"A Visible Darkness" - читать интересную книгу автора (King Jonathon)

16

I beeped McCane. Punched in my cell number and waited. My truck cab was hot, the glare of the sun snapping off the hood and windshield. Out in front of me the trio of men I'd seen earlier had taken up a position across the street in the shade of a tree. I started the truck and kicked up the A.C. My cell chirped.

"Freeman. How you doin', bud? Thought maybe you forgot about me son, and right now, you don't want to be forgettin' me."

"I can't imagine you're the kind of guy who's easy to forget, McCane."

In the background I could hear music. Maybe it was the same song that had been playing before. Maybe McCane hadn't moved from his seat at the bar.

"I've got another name for you to run through your insurance sources," I said, expecting a skeptical grumble.

"Yeah? Well start talkin', cause all you're going to be doin' is listening when you get here, partner. We got us some fat to chew."

McCane gave me directions to an address on the east side, and as I rolled down the street the neighborhood posse of three was watching me. All three turned their heads as I passed and I couldn't be sure, but it looked like the head man tipped up his chin.

I drove to a commercial strip in the city. This time of year the shopping malls and restaurants were doing a brisk business. The closer to the ocean, the brighter the building facades, the more commerce ruled.

I was looking for a movie marquee on the right and then a turn into a plaza. Kim's Alley Bar was deep in the corner and I found a space in the lot several doors down and walked back. Inside the stained-glass door I had to stop and let my eyes adjust to the dimness. It was a small place, split in two by a hip-high wall that separated a lounge area from a bar that ran the length of the back wall. There were four men sitting on stools. As my sight sharpened I saw McCane at the far end, a sheaf of papers spread out in front of him, an empty shot glass and a half-drunk shell of beer within reach.

As I crossed the distance a young, perky bartender called out a greeting, as if she'd just seen me yesterday. As I came closer I saw that she was standing in front of the most handsome hand-carved wood and beveled glass bar back I had ever seen. I was still staring when I got to McCane's side. The dark wood was intricately scrolled at the ends and across the high facade. Tiers of glass-fronted cabinets were stacked up, and they framed three individual mirrors. It had to be a century old, a stunning piece in this place where everything outside was new and sun-brightened and faux tropical.

"Suzy. Get Mr. Freeman here a drink, darlin', so's he'll have somethin' to put in that open mouth of his."

McCane pushed back the stool next to him with the toe of his shoe and I asked Suzy for a dark ale in honor of the place.

"Nice, huh?" McCane said, matching my sight line to the woodwork before us. "They say it was imported from some place in New England somethin' like fifty years ago in pieces and put back together here. Somehow makes you feel at home even if you ain't never had anything like it at home."

Suzy brought me an ale in a tall, thick glass and I took a sip and had to agree. McCane just pointed at his glass and she topped him off.

"So what's with the new name, bud? We got ourselves another dead ol' lady?"

"Old man," I said and his eyebrows raised. "The woman lives six blocks north of the last one. She survived but the way it went down, I think the killer thought he'd finished her."

"Dead guy came in and saved her?"

"No. Looks like he was already there, sleeping with her."

McCane just snorted and shook his head.

"Breaks the pattern," he said. "But not a bad way to go."

I took a longer drink of the ale and in the ornate mirror I saw a wide-shouldered, rangy-looking man with a tanned and weathered face. His hair looked bleached from the sun and his forearms were lined with cabled muscle as he held the tall glass to his face. I did not have a mirror in my shack. The eyes I saw staring back at me over the rim of my glass looked somehow changed to me.

"So the old lady got a look at this suspect?" McCane said.

"No. Her face was covered with a pillow he was using to smother her. So we got nothing. Might not even be connected," I said. "But it feels right."

McCane seemed truly disappointed, and took another drink.

"All right, bud. But we got bigger fish to fry now."

He filled me in on his middleman theory. He and Billy might not be able to look each other objectively in the face, but their paper chase had become an effective partnership.

Billy had run down the legal work on several of the insurance policies. In the ways of lawyers and accountants, there had been a meticulous recording of money expended in obtaining the discounted policies.

One of the line items was the payment of a finder's fee. Billy had come up with a Dr. Harold Marshack, psychologist, address in Florida.

"Guy lives in a condo by the beach," said McCane. "Gives the same address for his office. Manchester ran him through some Internet link he's got with the state department of transportation and gave me his plate and car description and I tailed him."

McCane finished off his shot. The small glass looked ridiculous pinched between his thick fingers. There was no alcoholic glow in his eyes. Just the enjoyment of letting his tale leak out slowly to me.

"I followed him to the grocery for milk and donuts. To the Office Depot for paper and stuff. To the bank. Then he takes me on a squirrelly ride to the west side. At first I thought he'd made me. But he was just being careful."

McCane took another drink of his beer chaser.

"He makes one stop at some shabby liquor store on the edge of blacktown over on West Sunrise."

No one at the bar acknowledged the slur, if they even heard it. The bartender kept washing glasses. The two guys watching ESPN never flinched. Bonnie Raitt kept singing about shattered love on the jukebox. I'd been wrong about the lack of effect the alcohol was having on McCane as he continued.

"He goes into the store empty-handed. Comes out with a bottle in a bag, gives a handout to some panhandler and goes straight back home."

"You get anything from the store clerk?"

McCane pointed again at his empty glasses. I waved Suzy off.

"I came back. Old Tom in the store pretends like I'm not even there. Then when I started asking him about Marshack, he gives me some shit about 'White cop askin' bout some white guy in here? That's a new one.' And then he goes on about how Marshack comes in maybe once every couple months. He buys a bottle of Hennessy Cognac. Doesn't use the phone or meet anyone. Just buys his booze and leaves. Only weird thing I could get out of the old coot was that the good doctor always pays with a hundred-dollar bill. No doubt an oddity in that place."

McCane waited a moment to let the information settle and then asked, "That ring any bells for you?" He was looking intently into my face for an answer.

I was trying to grind out the scene in my head, working the possibilities. There was a new rock in there but with only the slightest edge to it, and I couldn't get a hold of it.

"You on him again last night?" I finally said.

"I found a nice comfortable spot across the road from his place. Watched the Caprice for hours. Never moved."

"What time did you leave?"

"I woke up at 5:00 A.M. You know how surveillance goes. But the Caprice was still there. I even moseyed on over and felt the hood. Stone cold."

McCane was a bigot. Might be an alcoholic. But he hadn't lost all of his cop instincts.

"He ain't your doer, Freeman," he said. "Not the kind who creeps into houses and smothers old ladies. I seen him up close. He ain't got the hands for it. But if you get your detective friend to get a warrant and toss his place we might find something."

I stopped and let McCane's words settle in my head for a few seconds.

"Which detective is that?" I asked, knowing Billy would not have brought Richards's name into a conversation with McCane.

"Guy like you gotta have a local on the pad, Freeman. No P.I. I know gets along without one."

He held my eyes with his and didn't allow them to slide away. I didn't respond.

"You track the Thompson policy if there is one. We'll wait and see what we come up with," I said, pushing back the stool and taking one last appreciative look at the bar back.

"Follow the money, bud," McCane said, tossing back another shot. "Just follow the money."