The Perfect Crime (11 page)

CHAPTER 14

GRADY WASN’T YET IN the mood to start hitting the bars so early in the afternoon. Doing the legwork he planned to do to find out...what? He didn’t have any kind of special plan. Not much of one, anyway. Try to locate Reader Kincaid, that was the only thing he could think of to do, now that he was in New Orleans. Once he found him, then what? Several scenarios presented themselves, most of which involved beating the motherfucker half to death until he confessed to being the one who had stabbed Jack. Maybe go ahead and cancel his ticket.

That was bullshit and he knew it.

He dug out the bottle of Jim Beam he’d packed and poured himself a shot in one of the plastic cups he found in the bathroom. It was quiet in the room, the only exception the noise of airplanes coming in to land. It sounded as if they were ten feet over the roof. That was about right. The Day’s Inn was directly across the street from the airport runways, maybe less than a hundred yards from where they touched down. It was no wonder he’d gotten such a good deal on the room.

He had to admit he didn’t have much of an idea about what he would do, provided that is, that he could find the man. And beating or torturing even someone like Kincaid who had almost killed his brother wasn’t an option for someone like himself.

No, he was that breed of cop...of
man
...that you applied the word
honest
to. To a fault. His father’s fault. All his life, all he’d ever heard, ever been taught, was
integrity.

“You got to face that mirror each morning, boys,” his father preached over and over. “Play by the rules, and you can sleep at night.”

Well, he’d played by the damn rules, all his life, and what had it gotten him? Broke and half-blind. Some reward. His own father had hardly prospered playing by the rules. Ended up dying of a heart attack and leaving barely enough to bury him. Same with his mother. Even the guy who’d shot Grady in the face--the act that forced him into an early medical retirement--that asshole got out of prison in less than three years. He’d see him every once in a while, staggering out of a bar usually, and once they met face to face. The guy openly snickered at him. He cocked his thumb and finger like a pistol and pointed it at Grady. “Pow,” he said, dropping his thumb, and it was all Grady could do to control himself, to keep from punching his lights out, or worse.

No, it wasn’t fair. Not fair at all. All his life, his father preached to his sons, “Play by the rules, boys. Keep your integrity. Give up your integrity and you give up who you are. An honest man might not have much in the way of material goods, but he can sure face that mirror every morning with a clear conscience.”

Sure. He’d kept his integrity and here he was, your basically unemployable cripple. Great reward. Jack, too, kept his integrity and there he was lying in a hospital bed, probably paralyzed for life.

It wasn’t the first time he’d questioned his father’s credo. But through everything, through all the graft and corruption and the rewards to the practitioners--rewards he saw firsthand every day--he’d held onto that integrity. Why, he asked himself? So I can face myself in the mirror each morning when I shave? Was it worth it? He thought of all the money he’d passed up on the job. There’d been plenty of chances. He knew cops who were set up for life. Had swimming pools in the back yard, and not the above-ground kind. Vacations in the Bahamas. All you had to do was look the other way. An envelope full of money every week, as long as you played ball. Not him. Not Mister Honesty. He could sure use some graft money now. He wondered whether it was still available if he would take it.

It was hard, sometimes. It was damned hard.

Like now, in particular. With a pile of debts that was growing into Mount Everest every day Jack lay in that hospital bed.

When he left his motel room, he slammed the door shut as hard as he could. An elderly couple, coming out of their room a few doors up, looked at him and the man stepped in front of the woman as if to shield her.

“Sorry,” Grady mumbled at them, getting into his car. He left rubber as he whipped the car out onto Veterans Highway...and went off the side of the road as the shadow of a 707 passed directly over him, so close he swore he could see the passengers’ faces.

“Motherfuck!” he yelled out the wiw, steering back onto the pavement. Who was the idiot who decided to build a runway this close to a highway, he wondered. Planes didn’t look to be any more than fifty feet off the ground when they passed over the traffic. If you didn’t have to worry about somebody shooting you or sticking you in this town, you had to worry about being wiped out by a pilot’s miscalculation when you were out for a Sunday drive. He’d be glad to be back in Dayton when this was over, he decided, feeling the thin film of perspiration on his forehead cooling in the air-conditioning.

