Death by the Book

~15~

Another day. Jack was tense, stiff in the neck and aching, like he had been wearing a long wet coat all week, with anchors in the pockets. Last night he had dreamt that all his teeth fell out, that he had spat them into the palm of his hand, an endless mouthful. When he woke he had run his tongue over them a couple of times, to make sure they were still in his head. Now he sipped his coffee. He smoked a cigarette. He was sitting in the Eames chair with the heater pulled up close and his feet resting on top of it, trying to concentrate. Lois was curled up on a cushion on the floor. He was going over connections. Unchecked, he knew this type of mental activity often led to lunacy. But right now, it was all he had to work with. He was nervous about the connection between himself and the killer. But more than that, it was the question of who else was connected to the dead shoplifter — and why — that was making a vein in his temple pulse.

Two men dead because of half-a-dozen morbid poetry books? Not to mention the stitches in his gut.

A knock at the door. Jack groaned and got up out of the chair like a man whose woman had run off with his best friend. Maybe it was the cops. Maybe it was Detective Peterson, round for some early morning fun, having heard about the murder yesterday afternoon from his colleague. But when Jack opened the door and saw Annabelle Kasprowicz standing there, his low mood fizzed and dissolved like an aspirin.

“It would have been easier if I’d walked,” she said. Her face was bright with cold. “I ended up parking closer to my place.”

“Maybe it’d be easier if you just moved in.”

Annabelle rolled her eyes and stepped into Jack’s apartment for the first time. He closed the door behind her while she looked around. Nothing seemed to hold her attention for too long.

“It’s warm,” she said.

“Make yourself at home.”

She was wearing a knee-length, jersey wrap dress with a 1970s paisley print in brown and turquoise. It did not look like it would be too difficult to remove at the end of a hard day. Her legs were held secure in tight, knee-high navy leather boots that would probably require a little more effort. The long, turquoise fine-wool scarf around her neck would pose no problem at all. A little jewellery, a little make-up, a puff of perfume. She sent every sense nuts, including the sixth.

Lois stood up, stretched and then miaowed. She sauntered over to Annabelle and turned some lazy figure eights through her legs.

“I didn’t pick you for a cat lover,” said Annabelle.

“Neither did I.”

“What’s his name?”

“Lois.”

“A girl? Maybe I should leave?”

“Don’t worry. It’s an open relationship.”

Annabelle removed her scarf. She crouched down and stroked the cat. Lois began to purr. Jack moved the heater into the centre of the living room.

“You’ve heard,” he said.

Annabelle looked up, continued stroking the cat. “Ian called me last night from the police station.”

So they had taken Durst to the cop shop. Jack extinguished his cigarette. “You don’t seem too upset.”

Annabelle turned to the cat again. “I’m shocked by what’s happened, of course, but …” She stopped, rubbed Lois’ nose. “You know my family, Jack. You know it’s fucked. I might have passed my uncle in the street and not even recognised him.” She looked up. “I’ve never really known him. What else can I say?”

“Have you told your father?”

“He’s not due back until tonight. I can’t get him on his mobile.” She paused. “I can’t just leave a message.”

“Sure.”

Annabelle stood up, brushed cat hairs from her hands. “So Ian caught someone breaking into the place?”

Jack nodded.

“What happened exactly?”

“Exactly, I don’t know. When I got there with Celia, the door was open, Durst was wearing a blood-splattered shirt and holding a gun, and there were two bodies in the kitchen. All that was missing were lights and a camera.”

“Who was the other man?” Annabelle sat down on a red, corduroy two-seater couch.

Jack hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Didn’t the police say anything?”

“The police never say anything.” He picked up his cigarettes from the coffee table. “What about Durst? What did he tell you?”

“Not much. The man who broke in had already shot Edward. Ian caught him going through his pockets.”

Jack put the cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. “So Durst’s definitely with Celia.”

