The sweet golden parachute

CHAPTER 14

The place on Whipperwill Road that Milo Kershaw was demolishing wasn’t hard to find. It was the one that looked as if it had just taken a direct hit from a Texas twister. The walls were standing, but its roof, roof joists and ceilings had vanished, along with the windows and front door. It reminded Des of extreme storm footage that she’d seen on the Weather Channel, which was the only channel Mitch kept his television tuned to anymore. If her doughboy wasn’t watching an old black-and-white movie then he was glued to Jim Cantore. The fact that she found this trait endearing-as opposed to crashingly boring-was just another measure of how into Mitch she was. Although she could have sworn that he and Allison Mapes had been vibing at McGee’s. Unless it was just her own paranoia. After all, Mitch was not Brandon. Mitch would never two-time her. Mitch was true blue, wasn’t he?

Well, wasn’t he?

The house was sided with cedar shingles. Milo was stripping them off and loading them into his truck, which was parked on the lawn right about where you’d expect to find a rental Dump-ster. No such Dumpster for Milo Kershaw. Dumpsters cost money. The little man worked alone and was salvaging pretty much everything he could crowbar out of the place. The kitchen sink and cabinets were piled on a tarp next to the truck, along with a heap of lumber and copper pipes. His snarly Doberman was tied up to a tree, standing guard over these secondhand treasures.

When he saw Des pull up and get out, Milo muttered sourly under his breath and kept right on prying the cedar shingles loose. The dog barked at her furiously. Milo hollered at it to shut up. It obeyed him, cowering.

“Taking her down to the ground?” she asked him, looking the place over.

Milo waited a long moment before he answered her. When he did, his voice was low and hostile. “I got me a demolition permit. It’s posted right there next the doorway, signed and legal.”

“Not why I’m here, Mr. Kershaw.”

He paused from his labors now, his jaw clenching. “I’m trying to do an honest day’s work, lady. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“I enjoy our little chats so much that I just can’t help myself. You’re like a tonic, Mr. Kershaw.”

He kept working on the shingles. His hand on the pry bar was deeply scratched, oozing blood.

“I’ve got a first aid kit in my cruiser. Be happy to slap a butterfly on that.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Mr. Kershaw, we need to talk about those returnables you took to the market this morning.”

“So your fat boyfriend ran and told you, hunh?”

“He’s not fat, he’s thick.” And that wasn’t all Mitch had told her. He’d also shared that Milo had gone racial on him. “Besides, this has nothing to with Mitch Berger. I stopped at the A amp;P in the routine course of my investigation. You were there, Mr. Kershaw. The returns machine gave you a printout that you redeemed for cash at the courtesy desk.”

“Courtesy my eye. Nastiest bunch of people I ever seen.”

“That very nice lady on the desk commented on your own sunny disposition. Described you right down to that duct tape on your vest, too. She checked her register tape for me. At 9:53 A.M. you collected on $23.20 worth of returnables.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“I was wondering how you came by them.”

“Saved ’em up.”

“Is that so? Then how come Justine was so surprised that you had them?”

“She don’t know everything about me,” Milo replied, peering at her shrewdly. “You did talk to Berger. I knew it.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t Justine?”

“Because I brought her up to spit at the law, same as my boys.”

“And we know you did a good job with them.”

“You got no cause to get snippy with me, young lady.”

“Mr. Kershaw, we couldn’t find a trace of Pete’s haul at the murder scene. Somebody took off with it.”

Milo shook his head at her disgustedly. “You really think I’m fool enough to kill that old bum for a lousy twenty-three bucks?”

“Poochie’s Mercedes is worth a lot more than that.”

“Don’t know nothing about it.”

“Okay, then let’s try this on for size. Let’s say you were driving past Four Chimneys this morning, spotted the stuff lying there by the side of the road and helped yourself. Is that how it went down?”

Milo didn’t answer. Just kept on working in surly silence.

“If it is, I won’t come down on you for it, Mr. Kershaw. All we’re interested in is who killed Pete Mosher.”

“Mosher? Where’d you come by that name?”

“Why, does it mean something to you?”

“Not a damned thing. Just never knew it is all.”

“But you knew Pete. Doug Garvey told me you three were pals back when you were kids.”

“He lived with them do-gooder schoolteachers for a while. Miller was their name. She always hated me.”

“Pete’s body wasn’t visible from the road, Mr. Kershaw. It’s totally credible that someone stopped to liberate his load and didn’t see him lying there. If that’s how you came by it then you’ll be doing us a huge solid if you just say so.”

