Malice Times Read online

"I’m really not in the mood. Do I look like I’m in the mood?"

  "Not particularly," Elizabeth said with the hint of a smile on her face. "Is it true about Daniel?"

  "You were there last night. What did you find out?"

  "Not much. Single bullet to the head. He died sometime last night."

  "I saw for myself. Looked like he may have been tortured first. He was strung up by his hands."

  "How do you want to handle it?"

  "Any way you like. You’re the boss. By the way, how did you know about the warehouse? I didn't expect to see anyone there besides the cops."

  "I was working late," Elizabeth said. "I heard it on the police scanner. Obviously, they didn't say who had been killed. I didn't find that out until this morning."

  "You were here all night."

  "It is a lot of work running a newspaper," Elizabeth said.

  I walked into my office. Dempsey and Lynda sat patiently in the two chairs in front of the desk. Dempsey stood when I entered the room and proffered his hand, which I didn't take. He looked haggard, worn out, as if he were slowly having a heart attack. Lynda stared at me with contempt. I shook my head, sat and sighed.

  "Well?" I asked.

  "What the hell happened to you?" Dempsey asked. "You look like hell."

  "I keep having these unfortunate accidents at night. Besides you don't look much better than I feel."

  "I was up early this morning,” he said.

  "What do you want?"

  "It's simple Joe," Dempsey said. "I would like for you to take Lynda on as your partner. In fact I demand it."

  "Demand away.”

  "I'll put it very plainly," Dempsey said. "I am willing to pay for you to give Lynda her job back. I think you’ll find my offer very generous. You can’t deny an old friend, can you?”

  "Oh, but I can Bobby," I said. He flinched a little. Concern swept across his face. He studied me not knowing exactly where my new not so pleasant attitude towards him came from. “I was under the impression from our last communication that we weren’t friends. Recent developments have not made me think otherwise.”

  "I'm sure something can be worked out."

  "Maybe." I turned to face Lynda. She looked just as confused as Dempsey. "How's Tom Watkins doing these days?"

  "What about him? You can take that sad sack and stick him.”

  "Is she the reason you look like hell?" I asked.

  Dempsey looked up at me and turned towards Lynda. "No, I just didn't sleep well last night."

  "I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps you had a late night visitor. You should go home and get some sleep. Pimpin’ ain’t easy.”

  Dempsey stood and Lynda looked at him flabbergasted. He grabbed her by her upper arm, pulled her to her feet and led her out of my office. I smiled in relief. Apparently, he didn't want her there as much as I had thought. I stood and walked to the window and looked down at the street. When Lynda and Dempsey left the office I opened the window to see if I could hear the conversation. Lynda was loud and clear, but Dempsey was less audible. Imagine that.

  "I don't give a damn," Lynda was saying. "He humiliated me and now he is humiliating you."

  Dempsey said something.

  "So, you're going to just give up."

  "No," he said, voice raised.

  "Then what?”

  "There's more at stake than that damn paper."

  "You know that building is the key," she said and stopped and pointed over her shoulder.

  Dempsey stopped too and said, "It may very well be, but sometimes you have to cut your losses. Besides you’ve been there long enough."

  "That's a lot to lose," she said in a softer tone. "Tom said he had it. I believe him. Tom wouldn’t have lied to me, not back then."

  "Just forget about it," he said. "Joe is sharp. No one's going to get anything but a jail sentence if you don't get out of the way. And I'm not spending my remaining days in jail. How about you?"

  That seemed to shut her up. Then she said, "You're afraid of him."

  "Of Joe? I’m not afraid of anything anymore. You know that. I am definitely aware of Joe. Joe can be a nasty piece of work. The apple doesn’t fall far from that tree. I think it best that we just stay out of the way for the time being."

  With that they walked to his black Porsche and drove off. I sat down at my desk fuming at the thought that my father and I were similar.

  24

  Ireached into my back pocket and retrieved the claim ticket that came from the safe. I looked at the strangely beautiful cuckoo clock on the wall and realized I had never heard the cuckoo. I limped over to it and saw that it wasn't really a cuckoo clock at all, just a well-crafted piece of wood. It didn't even tell the time. Certainly an odd piece of art. But then my brother was odd.

  I told Regina where I was going and left the building. Outside in front of the building I ran into Rae who was surrounded by five big men. There was so much I wanted to say, so much I needed to say, but I shut my mouth, walked up to her and smiled.

  "One night you're mine, the next day you're surrounded by big muscular men. I think I'm jealous."

  "You... jealous," she laughed. "Maybe you better look that word up in the dictionary. I don't think you realize what it means. And after you do, try it some time, you might find I like it. What happened to you?"

  "More of the same."

  "You can't get a break, can you?"

  "Actually, I can, that's the problem."

  "Perhaps you should have stayed in bed instead of going out at three in the morning."

  "Maybe we both should have." I smiled. Couldn’t help myself. Never could. I limped away. She watched me go with a growing look of concern on her face. She turned back to her workers and gave out some instructions.

