Grace Under Pressure (30 page)

Much like Taft’s victims, Bruce and Scott had been lulled into a scheme that sounded too good to be true. They’d believed that
Grape Living
was interested in their little shop, just because a woman with swindling on her agenda told them so. They had seen what they wanted to see, heard what they wanted to hear. Geraldine Stajklorski, aka Dina St. Clair or whatever her name was, was clearly a con artist. And she’d taken my friends but good.

I thought about the roof repairs and my heart sank. I’d believed in my roommates’ good fortune because they’d believed. In fact, as soon as the feature in
Grape Living
materialized, I’d envisioned asking Bruce and Scott for an advance on two months’ rent, just so that I could afford to get the roof project started. Now that was out of the question.

Dispirited, I made the final turn onto Percy’s street, wanting nothing more than to get in, get done, and get home as quickly as possible. As I drove slowly past small, ramshackle houses with ripped, upholstered chairs on their dirt front lawns and broken-down pickup trucks in almost every driveway, I started to have second thoughts. House numbering was inconsistent and it took me two passes to realize Percy’s sat between a burned-out structure and a debris-littered empty lot. I pulled up to the curb thinking I probably should have waited until Scott was with me after all.

I considered turning back until I spotted a group of little kids playing tag across the street in another empty lot. Barefoot and unkempt, they ranged from about eight to twelve years old, running and laughing, completely carefree. If this area was safe enough for them, it was probably safe enough for me.

The moment I got out of my car they stopped running and stared. One of the little girls waved. I waved back. A boy jogged across the street. He pointed. “What’s going on in there today?”

I didn’t understand the question. “You mean at Percy’s house?”

The kid shrugged. “Is that the guy’s name? How come so many people are visiting him today? Does he sell drugs?”

“Other people visited? Like the police, you mean?”

“Not police. A guy came. And then a different guy and a girl. And then that guy came back without the girl.”

“All of these people today?”

The kid nodded. “My mom tells me to watch out for drug houses. Is that a drug house? It looks like a drug house.”

I had no answer for that. “I’m not here for drugs. I’m just here to talk to Percy.”

That seemed to satisfy him. “Okay.” With that, he turned and ran back to his group.

Chalk one up for substance awareness programs.

Percy had made mention of seeing his doctor about his meds. But drugs? That was a wrinkle I hadn’t anticipated.

The structure’s concrete stoop listed precariously but stayed put when I stepped up. I rang the doorbell but didn’t hear chimes inside. No sound of movement. Guessing that the bell was out of order, as mine often was, I knocked on the front door. Scratched and scuffed, it looked as though a pack of dogs had tried to break in. Five miniature windows in a stepped-down pattern decorated the scarred maple. The lowest window was just about eye level, but far too dirty for me to see inside.

When my knocking produced no results, I tried rapping on the lowest pane.

Still no luck. I stepped off the stoop and made my way around a scraggly bush to the front. The first of the three windows there was broken, its top portion missing completely, the remaining bottom pane jagged, like a volatile business’s profit chart. A bedsheet had been strung across all three in an apparent attempt at privacy. I checked the center window for cracks before rapping my knuckles against it. When the window didn’t crumble, I rapped again, harder and longer. There was no way for him to miss the noise—if he was in there.

No movement. Nothing at all.

Cursing Percy for bringing me all the way out here and then forgetting about our meeting, I started to turn away.

The moan stopped me. I tilted my head, thinking it had been wind through the broken glass. But the evening was still.

Again, a moan.

I turned as it sounded once more, and realized it was coming from inside the house.

“Percy?” I shouted, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”

“Help.”

No mistaking it that time. His voice was faint, but close enough. “Percy,” I shouted again, “I’m calling for help.”

I did. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. I gave the dispatcher Percy’s address and when she asked the nature of the emergency, I said I wasn’t sure. Just that a man was calling for help. She said a squad would be on its way. “An ambulance, too,” I said. Better safe than sorry.

From inside the house, Percy’s voice warbled, “Please.”

When I turned, I nearly knocked over the little boy. He’d appeared right next to me, his friends gathered a few feet behind. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I think the man inside needs help.” I judged the distance from the edge of the stoop to the window. I might be able to stand on the upraised edge and see inside just enough to know what was going on.

“Did you call 9-1-1?”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to let my impatience show. “They’re on their way.”

“Did you try the front door?” the kid asked, moving up onto the stoop next to me.

I spun. “What?”

“Nobody locks their doors around here,” he said as he twisted the knob. It turned. “See?”

“Don’t,” I said, blocking him from going in. “You don’t know what’s in there.” I pointed across the street. “You and your friends go over there and wait.”

“Awww . . .”

My ears strained to hear sirens, but the neighborhood was silent.

“What if he’s dead?” the kid asked. “Huh?”

“He’s not dead,” I said, taking up the entire doorway to prevent the kid from getting past me. “Now go down to the sidewalk at least, okay? I’ll go check on him.”

The idea of entering Percy’s house on my own was not part of the plan, but I was the adult here and I felt pressured to set a good example. “Listen,” I said to the ring-leader, hoping that by wrangling his cooperation I would prevent him from taking any chances, “I’m going inside. If I scream or yell, or don’t come out, you call the police for me, okay?”

“I thought you already did that.”

Precocious kid. “A second call might get them to show up faster.”

“Maybe. They take a long time to get here, usually. Mom says it’s because we live in a un-in-cor . . . corpry . . .”