CHAPTER 15

“I THOUGHT I TOLD you to stay sober.”

“Reader. Hey, Reader. Where y’at, m’man!”

“Yeah. Where
y’at’s
right, Eddie. You are a fucking Yat, arentcha? I told you to keep off the sauce, you fucking alki.”

“Hey...hey, man. I’m not drunk, Reader. I had me a few beers t’clear my head. I’m on top of things.”

“Yeah.” Reader looked around the room. Beer bottles everywhere, on the floor, in the kitchen sink, one in a potted plant over by the window. He saw another room like this in his head. A room in his youth. Bottles in that room, too, only they were usually whiskey bottles. The day his daddy died, his own hunting knife sticking out of his stomach. Lying on the floor, twitching, blood-shot eyes looking up at his son, pleading,
begging
, afraid to move. Reader knowing at fifteen what was going through his father’s head.
If I keep from moving, breathing, this didn’t happen--I’m not dying.
There were whiskey bottles all around that day. He remembered picking up one, the one his father last drank from, and taking a slug. He remembered the cops and one cop in particular who thought nobody saw him. Remembered watching the cop pick up a bottle that was three-quarters full, and stick it inside his shirt. That was the same cop who stuck up for him. The one who helped convince the others that the killing Reader did was justifiable.

“Look at the woman,” he’d said. “Fucker killed the kid’s mother, what you expect? Looks like he kicked her to death. I’m this kid, I’da done the same thing. You too.” This he said to the others, uniformed cops at first and later to the guys in suits. Prosecutor, too, in some room uptown.

That cop helped him get that first rap knocked down. The prosecutor wanted to give him life. Thanks to the cop and his testimony on the stand, he ended up getting sentenced to a year in a Mickey Mouse detention unit and from there to a series of foster homes until he turned eighteen. One home in particular he remembered.

“You got any coffee?” he asked, going into the living room. “I mean
coffee
, not that other shit.”

Eddie stumbled after him, rubbing the stubble on his chin. His hair was greasy and dirty, but short. At least he’d done that right, got it cut like he’d told him, Reader thought.

“Fuck an A, Reader. Community dark roast. I’ll put it on.”

He heard Eddie stumble back to the kitchen and thought he heard the word “bastard,” but he let it slide.

***

Eddie sat and studied what Reader was laying out. This was the first time he knew there were others involved. He knew Frenchie all right. Guy was okay maybe, but a bit of a lush. He didn’t consider his own predilection for drink in that assessment, nor did he even stop to wonder why a smart guy like Reader was surrounding himself with guys with a weakness for booze.

Fucking Reader was planning to double-cross the guy it looked like. He saw how the wind blew. He didn’t doubt for a minute he’d do the same to him. He’d have to be on his guard every minute. Maybe he’d better get another gun just in case. He wondered what else Reader had “forgotten” to tell him.

Reader stretched his lips back, teeth and gums showing, at the instant Eddie looked up and the smaller man jumped.

“What?” Reader stood up, looked around the room.

Eddie stared at him a minute. “Nothin’. I...it...you...you looked like one of those damned rings you usta get in gum machines. We called them ‘Doctor Death’ rings. Christ! You shoulda seen your face!”

Reader sat back down and showed his teeth again. He spoke softly.

“Eddie, I
am
Doctor Death.” He gave a little snort through his nose.

Eddie made up his mind to get a second gun for sure. Strap it up under his arm. Motherfucker like this, he thought, you needed to be extra sharp yourself. Don’t get caught with your pants down.

It’d be hard, but he wasn’t going to touch another drop until this deal was done. Reader was smart. Scary-smart.

He lifted his arms a little and felt warm drops of perspiration roll down. Fuck me, he thought. What have I got into?

