Omega Series Box Set 1 Page 39

  On the draining board, I found a whiskey tumbler and a white wine glass. A picture of Sarah’s last night in this house was beginning to take shape. It was a shape I didn’t like.

  I went back to the living room, poured myself a whiskey, sat on the sofa, and lit another cigarette. I sat smoking and drinking, trying to find an alternative explanation for everything I had seen. I couldn’t, every scenario I played out in my mind ran up against the same obstacle. Finally, I crushed out the cigarette and went back into the bedroom. I got down on my hands and knees and examined the rush mat on which the bed was standing. It wasn’t clean. It was pristine. I stood, grabbed a hold of the heavy, wooden bed, and heaved it to one side.

  I felt a rush of anger well up inside me. Where the legs of the bed had been standing, there were no indentations, no marks, nothing. The mat was brand new. I ripped away the bedclothes and hurled them on the floor. The mattress, like the mat, was new. I grabbed the bed frame and lifted it savagely, tipping it on its side, knocking over the bedside table and sending the lamp crashing to the floor. I got on my hands and knees and scoured the mat. Then I ripped up the mat and scoured the floor. It was luck, but I knew there was a chance and it paid off.

  If you fire a .38 at somebody’s belly, on a mattress, the chances of the slug exiting at the back are slim, you’d need to be at the right distance. A human belly is dense and strong. But the chances of it penetrating the mattress after the belly are almost negligible. And that told me that there was a chance, a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless, that when they changed the mattress and the bedding, one of the slugs might have dropped to the floor. And there it was, under the left side bedside table, up against the skirting board. It was a .38.

  Somebody had been shot in that bed, at close quarters. The mattress and the bedding had been changed, as had the rug under the bed. It had been done in a rush, maybe even in a panic, because they had brought a brand new mat, a new mattress and new bedding, but they hadn’t bothered to clean the rest of the bedroom, or the house; they had cleared away the glasses and washed them, but not the ashtray, and they hadn’t hung around long enough to take the glasses out of the draining board. Whoever it was did not want to be seen at this house. Did not want to be associated with Sarah Carmichael and her studio.

  Somewhere, there was a blood-stained mattress and a blood-stained rug, maybe there was a body with it. Maybe not. I picked up the slug and dropped it into another bag, and then into my pocket, then went to the dining room and opened the back door. The air on the veranda was humid and warm. The sound of the bayou and the frogs assaulted me. There were no prizes for guessing where the mattress and the rug were. By now they were on their way to the Gulf of Mexico.

  Why?

  I had answered some of the questions I had asked myself at the Carmichaels’ house, but those answers had just raised more questions, harder ones to answer. Like, if he had taken the trouble to drag the mattress and the rug down to the bayou, why the hell had he not thrown in the .38 with it? Was it the same .38? Had he kept it for a second victim, for Sarah? I thought about the blood-stained mattress. I thought about the other blood-stained mattress at the Carmichael mansion.

  And then the answer was there before me, clear and obvious.

  Carmichael was at the Full Moon. James would be in his cottage.

  I didn’t bother putting the bed back or hiding any signs of my presence. I left and made my way back through the oppressive darkness, up the driveway that wound through the dense woodlands, climbed over the gate, and leaned on the roof of my car. I looked up at the scorched, orange clouds, sagging low over Burgundy. I had made a career out of killing for ten long years. Bat Hays and I had worked together as professional killers, soldiers and assassins, and sooner or later, both of us would have to account for what we had done, for how we had lived, and killed. Did it matter? Did it matter how you killed, or who you killed? Was killing evil in itself, irrespective of who the victim was? Was killing a sadistic monster just as bad as killing a woman, an angel, like Sarah Carmichael?

  Were Bat Hays and I evil men? Was I struggling to find justice, because in my heart I knew that I was evil? In trying to redeem Bat, was I really trying to redeem myself? Was that why I was living in hell?

  I climbed into the Zombie and went and did what I knew I had to do.

