Blood Relative (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 4) Page 6

  I’d gotten only a glimpse of what he’d lifted from the counter, but I’d recognized it immediately. It looked like the one I had in my pocket—a small glass pipe. See? Coincidences do happen.

  While I waited for Chuck, I copied the number on his phone. Then I sat on the couch and flipped through Playboy. Miss April was a receptionist who would prefer a career in international diplomacy. Her hobbies included volleyball, jet skiing, rock music, painting her nails, and working with the elderly. She also enjoyed lounging naked around the house while some stranger snapped her picture.

  I stood when I heard the bedroom door open.

  Chuck had put on white socks, running shoes, and a polo shirt. The tail was tucked in, and his belt was buckled. His smile was easy and confident. He looked wide awake now, full of energy.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I just had to wake up.”

  I took a shot. “Ice is nice.”

  He gave me a knowing grin and began straightening the magazines. Then he stopped, frowning.

  “Wait a minute, are you a goddamn narc?”

  “Relax,” I said. “I’ve got one just like yours.” I showed him Clare Butler’s pipe. He eyed it suspiciously. I put it away and got out the Butlers’ photo. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Chuck blinked at me a couple of times, maybe still thinking about the pipe. Then he studied the photo.

  “Nice-looking babe,” he said.

  “What about the man? You ever seen him before?”

  He shook his head, still looking at the photo. “Nope.”

  “He says he bought flowers from you on Saturday, March sixteenth, around three-thirty in the afternoon.”

  Chuck shrugged. “A lot of people buy flowers.”

  “He says he gave you a hundred-dollar bill and told you to keep the change.”

  His face opened up in a grin. “Hey, hell yes, I remember.”

  Before I could say, “Good,” Chuck said, “So this is the guy, huh? I didn’t pay much attention to his face. I was looking at that bill.”

  Swell. I told him that Butler’s attorney would be calling him today or tomorrow to answer some more questions.

  “Sure, whatever,” Chuck said, all traces of nervousness gone. He was still in motion, but it seemed more purposeful than before. He nudged the coffee table an inch closer to the couch, then began repositioning the throw pillows.

  “What can you tell me about ice?”

  He faced me holding a pillow to his chest with both hands.

  “A friend wants me to try it,” I said, “but I’m kind of afraid.”

  He gave me a half grin. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Except, you know, narcs.” His brow furrowed. “And you’re not one, right?”

  “That’s correct. Tell me about ice. Is it addictive?”

  “Hey, no way. I smoke it four or five times a week, and I can quit whenever I want.” His face brightened. “You want to try it?”

  “Well…”

  “Wait a minute.”

  He left the room and returned with his glass pipe and a disposable lighter. In the ball end of the pipe was a small clump of translucent crystals, like sea salt. Chuck covered the tiny hole at the top of the ball with his thumb, clicked the lighter, and touched the flame to the glass. Almost at once the crystals melted and bubbled, then vaporized. Wisps of odorless white smoke swirled inside the ball, like the clouds of heaven.

  Chuck held out the pipe to me.

  “You go ahead,” I said.

  He sucked in the smoke, inhaling deeply. Then he exhaled and smiled.

  “I mean, it makes your mind so clear,” he said. “It doesn’t mess you up like grass. And it’s a helluva lot better than crack.” He handed me the pipe.

  “How so?” I set the pipe aside. Chuck didn’t seem to notice.

  “This costs about the same, maybe a little more. But a hit of crack would last me, what, fifteen, twenty minutes? Hell, this’ll keep me going till midnight, maybe later. And you know the best part.”

  “No.”

  “I feel like working. I mean, I wish I could go to work right now, swinging those bouquets, rapping to the folks in their cars. I love it, I’m outside, I got the sunshine, my music pumping through my headset, and they pay me, it’s great. Now you take my old lady Patti. She’s got this part-time job downtown, a filing clerk. She smokes a little ice, and I mean, she is a filing fool. They’ve never seen anybody file like that. They gave her a raise. Shit, pretty soon they’ll probably put her on full-time. What other drug can make that statement.” He laughed at his own joke. “Of course, Patti also likes it because she’s trying to lose some weight, and it’s great for that, too, because you’ve got all this energy, but you’re not really hungry, you know what I mean?”

