Malice Times Read online

  The waiting was killing me. He just stood there staring out across the lake. A full moon hung in the clear sky. His face illuminated. Tears streamed down those boyish cheeks. Uncle Paul, he had said. Killed my father, he had said. Regan had lied to me. Brian Prater’s family hadn’t been killed in a car crash, because his son was standing right there. He had given me chills from the very first day I had met him. It wasn’t because he was so intimidating or scary. He was just a boy, a sad, angry little boy. It was because when I looked at him, I had sensed his father. He had been there the night his father had been killed. It was the only explanation. After Brad had killed his father, Watkins had been there giving Brad instructions. The boy had somehow gotten it all mixed up.

  Eventually, the boy let go of the railing. He wiped the tears from his face and walked away towards the bow of the ship. I listened to him walk around and down the gangplank. I watched him go. He didn’t lock the gate. I watched him walk down the pier and out to where his black sedan sat in the street. He got in and drove off down Main Street and up into the hills.

  38

  When I woke I knew that today was the day. I could feel it. The morning air was brisk, the skies overcast. It looked like it might rain. I had an appointment to keep with my father. I knew why I had to see him, but what intrigued me was why he wanted to see me.

  Marie opened the door and let me in. “You okay?" she asked.

  "I'm fine Marie," I said and kissed her on the forehead.

  "I come visit you in hospital. They say you sleeping, that I should come back next day. I come back, you gone."

  "It was a minor surgery, Marie, nothing to worry about."

  "If they let you go next day, they should not say come back next day to me."

  "You're not wrong. Is my father in?"

  "Yes, in study."

  "Thank you," I said and walked towards my father's study.

  In the hall my mother emerged from the living room. She was carrying a bundle of flowers and started arranging them in a vase on a little marble table under the portrait of my great, great grandfather.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  "I came to talk to my dear father."

  "He's in his study.”

  "That’s the rumor,” I said. “It seems a bit chilly in here."

  She slammed the flowers into the vase viciously and turned towards me. She spoke quickly, pointing her right index finger at my nose.

  "Why would you write all those filthy lies," she said.

  "What are you talking about mother?"

  "You wrote that Michael was a blackmailer and implied that he may even have been a killer."

  "He was a blackmailer."

  "Who the hell do you think you are to imply such a thing?"

  "The only one trying to find out who killed him," I said. I felt like I was ten-years-old and had been caught stealing cookies.

  "How do you know he was a blackmailer?"

  "I just do.”

  "You're delusional.”

  "Who’s delusional?"

  "That's just fine," she said and stormed back into the living room. I thought about following her, but didn't. There was nothing I could say.

  I walked to the end of the hall and entered my father's study. He was sitting behind his desk talking on the phone. He waved me in and motioned to a chair. I did what he wanted.

  "Just send me... Look, I'm not going to argue with you… I know, but you have to understand... I paid you for that liquor and I want it at my house by tomorrow."

  He hung up the phone and smiled.

  "Still going through with your Fourth of July celebration?” I asked.

  “Why not?”

  “People might think it gauche so close to your son’s death,” I said.

  “The only people that care about Michael’s death are the people in this house. People expect the Marchello Fourth of July celebration. And I think we all need it.” He took a cigar from his case and lit one up. He planted it in the center of his mouth with the cigar pointing at me accusingly.

  "Tell me what you learned in New York," he said.

  "Nothing that I'm ready to share."

  "Is Tom clear?"

  "Well that all depends.”

  "On what?"

  "On what exactly it is that you want him clear of."

  "Of Michael’s murder, of course. What did you think I meant?"

  "I’m pretty sure he’s clear of that."

  "Pretty sure isn’t sure,” he said.

  “We need to talk,” I said. “There are a couple things we need to clear up."

  "For instance?"

  "Do you know anything about a diamond heist at The Golden Seagull in Las Vegas?”

  “A diamond heist?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It involves a rather sordid story that includes Paul Regan and Tom Watkins. What did Regan tell you about Tom Watkins when he forced you into taking him in to repay your debt?”

  “He told me that he needed Tom to stay here for a while, but that he wouldn’t be here any longer than a year. Hopefully shorter than that. But he wanted me to make sure that I would keep him here.”

  “Did he tell you why?” I asked.

  “He said that Tom was in a lot of trouble. That someone wanted him dead.”

  “Did he tell you who wanted him dead?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t ask. When you’re in this business, you don’t ask. You’re told what you need to know and that’s it.”

  “Like Don Webb?” I asked.

  “I knew what Webb had done. There weren’t many secrets there.”

  “There were secrets, but no one knew the depth of them I don’t think. Regan had pieced it together even before you had called him to warn him that Brad was coming for Webb. Webb didn’t just kill the Gordon brothers all those years ago. Webb abducted the younger Gordon brother and raped him. The story is that the older Gordon brother tracked Webb down. But how would he have done that. No. Webb called him and lured him in. The younger Gordon brother was dead and he hadn’t fulfilled his insatiable hunger for violence and control.”

  “Oh, my God,” my father said. “And I let that sick bastard in my home.”

  “You knew Brad wanted out,” I said.