CHAPTER 16

EARLY AFTERNOON—IT WAS the day after C.J. picked up the passports and other IDs--it was such a broiler outside that he and Amanda sat inside for the air-conditioning, sipping iced coffee at their usual spot, the Cafe du Monde. They both stared outside on the sidewalk where at that moment, the Duck Lady was roller-skating with her pet ducks behind her. She ran smack into a light pole, grabbing it with both arms to keep from going down and Amanda laughed. C.J. didn’t share her amusement. The freak was an embarrassment to the town in his opinion. Once, she’d been the subject of a Mardi Gras poster. Good God, he thought, remembering that; what was on their minds, putting a lunatic like that on a poster for visitors to gawk at and think this was representative of New Orleans? First thing he’d do if he was mayor would be to get rid of her. Put her in a home somewhere. Second thing he’d do is close all those tacky Takee Outees that littered the Quarter. Eyesores. Third thing--

“C.J.,” Amanda was saying, forgetting the Duck Lady and toying with her stirrer, not looking him in the eye. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to go with you on this Europe thing.”

C.J. St. Ives looked at her in amazement. This response wasn’t in any of the scenarios he’d imagined.

“What’re you saying, sweetheart? I thought you were excited about it. You said...”

“I know what I said.” She pushed her glass away from her and looked up. “I guess it sounded like fun at first, but what happens when we get back?”

C.J. was puzzled. What does she mean?

“I’ll lose my job.”

“Your job? I don’t get it.”

“My job, C.J. You don’t think I can just take off like that and come back and everything’s the way it was? Your wife will have my ass. I won’t only lose my position; she’ll see to it I never work in another bank in Louisiana. Hell, probably the entire country. You know how her family is. With the clout her family holds in this town, I’ll be lucky to be making change at Mickey D’s!”

“Sugar, sugar, I told you not to worry about your job. I’m leaving Sarah. I’m going to marry you. We’ve been through this. Why are you starting this all up again?”

She set her jaw. He knew that look and didn’t like it.

“I know what you say, C.J., but I also know how the world works. That woman has you by the short hairs. You think she’s going to let you walk away and keep on working at the bank? You’re nuts if you think that. No, you go and I’ll keep my job, thank you.
That
, I can depend on.”

He stared out at the sidewalk. The Duck Lady was gone, replaced by a troop of six or seven black kids with a boom box and a big square of cardboard that they were laying down on the sidewalk in front of the outside tables. That’s the way the yokels from Missouri see us, he thought. Break dancers and Duck Ladies. He felt his lip curl and turned his attention to Amanda.

You little idiot, he thought. You wouldn’t be a teller if it wasn’t for me--they wanted to fire your ass months ago. It won’t be Sarah keeps you from another job, it’ll be your own sorry ineptitude. He didn’t say aloud what he was thinking, but he knew what his face looked like, stony and hard.

He softened. He wanted this woman more than any other woman in his whole life. Hell...he wanted her right this minute. She just needed to listen to reason. He reached for her hand, closed his fingers over hers and squeezed.

“Baby, you don’t have to worry about your job. Trust me on this--you won’t have to worry about anything ever again. I can’t tell you any more than that, only that money is going to be the least of your problems.”

He’d said too much. But, what else could he do? He needed to convince her to come with him. Once she saw the money she’d thank him for taking her. Thank him? She’d fuck his socks off!

“Come on,” he said, helping her up, his hand under her elbow. He’d get her in the sack, give her some good loving. She’d change her mind. He knew what she liked, the way she liked his tongue to move. Nobody eats pussy like you do, C.J., she’d said more than once. He didn’t know quite what to make of that--be proud she’d called him the best or be jealous because she was comparing him to others.

“Where?”

“You know.”

She hesitated, but only for a moment.

In the car she said, “Miss Jane told me your wife called yesterday looking for you.”

“So?” he said, pointing the car for Riverbend and the apartment.

“So, somebody called and asked for me, too, Miss Jane said. The way she said it, I know it was your wife.”

“Baby,” he said, slightly exasperated. “At this point, I don’t care if Sarah comes up and watches us making love. I tell you, I’m divorcing her. It doesn’t matter. You’ll see.”

CHAPTER 17

IN THE APARTMENT SHE started up again while C.J. made drinks for them, Dewar’s and water for him, Jack Daniels and Coke for her. He asked her one time why she asked for a brand name since all she used was Coke to mix it with. You could put gasoline in there and not know the difference, he told her.