  “Where can I buy some?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know, man, it’s pretty hard to find. I get it from a dude who gets it from a dude who has it mailed to him from Honolulu. But my dude’s pretty paranoid about dealing to strangers.” Chuck grinned. “Actually, he’s pretty paranoid most of the time. For a while he thought the narcs had bugged his brain so they could listen to his thoughts. Weird, huh? Ice can do that. But he’s better now.”

  As Chuck talked, he’d been edging toward the kitchen. Now he picked up a dish towel and began wiping the already sterile countertop.

  I thanked him for his help and left him to his housework.

  I walked to the car, thinking about the witnesses for Samuel Butler: a bartender who couldn’t say when Butler left the bar, a guy who shoots at UFOs, and a kid addicted to ice.

  The defense rests.

  CHAPTER 10

  I STOPPED AT A CONVENIENCE STORE on Thirteenth Avenue. Years ago I’d been called to a robbery in progress at this very location. Maybe that’s why the three kids standing with their heads together near the entrance looked as if they were planning an armed robbery. But no, they were just conducting business. Money and small envelopes changed hands, and they went their separate ways.

  I got change from the Iranian guy behind the counter, then went back outside and called Oliver Westfall from the pay phone. I gave him Chuck Colodny’s name and numbers.

  “That’s all three witnesses, then,” he said. “Good job. I’ll personally phone each of them today and have them come in tomorrow for their depositions.”

  “Don’t expect too much,” I said. I explained that Stilwell the bartender barely remembered Butler and that Colodny hadn’t even recognized his photo.

  “What about Winks?” Westfall said. “He was with Mr. Butler for a few hours. Surely he can testify to his behavior.”

  “He can. But the problem might be Winks’s behavior.” I explained about the alien landings.

  Westfall groaned quietly.

  I offered, “There’s still Clare Butler’s lover.”

  “If such a person exists. We have only Mr. Butler’s vague impressions.”

  “Does that mean you want me to give up the search?”

  “What have you found so far?”

  “Nothing.”

  Westfall was silent for a moment. “No, keep looking. Let me know when you find anything.”

  After we’d hung up, I phoned Kenneth Butler’s sister Karen. I got an answering machine at her home. When I punched in her work number, a woman answered with “Second Time Around.”

  “Is this Karen?”

  “This is Teri. Karen comes in at two.”

  I checked my watch. Eleven-thirty.

  “Can I help you with something?” she asked.

  “I just need to talk to her.”

  “Well, if it’s urgent, you can find her at The Gym.”

  “Which gym is that?”

  “The Gym. It’s on East Hampden.”

  I got there before noon. The huge front windows of The Gym were all reflective glass so you could see how far out of shape you were before. I sucked in my gut and went inside.

  There was a glass-fronted counter displaying bottles and jars of pills, powders, a
nd capsules, all guaranteed to help you reach superhumanhood. The girl behind the counter figured she was already there. Her hot-pink spandex outfit showed off muscular arms, broad shoulders, and small, hard breasts. She gave me a healthy smile. But it began to fade when I said I wasn’t a member. And it vanished forever when I declined to join. She did let me pass, however, after I told her I had an urgent message for Karen Butler.

  “Check the bicycles,” she said, consulting a clipboard.

  I walked around the counter and down a short hallway, then entered an enormous, brightly lit room filled with chrome-plated equipment and sweaty people, who ranged in age from mid-twenties to middle-age. Most of them appeared to be in pretty good shape already and were probably here on their lunch hour to socialize and check out each other’s glutes. Over in one corner were the serious body builders, clanking free weights and popping steroids.