Milo grimaced at her. “Lady, I been through the system, remember? If I admit to that, then I’ve placed myself at the murder scene. Not a chance. I’m not the village idiot. And I’m done answering questions. I got work to do, so just shove off.”

“Mr. Kershaw, I still have a few more questions. And if you don’t cooperate then I’ll have to take you in.”

“You and who else?”

“I won’t require any backup.”

“You try mixing it up with me and you’ll be seeing me in your nightmares until you’re old and gray.”

Des treated him to her sweetest smile. “If you want to find out who has the bigger cojones we can go around back of the house and throw down right now.”

“Sure, you with a gun on your hip. I lay one finger on you you’ll shoot me dead and call it self-defense.”

“Fine, I’ll take it off.” Des took off her entire belt, actually. Removed her holstered SIG Sauer from it and set it on the hood of Milo’s truck along with her pager. She stood there holding the belt by its buckle. It was a wide belt made of rugged black bridle leather. “Now we’re even,” she said, snapping it in the air like a whip. “Unless, that is, you’re afraid to get it on with an unarmed afro-disiac.”

“You stay away from me,” he ordered her.

“Or what, you’ll call a cop?” She moved steadily toward him. “Or maybe you’d like to take off your own belt and try whipping me.”

Milo backed away from her, glowering fiercely.

She kept on coming. “Still whaling on your boys in the woodshed?”

“Those nippleheads needed discipline when they were young, same as I did.”

“If you ask me, you still need it.” She snapped her belt in the air again, moving in closer.

His eyes widening, Milo scampered around behind his truck, where he tripped over a piece of lumber and tumbled to the grass. She immediately put her lace-up boot on his chest and pinned him there, the belt dangling loosely from her hand as the Doberman strained against its chain, snarling ferociously.

“Kids who are treated violently by their parents tend to resolve conflicts violently themselves when they grow up,” she said calmly, the little man squirming around on the grass under her foot. “Considering how you used to beat on Stevie and Donnie, and still enjoy telling them how worthless they are, it makes perfect sense that they’d cross the line with some poor, defenseless soul like Pete.”

“They had nothing to do with it,” he insisted, his face twisting with fury and indignation.

Des raised the belt high over her head in a distinctly threatening manner. “What about you?”

Milo Kershaw had felt the lash himself. He knew how much pain it inflicted. The likes of Des standing over him this way was enough to make him tremble in terror. “I don’t know anything. And you better let me up or I-I’ll file charges against you.”

“For what? I haven’t laid a finger on you, Mr. Kershaw. We’re just talking. Tell me where those returnables came from.”

“I found ’em!”

“Found them where?”

“None of your damned business is where, bitch!”

Des used the belt now-savagely whipping the grass less than an inch away from him.

Milo let out a strangled yelp. “Okay, okay! I found ’em at my place. Somebody dumped ’em there.”

“When?”

“How should I know? Besides, how do you even know they’re Pete’s?”

Milo was right. Des didn’t know for certain if it was Pete’s haul he’d come into. Except that in her heart she did know it. “Where had they been dumped?”

“Lady, what do you want from me?”

“The truth!” she roared, whipping the grass next to him a second time.

“They were at… at the foot of our drive,” he gasped. “Practically ran the damned bags over when I was… I was heading out for work. I deal in building supplies. People drop crap off… I got out for a look, saw they were empties and t-took ’em with me.”

“What time did you leave for work?”

“Seven-thirty… maybe,” Milo panted, his chest heaving.

She eased off a little. She wanted him to talk, not have a heart attack. “And where were your boys at the time?”

“Won’t… help you put my boys away.”

“It’s not me you’re helping. It’s them, if you can give them an alibi. Were Stevie and Donnie home by then or weren’t they?”

“Ain’t… ain’t saying a-a word.” His face contorted as if he were straining mightily. “Whip me, I don’t care.”

“You can’t be sure, can you? It’s possible that your boys brought Pete’s load home this morning after they killed him. Is that right?”

“I don’t know who left ’em there! I just… I just told you… I just…” Milo’s eyes flickered and then, suddenly, the resistance went right out of him. He untensed, his breathing returning to normal. Lay there in defeated silence, glaring up at her. Not so much with hate in his eyes. Hate wasn’t what she saw.

She saw humiliation.

As Des looped her belt back onto her uniform trousers a sharp, acrid smell tweaked her nostrils. She recognized it instantly but did not acknowledge it. Did not say another word. Just fetched her weapon and pager from the hood of Milo’s truck and started back toward her cruiser, knowing that from this day on whenever she ran into Milo Kershaw he would flee, his eyes avoiding hers.

She would never forget the look on that nasty little man’s face when he wet his pants.