For Everything a Reason (5 page)

Chapter
Eight

The homicide division took on a sombre, subdued air the
moment Carter entered the room. The usual morbid and juvenile banter was
replaced with hushed tones and attempts at working that looked
over-exaggerated. Carter instantly sensed the change in atmosphere. He
concentrated on looking down at his scuffed brown shoes during the short time
it took him to reach his desk, open a desk drawer, and place his shield and
holster inside. Closing it, he turned towards the single piece of paper in the
IN
part of his work tray. He reached out to take
it.

My office, as soon as you get
in. C.M.  

Carter read it again, the
handwriting unmistakable, and then looked over to the closed office door, which
bore the name: Captain Mendoza. He crossed over to the door and rapped on it
twice. Captain Mendoza’s coarse voice barked for him to come in from the other
side.

“You want to see me?”

Mendoza looked up from the
stack of paperwork spread across his desk. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah,” Carter agreed. “I feel
like it, too.”

Captain Mendoza gestured
towards the single seat that faced his desk. “Sit.”

Carter did as ordered and
silently braced himself for what was about to follow.

“I phoned your house again last
night,” Mendoza stated.

“I know.”

“You weren’t in – again.”

“I know.”

“Thomas,” Mendoza began, “you
can’t do this all alone.”

Carter met the captain’s eyes
and held them steady. “Yes I can.”

Mendoza shook his head. “You’re
an idiot.”

“Can’t argue there.”

Mendoza shook his head again,
but his dark brown eyes held only affection within them. “I don’t mean that
asshole Perkins. I mean you can’t get through this grief – Billy’s loss – all
by yourself.”

“I know what you meant. And
you’re wrong.”

“How long have we been
friends?” the captain asked.    

“A long time.”

“Right,” Mendoza said. “And I’m
not gonna let some asshole punk allow you to throw your life away.”

“What life?”

“This one!” Mendoza said, now
infuriated with his friend’s beaten manner. “What about Billy? Would he have
wanted you to throw your whole life away, because of what happened?”

“I guess we’ll never know, will
we?”

Mendoza stood, his squat body
taking up most of the room on his side of the desk. He moved around to sit on
the edge, next to Carter. “If you find him, and kill him, you’ll go to prison –
you know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So quit this bullshit, and
return to the real world, will you!”

Carter just stared down as his
feet, his captain and friend’s concern having little effect on him. “What else
would you have me do?”

Mendoza exhaled heavily. He
reached up to rub tiredness or frustration from his eyes. “Leave Perkins to the
cops in charge. They’ll bring him in, and then the fucker will spend the rest
of his life rotting in some stinking prison cell.”

“How many leads have they got?”

“Enough to keep them busy. I’m
serious, Thomas, let it go, or I’ll have you arrested for interfering with
police business.”

The warning had been weak and
lacking in substance. Mendoza would love nothing more than to wake up, to find
the newspaper headlines stating that Officer William Carter’s killer had been
found floating face-down in the Hudson River; but not at the expense of his
lifelong friend. The captain had watched Carter slip deeper towards despair
over the last three months, and had been unable to do anything about it.

“Look,” he began, “give us
another forty-eight hours, and if we still haven’t caught the bastard, I’ll
help you myself. And then we’ll both spend the rest of our lives eating cold
slop and making number-plates.”

Carter glanced up, his friend’s
final comment registering somewhat. “And what would you have me do until then?
I ain’t taking any leave – you can’t force me to.”

Mendoza nodded. Indeed, the
last thing the captain wanted was for Carter to have even more time on his
hands. No, that would be bad, very bad. “I’ve got something for you.”

“What?”

Mendoza reached behind him. He
took up a single sheet of paper. “This just came in.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not sure – yet. A patient
at St Mary’s Hospital died this morning.”

“So?”

“So, the hospital staff suspect
foul play.”

“Isn’t there anyone else out
there,” he said, with a gesture at the door, “that can follow this up?”

“Yeah, Tyler is available.”

“Then send her.”

“I am,” Mendoza said. “I’m
assigning the pair of you, together.”

“Like hell, you are,” Carter
announced.

“Either take this graciously or
you can take time off – alone. Your choice.”

