Where the dead lay

THIRTY-EIGHT

The living room smelled lightly of sandalwood incense. Behr had been sitting on the sofa for a long time. Perhaps three hours had gone by. He’d reviewed his notes a dozen times and had dozed. He had already searched the place top to bottom and sideways. He hadn’t found any financial records or journals, calendars, organizers, or diaries. Another thing he hadn’t found were any haircutting implements. Besides her personal brush, there wasn’t a single pair of scissors, a clipper, a comb or cape in the place. But he had discovered $3,800 in cash secreted in an empty jar of cold cream under the bathroom sink, and because of that he knew she’d be back. Eventually. When he had arrived a woman had been steering a baby in a stroller, with another slightly older child in tow, out of the building. The look of gratitude on her face as Behr held the door for her made it plain she wouldn’t be asking if he belonged as he entered. When he’d reached Flavia’s door, after knocking repeatedly and pressing an ear against the door, he’d made fast work of the old and basic Kwikset lock. She hadn’t bothered with the dead bolt. When he finished his search he had taken his seat. His phone buzzed once, and he checked it and saw the incoming call was from Susan. The phone buzzed again when her voice mail hit, but he didn’t listen to it. Instead, he gazed down at the coffee table, at the pile of cash there next to a scattered handful of Trojan Twists. His stomach ground on itself in hunger, and he considered whether he should help himself to some empanadas he’d found in the kitchen or do something ridiculous like order a pizza, when he heard keys jingling outside the door.

Susan Durant pulled over outside the Broad Ripple location of Women’s Choice Clinic and turned off the engine. She sat there staring straight ahead for a long moment, and Lynn, sitting in the passenger seat because someone had to be there to see her home after the procedure, did the same. She had been crying too much, feeling nauseous and headachy all day. She knew it was probably the hormones, but the realities of the situation weren’t helping any. In fact, the only times she’d felt halfway decent over the past few weeks was the moment she was drinking her morning cup of coffee-she’d read that one cup a day was okay-or eating pizza or pasta. Literally the moment she was eating it. While she was chewing the crispy crust or shoveling in the noodles and sauce she got a moment’s relief from the hollowed-out panicky feeling in her stomach. But the second she put down the fork and wiped her mouth, the queasy feeling would rush back over her and she’d long to be in her bed in a dark room. It seemed to be getting worse day by day. She’d even thrown up in her mouth at work the other day, for god’s sake, and not wanting anyone to know, had to swallow the vile stuff down.

“Suze?” Lynn said.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Lynn,” she said, not looking at her friend. “You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know.” Lynn nodded. “It never is. That’s what my parents said when I came out. Then I figured out it is what it is, and you’ve gotta deal with it.”

Susan nodded slowly and thought about Frank, off somewhere chasing down whoever killed his friend, and who knows what else. He was probably only across town, but he felt a world farther away than that.

“Well?” Lynn said, patient, her words a gentle prompt. Susan reached for the key in the ignition.

The yellow-and-white-striped tent was doing little to cut the sun’s glare, as pit bulls of all sizes, coat colors, and quality were busy being unloaded from trucks and cages. It was the end of the summer Bully B-B-Q. Terry Schlegel rubbed his face and drank his third Diet Pepsi of the morning and thought of the story on the cover of the newspaper. He’d been pushing hard, and he knew taking the little Latino out for spite might’ve been over the line, but as for some kid getting caught up in it, that wasn’t something he’d planned. A group of six or seven bull pups growled, barked, and yelped as they tumbled over one another playing grab-ass in some owner’s pen. Terry just wasn’t in the mood for this. The hangover was gripping him hard, and the pair of corn dogs he’d downed and the sodas weren’t helping. The splattering sounds that Dean had produced that morning played in his mind. It had woken him, and the noise of the spraying hose as Dean cleaned off the cement steps hadn’t allowed him to go back to sleep. The memory, and the smell of slow-cooking smoked pork rising from a large steel barrel barbecue pit, was enough to turn his stomach. Then he saw Charlie’s Durango pull up and glanced over to see him and Kenny pile out of the SUV. They circled around back and unloaded their pair of tiger stripe bullies. He felt a surge of pride at the sight of his boys, tall and strong, wrangling those beasts they pretended were dogs. He watched several passersby greet them. Black dudes, Latin guys, white girls. His boys were faces in this part of town, they had a name and were treated with respect, and it made Terry feel good. He kept watching, waiting for Deanie to join them.