“Looks that way.” Annabelle smiled — a second later it slipped from her face like an icicle.

“It looks a lot of ways,” muttered Jack.

Annabelle reached across for his cigarette. “Poor Celia. She doesn’t know Ian. Though maybe she deserves him.”

“You don’t think it’s love, then?”

“That’s not even close to being funny.”

“You think he’s using her?”

“Ian can’t help himself. It’s the way he was born.”

“Why? Just to get at you?”

She shrugged, smoked.

“I thought he wanted you back?” said Jack.

“My ex-husband is a very childish man.” Annabelle tapped the cigarette in an ashtray. “He probably thinks it will make me jealous. And my father angry.”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

“He’s always hated Ian. He wants to see him disappear. No money from the settlement and no Louisa. His lawyers are very good. Poor Ian doesn’t have much to fight with.”

“Why would seeing Celia annoy your father?”

“He owns Celia’s business.” She drew on the cigarette, blew smoke up to the ceiling.

Jack frowned. There was always something around the corner with these people. And it always seemed to be Hammond Kasprowicz.

“Don’t look so confused! Silly little games are how the world turns.”

“Your old man owns Celia Mitten’s business?”

Annabelle nodded. “Sometimes guilt can work with him. Or at least it used to. Celia possesses her own unique talents. I told you not to believe anything she said.”

“Your ex-husband goes a long way to be a pain in the arse.”

Annabelle stared at the cigarette in her hand. “He used to be fun. Once.”

“Memories are wonderful things.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Who? Me?” Jack got up and went into the kitchen. He wished he had cracked Durst one back at Kass’s apartment. He came back with a plunger of coffee and a clean cup. Nobody spoke. Plumbing thrummed in one of the walls. It seemed to go with the mood.

“I know who the other guy was,” said Jack. The words came out by themselves.

“What do you mean?”

“The guy who Durst shot, who killed your uncle. I knew him.”

Silence. Then: “Who?”

“This guy.” Jack lifted his T-shirt, exposing the stitches just above his hip. He looked down at the wound, but not at Annabelle. Then he let go of the T-shirt and sat down in the Eames chair with his coffee. He waited for her to say something.

Annabelle continued to stare at him. “Did you tell the police?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Jack turned and watched Lois yawn. “Because I want to know who the hell he was working for.” He thought he might feel better for telling Annabelle. Instead, a kind of nausea drifted through him.

“You shouldn’t play games with the police.”

“It’s how the world turns, isn’t it?” said Jack, irritated. “Durst acted like he’d never seen me before.”

“So what? He’d just shot a man! And he’s only seen you once.” Annabelle thought about it: the effort pressed faint lines into the corners of her eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing,” he snapped. Maybe he was thinking too much again. Maybe the connections were all just slipknots. Maybe soon enough they were going to cut off his circulation.

Annabelle went over and knelt in front of him. She cupped his face in her hands. They were warm, soft hands. “You look tired,” she said.

“I have to get ready for work.”

“I’ll drive you. Does that give you more time?”

Jack looked into her eyes, grabbed a handful of hair at the nape of her neck. She was beautiful, crazy beautiful, and he clenched his jaw and tightened his grip around the glowing hair in his fist. “Time for what?” he said.

Annabelle half closed her eyes. She rolled her head around in a small circle, slowly, while Jack pressed his fingers into her neck. A soft sigh parted her lips. Then she put her hands on his knees and pushed herself up. She tilted her hip a little and reached around her side. She began to untie the straps on her dress.

“I didn’t have time for a shower this morning,” she said. “I feel dirty. Do you mind?”

“All I’ve got is a bath.”

Annabelle began to slip the dress off. “Better let the cat out then.”

The Concise Oxford English Dictionary was still on the counter at Susko Books where Jack had left it the day before. He put his bag down and stared at it. He put his hand on the front cover and thought about Annabelle Kasprowicz. Then he closed his eyes, flipped the book open and stabbed a finger at the page:

poignant/ • adj. 1 evoking a keen sense of sadness or regret. 2 archaic sharp or pungent in taste or smell.