Carter clenched his jaw and
wavered for a second, his mind trying to figure out which of the two scenarios
would be worse: trapped in his apartment with nothing but silence to keep him
company, or fathering a wet-nosed female detective on a complete no-brainer? In
the end, fear of being alone won. He snatched the crime-report out of Mendoza’s
hand and mumbled a curse under his breath.

Carter left the office and was
met once again with a hush of conversation.

“Tyler!” he yelled.

A young, shorthaired brunette
stood up from her desk. The sea of faces that turned to her relaxed as one, and
an almost palpable sense of relief filled the room.

***

Detective Tyler picked up her shield and holster as she
rounded her desk. And, as she made the short trip to Carter, she shot a look
towards Captain Mendoza’s office and damned the captain for assigning her to
this duty – duties that involved keeping Carter out of trouble for at least the
next 48 hours.

Chapter
Nine

By the time the two detectives arrived at St Mary’s,
Joseph and Marianna had been informed about some of what had happened. The
doctor had revealed some of the worrying details, but not all or the most
important one.

Marianna sat close by her
husband as the doctor returned with two strangers in tow, a man and a woman.
Mercifully, Eugene had taken Jake back home, on the pretence that Joseph was in
need of clean clothes and toiletries.

As the three entered,
Marianna’s back straightened, subconsciously preparing herself for the
possibility of conflict.

“This is Joseph Ruebins and his
wife, Marianna,” the doctor announced, tension clear in his voice.

The male newcomer nodded and
said, “Thanks Doc, we’ll be a few minutes.”

Detective Tyler led the doctor
out of the room. She returned and offered her partner a simple nod.

“Okay, Joseph,” Carter began.
“We understand you had something of an eventful night last night?”

Joseph looked first to Marianna
and then back to the detective.  “I guess so,” he said, slurring the words.

“Wait,” Marianna began, “we’ve
already said we aren’t discussing legal action right now.”       

A puzzled look crossed Carter’s
face. “Sorry?”

“Over the mess up. Last night,”
Marianna said.

The detective nodded, now
finally understanding. “Yes, Joseph’s physician has already explained the
mix-up. But we’re not here for that,” he replied.

“Oh?” Marianna said, her back
straightening even further.

“Maybe we should introduce
ourselves,” Tyler said, stepping forwards. She extended her arm across Joseph’s
midriff and said, “I’m Detective Tyler, and this is Detective Carter.” She
shook Marianna’s hand, and then after an awkward moment waiting for Joseph to
take it, she patted his shoulder instead.

“Detectives?” Marianna
asked.   

“Yeah, we’re from Fourteenth
Precinct, downtown,” Carter announced, withdrawing his ID from his breast
pocket. “There was an incident last night, in the same room Joseph occupied
during the hospital’s screw-up. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Like what?” Joseph slurred.

“Come again?” Carter asked.

Marianna took hold of her
husband’s arm. “He’s had a stroke and is having trouble communicating clearly.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,”
Carter said. “But he does understand us, right?”

“Speak to him,” Marianna
demanded. “He isn’t a dim-wit.”

The reprimand caught Carter off
guard. “Right, sorry. So – Joseph, last night, did you see anything
suspicious?”

“Like what?”

Carter looked on blankly.  

“He said: like what?” she
explained.

“Oh,” Carter said. “How did
you…?”

“We’ve been together a long
time, Detective, and endured more than one beer fest. The way he’s speaking
now, it isn’t a million miles away from when he’s had a drink.”

Joseph squirmed slightly,
embarrassed by his wife’s confession. Marianna read his distress. She patted
his arm gently and said, “Don’t worry sweetheart, a hard working man deserves
the occasional minor indiscretion.”

Now understanding that at least
he had some sort of three-way communication system, Carter pressed on. “So,
once again, Joseph, did you witness anything unusual?”

Joseph shrugged with just the
one working shoulder. “No.”

Carter raised his hand to
Marianna – no need to translate such an obvious response. “Did either of you
have a late visitor, or treatment by any of the hospital staff?”

Joseph barked with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Carter
asked.

Marianna said, “Funny? No.
Negligent – yes. That’s the thing, Detective. Nobody checked in on either of
them all night. Not even an orderly with a bedpan or to bring them something to
eat.”

