on him. And he didn’t realize she was dead. Now he’s afraid to go back himself. So he’s gonna make me go.”

“Where in the garage?”

“He didn’t tell me that.”

“Why don’t you take your buddies and go on home.” I eased my weight on the injured ankle and moved out of the way so he could leave.

Aaron looked out the door in dismay, from Clay’s inert figure to Marcus, still on his knees and heaving. “They’re hurt,” he said.

“And you’re not?” I balled up my fist and took a step closer to him. “I can fix that.”

“No, no. I mean, they should go to the emergency room or something. Especially Clay.”

“So take them.”

He felt in his pockets. “I don’t have no keys.”

“Not my problem.”

“But you took them,” he whined.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out his keys. I tossed them out the door, onto the sidewalk.

“Like I said, not my problem.” I didn’t take my eyes off him.

“You gonna give me the rest of my stuff back?” he asked.

“Not now.”

“Later?”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

I watched as he limped out the door and down the street toward his truck. I closed the door and turned the lock. I hoped he’d be able to get his buddies into the truck and away from here so I wouldn’t have to decide what to do with them.

Back inside the Laundromat I surveyed the damage. I put my stuff in dryers and fed quarters into the slots, wincing with every step.

The mess wasn’t that bad. Except for one of the folding tables, which had shattered when it hit the floor. The other one was pretty much okay. One of its legs had come off and another one was bent.

And the camera.

I picked up the pieces of the broken table and carried them out the back door, heaving them into the dumpster. If I rearranged the tables a bit, it might not be immediately obvious that one was missing. Maybe the dumpster would even get emptied before anyone thought to investigate.

Turning my attention to the other table, I tried to straighten out the bent leg. I couldn’t get it entirely, but I got it to the point where it would support the table. I had no way to reattach the one that had broken off but I propped it under the table. As long as I didn’t knock against it, it didn’t fall over.

The camera’s casing was cracked and the wires were ripped out of the wall. I turned it over to examine it. It had a tape inside it, so it was probably the type that just recorded on site, not one hooked up to a remote. If anyone had been monitoring it, all they would have seen was the first little bit anyhow. I removed the tape and debated what to do with it.

If the cops viewed it, it would make it impossible for me to deny that I’d been involved in the fight. On the other hand, it would clearly show that it hadn’t been me who started the whole thing. And that the odds had been four to one against me.

I put the tape in my laundry bag. I dumped the wallets and other stuff on top of it.

The door to the janitor’s closet in the rear was locked, but it was the kind that snicks open with a stiff card. I had four wallets’ worth of licenses and bank cards. I retrieved one and slipped it under the latch, opening it.

Dumping a little detergent, a fair amount of bleach, and some water into a bucket, I pulled it out and went back for a mop. I swished the sudsy concoction around the entire floor, making sure I got all the blood. I swiped the mop head over the dryers where Clay had hit his head and where Aaron had crouched.

I debated changing into some of my freshly laundered clothes. Then I could run the mop head and the clothes I was wearing through a wash. If I used a lot of bleach, it should destroy any traces of any DNA-carrying bits, including blood.

It would take me the best part of an hour to do that. And would cost a few dollars.

If Aaron and his buddies decided to go to the police, it wouldn’t make any difference if the cops could find any blood or anything. If, as was more likely, they lied about what had happened, it also wouldn’t make any difference.

Unless Clay—or somebody else—died.

So I thoroughly washed out the mop head, rinsed the bucket, and put everything back where I’d found it. The closet door locked itself when I shoved it closed.

I looked at my reflection in the window of one of the dryers, touching my face. The place where I’d slammed my head into the wall yesterday was swollen and turning an interesting shade of purple, and my nose looked a bit misshapen. But I couldn’t see that the recent fracas had made it any worse than it was before. Of course, the bruises might take a while to show up. Not much I could do about it.

The dryers were finished. I folded my clothes and put them into the laundry bag on top of the camera and other things. My right ankle was throbbing. I laced my boot tighter, trying to give it a little more support. Not for the first time, I wished I had a pair of high top work boots, not the ankle length ones. For the first few months after my release, I’d been on house arrest and had to wear a box, a black plastic monitor strapped to my ankle so the parole office could keep track of my whereabouts. It wouldn’t fit above a regular work boot.

At least I wouldn’t need new boots if I got put back on a box. I wouldn’t be happy about that—I loved being able to set my own schedule and go out whenever I wanted to, and the fee involved would make a real dent in my income. But I’d take it. It sure beat being locked up twenty-four-seven again.

I gathered up my things and set out on the several blocks walk back home. A steady drizzle was falling. I flipped up my hood.