  I spotted the stationary bicycles across the room. There were ten in a row, all occupied, each connected to its own computerized display. I asked for Karen Butler and was directed to the machine at the far end.

  She was sitting on the bike, not pedaling, leaning forward and punching buttons beneath the monitor. A squat human mutant stood beside her.

  “Come on,” the mutant said, “you’ve got to extend yourself.”

  He reached toward the buttons. Karen pushed his hand away.

  “Randy, why don’t you go play with your weights,” she said, annoyed.

  “I’d rather help you.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Karen Butler?”

  She turned and looked up at me. Except for the black hair, there was little resemblance between her and the male Butlers. Her cheekbones were high and delicate, and her nose was thin, aristocratic. Her face was very white, as if she carefully avoided the sun, and her pale hazel eyes seemed translucent. She wore shiny blue spandex that covered her the way a coat of paint would cover the statue of a nude.

  “Yes?” she said, frowning at my street clothes.

  “I’m Jacob Lomax, and I’m working for your father’s attorney. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Now? I’m right in the middle of—”

  “She’s in the middle of her workout,” Randy the Mutant said.

  He wore red bikini briefs and nothing else. Mid-twenties, I’d say, half a foot shorter than I was, no more than five seven. But he must’ve weighed 220, all of it mutated humps of lamp-tanned muscle. His thigh muscles were so big it made him bowlegged. Veins crawled like worms over his pumped-up biceps and forearms. His wrists and hands looked ridiculously small. Hey, nobody’s perfect.

  “We can talk while you pedal,” I said to Karen.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Randy wanted to know.

  “That is, if it’s all right with you.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Hey, I’m talking to you.” Randy waddled around the rear of the stationary bike and planted his bulk between me and Karen. He smelled faintly sour. You see? This is what I hate about this job.

  “Hey, give us a break,” I said.

  “I could break something on you, buddy.”

  “Like what, my olfactory lobes?”

  His eyes went to slits.

  Karen said, “Randy, why don’t you parade your macho shit in front of the other steroid freaks and let us talk in privacy.”

  Randy hesitated, then poked me in the chest with two fingers. It hurt. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said. Then he waddled away, showing us lats the size of cafeteria trays.

  I turned to Karen. “Sorry about the interruption.”

  “Don’t be silly, you did me a favor. The guy’s a jerk.”

  Karen leaned forward and fiddled with some buttons. A colored computer image came on the screen. A black road stretched out before her through a green-and-brown landscape. There was a bicyclist on either side, one in blue, one in red. The two cyclists began to pull ahead. Karen pedaled, and the riders fell back.

  “How did you know to find me here?”

  “Teri told me.”

  “You were at the shop?”

  “I phoned. What is it, anyway, Second Time Around?”

  “We sell vintage clothing.”

  “You’re partners?”

  “I own the business.” She kept her eyes on the screen and said, “You said you’re working for Oliver Westfall. Which means you’re working for my father.”

  “Yes. They hired me to find the people your father spoke to the day Clare was killed.”

  “Can they prove he’s innocent?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Then what good are they?” she asked, a flash of heat in her voice, like lightning. As quickly, it was gone. Her eyes had never left the screen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound bitter.”

  “I understand.”

  “But all this is so…trying. On everyone.”

  Karen was pedaling faster now, trying to stay ahead of the two men. The red-shirted guy kept nudging up on her left. She held her lead, though, her long, shapely legs pumping in a steady rhythm. The road before her swung left and then right. There were mountains dead ahead.

  “There’s one more person I need to find,” I said. “And I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Clare’s lover.”

  Karen shot me a glance, breaking her rhythm. The two cyclists moved ahead of her. She faced the screen again and pedaled hard to catch up. Her fists were clenched on the handlebars, her arm muscles were rigid, and her face was set in fierce determination. Now she resembled her father and brother.

  She spoke at last, a bit breathless, having overtaken the two riders. “Which of Clare’s lovers are you looking for? The woman was a slut.”