He carried over her drink and sat down beside her on the couch.

Amanda said, “She made a point of it, C.J. Listen to what I’m saying. Her snooty little nose was up in the air and she gave me that look. She knew and I knew and she knew I knew, whowas calling. Your precious wife, Sarah. That goddamn bitch Jane, lording it over me like she was the elder in some church. I hate her, the old bitch, making everybody call her Miss Jane this, Miss Jane that, like we were some field hands back on the plantation. Lawdy, lawdy, Miss Jane,” she said in a falsetto voice. “If I be’s good, kin I come up to the big house?” She giggled.

“Like I said. So?”

“C.J., I think we better cool it. I don’t think I’m going to go with you to Europe. I’ll wait for you. You get your divorce, we’ll take it from there. I’m scared, honey. I don’t have any family, nobody to take care of me if I lose my job. I know you say you love me, but I know men, sweetie. We go to Europe, have some fun, come back and your wife starts to holler, you’re gone. You know she controls the purse strings. When it comes right down to it, I wonder which you love more, me or that bank she lets you run.”

The rage welled up in him and it was all he could do to keep his face and voice calm. She never talked to him that way. Who the hell did she think she was, talking to him that way! He was the president of the bank for chrissake! A position he’d earned. She made it sound as if the bank was some bone and he was some dog his wife kept for amusement. He tried to get his emotions under control. God! After all he’d done for her, she has to try and emasculate him like that.

Don’t lose it, C.J. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. God. I wonder if the whole bank thinks like that. Do they look at me and think I’m a pet my wife has on a leash? He couldn’t stand it. Is that what Amanda really thought of him? Didn’t she understand he loved her? That he’d never treated anyone as good as he did her? Anybody else, he’d gotten rid of long ago. He put up with a lot with her, he thought, wondering if he was becoming too weak. Hell. He loved her, that was the difference. He drained his drink and went over and poured another, no water this time.

“Amanda, you have no right to say something like that. I’m president of Derbigny because I earned it. I’d be president whether it was my wife’s bank or not. I’ve worked every job there, paid my dues. I’m a damn good banker. Thirty-two percent growth in total assets since I took over. You think that’s charity? That’s good banking. Goddamned good banking.”

He was proud of his control. He’d almost blown it. That damned Cajun temper. He must be anglicized now. Completely. If some bitch had said something like that to his father, she’d be spitting out teeth. His mother was proof of that. The only teeth left in her head by the time she was twenty-five were store-bought choppers. From sassing his dad, at least what his father considered sassing. Sometimes he thought the old ways were better. When women knew their place and kept it or suffered the consequences.

In a second his anger ebbed. Control. That was the one thing he always prided himself on. It was the one thing that had gotten him to where he was. That violent temper he’d had as a kid had been successfully sublimated for years, even though there had been times he’d come close to reverting to the nature of his youth. The beginning of his success had begun long ago when he’d recognized what it took to appear civilized. He’d wanted to hit Amanda, sure, but he held back. He loved her. He must. This proved it. Anybody else--if one of the many tellers he fucked over the years had said something like that to him, she’d be seeing stars. At least be standing in the unemployment line. He’d just proved his love, even if she didn’t know it.

“Amanda, put those doubts out of your mind. You’re my baby. I’ll take good care of you, you’ll see.” He tried to put his arms around her.

“C.J., I need to think. I don’t know...I’m scared you’ll dump me when we get back. How do I know you won’t? I’m a paycheck away from the street. I’m not like you, with money in the bank. I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to hold onto it. I need security, C.J. Try and understand, honey.”

She twisted away. “I’m sorry I made that crack about your wife. I didn’t mean it, baby. I...I mean...I can’t go. Not till I’m sure you love me. I know I’m not the first you’ve had a thing with. I heard the talk in the bank long before we went out. ‘Go out with C.J. on Friday, look for a job on Monday.’ I don’t hear that anymore, but I heard it plenty at first.”