The word ‘shambolic’ entered
Joseph’s head, but he didn’t even attempt to vocalise such a word – even
Marianna would have been hard pushed to translate that one.

Carter turned briefly to
Detective Tyler, but she was busy jotting down their conversation. “Okay, but
what did you and he talk about?” he asked.

“Insurance.”

It took a moment for Marianna
to understand what her husband had just said. Joseph repeated it for her,
slower this time.

“He says ‘insurance’.”

“Which means?” pushed Carter.

Another shrug from Joseph.

“Take your time Mr. Ruebins,
this is important.”

Joseph sighed. What was this
all about? Had something happened to the old man, and if so, why weren’t they
telling him? Understanding that things would be quicker if he was to write a
reply – one that required more detail, Joseph used his left hand to phantom
write against the bed sheet.

Detective Tyler understood
instantly. She stepped forwards and tore off a sheet from the rear of her
notepad. She handed it over to him and then offered him her pen.

“Thanks.”

“Joseph,” Carter said, “I need
you to be as clear as possible about what was said between the two of you.”

Joseph paused for a moment to
gather his thoughts. Then he simply wrote what he could remember from the
previous night. It took him a while, Marianna first needing to find something
hard enough for him to write on – they made use of the hospital chart at the
foot of the bed. Using both sides of the paper, he eventually handed pen and
paper back to Detective Tyler. She passed the paper to Carter instantly,
curiously using only the very tips of her fingers. Likewise, Carter held the
sheet in an almost reverent fashion.

He said something
about, his insurance: His secret… And that, ‘They’ – he didn’t elaborate – that
‘they’ wouldn’t dare touch him now. He added also, that ‘they’ thought they ran
the whole show? And about him having ‘the last laugh’.

Carter flipped the sheet of
paper over. On this side, Joseph had added his own thoughts about their
exchange.

The guy was really
old, barely able to breathe. He had some sort of clear liquid dripping into his
arm, probably morphine, or some other painkiller. And the reason I called out
to him was because his bed sheet had slipped, and that he was showing the whole
world his business.

This last bit of information
seemed to interest Carter. “How could you have seen that?” he asked.

Joseph frowned. Granted, the
old man’s member had been tiny - but not that tiny. Joseph shook his head.
“What?”

“How could you have seen that
the sheet had slipped?” Carter asked.

“The curtain was open – between
beds.”

Marianna opened her mouth, but
Carter stopped her short. “It’s okay, I think me and Joseph are now starting to
understand each other.”

Tyler nodded to herself. Yes,
Joseph Ruebins’ speech had improved remarkably in just the few minutes that
they had been here.

“Let me get this straight,”
Carter said. “The privacy curtain was open and you had full vision of the other
guy?”

Joseph nodded.

“Did you get out of bed at
anytime and touch him?”

“No,” Joseph said, now clear
enough for all to hear.

“You sure of that?”

“Hey,” Marianna said, standing
now, her protective instincts at their greatest. “Detective, Joseph is
seriously ill. He can barely move, never mind walk or sit. Now what’s this all
about? Is he in trouble?”

Carter spread his hands. “No,
Mrs. Ruebins, he’s not. We just need to try and establish what happened last
night.”

“Happened?” she echoed.

Carter stood quiet for a
second. “The hospital hasn’t told you?”

“Told us what?” Marianna asked.

“About Joseph’s roommate. He
was found dead this morning. Murdered.”

Chapter
Ten

The alleyway Presley Perkins found himself in looked like
it had come directly out of a bad 70s TV cop show. At any moment, he expected
the red and white Gran Torino from
Starsky and Hutch
to come tearing
around the corner in hot pursuit of some greasy perp, sending boxes and debris
high into the air.

Cardboard boxes littered one
side almost entirely, those broken up only by rusting dumpsters heaped full of
trash and home to the city’s rat population. Tall buildings stretched toward the
grey sky like ancient pagan monoliths, offering prayer and sanctuary to the
underbelly of New York’s inhabitants: the homeless.

Presley’s scuffed shoe caught
an empty glass bottle, and it skipped away from him with a clink and a clatter,
breaking his train of thought. He continued along, until coming to a
solid-looking doorway. His hand formed into a fist, but he hesitated before
rapping heavily against it.