  “Yes. That’s why I was trying to get him out. Your mother never understood. Brad was like family. But he just couldn’t forgive me for Webb. He watched Michael spiral downwards for all those years and he blamed me for all of it. I don’t blame him. It was my fault.”

  “That wasn’t Brad’s idea of getting out,” I said. “In the end, two things got Brad killed. He was in love and he had killed the wrong man. Brad thought he owed Regan, but he had done Regan a favor. Regan used that to recruit Brad to help with an elaborate frame job on Dutch Gordon.”

  “Where does Tom fit into all of this?”

  “Tom was supposed to come and collect Regan’s cut. But a funny thing happened on the way to Malice Grove.”

  “The diamonds went missing,” he said finally understanding. “Tom has been here looking for them.”

  “There was some question as to whether Tom had them this entire time. But he doesn’t. And his time is up.”

  “This all goes back to Don Webb after all these years,” my father said.

  “Partially, and his real name was Brian Prater. This is confusing enough,” I said. “Add sixty million dollars of uncut diamonds to the mix and a spot of revenge. Gordon wasn’t the only one getting set up. Brad was right there with him.”

  “Regan wanted Brad dead?”

  “Oh, Regan wanted Brad dead very much, but he wanted revenge on Dutch Gordon even more for what he had done to Buddy Costello. Plus, he was trying to protect Costello’s only son and Brian Prater’s son.”

  “So, Tom killed Brad for Regan?”

  “If he did, he didn’t do it for Regan. Regan wanted the diamonds before disposing of Brad. So, to answer your question, no, Tom didn’t kill Brad. He did try to frame Archer though. Where is T
om?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in days.”

  “That’s what I figured. He’s getting ready to run. Watkins is in considerable danger. On top of that Watkins is getting very desperate and I’m not sure I want a desperate Tom Watkins running around. He’ll do anything to save his hide at this point.”

  I reached over the top of his desk and opened the top center drawer. I took out his cigar case and removed one. I lit one up, but after a few puffs I realized why I didn't smoke. The coughing burnt my throat. I crushed the cigar down in my father's ashtray. It stood up like a miniature Leaning Tower of Pisa. I took the hundred thousand dollars in cash out and put it on his desk. My father stared at it.

  “I think this belongs to you,” I said. He reached for the cash, but stopped short. “Go ahead and take it, dad. You and Michael had agreed on a price for The Malice Times. Michael needed some money in order to start paying back the money he had blackmailed from everyone. So, he had come to you, because he knew you would buy the paper from him, because you hadn’t at all been satisfied with the way he had been running it. Let me ask you one thing, did he ask to stay on as editor?”

  “Yes. That was his only request. I agreed, as long as he would operate the way I wanted him to operate.”

  “He was going to use the paper to blow the whole Golden Seagull diamond heist story sky high. His dream was to do something important, something real, but he had gotten stuck on some of the details. Like who all the players were other than Brad Graber. So he called me. He wanted me to look into it for him. He thought if he could get me up here and get me thinking about Brad Graber’s murder that I would get every last detail for him. He’s right. I would have. The only thing you requested was that he move back home where you could keep a better eye on him instead of having to rely on Charles. The way you treated Charles was shameful. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was. Give him that hundred grand.”

  “I’m not giving that junkie a hundred grand,” he said.

  “Yes, you are,” I said. “He’s earned it. You owe him.”

  “Owe him? He owes me. Do you think he could get a job anywhere? A man with his record and his habits? I got him the job at The Malice Times. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be on the streets begging for quarters. Besides, if I give him a hundred grand, he’d overdose in less than a week.”

  I knew he was right. I didn’t like it. It made me sick to think about it, but I wanted to do something for Charles and Cheryl. They had gotten swept up into something that was too big for them. Sometimes, you just can’t help everybody.

  “You told me that you and Michael argued on the phone the night he was killed,” I said. “You were cagey about the actual conversation. Were the nasty things he said about Brian Prater?”

  “Yes,” my father said.

  ♦♦♦

  My father was at his desk when his private number rang the night my brother was killed. He picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “I can’t believe I would be stupid enough to move back to your house,” Michael said. He was sobbing. “How could I think I could be safe there after what Prater did to me in the very room that I am moving into?”

  “Michael, nothing like that will ever happen to you here ever again, I promise.”

  “How can you possibly promise me that? You are beholden to everyone else but your own family.”

  “Look, Michael, I have made a lot of mistakes in my life that I wish I could take back. Brian Prater is one of them. I never meant that to happen.”

  “But it did happen, didn’t it? It happened before to Joe and you ignored it and allowed it to happen to me.”

  “I didn’t allow anything to happen to you, Michael. It was an awful thing. But it happened and you need to get over it.”

  “Get over it? Get over it? How do you get over someone raping you, dad?”

  “It is all fine now. You are going to come home and we will make sure you are fine.”

  “I’ll never be fine, dad. Brian Prater raped me. He held me down and did and made me do the most unspeakable things.”