  Ten

  It was almost ten by the time I got back to the hotel. Hirschfield was still in the dining room with a bottle of Rotem & Mounir on the table. He was smoking a long, black cigarette and hailed me with a fat, happy smile on his face as I came in.

  As I sat, he showed me the cigarette and said, “I convinced the manager that I would sue him for a breach of my human rights and make a class action of it, but assured him that if he was fined for allowing me to smoke, I would pay the fine and testify in his favor.”

  “You’re a good man.”

  “Besides, I have it on good authority that only Jackson and the sheriff remain in Burgundy, everybody else has fled north. I am waiting for suckling pig. Will you join me?”

  I nodded and pulled out my cell. I called Hays.

  “Yeah, Captain. All right?”

  “You eat?”

  “Kind of.”

  “We need to talk. I’m in the dining room with Hirschfield.”

  “Five minutes.”

  I hung up and Hirschfield sipped and cocked an eyebrow at me while he did it.

  “You look mad.”

  “I am mad.”

  “Have a drink.”

  I called the waiter over. “Give me a martini, very dry. And another one of these damned Cotes du Rhone. And get me a steak. Two, there’ll be somebody joining us.”

  He looked vaguely surprised at my tone of voice and hurried away with my order.

  Hirschfield smacked his lips and sighed.

  “Something tells me you have something I ought to know about.”

  I pulled a Camel from my pack and lit up, blowing smoke at the ceiling. I chewed my lip and stared at Hirschfield.

  “Sarah Carmichael had a place on the bayou that her husband didn’t know about.”

  He raised his eyebrows real high at his glass, like it had been a really impertinent glass, and sighed through his considerable nose. “That would explain her immaculate reputation.”

  I nodded. “It does.”

  He looked at me. “It does? As a fact?”

  I reached in my pocket and pulled out the cellophane bag of hair and the slug. I dropped them in front of him.

  “There were two kinds of hair in the sink hole in the bath, hers and a black guy’s.”

  He eyed it and grunted, but he didn’t touch it.

  “We need DNA profiles on them, and we need a ballistics comparison on the slug.”

  He took the bags and looked at them. “I’ll see what I can do. There is a lab in Fort Worth that can do it in a couple of days. I’ll have them driven over. It’s not cheap.”

  “Whatever it costs, Hirschfield. Get it done.” I hesitated. “There’s more.”

  “Are you having doubts about Hays?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you don’t know, that means you are.”

  I studied his face a moment while he studied mine back.

  “I won’t know until he gets here.” We sat in silence a moment. “Is there anything I should know about Wilberforce?”

  He looked surprised. “Like what?”

  I told him what I had seen.

  He looked impatient. “That little scenario has probably been played out a hundred times over the last ten years. We engage in the warfare of business so that we can have these little celebrations of triumph. Read nothing into it. He has made a deal, nothing more.”

  I stared at him. I didn’t like what he was saying. I stared at the walls and I stared at the waiter as he brought me my martini on a tray. Then I stared at the martini for a moment before I took a sip.

  “It doesn’t make any sense, Hirschfield. None of it makes any sense. Why�
��?” I hesitated and stopped.

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “You kill… have killed… professionally, Lacklan. So you do it efficiently, pragmatically. But murder is not like that. Murder is emotional. The people most likely to murder each other are people who are in love. Logic goes out the window. If he was in love with this woman, and he killed her, you may be sure that he was out of his mind when he did it.”

  I sighed again. “Shit!”

  I watched Bat enter the dining room. We were the only table occupied. He saw us, hesitated a moment as he saw the look on my face, then came and joined us.

  “Mr. Hirschfield, Captain.” he sat. “I’ve seen you looking happier, sir.”

  I looked away. The waiter approached. Bat ordered a Scotch on the rocks. As the waiter left, I locked eyes with Bat and said, “How long were you fucking Sarah Carmichael?”