She went over and sat down on the bed and fished in her purse until she found a cigarette and lighted it. She crossed her legs and looked up at him standing in the middle of the room. She gave him a quick half smile and cupped an arm under her elbow, her index finger at her cheek.

“Look, C.J., I’ll tell you what. You go to Europe and have a good time. I won’t ask you what you did over there. Have a ball. When you come back and get your divorce, I’ll be here. It’ll give us both time to figure out what we want. You may find I’m not what you’re after. There’s lots of girls. Of course...” she hastened to add, “You’ll come back with a great tan and a million stories and you’ll get your divorce and we’ll get married. We’ll go back to Europe on our honeymoon. How’s that sound? Baby?”

He looked at her, his mind working.

“We’re not going to Europe.”

Her eyes widened. Well, hell, he’d done it. There was no turning back. His foot was in the fire.

“What do you mean? You’ve got tickets, everything. Turn mine in. You’re marked out; I saw the schedule. You’ve got business there. That thing in Bonn. You can’t--”

“Amanda, I never meant to go to Europe. That was for everybody else. You too, I guess. We’re going to Belize.”

“Belize! What’s...where’s...I don’t--”

“I wasn’t going to tell you this, Amanda.” He dropped down on one knee in front of her, eyes pleading. Listen to me, please, Amanda, he thought.

“Baby, we’re leaving for good. It’s all taken care of. I was going to surprise you. You won’t believe the surprise I have in store for you.” He thought again of the image he’d harbored for months. Showering her with greenbacks, hundred dollar bills, and afterward fucking her on top of all that money while a tropical breeze wafted through the windows over their nude bodies.

“I’ve got more than a million dollars. In a bank. In our new names. And that’s nothing. There’s a lot more to come.”

He went over to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer and dumped the contents on the floor. Underwear and socks and T-shirts spilled to the floor in a heap. He brought the drawer back over to the bed and put it upside-down on the bed. Ripping the tape that was holding a sheaf of papers and documents, he spread them out on the bed. Amanda’s eyes got wider.

This was good. Everything was going to be fine. She’d go nuts, once she knew everything. Imagine what must be going through her mind. From a glorified teller who never made more than five hundred a week in her life to...
millions
! He wished he could have waited until they were in Belize to lay all this on her, but this might be better. He felt his cock swell, imagining about how she was going to be screwing him once she saw what he’d done for her.

“Here!” he said, shoving a passport at her. “This is you. See the name? It was a surprise. Well, here--surprise!”

She picked up the passport and opened it.

“Who’s this?” She said the words slowly, not comprehending. “Who’s Katina...Broussard? Why’s my picture--”

He laughed, throwing his head back, enjoying the moment.

“That’s you, sweetheart. You’re Katina Broussard.
Mrs
. Katina Broussard. Your maiden name was Katina Hebert. Take it.” He handed her the birth certificate. “It’s the name you always liked, you said. I wanted to surprise you with it--with everything else, but you couldn’t wait, you little minx. There’s more.”

Now that the dam was open, the waters burst forth. He could see, or thought he could see the wonderment of all that he was telling her filling her with delight.

“There’s much, much more. We’re rich, Amanda. Or, I should say--
Katina
--get used to your new name, darling. After Friday, it’s yours forever. And we’ve got more than a mere million. A lot more. Friday, we’ll have four million. Five million, maybe. Maybe more. I’m going to tell you everything, sweetheart. Lie back and listen and be happy. We’re richer than you could ever believe. I’m going to make you so happy!”

He ran it down, the whole scheme.

He told her about the laundering operation he was involved in. He told her about Friday nights, when he would sit in his office and do coke lines so pure they were iridescent, about how the muchachos would bring in stacks and stacks of money, a bale of money, all hundreds. He told how he was going to miss making that deposit this week, and would Fidel ever be mad. Fidel would want to kill him, he said, but Fidel would never find him.
Them
. He’d planned this very carefully. There wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought of. The plane right now was being readied for their trip. All the details were worked out.

All but one.

He’d figured the wrong reaction from her.