  “Oh? Then her latest one. Your father believes she was involved with someone at the time of her death.”

  “I know. That’s why he k—”

  Like her brother, she had trouble saying it, but she believed it just the same—that her father had murdered Clare.

  Then she asked, “What good would it do if you found her lover?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Well, I don’t know who it was.”

  “Anything you can tell me about Clare would help. Your father, that is.”

  Karen continued to pump the bike, her gaze focused on the screen as if she were willing herself into that simple, safe, two-dimensional world. Then she stopped. She sat there, breathing hard, staring straight ahead. The two bicyclists passed her by and pedaled off into the distance. She switched off the monitor.

  “Let me take a quick shower and we’ll talk.”

  She climbed off the bike. She was taller than I’d thought, almost as tall as her brother. I told her I’d wait outside. She nodded and walked away. A lovely walk. I went through the lobby to the parking lot.

  Oh, swell.

  Randy the Mutant was waiting for me.

  CHAPTER 11

  RANDY HAD DRESSED FOR THE OCCASION: blue sweatpants, white high-tops, and a triple-extra-large T-shirt. The shirt stretched across his multilevel chest, distorting the stylized weight lifter on the front. The lifter looked a bit like Randy. He probably wasn’t much smarter, either, because he was trying to clean and jerk a set of barbells the size of locomotive wheels.

  “You and me got unfinished business,” he said.

  “‘You and I have…’”

  “Huh?”

  “Look, Randy, there’s no reason for this. It’s what they call gratuitous violence.”

  “You want violence, pal, I’ll show you violence.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  He scooted toward me like a giant crab—chin down, arms up, elbows out. I backpedaled, smack into the side of a Chevy van. Randy grabbed two fistfuls of my jacket and shirt, lifted me clear off my feet, and began slamming me against the van. I could’ve punched him, but there was nothing to hit but the top of his thick head and shoulders the size of prize pigs. Mea
nwhile, he was knocking the air out of my lungs and bruising my kidneys. Who needs this?

  In between body slams I unholstered the .38. I brought it up inside Randy’s overdeveloped arms and pressed its snub nose to his snub nose, bending his up a bit more than nature had intended.

  He froze, holding me at arm’s length, my back against the van and my toes barely touching the ground. His eyes were crossed, looking down at the gun.

  “Here’s the iron I pump, Randy.”

  He couldn't move his eyes from the gun. In fact, he was afraid to move anything, because I was still pinned to the van, dancing on my toes.

  “Down, boy,” I said.

  Slowly, he put me down, let go of my jacket, and backed away.

  “Ta ta,” I told him, and waved good-bye with the .38. He turned and walked toward the entrance, a man of fewer words than I, giving me one last look over his deltoid—red-faced hatred. Another satisfied customer.

  I put away the gun, straightened my lapels, and waited for Karen. Ten minutes later, she came out wearing swirl-colored tights and a baggy yellow sweater that reached nearly to mid-thigh. A small gym bag was slung over her shoulder.

  “Sorry to make you wait,” she said.

  “No problem. Randy kept me company.”

  She frowned. “Randy? What did—”

  “Say, I usually eat lunch about now. Are you hungry?”

  Her frown lasted a moment longer before she said, “Famished. There’s a deli just up the street. I’ll drive.”

  I squeezed into her bright white Mazda Miata, and we took off with a well-modulated roar.

  The deli was tucked in the corner of a small shopping complex on the north side of Hampden. To the left, as we walked in, was a display counter of kosher fish and meats and a rack of freshly bagged bagels. To the right was the restaurant area—tables and booths with red vinyl seats. It was nearly full, buzzing with conversations, but we managed to get a booth against the wall.

  My wife Katherine had liked this place. We’d come here frequently, usually for Sunday breakfast. It struck me that this was the first time I’d been back since she’d died—nearly five years ago. Had I consciously avoided coming here? I wondered what else I’d been avoiding.