Blood Men

chapter twenty-seven

The knocking wakes me. I unplugged the alarm clock last night since time doesn’t really matter much these days. I get to my feet and pull back the curtain and the Christmas Eve sun is high enough to suggest it’s sometime around noon. I knew the knocking would come today, I just didn’t know when. The clothes I wore last night are gone. As is the murder weapon-or accident weapon, to be accurate. I’ve cleaned my hand up, put a fresh bandage on it, it hurts but that’s the price you have to pay, I guess. First thing the monster made me do when I got home last night was drop a glass on the kitchen floor when I was trying to take painkillers.

I pull on some jeans and a shirt. My shoulder hurts and I rub at it. My body is stiff and sore. The knocking comes again.

I reach the door in bare feet. The house is closed up and the air is warm and stale. I open the front door and bright light floods in, the windscreen of the car parked out front reflecting a load of it into my eyes. I hold my hand up to shield them, squinting, exposing the bandage to the men standing outside.

“We have some developments,” Detective Schroder says.

“What kind of developments?” I ask, and I realize that I haven’t actually spoken out loud since leaving Sam last night at her grandparents.” My voice catches and my mouth is dry and the words are croaky, and I have to repeat the sentence.

“Mind if we come in? This is Detective Landry,” he says, and Detective Landry looks too small for his clothes and a little too tired to be working. I lead them inside and we sit in the living room. At least I do, and Landry does, but Schroder stays standing near the Christmas tree, which pisses me off. I don’t offer them a drink. It’s not a social call.

“You’ve found the men who murdered my wife?” I ask.

“We recovered some of the money at a homicide this morning,” Landry says. “Drug dealer went and got himself murdered.”

“So somebody bought drugs from him with the stolen cash?”

“That’s quick thinking,” Schroder says.

“I like that,” Landry adds. “A quick thinker.”

“But no. That’s not what we’re saying,” Schroder says. “The cash we found was from the bank. It was stained with dye and damaged.”

“I don’t follow,” I say.

Schroder explains to me what a dye pack is and it makes enough sense. The whole time I keep thinking there’s something he’s not telling me. Maybe they found something of mine at the scene. Could be a neighbor saw me-it doesn’t seem likely, it was too dark. And why isn’t he mentioning the rest of the money? The bricks of cash under the mattress weren’t ruined with dye.

“How much of the money did you find?” I ask.

“Can’t tell you that,” Schroder says.

“Was this the man that killed Jodie?”

“No,” Landry says.

“He was one of the six?” I ask.

“One of the seven,” Schroder says.

“What?”

“Six men came into the bank,” Schroder says, “but another man sat out in the car.”

“A getaway driver?”

“A wheelman,” Landry says.

“So one of them killed him?”

“Maybe.”

“Who found him?” I ask.

“Now, why would you ask that?” he asks.

“If this is somebody who was in the gang that killed my wife, maybe whoever found him is part of it.”

“They wouldn’t have phoned it in,” Schroder says. “It was his probation officer. The victim didn’t show up this morning, and his probation officer came looking for him.”

“So what are you saying? Who killed him?”

“We don’t know,” Landry says. “Doesn’t make sense that somebody would kill him, and leave all those drugs behind.”

And the money.

“Unless he was killed for a different reason,” Schroder says.

“Something more personal,” Landry says.

“Like revenge,” Schroder says, the two cops bouncing off each other now.

“But you must know his accomplices, right?” I ask. “He would have worked with these men before?”

“We’re looking into it,” Schroder says.

“I don’t understand, why have you come here to tell me this?”

“We thought it was important to keep you updated,” Schroder says.

I don’t think that’s it at all. And he knows I don’t believe him.

“You haven’t exactly told me anything, except somebody who could have been part of the robbery got killed. How do you know he was the wheelman and not one of the six in the bank?”

“Height.”

“What?”

“He was a tall man. None of the six in the bank were as tall as him. The bank crew were all average, this guy was over six foot.”

“Still doesn’t mean he drove the van,” I say.

“He drove the van,” Schroder says. “And he was part of the robbery.”

“So now what? It means you’ll have the others soon, right?”

“We have some leads,” Schroder says, and the way he says it makes me think that they have some leads on who killed Kingsly, not who robbed the bank. “What happened to your hand?”

“I dropped a glass last night,” I say, glancing over at the kitchen where I dropped the glass last night ready for this question. “I cut myself picking up the pieces. I should have gotten stitches.”

“Uh-huh. And your daughter? Where’s Sam?”

“At her grandparents’.”

“So you were here alone last night?”

“Sounds like you have something to ask me.” I say.

Schroder’s cell phone goes off. He flips it open and walks off a few meters, keeping his voice low.

“Yeah. We want to know how you can be in two places at once,” Landry says.

“What?”

“You’re going to tell us you were at home alone last night, right?”

“I was.”

“We got a description of you and your car seen outside our vic’s house last night. In fact we’re planning on having a lineup later on which you’ll be coming along to.”

“I wasn’t there,” I say, doing my best not to break out in a sweat.

“We can prove you were.”

“No. You can’t. Because I wasn’t. My wife is killed, and you come here and treat me this way? Screw you, Detective,” I say, my heart racing. “But you know what? I’m glad he’s dead. Maybe you can find whoever’s responsible and ask him to get the other six.”

“Interesting you’d put it that way,” Landry says. “See, when you say other six and not other five, that suggests you don’t think the killer was one of the gang.”

I don’t answer him. Before he can start back at me, Schroder snaps his phone closed. “There’s been a development,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “I mean, an incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

“It’s your father,” he says, and he stares at the ground for a few seconds before looking back up at me, and without him telling me, I already know what’s happened. “You’re going to need to come with us.”