As I approached my building, I heard running footsteps pounding behind me. I dropped the laundry bag and backed up to have the wall at my back.

It was someone I didn’t recognize, but he didn’t seem interested in me. He ran right by me and swung down the alley.

I peered after him. He wasn’t dressed in the usual saffron robes of the Brethren, but he stopped at the alley door and pulled something out of his pocket. As I watched, he unlocked the door and slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Picking up the laundry bag, I hobbled the last few yards to the stairs down to my apartment. It was going to be interesting negotiating those stairs with my hands full and my ankle protesting against supporting my weight. I’d try to let it rest as long as I could and then find something to wrap tight around it when I had to leave for work. Skipping a shift wasn’t an option.

Flashing red and blue lights glared on the wet asphalt. A car skidded to a stop behind me.

Had Aaron called the police? Or had he gone to the hospital emergency room and been stupid enough to report what had happened?

With a pang, I realized I had no real idea what I had taken off those guys and stuffed into my laundry bag. What I did know was that I had four wallets that didn’t belong to me, complete with IDs and bank cards. That would be more than enough for a possession of stolen goods charge. And I knew those guys were into drugs. Did any of the wallets have a few rocks of crack or a little baggie of crystal meth tucked inside?

I didn’t turn to look at the patrol car but I could see the glare of the spotlight as it flickered on, catching me in the middle of it. The car doors slammed shut behind me.

Maybe it wasn’t Aaron who was the stupid one.

Chapter 13

T
HE
M
USCLES
I
N
M
Y
B
ACK
and neck tensed up. I held the laundry bag so that my hands were in full view.

“You there,” one of the cops said. “Turn around and face me.”

I took a deep breath and turned.

“What ya got there?” he asked.

“Laundry,” I said.

“Clean or dirty?”

“Clean.”

“You just come from the Laundromat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can we take a look at it?”

If they’d recognized me, they wouldn’t have bothered to ask. “Sure.”

The other cop took the bag and undid the ties.

“You see anybody run down the street here?” the first one asked.

I wasn’t about to get any more involved than I had to be. “No, sir.”

He stepped over to the alley and shone his flashlight down it. “Where does this go?”

“Dead end.”

“Anything open off it?”

“Just the backdoor to the church upstairs,” I said.

He took a few steps down the alley and tried the door. “This always locked?”

“I guess. Never tried to open it.”

Passing me, he shone the flashlight down the stairs to my apartment. “What’s down here?”

“My place.”

“Your apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“Anybody else down there now?”

“Shouldn’t be.”

“You see anything at the Laundromat?”

I licked my lips. “What kind of thing?”

“We got a report that a couple of people were fighting on that block.”

“Fighting?”

“Or carousing. Or something.”

“There
was
some guy blowing lunch by the curb. I didn’t pay it no mind.”

“Where’d he come from?”

“I guess the bar down the block. He had a couple of buddies with him, though, so I figured they’d take care of him.”

He shone the flashlight into my face. “What happened to you?”

“I fell.”

“Just now?”

“Yesterday.”

He turned to the other cop, who was rummaging around in the laundry bag. “Find anything?”

“Mostly folded clothes. They smell real clean.”

“Anything else?”

“Something hard down here.” He snaked his hand down the side.

I stopped breathing. My wrists itched where the cuffs would press into them.

If they locked me up, at least I’d get a chance to rest the ankle. Maybe even get an x-ray and make sure it wasn’t broken.

“What is it?” the first cop asked.

“Laundry detergent.”

“What, a bottle?”

“Yeah. But there’s something else down there, too. Something smaller.”

My gut muscles spasmed.

“A bottle of fabric softener.”

He handed it to his partner, who unscrewed the top off and took a sniff. “Fabric softener? No wonder the laundry smells good.”

Placing it back in the laundry bag on top of the laundry, he handed the bag back to me.

“Better get inside before all your stuff gets soaked through in this rain.”

I took the bag and tried to start breathing again. “Yes, sir.” I turned to the stairs and, making a real effort not to limp, made my way down them.

When the red and blue lights stopped flashing through my one window, I fished out all the stuff I’d swiped from Aaron and his buddies. Four wallets, each with driver’s licenses and union cards. I’d be getting one of those union cards after this week. I hoped. Two of them had credit or debit cards. Or maybe they were ATM cards. I didn’t know how to tell the difference. Three wallets had a little cash. But not Aaron’s. A few pictures, a VFW card, an IOU for $6.26, dated over six months ago. I stuffed everything back in the wallets and looked at the assembly of keys I’d also acquired. None of them were those fat car keys with batteries, but some looked like they were for older model vehicles. A few house keys and one padlock key.