  I walked over to the post office a couple of blocks away. It was a big place, in the style of an old New England home. I handed my claim ticket over to a large black woman, who wore the blue uniform of her trade. She disappeared in the back for a few minutes and came out with a thick manila folder. I took the folder, thanked her and walked out into the warm summer air. I made my way across the street and into the small Central Park. I found an empty bench underneath the statue of my great, great grandfather and opened up the folder.

  I removed the contents, which were all stapled together. On top was a picture of two people I knew well. Brad and Celia were lying on a blood-soaked bed. I don't think I would have recognized him if it hadn't been for the big tattoo on his upper right chest. It was only half visible in the picture. A bullet hole had destroyed the other half of the snake. They were both fully clothed, except Brad’s shirt was unbuttoned.

  Who would have taken such a distasteful picture other than the police? However, it wasn't a police photo. It was a Polaroid and in my brother’s possession.

  A second picture in the folder was that of Tom Watkins leaving what I knew to be the Archer home. In his right hand he was holding a small black duffel bag.

  A third picture was that of Archer and Dempsey in Archer's driveway carrying a large black plastic bag from the house to the garage. It didn't take much imagination to figure out what was in the hefty bag.

  I had a meeting with Archer and some rather incriminating evidence that might loosen his lips. I walked from the park. The place was full of children. As usual it was a hot and humid day, but that didn't seem to deter the children one bit. Across the park stood City Hall; home of the district attorney. It looked like the kind of place that you would see in an old Frank Capra or Preston Sturges film.

  Someone laid their hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked into the face of Marcus, the man from The Garlic Clove. He looked around quickly surveying his surroundings.

  “You wanted to know about Brad,” Marcus said.

  “What can you tell me?”

  He looked around again. “I was at Mr. Archer’s house the night it happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “The night they got killed. No questions, just listen.
I want to be done with this conversation nice and quick. It was the Fourth of July. I was working out front, helping with the cars. Brad left early in the evening. I asked him where he was going and if he needed any help. He told me that he had to take care of something and that he didn’t need my help. About an hour later, Mrs. Archer left in her car. All of that wasn’t all that interesting. Most everyone stays for the fireworks. But right as the fireworks start, I see Mr. Archer stumbling out towards his car. He was as drunk as a skunk. He managed to get to his car. I walked up behind him to see if I could help him any, maybe drive him home. His house isn’t that far and I could walk back. Well, he falls backwards right into my arms. I put him in the car and drive him home. I carried him inside the house and left him in a chair. He was zonked out. I left and walked back to the house. The fireworks were still going. The next morning, Mr. Marchello tells me that Brad is gone. I ask him what happened. He breaks down crying saying that he is dead. That Archer killed him. I told him that I took Archer home that night. That he was totally passed out when I left him. Your dad gets super pissed and starts blaming me for taking Archer there. That it was my fault that Brad was dead. But there is no way Archer killed him. He was totally out. No way he is sober enough to kill Brad. No way.”

  “Are you sure he was that drunk? Could he have been faking?” I asked.

  “No. I asked around after. Everyone said the same thing. He was drunker than hell.”

  I thanked him and he walked away from me quickly. I walked into the City Hall Building and up the steps toward the District Attorney's Office.

  Archer stood outside his office surrounded by news people. Dulcy was there writing down notes and occasionally asking questions. I walked up to her and asked her what the hell was going on.

  She responded, "You haven't heard yet?"

  "No. Should I have?"

  "Tom was just arrested for murder. Do you think he did it?"

  "I don't know," I answered honestly. "Did you tell the district attorney that he was with you the night my brother was murdered?

  “No," she said. “Not yet.”

  "He probably won’t believe you anyway, but don’t tell him until I tell you to.”

  She nodded her head. Archer stopped his little news conference and walked back into his office, ignoring all the questions that followed him through the doorway.

  "Why did they arrest Tom?" I asked

  "Bank records," Dulcy said. "It seems that your brother was blackmailing Tom."

  "Did you know that?"

  "No. He never mentioned anything like that to me."

  "Were you with Tom last night?”

  “No. I’ve been trying to keep my distance. I’m scared.”

  “You should be. Go back to the paper. I’ve got to talk to a couple of rats.”

  She walked away from me and I walked through the same door as Archer. A rather overweight old woman sat behind a desk typing. She looked in my direction and then went back to her typing. I walked towards the door on the other side of the desk.

  "You can't go in there," the secretary said.

  "I have an appointment," I said as I walked through the door.

  Archer was sitting behind his desk talking on the phone. All that I heard of the conversation was "Don't worry he'll be..." Then he broke off as he saw me. "I'll have to get back to you later. Another problem just popped in." He lowered the phone to its cradle.

  "I'm really rather busy. I have some important phone calls to make."

  "I'm sure they can wait," I said and sat down in a huge plush chair. I thought it might swallow me. "You arrested Tom Watkins?"

  "Satisfied?"

  "Not particularly. It’s not that I don’t trust you or anything. Well, actually it is that I don’t trust you. What do you have other than bank records?"

  "I have motive, opportunity, means and a body. That's all I need."

