Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (13 page)

Home, sweet, home. I can’t say I felt a hundred percent safe to be back in my own digs, but I had to trust that Richard was right and that my problems with Da-Marr were over.

Despite making it an early night, I got up late, feeling more settled, but still on edge. I made a pot of coffee and automatically opened a can of cat food before I remembered that Herschel wasn’t just asleep under the bed or birdwatching on one of the windowsills. I missed the little guy, but there was no way in hell I was going to bring him home as long as Da-Marr was around.

I snagged my coffee, flopped down on the couch, and grabbed the TV remote, intending to find out what had happened in the world during the past forty-eight hours, when I spied the chalk cube on my coffee table. Whoever had cleaned the place hadn’t tossed it.

I picked it up. Now that I had a better sense of who Jack Morrow had been, maybe I’d get more from the cube. For a long moment, I just looked at it, turning it over and over, noting each imperfection. It had been well used, but the aura still attached to it hadn’t been Morrow’s.

Sam had said the guy had a son. He’d also asked me not to go looking for information on the kid — young man…whatever — in case it tainted my perceptions.

I held onto the chalk, closed my eyes, and concentrated.

I got no image of the man who’d used the chalk, rubbing it on the tip of a cue. He’d been good at the game. Cunning. I got the feeling he was also cunning when it came to business.

I thought long and hard, trying to come up with other descriptors.

Cold. Calculating.

A murderer.

Jack Morrow had known his killer, had played pool with him in his own home on many occasions. Morrow had lost to him, not only in a game of skill, but also the game of life.

I should have been creeped out by that insight. Funny, looking at Da-Marr scared me shitless, but touching the soul of a murderer had become rather commonplace for me. But then the stakes were different this time. We weren’t looking for a murderer, and he had no idea we were looking for the same treasure. Still, there was the possibility that our paths could cross, which was an unsettling thought.

The phone rang. It could only be one of two people: Sam or Richard. “Hello.”

“Hey, Jeff. It’s Sam.”

A flush of embarrassment coursed through me. “Sorry I ran out on you like that yesterday. I–”

“No apologies necessary.”

There seemed to be a
but
hanging between us.

“Go on,” I urged.

“Are you still up to digging around with me? After yesterday — ”

“Yesterday had nothing to do with Jack Morrow or his killer.”

“Whoa — who said anything about his killer?”

“Me. I’ve been inspecting the chalk cube. I’m pretty sure whoever used it last killed Morrow, and with the same mission as you — to find Morrow’s hidden assets.”

“Then we’re on the right trail.”

“I thought you said you weren’t interested in the killer.”

“Well, I didn’t mean that literally, but that finding the assets could be as big a story as finding the killer.”

I put the chalk down and picked up my coffee cup, took a sip and winced. Cold. How long had I sat there entranced by a lump of blue chalk? “What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve got an opportunity to inspect the car Morrow was killed in. I wouldn’t ask you to sit in the driver’s seat — I don’t want you to freak out on me again, and I’m not saying that for my own sake. I’m honestly worried about you.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, but didn’t want to dwell on it, either. “So you want me to sit where the killer sat and see if I can glom onto whatever vibes he left behind?”

“Something like that. But only if you feel up to it.”

I considered the offer. Except for visiting Herschel, I had nothing better to do that day. “I guess. But are we likely to get anything of use? The guy was looking for the same thing we are.”

“Yeah, and why would he have killed Morrow without that information?”

“Out of spite or frustration?”

“You have your funny feelings, I have mine, and I think you’re going to come up with something spectacular from sitting in the back of that Lexus.”

“Yeah, most likely a skull-pounding headache.”

“I’ll take you to lunch afterward,” he offered, which wasn’t much of an inducement.

“Then you want to do it this morning?”

“I’m supposed to be at the impound yard at eleven. Can you make it?”

I looked at the lump of chalk sitting on my coffee table, remembering that it aroused more curiosity than fear from me. “I guess.”

“Great. Do you know where the impound yard is?”

I didn’t. He gave me the address.

“I’ll see you there in about an hour.”