A few seconds later, a view
hole scrapped open. Dark eyes peered out.

“Yeah?”

“I need to speak to Moses,”
Perkins said.

“You do, do you?”

Perkins nodded.

“Hold on.”

Presley stepped back from the
door and anxiously scanned both sides of the alleyway. Nothing had changed in
the last few seconds. No worries, Presley thought,
Starsky
was probably
too busy knitting turtleneck jumpers, and
Hutch
composing his next love
song. The moment dragged on, the distant noise of sirens howling over the city
like the wail of the damned.

The eyes soon returned. “You
got enough to open up an account?”

“Yeah,” Perkins replied.

“Let me see.”

He dug into his pants pockets
with both hands, retrieving a handful of bills. “I got enough, see.”

“Wait there.” The eyes
disappeared for a second time. This time, though, it took a good few minutes
before they returned.

“Well?” Perkins asked.

The eyes roamed over Presley’s
face, as though attempting to commit every detail to memory.

“Wait there.”

Oh, for the love of God!

The muddy-brown eyes became
just a dark slot in the doorway for a third time. Another couple of minutes
passed by before the sound of a heavy-duty bolt sliding back came from the
other side. The slab of steel slowly cracked open. A dark corridor stretched
out before him. 

Muddy eyes gave way to a burly
lump of muscle. The doorman stepped away from the door, his firearm drawn and a
look of menace etched across his face.

“Moses will see you now,” the
heavy said. A hand big enough to crush Presley’s face pushed the door shut
before sliding the bolt back into place, sealing them both within this tight
corridor.

“That way,” the heavy ordered,
waving his gun towards the opposite end of the passageway.

Perkins took the lead. The
hallway was littered with empty food wrappers and drinks bottles. A few used
syringes – dark-brown liquid staining their dirty barrels – lay scattered about,
along with hundreds of scraps of tinfoil, wrapped into small balls, enough to
cover the floor like a glittering carpet of stolen dreams.

Several doorways lay open to
reveal empty rooms, each cold and bleak. Impossible to believe that they had
once held warmth and happiness, at a time when the building had sheltered
hard-working families.

“Stop,” the heavy demanded.

Presley halted.

“Up against the wall.”

“What?”

“Against the wall, now.”

Presley turned, “Is that
necessary, considering what I’m here to buy?”

“Just do it.”

“Okay,” he huffed, turning
towards the decaying, bare wall. He laid his hands out, palm-flat, and then
spread his legs. A moment later, the heavy’s shovel-like hand began to pat him
down.

“Okay, you’re clean,” the man
said. “Follow me.”

The heavy led the way up a
short flight of steps and along another barren passageway. He stopped outside
the only room to have a door still hanging from its hinges and rapped on it
twice.

A thin, reedy voice screeched
from the other side. “What now?”

The heavy cringed slightly, as
if the voice had shattered his eardrums. He pushed the door open to reveal a
small office beyond. Stretching out before them was a table that almost spanned
the entire room from wall to wall. An assortment of firearms, ranging from
small homemade zipguns to larger, polished assault rifles, were laid out across
the table’s surface. And a skinny balding man sat behind them, grinning
foolishly, Presley thought, like a man displaying his prize-winning home-grown
vegetables.

“Who we got here?” he asked, in
a voice straight out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

“Fella looking to open up an
account,” the heavy answered.

“Really, Timothy?”

Perkins turned towards the
heavy – Timothy – and shook his head in slight bemusement. The guy looked like
a Brutus, or Butch or Bulldog, not a Timothy.

“An account, hey?” echoed the
skinny guy. He hopped off his oversized chair and walked around the table,
barely squeezing past one of its wide edges. He stood in front of Timothy with
his hands clasped together tightly, his face almost serene in its poise. Then,
his hands parted and one opened out to slap Timothy hard across his face.

“Are you totally fucking
stupid?”

“Gee, Moses, what did I do
wrong?” Timothy asked, tears welling in his eyes.

Moses brushed past the heavy
and stopped in front of Perkins. “You a cop?” he asked, scrutinising the
unfamiliar face of his mysterious visitor.

“No,” Perkins replied. “I’m not
a cop.”