Jack closed the OED and returned it to its place in the reference section. Next time he would try another book.

He turned on the heat, the lights, and slipped the float in the cash drawer. He took a bite of the croissant he had bought on the way into the city and drank from a small bottle of orange juice. The shelves needed dusting. The floor needed sweeping. Jack wondered how much it would cost to employ a regular cleaner. He thought about how much he would get stung for the rear door. He wondered how long the day was going to take getting to 5.00 p.m.

When the phone started ringing, he was sure it was the police. Worst-case scenario, it would be Peterson. He answered with a tight hello.

“You going to pick these books up or what?”

It was Chester Sinclair. It was the first time Jack did not mind hearing his voice.

“Mr Sinclair. And how are we this morning?”

“Yeah, great. So when do I get my money?”

“That’s wonderful. The wife, kids?”

“Have you dropped a tab, Susko?”

“Mum and dad?”

Chester paused. “Jesus.”

“And how’s business?”

“Two hundred and seventy-five dollars down. I’d like my money today. Now, fuck it.”

“What’s the rush?” said Jack. “Hot date and you need money for a nose job?” He noticed the edginess in Sinclair’s voice.

“The books you wanted are here. As agreed.”

“And?”

“Come, pay, leave.”

“That’s not a sentence, Sinclair. There are laws, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. They’ve already been here.”

“What?”

“I want nothing to do with it, so just come and get your books and that’s that. Man, I had a feeling about this deal in the first place.”

Jack watched somebody peek through the glass of the front door. They had a look and then walked back up the stairs. “Who’s been there?” he asked.

“The fucking police, that’s who!”

Jack let it sink in. “Why?”

“Because your fucking poet’s been shot, that’s why. They were waiting here for me this morning.” Chester lowered his voice. “I want these books out of here.”

“Why would they come and see you?” Jack’s tone was cool but his blood pressure had started to climb.

“Because my fucking message was still on Kass’s machine!”

“What message?”

“I rang to see if he would be interested in selling his personal copies. If I’d known the fucking police would be round here …”

“Just relax, Sinclair. Your walnut might pop. What did they ask you?”

“What do you mean?”

Jack shook his head. “I mean what did the police ask you?”

“Hey, don’t come at me all smart-fuck-son-of-a-bitch! I’m allergic to the goddamn police. They make me come out in a rash and I can’t shit for a month.”

“Try bran and some exercise.”

“You just come and get these books out of here.”

Jack tried again, his voice calm, friendly. “So what did they ask you?”

“They wanted to know why I was after Kass’s books.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I’d heard on the grapevine a collector was after them.”

“And of course they asked who.”

“Yeah, they asked.”

Jack let out a slow, measured breath. He hated Chester Sinclair. It was going to be his new hobby. He was going to spend a couple of hours at it every morning, like yoga. “And?”

Down the line, a sound of phlegm being coughed and then swallowed. “I told them to speak to you.”

“You’re a real friend, Sinclair. Next time I need a two-thousand-volt migraine, I’ll give you a call.”

“Hey, what was I going to say? It’s got nothing to do with me.”

Jack remained silent.

“Anyway, what have you got to worry about? Just tell them who your collector is.” The logic eased the tension in Chester’s voice. His smug, confident tone returned. “Just pass it on down the line, man, easy as that. It’s not like you killed the bastard. You’re just a guy who sells books. Like me!”

“Just like you,” said Jack in a low voice. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind him: nearly 10.00 a.m. Time to open up the shop. “Did they say anything about the shooting?”

“No. But they wanted to see Kass’s books. I told them I didn’t have any.”

“Right.” It was a small lie, insignificant: not like Jack’s. He was jealous.

“So you going to pick them up today?” There was a bubble of hope in Chester’s voice.