“I’ll be there. See you.” I hung up the phone, got up from the couch and poured my cold coffee down the sink, then fixed myself a fresh cup. I needed caffeine — and one of my little blue pills — if I was to keep at bay the headache that was beginning to form behind my eyes. I needed to be thinking clearly when I got into the back of that Lexus and once again try to soak up the soul of a killer.

The police impound yard was located in a seedy, ramshackle neighborhood. The police presence hadn’t seemed like much of a crime deterrent as evidenced by the graffiti and abundant litter. I parked near the entrance’s chain-link fence and hoped it wouldn’t be stolen or vandalized.

With his collar turned up against the wind, an impatient Sam waited for me outside the yard. “Sorry I’m late,” I said as I slammed the driver’s door. “It’s a damn maze of one-way streets around here.”

“We’ve got a very short window of opportunity here,” Sam said and beckoned me to follow.

“You mean the boss is on a coffee break and some flatfoot who owes you a favor is letting us play detective?” I asked as I fell into step with him.

“Something like that,” he admitted.

We marched past the open gate as a uniformed officer approached. “Hey, Rodriguez, good to see you,” Sam called.

Rodriguez didn’t seem to share that sentiment. “You said you’d be here fifteen minutes ago,” he grated.

“We’re here now. And we’ll be out of your hair in just a couple of minutes,” he promised good-naturedly.

Oh, yeah? I shot Sam an annoyed glance. Time often played tricks on me when I tried to soak up vibes — if I was even able to pull off that little parlor trick. It was never a given.

“Let’s get this over with,” Rodriguez said, “You’ve got ten — fifteen minutes at most, and then my obligation to you is over.”

I gave Sam a sideways glance. What had he done for Rodriguez that gave him this kind of access to police evidence? I might never know.

The place seemed oddly absent of other police personnel as Rodriguez led us through a garage with many bays to a cream-colored Lexus that sat at the end of the row.

“Did they get any fingerprint evidence?” Sam asked.

Rodriguez shook his head. “Nothing. The entire car was wiped clean. Morrow’s own prints weren’t even on the steering wheel. They figured out the killer used antiseptic wipes bought at any supermarket to clean up the evidence, but the blood splatter was everywhere else, as you can see.

Oh, yeah. The splatter pattern on the windows was absolutely spectacular. It had ruined the cream-colored upholstery, marred the floor mats, and covered the electronics panel. And there was other matter that had dried on every surface, as well. Probably bits and pieces of Morrow’s skull and brains. I’d seen similar crime scenes in my work for a major insurance company back in Manhattan — and of course when I’d first come back to Buffalo and entered Matt Sumner’s love nest. Crime scenes had been my specialty — for a time. Then downsizing ended that career, and the rest, as they say, is history.

“My friend here,” Sam said, without introducing me, “has an uncanny ability to observe things not readily apparent to folks like you and me.”

Rodriguez gave me a sullen glare.

“We’re wasting time,” I said and waved my hand toward the car. “Shall we?”

Rodriguez pulled a few latex gloves from his pocket, donning one, and handing me two. He opened the driver’s side door. A shudder ran through me. Sam had indicated I wasn’t going to have to relive Morrow’s death, but he didn’t protest, either.

Coward that I am, I didn’t want to appear weak in front of this beefy looking stranger and swallowed down my revulsion as I scooted onto the driver’s seat.

Almost immediately, Morrow’s residual terror enveloped me. He’d stared straight ahead at the darkened expanse of lawn, the headlights cutting a swath through the night, with the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his skull, pleading for his life. He’d invoked the names of his wife and children, he’d begged, he’d appealed, but the one thing he wasn’t prepared to do was divulge the whereabouts of the millions and millions of dollars he’d stashed in some safe place, somewhere where no one — least of all his killer — was ever likely to find them.

That same flash of light — remnant of the near-death vision? — caused a shudder to run through me and I practically jumped out of the driver’s seat, feeling unnerved.

Rodriguez turned his hard stare from me to Sam as if silently asking,
what the hell?

It took a couple of deep breaths for me to regain some tiny semblance of normalcy. Sam said nothing, but gestured toward the car’s back seat.