  His face went like stone, and without him saying anything, I knew that what had upset him was not being found out, but the way I’d phrased it. I waited. He just stared at the table. Finally, I said, “Goddammit, Hays! You don’t need to tell me anything! I already know! I told you! If you didn’t come clean, it would come out sooner or later! Well it has! You were meeting her at her studio, on the bayou, in the woods. I’ve seen the house, I’ve been inside, I found your damned hair in the plug hole.”

  I grabbed the bag from the table where it was sitting in front of Hirschfield and threw it at him.

  “You don’t need to confess, you don’t need to betray her. We’re past that. How long was it going on?”

  He sighed and buried his face in his hands with his elbows on the table. Suddenly, Peggy Lee started singing about black coffee. Black anger welled up in my gut.

  “Cut the bullshit, Bat. We’ve been through too much together for these games. You were protecting her reputation. That’s admirable. Now it’s over. Talk to me.”

  He peered at me over his fingers as the waiter put a large tumbler of whisky in front of him.

  “It was…” He sighed deeply and put his hands on the table. “It was twice, no more. She came and talked to me one night, after I’d been playing. She liked the way I played. She was knowledgeable, very, about jazz. She liked me, said I was good. We had a great evening, talking. About midnight she left. She always left about that time, twelve, one. But she gave me her number, asked me to call in half an hour. I did. She told me where she was, her place on the bayou. I went there. It was amazing, the paintings, the place, her…” He shrugged. “I fell in love. It’s that simple. I was head over heels. I’d always liked her, she was my type. Demure, classy… We spent the night together. Two or three nights later, she come back. Same thing. I went to her place by the river. Even better than the first time. It was magic. She was funny, you know? Good sense of humor, classy. I was nuts about her… Still am.”

  He paused and looked away.

  I said, “But?”

  “In the morning, she told me that was it. No more.” He turned to face me and his eyes were full of anger and reproach, like it was my fault what had happened. “We was done. She told me she had a thing about black men. It was just sexual. She was turned on by black guys. She’d had me, she liked me, she’d like to be friends, but not lovers no more. She’d met some other bloke.” He paused, looking down into his drink. “I asked her if she was going to spring the same surprise on him in a couple of days, and she said she most likely would. She loved her husband, but he was past it. Couldn’t get it up for her anymore. So she was playing the field, shaggin’ black blokes…”

  There were tears in his eyes.

  “So you killed her?”

  His face creased up. “Don’t be fuckin’ stupid all your fuckin’ life! ‘Course I didn’t fuckin’ kill her.”

  Hirschfield snorted. “Tell that to the prosecution. Tell it to the jury.”

  “I’ll tell it to whoever you fuckin’ like, mate. She broke my fuckin’ heart, but I didn’t kill her. That was…” He heaved another sigh. “That was two, three nights before she died.” He shrugged. “I left, went home, went to work. Life goes on, right?”

  I leaned forward. “Why wouldn’t you tell me any of this, Bat?”

  He shrugged. He looked almost embarrassed. “Because she was the most perfect woman I had ever met. I didn’t want her memory… sullied.” He shrugged again. “I dunno, she was perfect, a lady…”

  “Who was this other guy?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Bat, for crying out loud! Stop saying ‘I dunno’! Make an effort will you? You are looking at life—the rest of your fucking life! Maybe the death penalty! Who was this guy? He is probably the guy who killed her!”

  He met my eye. “I don’t know. After that, I tried to block her out of my mind, ignore her. It might have been any number of blokes. She didn’t discriminate…” There was a sudden bitterness in his eyes and in his voice. He was aware of the irony of what he had said. “As long as they were black, she didn’t care. No shortage of black blokes in Louisiana. I don’t know how many of us she fucked! Could be hundreds…”

  “You’re not helping, Bat…”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the way it is.”

  I snapped, “No, goddammit, Bat! It isn’t the way it is! Who is trying to frame you, for crying out loud?”

  The waiter came with two steaks and set them in front of us. He opened another bottle of wine and filled our glasses.

  When he’d gone, Bat stared at me for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “I honestly have no idea.”