There was Charlie, the strong one, and smart, the most like him. Oftentimes Terry wondered what was going on behind the boy’s eyes, so cryptic already despite his being twenty-two years old. Then there was Kenny. The kids considered him the crazy one. And it was true; consequences didn’t seem to occur, much less stick, to the boy. Where’d the attitude come from? Maybe it was shades of the young Vicky. The boy was a real wild card. Terry wanted to look upon them all, his three sons, together in the bright sun. But he kept on waiting until finally Charlie and Kenny closed up the car and headed into the day’s doings.

Sleeping it off, Terry supposed of Dean. Dean. He was just muddled up right now. He thought too much and got lost because of it. That’s what got him into trouble with the Latin chick. It was a long shot turning out one winner kid these days. When it came to three, the odds just plain sucked. At least one had to be a numbnut, so he was ahead of the game, he figured. He didn’t know whether Charlie and Kenny saw him or not, or whether they were focused on registering the dogs for whatever competitions were being held that day, but one way or another, they didn’t come over to him.

Just as well, he thought. He wasn’t there to see his sons, or the dog show, but to meet. He had a sit scheduled with Campbell Do-ray. It was a little soon. He’d hoped to get a dozen or more locations up and running and turning a profit, and they’d only done that at a fraction of the locations. But they’d sure as hell put a major pinch in the shake business across town, that was for shit sure, and any businessman could see the opportunity to fill that void. So while they hadn’t done as much as he’d hoped as far as revenue yet, with all the recent attention it seemed like a good time to get out, to monetize their efforts, and to move on. He assumed Doray would be happy to complete the deal now.

But he’s late, Terry thought to himself, more than half an hour. That was when he saw Larry Bustamante, dressed in civilian clothes, trundling toward him across the parking lot.

Fuck me, Terry thought, this isn’t good. He could see by the way Bustamante’s shirt was fitting, tight around his belly, but smooth, with no telltale bulge at the hip, that his brother-in-law wasn’t wearing his gun. He didn’t have one in an ankle holster either, because the big slob was wearing khaki cargo shorts and those rubber sandals over white tube socks. After a moment, Bustamante spotted him in the bleachers and headed over.

“Vicky tell you I was here?” Terry asked.

Bustamante nodded. “Who’re you meeting?”

Terry couldn’t see the harm in telling him. “Camp Doray.”

“Yeah?” Bustamante asked. He sounded skeptical, like he knew something. “He still wants to do it, even after all the press and shit?”

Despite the stifling weather, Terry felt gooseflesh rise on his arms at Bustamante’s words. It confirmed what he suspected: Doray wasn’t coming. Terry felt his face clench into a grim mask. Things had gotten too hot.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s not supposed to get here for a while.” The day’s temperature, the pork smell and exhaust and smoke in the air, and the sun-warmed odor of dog shit wafting over him conspired to make Terry queasy. He swallowed down on it hard and forced himself to meet Bustamante’s eyes.

“And you? What do you want?” Terry asked. Bustamante fidgeted and looked around but didn’t speak.

“Out with it. What’s up? I know it’s something. It’s all over your face.”

“They found the… package down by the river.”

Fuck! Terry was sure his heart ceased pumping and his blood stopped flowing for three seconds. Already? How’d they find it? Who found it for ’em? He wanted to shout the questions into Bustamante’s stupid, fat face. But he sipped air and spoke in what he hoped was a calm voice. “Well… we figured they might, eventually. How come I didn’t see it on the news?”

“Just happened. And they’re keeping it clamped down. When I heard, I knew you’d want to know,” Bustamante said, and settled into loud nasal breathing.

“Anything else, Lar?”

“I think I… I need a lawyer, Terry.”