My head was already beginning to thump. Why had I ever agreed to put myself into such an unpleasant situation? For a free lunch? Crap, I could eat a box of store-brand mac and cheese for far less than a buck. I didn’t need to be bribed with filet mignon.

And still, there Sam stood, expecting me to lay aside all my fears and just thrust myself into what was literally the hot seat of a killer.

Stupid me. I did it — but not without reluctance, which I was pretty sure Sam could tell by my expression. He looked worried, but his concern wasn’t enough to put a stop to this little endeavor.

My ass hit the seat and I was enveloped by an aura with which I was already familiar. It was the same one that had been attached to the chalk cube.

He’d held a Glock with a full clip. His voice had been reasonable, chillingly reasonable, as he’d outlined the consequences of not giving the answers he required, but after sitting in the driver’s seat, I knew that Morrow had believed — known — that no matter what this monster promised, he was as good as dead — and he’d been right. But things that hadn’t been clear to me when sitting up front came into sharper focus when compared with the sensations the killer had experienced in those final minutes — seconds — before the world, and Morrow’s head, had exploded in a shower of blood, brains, and bone.

Again, I practically jumped out of the back passenger seat, my breathing harsh, as though I was suffering from an asthma attack.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked.

I had to hold it in. Rodriguez was staring at me like I was some kind of imbecile, while Sam looked cautiously optimistic.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice tight, and felt anything but.

Rodriguez slammed the car doors shut and held his hand out to collect the gloves. It was a struggle to peel them off my sweaty hands. The cop stuffed them into his uniform slacks and then held a hand out to usher us out of the garage. I had no choice to but meekly follow in his and Sam’s wake.

Once we arrived at the place where we’d first entered the garage, Rodriguez turned to Sam, his expression hard. “We’re done. Don’t ever call me again,” he said in a tone that held no semblance of friendship.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Sam said with a smile, but I could tell by the timbre of his voice that he wasn’t happy about the situation. Had my expression revealed that much?

Sam turned and confidently strode toward his car. I followed a step or two behind, feeling pretty damned fragile. There had better be a double — maybe two of them — glass full of bourbon to accompany the lunch Sam had promised me, not that I was sure I would be able to eat more than a mouthful or two.

“Are you up to driving, or should we leave your car here and come back after lunch?” he asked, as though nothing had happened back at the garage. Any why not? For him nothing
had
happened.

“I can’t drive right now,” I said, trying to keep a quaver out of my voice.

He nodded and pressed the unlock button on his key fob. I got in the passenger side of his SUV, he backed up, and we took off.

While he drove, I stared at the vast sea of gray plastic dash in front of me, trying to figure out the mishmash of sensations and information that had pummeled me when sitting in both the Lexus’s seats. I’d known that it wasn’t going to be pleasant, and yet I’d once again let Sam talk me into soaking up the sensations of power and the deliverance of death. I wanted to be angry at him, but if I was honest, I could have refused to help him. There was nothing in any of this for me. Unlike Rodriguez, I didn’t owe Sam a damn thing.

Of course, that wasn’t true. I’d never be able to repay him for loaning me that gun four months before — for giving me the tool to save Richard’s, Maggie’s, and my own life.

Eventually, we arrived at our destination, a low brick building with a sign that proclaimed ANDREA’S RISTORANTE. The landscaping was low-key, but impeccable. As it was only eleven-fifty, just a few cars were parked near the entrance. We got out of Sam’s car and entered.

The lights must have been set on a dimmer switch, because it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. The walls were exposed brick — real or faux, it was hard to tell — with linen napkins and oil lamps on every table.

“Sam, you devil, you,” said the attractive hostess, who strode right up to my old high-school buddy and planted one hell of a kiss on his smiling lips. A slim brunette with blonde highlights, she looked like she could have walked the catwalk in a high-class fashion show in a city much larger than Buffalo.

“Hey, Margot, we need a quiet table,” Sam said.

“Only the best in the house for you,” she said, then grabbed a couple of menus and beckoned us to follow her.

She led us to the back of the restaurant and set the menus on the table before a banquette that could easily have sat six. Sam slid in on the left while I moved to the right.