  "Wrong," I said.

  “What do you want? DNA? Complete waste of time if you ask me. They all say it is going to make it easier to convict, but it is just going to make it even more difficult and time consuming. It is helping out so much in Los Angeles right now, let me tell you. Complete circus. Takes too much to prove it was collected properly just to make it admissible.”

  “Wow, you sounded like a real lawyer there for a second.” Then I saw a manila folder on his desk with my name on it. A smile broke out on his face.

  "You didn't expect me to go into a meeting with someone without checking up on them first?"

  "I trust it was interesting reading."

  "An outstanding career thus far. Joined the Navy. Went to school. Graduated. Moved up the ranks pretty quickly. Then, you moved on and joined a security firm. You do mostly detective work it seems with some security details thrown in. Then, about six months ago you came upon a girl being held captive and you ended up getting shot. I would really like to know how that all went down.”

  "I'd like a million dollars, too."

  He cleared his throat and looked back down at the folder. "For the last six months you have been seemingly sitting on your ass drinking your life away. Then you show up the day your brother is killed. I could make some interesting connections there if I tried very hard.”

  “You would have to try very hard.”

  “I could make life very difficult for you.”

  “I think it is much more likely that I can make life very difficult for you.”

  He ignored my cryptic remark. "Mr. March, since that is your legal name, why are you here?"

  "Because of a phone call."

  "From your brother, I imagine. When did you get this phone call?"

  "The night before he died."

  “Why did he call you?” Archer asked.

  “He thought I could help him. He was afraid. He thought someone was trying to kill him. I suppose he was right.”

  "You know we can use that against Watkins."

  "You would have to try very, very hard to use that against Watkins."

  "It proves that Michael was in fear of his life."

  "That doesn't mean he was afraid of Watkins."

  "When I'm through with it," Archer said. "The jury will believe just that."

  “Why does Dempsey want Watkins in the frame for this?”

  He didn't answer the question, just stared at me with those dark gray eyes.

  "Do you have enough to convict though?" I asked.

  "In this town, I do."

  "What about Daniel Miles?"

  "What about him?"

  "Do you plan on trying Watkins for that murder as well?"

  "No," he said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because we couldn't get it to stick."

  "Why not?"

  "He happens to have an ironclad alibi for that night. He was working the door at The Garlic Clove from five until midnight."

  “I heard Watkins has an alibi for the night Michael was killed, too.”

  “What alibi?”

  “He has himself a girl. You should look into it.”

  “A girlfriend is hardly a very good alibi.”

  “Probably not, but it might sway a member of the jury in the middle of trial. She’ll make a pretty reliable witness.”

  “I doubt it.”

  "What happened the night Graber and your wife were murdered?" I asked. The quick change in subject had the exact effect I had been looking for. Archer’s face dissolved from one of confidence to one of guilt.

  "Get out."

  I pulled out the picture of him and Dempsey carrying a large black plastic bag. I laid it on the desk in front of him. He picked the picture up and looked at it. “I told you I could make life difficult for you. You two don’t seem to be struggling too much in this picture. Your wife, I assume.”

  “I wondered how long it would be before you found this. How much?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m not Michael. Watkins wasn’t the only one getting blackmailed, was he?”<
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  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “How much have you paid him?”

  “Money? He didn’t want money from me. He wanted information.”

  “What kind of information did he want?”

  “And you say you’re not a blackmailer.”

  “You help me and maybe I can help you.”

  He sighed and sat back in his chair. “First, he wanted to know everything I knew about Celia and Brad. How much I knew about them, which wasn’t much. Then, he wanted me to find out everything I could on Drake. He was very interested in Drake. Then, he wanted everything I could dig up on Paul Regan. Then, he wanted to know as much as I could find on a man by the name of Don Webb. I think you know the name.”

  “Webb? What did he want to know about Webb?” I couldn’t hide my shock. It was a hard left hook to the back of the head. Archer took pleasure in my noticeable discomfort in just the mention of the name.

  “Well, for starters he wanted to know what his real name was and where he came from.”

  “And what was his real name?”

  “His real name was Brian Prater. He worked for a man by the name of Buddy Costello in Las Vegas. He was wanted by the police there for murdering two men, one of them a cop.”

  “But he eluded police and was never seen again.”

  “Well, he eluded police, sure. But he was seen again. His body was discovered in New York. He was hiding out in an abandoned house. There was a gas leak and boom, the end of Brian Prater.”

  “When was that?”

  “Almost three years ago.”

  “What do you remember of the night your wife was killed?”

  “It was the Fourth of July. I drank very heavily. I don’t even remember leaving your father’s house. The last thing I remember was my wife telling me she was going home. I stayed at the party. I have brief glimpses of that night. Snippets of conversation. Then, I woke up in my house. I had a gun in my hand. I wandered around the house calling for Celia and there she was with Brad, dead.”

  With each word I could see him shrinking more and more in his seat. His eyes went glassy as he remembered what he could remember of that night.

  “You think you killed them?” I asked.

  "What do you think?"

  "But you don’t remember?"