  “Shut up,” my father said. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Of course you don’t, dad, because it is easier for you if you pretend it didn’t happen. Just like you did with Joe. You knew what he was and you let him stay here after what he did to Joe. You protected him and Joe left. And then he raped me, you son of a bitch. Brian Prater raped me. Say it. Say it.”

  “I will not say it.”

  Michael slammed the phone down. My father debated calling him back, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He would give Michael some time to cool down and then he would call him tomorrow morning and smooth things over. When he called the next morning, there was no answer.

  39

  Aslight drizzle had begun when I drove up Archer's driveway. Bill answered the door and informed me that Archer was in the garden. I thanked him and walked around the house and through a small gate. I wondered if this was the route the killer took that night one year ago.

  Archer stood in a pair of old sweats looking out across the vast garden. As I approached him, he turned and looked at me with wide eyes. They were the eyes of an animal caught in the headlights of a car moving too fast to stop in time before crushing his skull.

  "What are you doing out here?" I asked.

  "Ever since I realized I didn't kill them I haven't been able to sleep."

  That didn't really answer my question, but I knew why he was here. He was trying to get as close to Celia as possible. This garden represented her in more ways than I or anyone else could possibly imagine. To Archer this garden was his wife, which explained why he took such delicate care of it.

  "When was the last time you went to work?"

  "Last week," he said. "Sometime. Have you found out who killed my wife?"

  "You're depending on me an awful lot," I said. "Why don't you use that police force you have?"

  "I know how to build a case for prosecution, I know nothing of detection. It is a lot easier to convict a case, when you’re the one planting the evidence. I've never used them to enforce the law before, just to cover it up. I wouldn't know where to begin."

  "From the beginning," I said. "That's generally where you begin."

  "I’m paying you to do that. You know there hasn't been a killing in this town that I didn’t already know who the killer was until your brother's. It's pretty ironic isn't it that the only other mystery to me is the one that I thought I had committed." He started laughing, but he quickly devolved into tears.

  "Why did you jump like a scared cat just now when I walked in? Who are you terrified of."

  "Afraid?" he asked. “Afraid. I’m afraid of everything and everyone. I had nothing to live for before. Now, I do. I’ve been wanting to die for the last year. Hoping that it would somehow come. I don’t have what it takes to do it myself. But now I feel like everyone is coming for me and I want to live. I want to repair my relationship with my daughter. I want to know who killed my wife and I want justice.”

  "Do you have my brother's phone records?"

  Archer called for Bill and a few moments later I had the records in my hand. The last phone call made from my brother's phone was to The Malice Times.

  “You need to pick up Watkins,” I said.

  “I’ll get dressed and go into the office,” he said.

  “No. Make a phone call,” I said. “You need to go into hiding. Watkins is desperate and it is only a matter of time before he comes knocking on your door. You’re right to be afraid. Once you have him in custody, then you can start to feel safe again.”

  He called his office and told them to bring in Watkins. I called Regina and asked her to retrieve her father. He needed to disappear. After Regina collected Archer and left, I sat down and stared out across that garden.

  I got up, entered the house and walked up the steps. Almost a year ago to the day, someone had climbed these steps and walked down the hallway, just as I was doing. I
came to the door to the guest bedroom. It was closed. I turned the door knob and swung the door open. The room was clean. It had a more manly feel to it than the pictures had suggested from a year ago. The walls were painted blue. There was a single bed there instead of the king-sized one from before with a silver comforter draped across it. I walked into the room. It was hard to imagine the scene from last year taking place in this room. I sat down on the bed with a frown. The windows were covered with drapes. I walked over to them and pulled them open and looked out over the garden. I opened the window and leaned out. The pergola that jutted out from the side of the house over the patio below stood right outside the window and stretched the length of the house. I thought of my brother standing outside this window on this pergola snapping pictures of a naked Celia Archer and a naked Brad Graber. Brad’s dirty clothes balled up on the floor.

  Watkins running amok through Malice Grove could be exactly what this town needed, but with only a couple of days left until he was out of time and out of life, he might not care too much who he hurt to find those diamonds. He had been trying to finesse his way to them this past year. Watkins was not a finesse guy. Regan probably told him to keep a low profile. That no one knew the diamonds were here and that he shouldn’t go advertising it. My gut feeling was that Watkins would be advertising it as he started to try to beat them out of everyone he could think might know where they were. Archer would certainly be on that list.

  I looked out across the garden. I had been so stupid. Dulcy had run out after making sure she had put me on the right track. Dulcy Baxter, or should I say Dulcy Gordon, the daughter of Dutch Gordon. She had somehow ferreted out what had happened to the diamonds. Maybe Dutch Gordon had planted the thought in her head. She had followed Bruce Drake all the way to Malice Grove. She got herself employed at the Malice Times. Michael finally figured out who she was from the newspaper clippings. She knew everything about Brian Prater. She had learned it all from her father. When Michael confronted her about who she was, she told him everything, which led to his meltdown the night he was killed. She was on his side. She wanted to make them all pay for what they had done, what they had unleashed on both of their families. She wanted to make them all pay, Tom Watkins, Bruce Drake, Joshua, and Paul Regan. She didn’t care about the diamonds. All of Paul Regan’s machinations had failed. The Gordon family knew.