“You’ve got to be crazy!” Amanda stood up, her eyes blazing. “You thought I would go along with this insanity? You’re talking about
drug
people, C.J. Drug people
kill
you. Dead. Dead, dead, dead! They’ll find us! There’s no place on earth you’re safe from these people. Let me out of here. I’m going, C.J. You go to Belize or wherever it is--leave me the hell out of your schemes. I don’t care if I have to draw unemployment. Christ! I don’t care if I have to become a street hooker. At least I’ll be alive. With you, it’s only a matter of time before my throat gets cut. You thought I would go along with this? You’re a fucking asshole, C.J. A dead, fucking asshole. You’re insane. Your little plan is insane. I’m outta this dump, buster. I want as far away from you as I can get.” Something dawned behind her eyes. “My God! They’ll come looking for me when you go! They’ll think--”

She was starting to realize the implications of her predicament.

“Everyone in the whole world knows you’re fucking me! You do this and I’m dead. You bastard. You fucking, fucking bastard!” She began to strike at him with her fists, crying and screaming at the same time. At last, he caught her arms, held her wrists. They both stood with chests heaving, tears running down her face, his own features contorted in disbelief.

“Let me go,” she said, struggling to regain her composure. “Let me go, fucker. I’m going to the police. That’s the only way I’m saving my young ass. God, why did I ever take up with you! You’re not even a good lay. God, you know how many times I wanted to tell you that? Let me go, you fucker!” She turned into a madwoman, screaming and pulling and yanking, trying to scratch his wrists with her nails, trying to geaway. C.J. was amazed, flat-out stunned by the woman, standing with spittle at the corners of her mouth, pure venom in her blazing eyes, her legs spread apart like some Irish washerwoman.

He didn’t think about it. He hit her. Punched her as if she were another man. Put all his weight behind it and watched as she slumped down, soundlessly until her head hit the floor and she let out a little sigh. She lay stone still, her eyes open but unseeing.

His eyes darted around wildly. Did anybody hear? He strained to listen to see if any of the neighbors did anything. He listened for the sound of approaching police sirens. Nothing. Most of the neighbors in the building probably worked, he thought.

He stood there a full ten minutes not moving. After a while, he sat down on the bed and tried to think. He tried not to look at Amanda lying on the floor. He didn’t have to look to know she was dead. The instant he’d struck her and had seen her head snap back, he’d known that. You can’t fall like that, look like that and still be alive.

What was he going to do? At first he thought he’d carry her out to the car. Find some bayou and dump her.

No. That would be stupid. With his luck, some trapper, some poacher like his father would find her, do the right thing for the first time in his life and call the cops. They’d figure out who she was in about a day and then all hell’d break loose. It wasn’t much of a secret who she had been seeing these last months.

About the time he should be boarding the plane for Belize, he’d be sitting in some squad room with his only travel opportunity a bus ride to Angola, chained to some 7-Eleven midnight bandit with a do-rag on his head.

In the end he decided to do nothing. A couple of drinks calmed him down and allowed him to think. A line of coke helped more. Leave her where she was. Turn up the air conditioner. It’s only two days till Friday. Once he was out of the country, who cared if they figured out who killed her? There was no way they’d ever find him. He’d hidden his tracks too well.

Yes. That was the thing to do. Nothing.

Now that he’d made a decision he visibly relaxed. He fixed himself another drink and drank half before he dragged Amanda’s body into the bedroom closet and shoved her deep into the corner. He threw a pile of clothes over her--old shirts, trousers, whatever he could find.

Amanda. For a moment remorse swept over him. What had he done? His poor, sweet baby. The feeling began to disappear, replaced by anger. The idiot! He’d offered her everything, the world. Who did she think she was! In a way he was glad he’d killed her, that she was gone. There were things about her that irritated him, the more he thought about it. Lots of little things. The way she talked, for instance. No education unless you call a high-school diploma education. She wouldn’t have fit in where he was going, with the people he was going to be associating with. Money people. Cultured people. He’d have grown tired of her. He could see that with perfect hindsight. She was pathetic, a pretty, empty-headed bimbo. No, this was for the best. All she would have done was increase the risk for him. The only person who would have known where he was or what he’d done. Who knows what might have happened if she’d gotten pissed at him sometime.