Jack did not hesitate to pop it. “What for?” he said. “Now that you’ve palmed the cops onto me, I’ll obviously have to palm them off onto my collector, who I doubt will be interested in any more books of poetry. So what the fuck would I want with them?”

“Hey, we had a deal! Two hundred and seventy-five bucks! You can’t pull out now.”

“Really? Did I sign something, Sinclair?”

“What? No, you can’t —”

Jack hung up the phone. Fuck. Before speaking to Chester, he had believed there was a slim possibility the police might leave him alone. Not anymore.

He needed to buy a couple of newspapers, see if anything had been written up about Kass’s death. Jack slipped on his jacket, wound on his scarf and left the shop. There was a newsagent up the road.

He had just got back and was scanning the front page of one of the newspapers at the counter when Detective Peterson and Detective Sergeant Glendenning walked in. Peterson was grinning, arms casually slung into the pant pockets of his dark blue suit. Jack could hear keys jingling as he approached the counter. Glendenning followed: olive-green jacket and black pants, head down, stern faced, throwing quick sideways glances along the aisles of books. His shoes squeaked, but not like leather. Jack had known in his waters that the day was going to start with their arrival, no matter what time that was. He had been hoping for later.

“These old books, they really stink, don’t they? How do you stand it all day?” Peterson grimaced and puffed out his chest. “Like being locked up in an old woman’s closet.”

“Wouldn’t know,” said Jack. “Never been in one myself.”

Peterson’s brow tightened over his eyes like a belt. Jack casually flipped though the paper.

“Good morning,” said Glendenning. Nothing in his tone told Jack a thing. The detective moved up and stood beside Peterson, looking over the counter, itemising everything there with his steely cop eyes. “Sleep well?”

“Not bad. Yourself?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Good.”

Silence, except for the rumble of buses on York Street. Jack waited, pretending to read. Nobody said anything. Glendenning was obviously a fan of awkward pauses. He was working the room.

Peterson broke the spell. “How’s Chester?” Jack looked up. He noticed Detective Sergeant Glendenning’s shoulders flinch, the barest movement, like he was annoyed. Peterson cleared his throat. “Seen him lately?”

“No,” replied Jack. He wondered who held the superior rank between the two. Glendenning looked around, as though he was bored. Jack got the impression the two detectives were not best friends: or maybe he just hoped that was the case.

Glendenning nodded at the newspapers. “What’s new?”

“Everything’s too expensive and the crime rate’s up.”

“Same old thing,” said Peterson with a sneer. “Living in the city was always shit.” He eyed Jack like he wanted to twist his arm. “Unless you’re your own boss, run your own business. With a little on the side now and then.”

Jack grinned, but not too much. “I was thinking about joining you guys,” he said. “High crime rate equals good job security. Plus the little extra on the side now and then.”

Peterson threw Jack a look like a back-handed slap. “Pity reading books doesn’t count as a qualification.” His pale face looked gaunt under the dull fluorescent light. With his blonde hair and frosty eyes and snarling contempt he would have made a perfect Nazi.

“You got a crime section?” asked Detective Sergeant Glendenning.

Jack nodded.

“Read much yourself?”

“More of late.”

“Courtroom drama or police procedural?”

“Psychological thrillers,” said Jack.

Glendenning nodded and looked around. “I like the police procedural.”

“Maybe you should start writing your own.”

“Yeah, I’ve thought about that.” The detective locked his eyes on Jack but spoke to Peterson. “What do you think, Geoff? I could write this one up.”

Peterson smiled. He had a big ugly mouth with loose rubber-band lips. “Plenty of twists and turns.”

“I could do you a nice deal on a dictionary and a thesaurus,” said Jack. He looked the two detectives up and down. “Throw in a style guide, too.”

Detective Glendenning put a hand in his pocket. Jack noticed it bulge with a fist. Maybe his mobile phone was in there. Or maybe it was an anger-management technique.

