You Know Who Killed Me (6 page)

“Didn't think nothing of it, till he saw me, that is. Right away he flips the visor down in front of his face, pulls away from the curb, and drives off, turning his head away from me like he's looking for an address on the other side of the street.”

Silence creaked. The lights dimmed, then brightened; Karaoke Press had opened for business. I wondered again just what an e-book was and if there was any work in it for me.

“That's it?” I said.

“Yeah. The sun was going down behind him, you see. He had no reason to turn down that visor except to cover his face; and if he was looking for an address, why'd he stop there?”

“Read his directions. Look at a city map. Use his cell, the way you're supposed to, not while driving. Blow his nose, which takes two hands. That's just off the top of my head. People stop their cars and pull over for all sorts of reasons or none at all.”

He ditched the cigarette in the tray. “They don't hide their faces unless they're up to something.”

“Better,” I said. “But not ten thousand dollars' worth. Not a hundred bucks' worth either. Gas money, maybe, from here back to the Heights. I made a resolution this year to take better care of my fellow man, but the expiration date always runs out about this time in February.”

“What if I gave you a license number?”

“Better yet. If it leads to something promising, I'd consider staking you to the hundred. That'd give you something to build on if the ten grand comes into play.” I slid over the telephone pad and dealt myself a pencil.

“V-A-L. I didn't get the rest.”

I wrote. “Michigan plate?”

“Yeah. Blue and white, anyway; none of that vanity bullshit.”

“It's a start. Make and model?”

“One of those midsize jobs, looks like a shucked oyster. I can't tell 'em apart no more.”

“What'd the guy look like?”

“I didn't see his face, like I said.”

“How'd you know it was a man?”

“If it was a woman she should try out for the Lions, he was that wide crosst the shoulders. Had him on a quilted coat, some kind of hat; sock hat, I think, no fancy fluff. It was a man, I'm sure of that.”

“This was New Year's Eve?”

“Night before.”

I pushed the pad away.

“No gas money for you. Gates was alive the night before, the next day too. Whoever clocked him did it between when he left the office New Year's Eve and midnight New Year's Day, or shortly after.”

“You ever hear of casing a place?”

“Look, Mr. Adams, I'll see it's run out. If it looks good, someone will be in touch with you. That's a promise. My license comes with a stiff bond. I can't afford to make pledges I can't keep.”

He stood up all of a piece, fists balled at his side. I drew my feet under me and leaned forward in my chair, lifting the telephone, standard and all. It was my best chance to block one of those fists if it went airborne.

I'd forgotten about the hundred. He misunderstood the action. He didn't reach for it, but he opened his hands and let them hang.

I opened the belly drawer and slid the bundle of bills into it. His fingers twitched, but I felt better with the drawer open. The Smith & Wesson Chief's Special lay inside.

He couldn't see it from his angle, but all the starch went out of him then; he was a proud man, a man out of work, a hard man who'd taken so many punches from someone out of his reach there wasn't much use in being proud or hard. He nodded and turned away, dragging his feet now in their armored boots.

“What's the breed?” I asked.

He stopped, turned an uncomprehending face on me.

“Your dog.”

“Chow.” His expression lightened a little. “Prettiest little chow you ever did see. Smarter'n any crew I ever worked with. Ten years old, thinks she's still a puppy. When's the last time you saw a seventy-year-old jump his own height over a low branch?”

I tugged four fives out of the bundle and shoved the drawer shut. I stood and held them out.

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Unless it's against the ten thousand.”

“That'd be stringing you along. It's a loan. Thanks for coming down.”

“Mister, there's no down from where I am. And a loan's only a loan if you think you can pay it back.” He was looking me in the eye now. The bills in my hand didn't exist.

I folded them, stuck them inside my breast pocket, and tore the sheet with the license number on it off the top. On the next sheet I scribbled a name, tore off that sheet, and held it out.

“This man works in the City-County Building. They call it the Coleman A. Young Municipal Center now. He's in Human Resources.”

“Janitor?”

“No such luck. There's a high turnover in security guards there. That's because the pay's low. On the other hand the hours are long and the health plan wouldn't keep your dog in shots. Got a record?”

“I got probation when I was thirteen. Possession of pot, four ounces.”

“Just don't carry it to work, okay? I'm running out of character references.”

“Why the boost? You don't know me.”

“I got a break recently I didn't deserve. I'm paying down the debt.”

After he left, taking the sheet with him, I put the money back in the safe, locked up, and stopped at a carryout restaurant on the way home; one of those places where you had to decide what kind of meat went into the sandwich, what kind of bread to put it between, whether you wanted it heated up, what to put on it, and what to drink with it. That exhausted every last gig in my dial-up brain.

I ate in the kitchen and tuned in a game show for company, but the host was smarmy and the contestants had all the intelligence of a traffic barrel. It was lonely with the set off, so I put Kay Starr on the turntable. All I heard was clicks and pops with some verses in between, and they sounded like a ripsaw going through knotty pine. I swapped Kay for something more contemporary, built a drink, a silly thing of gin with some mint leaves left over from a recipe that hadn't been worth the prep. The drink wasn't either; it tasted like Christmas punch marinated in last year's fruitcake. I poured the rest into the sink and switched to Scotch.

I wasn't celebrating; not the fact that I had work or my own damn good samaritanship. If Adams got the job, he'd probably lose his temper sometime, deck a union lobbyist, get himself tanked, and cuss me out for providing the bad break. I drank because I hadn't had a drink since beer for breakfast.