  “Was she in here that night?”

  “No.”

  “What about her sister?”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “What do you remember from that night, Bat?”

  “Nothing. It was just a night like any other.”

  “No!” I snapped again. “It wasn’t! Because that night Sarah did not go out! That night she went to see her sister and spoke to her about wanting to divorce her husband. That night, instead of going on the town to listen to jazz, she went home…” I paused, hesitated. “Only she didn’t, did she?”

  Hirschfield was frowning down at the tablecloth. “No…”

  I went on. “She didn’t go home. She went to her studio. And there she met…” I looked at Hays, who was staring at me. “Who? Not you. What did Sarah smoke, Bat?”

  “Fancy foreign things.”

  “Sobranie.”

  He nodded.

  “So she met a black guy… A black guy who smokes Marlboro. What do you smoke?”

  “Fuckin’ hell, sir. I smoke Marlboro. But ’round here? ’S’like sayin’ a black bloke who wears jeans. Every other bloke smokes Marlboro.”

  I cut into my steak. “How’d he know to meet her there?”

  Hirschfield said, “She called him.”

  I chewed and looked at him. “Her phone.”

  He was looking at the table cloth. “Not mentioned in the police report.”

  I pointed across the table at Hays, who still hadn’t touched his steak. “You know something. Maybe you don’t know that you know it. But you saw that son of a bitch because he was in your club that night, and maybe you didn’t see him, but he was watching you. What time did you leave?”

  He frowned and became abstracted. “Well, it was me night off. I wasn’t supposed to be there at all, only she said she wanted to hear me play that night. She called me. We arranged to meet there, and then I’d play a number. But she never showed, did she.”

  “So what time did you leave?”

  He shrugged. “’Bout ten, I suppose. I waited an hour, and when she didn’t turn up…” He shrugged. “I was beginning to feel like she was playin’ silly buggers, playin’ with me. I don’t like that, so I left. Now I know she wasn’t. She was…”

  He looked away.

  I thought about it for a moment. “Whoever killed her, Bat, saw you leave.” I shook my head. “At the very least they knew it was your day off. Whoever killed her was watching you, knew your history, your
daily routine… Somewhere in your head, Bat, you know who this is.”

  Hirschfield was watching me. After a moment, he said, “So what’s next?”

  I hesitated, unsure how much to tell him. In the end I said, “I still have some questions I need to answer in my own mind, things I am not clear about. I’m going to have a word with Jackson tomorrow. Meantime, there’s something I need you to look into, Hirschfield.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “What’s that?”

  “I need to know the terms of Sarah’s will. I also need to know the terms of Carmichael’s will.”

  He frowned. “Carmichael’s will? Charles Carmichael?”

  “Yeah, Charles Carmichael. Who inherits if he dies?”

  Eleven

  By next morning, the wind had picked up again and everywhere I looked, as I drove through the empty streets, things were being dragged, thrown, and tossed by gusts of wind that were bowing and twisting the trees. Above my head, shreds of low-flying cloud were being torn and stretched across the heavy, gray ceiling of a very angry sky.

  The Burgundy Police Department parking lot was empty but for one unmarked Ford. I parked in front of the main entrance, climbed out of my car, and stood a moment, listening to the mounting gale whistling and moaning in the trees. This was the outermost tail, the fringe of the storm. The eye was five hundred miles south, over the Gulf. I wondered for a moment where Marni was, if she was wondering about me, or if the fracas in Tucson and Washington had made her give up on me completely. But it was just for a moment. I put the thought out of my mind. I had no time for that now. First I had to deal with Bat and Sarah, then I could get back to Marni.

  The desk sergeant looked up as I stepped in. “It’s comin’,” he said. He shook his head. “My heart goes out to them poor folks in New Orleans. It’s gonna hit them hard. Real hard.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Is Jackson in?”

  “In his office.”

  I found him sitting behind his desk, staring out the window at a row of trees that looked like a green ocean in a storm. He turned and eyed me as I stepped in.