“You wearin’ a wire?” Moses
asked, leaning his face to within inches of Presley’s, but tipping a look
toward Timothy’s. “You check him for a wire?” Moses asked over his shoulder.

“Yeah boss, he’s clean,”
Timothy said.

The scraggy face hovered in
front of Presley’s for a moment longer. Despite the man’s name, there was
nothing remarkably wise or divine about the weapons-dealer’s face. He was
skinny to the point of emaciated, with hollowed-out eyes that were little more
than empty craters. He had a beakish nose covered by angry red pimples, and the
slash of his mouth lay home to a paltry few intact teeth. Most were black
stumps, crooked and broken, and embedded in blackened gums that oozed rot like
the pores of the dead.

Moses stepped away from
Perkins, his sly eyes finally satisfied with their inspection. “Nah, you’re no
cop. Not even a real cop smells like an actual pig.”

Moses returned to the other
side of the table. He spread his arms wide as if ready to engage in a bit of
holy preaching. “So, what can I get you?” he asked, crooked teeth and blackened
gums visible.

Presley moved to the table and scanned
its contents. An elaborate assortment of weapons lay there, some shiny and new,
other pitted and scarred, a few quite possibly genuine relics from battles
past. Handguns covered one side of the table entirely, Magnums, Smith and
Wessons, Colts, and designs he couldn’t identify. Knowing that his limited
amount of cash would not afford him a rifle or mini-machine gun, Presley paid
particular attention to the lower end of the arsenal.

“How much you got?” Moses
asked, rubbing his hands together.

Presley showed him.

Moses sighed. “Not gonna get
you much.”

“Then what will it get me?”
Perkins asked.

Moses scratched at his pointy
chin for a second with dirty fingernails. His spider-like hand reached out to
take a small handgun from the table. He held it up, barely able to contain his
humour. “What about this one?”

“What the hell’s that?” Perkins
asked.

Between Moses’ thumb and
forefinger hung possibly the smallest weapon he had ever seen. It was comprised
of two very short barrels and a handgrip that would have been smothered in a
child’s grasp.

“Is this a joke?” Perkins
asked.

“What?” Moses mocked.

“There has to be something
better than that?”

Moses cocked the pistol and the
small hammer clicked back. “Do you know what this is?”

“A fuckin’ ladies gun, that’s
what,” Perkins cursed.

“True,” Moses agreed. “But for
fifty bucks, you ain’t gonna get anything bigger.”

“Yeah?” Perkins said. “I could
get the whole lady for less.”

Moses nodded. “Yeah, maybe, but
she ain’t gonna save your hide like this baby can.”

“What. That?”

Moses smiled his rancid smile.
“This is a DA 38 Double Action Derringer. The World’s smallest and lightest
.357 Magnum.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How many shots it hold?”
Perkins asked.

“Two.”

“Two? What the hell am I
supposed to do with just two shots?”

“Hit your target the first
time,” Moses elaborated.

“Jeez.”

The compact gun disappeared
inside Moses’ hand. “Look, if you can find something better, somewhere else?”

“No – no. I’ll take it. What
other option do I have?”

Moses shrugged.

“Okay, how much?” Perkins
asked.

“How much you got exactly?”

Perkins spread his money out on
the table. It took just a few moments to count it out. “Fifty-two bucks.”

Moses scrunched up one side of
his face. “Sorry, Pal. This baby costs fifty-three bucks at least.”

“What?”

“Yeah, she’s a real nice piece.
Can’t just give her away.

Presley stood there and soaked
up the indignity of his situation like an obedient child.

“Okay,” Moses began, “I got us
a solution.”

“What?” Perkins asked.

The weapons-dealer clicked the
small loader open and, with dirty fingers, retracted both bullets. “Okay, you
can take the pistol, but the shots’ll cost you another buck.” He placed the two
surprisingly large-looking casings on the table.

“This is stupid,” Perkins
stated. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Timothy spoke from behind. “You
could use it to pistol-whip someone.”

Moses laughed louder, now
unable to contain himself. “Yeah, you could use it for that. Or, you could
improvise and get yourself another wad of cash.” The lines at his eyes abruptly
disappeared as his face became serious. “Now, either take the fucking thing, or
get the fuck out of my sight. I ain’t got time for two-bit losers.”