The ice jingled in the glass. I had a first-class case of the shakes. What I really wanted was a pill.

I got as far as the telephone to call my teenage connection. The card belonging to the private therapist was still there poking out from under the standard. I finished my drink over the
Free Press,
reading about a city councilman under hack for inappropriate relations with a teenage boy; had another, listened to some more music, and went to bed. They say we dream every time we sleep, but as usual, they lie—a fact for which I was grateful. I'd had my share of nightmares in rehab.

 

SEVEN

Operator:
Sheriff's tip line. What's your information?

Caller:
I know who killed that Gates guy.

Operator:
Yes, sir.

Caller:
I don't need a reward.

Operator:
That's refreshing.

Caller:
It's Fred Gudgast, works quality control at Ford River Rouge.

Operator:
Why do you think he killed Mr. Gates?

Caller:
He's murdered at least three people at the plant and got away with it. He's one of those serial killers, you know?

Operator:
Have you any evidence?

Caller:
He's a miserable piece of shit, how's that for evidence?

Operator:
Does Mr. Gudgast even know Mr. Gates?

Caller:
Serial killers don't have to know their victims.

So you're just guessing?

Fuck you, lady.

Thank you for calling.

I let it go on like that while I washed out my coffee cup, then turned off the tape player.

You had to feel sorry for operators of 911 and tip lines:

“What's your emergency?”

“I can't remember where I parked my car in the lot.”

“Try pushing the button on your key fob, ma'am.”

“I can't; I lost my keys.”

“What's your emergency?”

“I got my hand stuck in a vending machine.”

“How'd that happen, sir?”

“Fucking thing stole my dollar.”

“What's your emergency?”

“This car in front of me's had his blinker on for three miles.”

“Why not pass it?”

“Can't. What if he decides to pull out finally?”

“What's your emergency?”

“What's the capital of Brazil?”

“Young man, get off the line at once.”

“What's your emergency?”

“I flipped the self-cleaning lever by mistake and now my chicken's burning.”

“What's your emergency?”

“My next-door neighbor never closes his curtains. Every night I can see everything he's got; believe me, it's no treat.”

“What's your emergency?”

“I can't keep the raccoons out of my garbage.”

“What's your emergency?'

“These directions don't make any sense.”

“What's your emergency?”

“I need the number of the Wal-Mart pharmacy.”

“What's your emergency?”

“How do I program my TiVo?”

“What's your emergency?”

“I'm lost in a corn maze.”

And people wondered why they ran out of sympathy.

*   *   *

Stay away from the wife, Ray Henty had said. But that was when my duties were restricted to playing deejay for people with hunches and grudges to unload. I got the number from the file and called it.

Donald Gates answered from beyond the grave: “No one can come to the phone right now. Please leave a message.” At least I assumed it was him. I cradled the receiver and left for Iroquois Heights.

The dead man smiled down at me from the billboard at the first exit. The city limits sign still read:

IROQUOIS HEIGHTS

HOME OF THE WARRIORS

YOU ARE UNDER SURVEILLANCE

I wondered how long it would be before I could cross that border without feeling like I was stepping into the O.K. Corral with a cap pistol in my holster.

The house was painted lime green, which somehow managed to look like the only color that made sense. It was a Wright knockoff, fresh enough for the junipers planted out front to resemble an architect's drawing, bunches of broccoli easy to maintain. It was an old neighborhood, with some of the prewar saltboxes still standing on small lots among newer, larger houses, all well-kept; the local ordinances and the Homeowners' Property Association were plenty clear on that subject.

“Mister? Are you looking for Mrs. Gates?”

I'd rung the bell and was about to push the button again when the woman called to me from a driveway across the street. She wore a cloth coat over a housedress, a scarf covering her hair and tied under her chin, and held that day's rolled edition of the local paper. She looked about fifty, and like her house, kept well.

I threw away the cigarette I'd just lit. “Do you know where she is?”

“Belle Isle.”

“What's on Belle Isle this time of year?”

“Homeless. Detroit lets them set up their tents there in the winter. Amelie helps out, bringing them food and blankets and whatever else they need.”

“I heard she's the generous type.”

“I keep telling her she's not helping them at all. Some of those people are in their twenties, and not handicapped so far as I can tell. Do you know what McDonald's pays? Better than my Chester ever made driving a bread truck for Wonder. In a couple of months they'd save enough to put down a deposit on an apartment. But they're not about to go to work until people stop giving them handouts.”

“I guess it helps to stay occupied, after what happened.”

“You know about that?” The frown she'd worn for the twentysomethings on the island turned down farther. “If you're looking for a reward, you came to the wrong place. It's her church putting it up.”

“I've got other business with Mrs. Gates. Do you know how long she'll be gone?”

“All day, probably. When you waste time on a bunch like that, you waste a lot of it.”

She went back inside. I groped for another cigarette. I could have been the murderer, for all she knew; but she only had time to think about the people who wouldn't flip burgers for a utility flat in the city, and she didn't like wasting it.

*   *   *

A gust caught the Cutlass broadside as I drove over the MacArthur Bridge from Jefferson. It packed a wallop and I had to clamp both hands on the wheel to avoid drifting into the opposite lane, where a delivery van was headed back toward the mainland on the double. Apart from that I had the span all to myself.

Lake St. Clair was gray as shale and looked about the same consistency. A frozen haze lay on the other side, behind which someone had built a scale model of Windsor, Ontario, out of lead. No telling what was going on there after sixteen straight days without sunshine; Canadians are coy about their suicides.