“Why don’t you write it for us?” said Glendenning. It did not sound like a question. “You know more than we do.”

“About what?”

Glendenning shrugged, looked away. “Oh, about lots of things, I’m sure.”

Jack rubbed his hands together, softly cracked a couple of knuckles. The cops watched him. He looked around. He was starting to feel like a nine-year-old altar boy who needed to go to the toilet.

Peterson leaned on the counter. “Come on, don’t play the dumb fuck.”

“That’s a good first line for your book.”

“Would you rather we dragged your arse down to the station?”

“Just watch the clichés.”

Detective Peterson turned to Glendenning. “Not cooperating with an official police investigation.”

“Technically obstructing.” Glendenning stared blankly at Jack.

“Technically giving me the shits.” Peterson scowled.

“Am I supposed to read your minds?” said Jack. “So far you haven’t even told me why you’re here.”

Detective Sergeant Glendenning rubbed the faint blue stubble on his chin. “We know somebody is paying you to find some Edward Kass books,” he said. “We’d like to know who that is.”

Jack realised he had been clenching his stomach. It loosened a little. They were not here about the other guy. They were following up angles. Connections. But it was only half a relief. Jack was not sure it was in his interests to tell them anything about Hammond Kasprowicz. He thought about the burnt books and Celia Mitten and the typewriter in Kasprowicz’s study. He thought about Ian Durst. He thought about Annabelle Kasprowicz. Was he trying to protect her or himself? He was not sure what to think. Jack remembered Ziggy Brandt in the back of the big black Benz one day, spread out like he was on a banana lounge, handing out advice to a concerned gentleman who seemed to have some kind of problem. The guy called Ziggy, Mr Brandt. He had little beads of sweat on his forehead. Ziggy told him: “If you’ve got nothing to give, always keep your mouth shut with the coppers. Always.” Jack remembered the big black Benz and the gold Rolex and the Armani suits. Maybe sometimes Mr Brandt knew what he was talking about.

“Chester Sinclair is full of shit,” said Jack. “Four-year-olds know more than he does.”

“Please don’t waste our time, Mr Susko.”

“I work for myself. That’s why my name’s on the sign outside.”

Peterson looked at Glendenning. He pushed himself off the counter, stood up straight. “He wants to be difficult.”

Detective Sergeant Glendenning turned and walked around in a small circle, looking down at his shoes. “No, I’m sure Mr Susko wants to help us to the best of his abilities.” He ran a finger along a bookshelf and then rolled the dust against his thumb. “There’s no reason to be difficult. Not any I can see.”

Glendenning walked back over, hands in his pockets. Unlike Peterson, he had the face of a man with huge reserves of patience, like some kind of police Zen master. Time is on my side because I am time.

“I had a lot of enquiries about Kass,” said Jack, clearing the newspapers from the counter. “School kids, mainly. I thought maybe he’d been selected for a high school English list. Then I found out he was no longer in print. Thought I might corner the market.”

Peterson laughed. “We got ourselves an entrepreneur!”

“Yeah, another hundred thousand and I’ve cracked my first mill. If you guys ever need a loan.”

Glendenning eyed Jack like he was looking through a gun sight. “So you’re not working for any collector?”

“No.”

Detective Sergeant Glendenning nodded, though not necessarily because he believed what he heard.

“Funny that Kass was sitting at the kitchen table when he was shot. Just doing his work like that,” said Jack.

“Why?” asked Peterson. His eyes flashed a little. Glendenning’s stayed blank.

“Well, he obviously didn’t hear the intruder break in.”

The two detectives said nothing.

“Implies the intruder snuck up on him.” Jack pushed his point. “Shooting a man in the head that didn’t even know you were there is a pretty dramatic turn for a simple break and enter. Don’t you think?”