I didn’t have time to listen to the kid’s civics lesson, earnest though it was. “I’m counting on you,” I said and stepped into Percy’s house.

It smelled bad. Like hold-my-hand-against-my-nose bad. Just inside, I stopped when I heard animated conversation, belatedly recognizing the pace and canned laughter of a sitcom. The entryway was tiny—a closet-sized foyer with a second, inner door. Dingy and blistered from years of neglect, it apparently led to the living room. I stifled a gag reaction when my fingers made contact with its sticky doorknob.

Immediately inside, the smell intensified. Next to the door, a small television tilted precariously atop a giant plastic garbage bin, the bright blue light flickering into the darkened room. The sitcom’s familiar background music swelled and I took one more step in.

Across the room, Percy stretched across a threadbare print sofa, one arm draping lifelessly to the floor, looking like a couch potato in his finest hour. Except his face was contorted in pain. And his shirt was red. Soaking red. Just like the puddled patch of carpet next to him.

Panic spurred me forward. “Percy,” I shouted. Fighting down fear that whoever did this might still be around, I crouched next to him. “What happened?”

Tears trickled down the sides of his face. He didn’t answer.

“You’ll be okay,” I said, lying through my teeth. There was no need to seek out a pulse, his chest rose and fell in rapid, panicked breaths.

He tried to speak but most of what he said was garbled. It sounded as though he was saying “same” or “sam.”

“The same guy?” I asked. “Was it the same guy who paid you?”

“Same.” Percy blinked hard, twice. Might have been agreement. More likely was pain.

“Stay with me, Percy,” I said. “Come on. You’re going to get through this.”

“Please.” His voice was strangled. “Don’t . . . let me . . .”

I knew what he was asking. “I won’t.”

“Don’t leave . . .”

“I’m right here.”

Help arrived within minutes, though it felt like months. The police pulled me away from Percy as they and the paramedics took efficient control. I waited outside, leaning on my car, shaking. Rodriguez arrived, told me to stick around, then went inside. He emerged about five minutes later. “I caught the call,” he said. “What happened?”

I told him everything, including Percy’s attempt to talk. “I think he was trying to tell me it was the same guy.”

Rodriguez nodded and took notes.

When I’d finished giving my rendition, I asked, “Was he shot?”

“Looks like. We’ll have to see if it’s the same caliber as the one recovered from Abe Vargas’s body.”

“Will Percy survive?”

Rodriguez looked up toward the darkening sky, then at me. “Hard to say. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

Suddenly remembering, I looked around. “There may be witnesses. There were kids playing out here all day. They said that a lot of people came to visit Percy today.”

Rodriguez scribbled. “So how come I didn’t know you were coming out here?”

I apologized. “I intended to tell you.”

“You should have.”

In just over one week, I’d twice come upon victims who had been shot. “What’s going on around here?”

Rodriguez fixed me with a sober look. “I wish I knew.”

Remembering my earlier conversation with Frances, I told him about the relationship between Rosa Brelke and Ronny Tooney. The detective didn’t seem terribly impressed and I commented on that. A corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Half the people on your staff are related to each other.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’ll check into it,” he said. “I promise.” He asked me where I’d been just before coming out here. That reminded me, and I told him about Geraldine Stajklorski, also known as Dina St. Clair.

He frowned. “Do you believe this individual is involved in either of the shootings?”

“No,” I said. “Just bad timing. But Bruce and Scott are my friends. Who should they talk to if they want to file a complaint?”

Rodriguez expelled a breath of frustration. “When it rains, it pours.” He started a new page of notes. “Give me the details.”

“I’m sure my roommates can talk to someone else in your department. You’ve got so much going already.”

Weary eyes met mine. “There ain’t nobody else. Me and Flynn are all we’ve got. Now, spell this woman’s name for me.”

I did, giving him the best information I could on what I knew of Geraldine Stajklorski. While we’d been talking, the paramedics had been busy inside. I kept an eye on their comings and goings and sucked in a breath when it took four men to carry Percy out on a gurney. He wore an oxygen mask over his face and had an IV attached to his arm.

“He’s still alive, then,” I said.

Rodriguez grimaced but said nothing. “Back to this new development. Anything else you can tell me?”

I spotted the ragtag group just beyond the barrier of flashing lights. “See that tall kid?” I said. “Check with him. He seems pretty smart.”

“You and I will talk again later,” he said, and trotted off to question the children. As he approached, the oldest one swaggered forward with an air of self-importance.

Two squads—which probably accounted for the entire Emberstowne police fleet—parted to allow me to drive away.

I shook all the way home.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I GOT IN TO Marshfield extra early. I didn’t care to see or talk with anyone until I got a better grasp on my emotions. I intended to immerse myself in work and not look up until the day was over, but my soul apparently had other plans. The minute I sat down, my energy dissolved. Leaning forward, I rested my arms on the desk and simply stared out the window.

I’d really wanted to talk with Scott and Bruce last night when I got home, but the house had been dark and quiet with my roommates behind closed doors. Whether they’d turned in for the night, or just didn’t feel like talking, I didn’t know. I longed to tell them about Percy—to share the terrible experience with them—but they were handling a loss of their own. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—intrude.

I don’t know how long I stared out the office window, but I was startled back to reality when Frances sauntered in. “Good morning,” she said. If I’d expected sheepishness or discomfort on her part after our discussion yesterday, I was mistaken. She placed files on my desk with the utmost care, raking me up and down with her gaze as she did so. “How long have you worked here?” she asked.