Now Peterson smirked, as though Jack had no idea what he was talking about. Glendenning breathed through his nostrils, slowly, and took his time blinking, as though he was holding a good hand but was unsure how much to bet.

Jack went on: “Broke in, tiptoed into the kitchen, found Kass wondering if his last two lines should rhyme and just let rip. Bang.”

A look slipped between the two cops like a whisper. A moment later, Peterson leaned an elbow against the counter and turned towards his partner. Whatever his eyes said had no impact on Glendenning’s poker face.

Jack moved the chair over from in front of his desk and leaned against the back of it. “Had he stolen anything? Did he leave his prints anywhere else in the house, looking for something of value?”

“I thought it was psychological thrillers, Mr Susko.” Glendenning’s voice was a monotone, but each word was tied to a lead sinker.

“I forgot to mention the odd Maigret.”

“What the hell’s that?” asked Peterson, turning his head slightly in Jack’s direction. Nobody answered him.

“I didn’t notice anything in the killer’s possession. No bag lying around anywhere,” said Jack. “Everything in the living area looked untouched, the bedroom, too. Unless, of course, Kass worked for a terrorist organisation and there was a piece of paper with a secret code that could wreak havoc on the Dow Jones index slipped inside the intruder’s Nike track pants.”

Glendenning looked away, down an aisle of books. “Maybe there was. What else do you think, Mr Susko?”

“You’re the experts.” But ideas were starting to pop into Jack’s head. “Was there much time between Kass’s shooting and Durst’s arrival?”

Glendenning did not turn back. “Why?”

“Because if there was —”

The front door swung open and a customer walked into Susko Books. Jack pulled himself up and smiled hello. He remembered where he was. It occurred to him that he was talking too much. Thinking out aloud. Not a very good idea.

The customer headed to a display of art books across from the counter.

“Anything else, Maigret?” Glendenning asked.

“You going to put me on the payroll?”

“Maybe we just won’t put you in jail.”

“For helping you solve a crime?” Jack smiled.

Peterson stood up and turned around. “For talking shit,” he said.

“That’s your speciality, Geoff.”

“You got a smart mouth.” Detective Geoff Peterson squared up. He had a couple of inches on Jack and used them for emphasis. “How about I teach it some manners?”

“How about an official complaint?”

“Let me help you with the paperwork. I’ll make sure it goes to the front of the queue.”

Detective Sergeant Glendenning walked over and touched Peterson lightly on the arm. His partner’s shoulders dropped about two millimetres but his face still looked hard and mean. Obergruppenführer Peterson.

“You are aware that this is a murder investigation, Mr Susko?” said Glendenning. “I’d hate there to be any confusion.”

“Perfectly clear.”

Jack wondered if he had gone too far. He was not sure what he was doing, but pissing the cops off was not what he wanted. It seemed he possessed a raw talent for it. Maybe from now on he would start not wanting things that he actually did want. Maybe he would start with not wanting an Aston Martin DB9 with a full tank and a long open road leading the hell out of there.

Glendenning’s mobile phone began to ring. He put it to his ear. “Fine. We’re five minutes away.” The detective turned to go. “We’ll continue our conversation later, Mr Susko.” His voice was low but firm. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be in and out for most of the day.”

“That’s all right. We’re a twenty-four-hour service.” Glendenning paused at the front door and turned back to Jack. “Edward Kass was dead only minutes before Durst got there,” he said.

“What time was that?”

Glendenning narrowed his eyes. “We’re not exactly sure. Why, did you hear something?”

Jack hesitated. “No.”

“You’re still thinking, Mr Susko,” said the Detective Sergeant. Then he smiled. “Tell me.”

“Nothing to tell,”

“But plenty to think about, eh? We’ll have a nice chat tomorrow.”

Peterson and Glendenning left. The customer over by the art books looked up. Jack did not mean to frown at him, but did, and the man returned his attention to the book in his hands. Jack rubbed his forehead. It was only 10.20 a.m.