Homicide Related (12 page)

“But if you were at a poker game—”

“Seems I got there a little later than I intended.”

A little later?

“How much later?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Jesus,” Dooley said. A lot could happen in a couple of hours. “Don't tell me you lied to the cops?”

His uncle's eyes flicked away from the TV screen to Dooley. “I told them the truth.”

“So,” Dooley said, “when did you get there?”

“Get where?”

Where did he think?

“To the poker game.”

“A little after twelve.”

Twelve?

“So when I called you—” Dooley began slowly. He was having trouble processing this piece of news. He had called his uncle at eleven o'clock that night. He had heard music and had asked him if he was at the poker game or a party. He thought about their brief conversation. No way, he told himself. No way. Except that his uncle had given him a distinct impression. “You
lied
to me?”

His uncle muted the TV and turned his eyes on Dooley. His gaze was firm and steady. It felt forthright. But maybe it wasn't. Dooley couldn't shake the idea that his uncle was doing what Dooley himself did all the time—making a point of looking him straight in the eye because he knew if he didn't, Dooley would think he was trying to hide something.

“It wasn't intentional,” his uncle said. “I just lost a couple of hours, that's all.”

“What do you mean, you lost them?”

His uncle, whom Dooley had known for a grand total of two years and had lived with for a little over six months now, and who always came across as Mr. Straight-and-Narrow, said, without a trace of apology or regret, “I guess you could say I was kind of pissed by the time I got to Jerry's.”

“Pissed?”

“I'd had a few drinks. Maybe more than a few. I wasn't keeping track. They talked to Jerry and some of the other guys. Then they wanted me to go down and talk to them again, so they could get everything straight.”

“And they did, right?” Dooley said. “I mean, if you had a few drinks, someone must have seen you. You told them what bar you were in?”

“I wasn't in a bar,” his uncle said. “I was in my car.”

Alarm bells went off. “You were drinking in your
car
?” When did that ever happen?

“I had a bottle I was taking to the game.”

“So you had a few drinks and then what? You got so pissed that you lost track of the time, and then you
drove
to Jerry's?”

“I think maybe I nodded off for a while first,” his uncle said. “It's stupid, I know, especially considering the past six months.” The past six months, during which he had been on Dooley's case to do the right thing, which, mostly, meant staying away from substances like alcohol. “But shit happens, right?”

Right. Except that his uncle wasn't a guy who got pissed on his way to a poker game. He didn't even get pissed when he was there unless the game was at his own house and he was either winning big or losing big. Getting pissed wasn't what his uncle was about—at least, it hadn't been up until the last couple of days. And getting pissed and then getting behind the wheel of a car? No way.

“What did the cops say?” Dooley said.

“They thanked me for coming down.”

Dooley looked at his uncle, who was staring at the TV again. Something wasn't right. He looked around the house, feeling a void.

“Where's Jeannie?” he said. “I haven't seen her for a while.” In fact, he hadn't seen her since before the cops had showed up with the news that Lorraine was dead.

“She's busy.”

“Yeah, but I would have thought, you know, under the circumstances—”

His uncle's eyes flicked over him, the chill in them telling Dooley that his uncle didn't want to talk about that, either.

Oh.

“You didn't tell her, did you?” Dooley said. He couldn't believe it after the way his uncle had tried to make him feel about lying to Beth. “Does she even know about Lorraine?”

His uncle turned back to the TV and turned up the volume on some reality-TV bullshit that Dooley knew for a fact he wasn't really watching. No, that was just the excuse.

Dooley hated having to wait. He also hated not knowing, which was too bad because he was faced with a whole lot of both. He hated having to wait to see Beth and not knowing what was going on, what she was thinking, if she was even thinking about him at all. He hated having to wait to find out where the cops were going with their investigation into Lorraine's death and not knowing what they had talked to his uncle about and why they had asked Jerry Panelli all those “weird shit” questions. He hated not knowing what those weird shit questions were. He hated having to wait for his uncle to spit out whatever he seemed to be choking on and not knowing why he was acting the way he was, or even whether the way he was acting was in character or not because, when you came right down to it, he didn't know his uncle all that well. He'd met him for the first time two years ago, and what had come after that were once-a-week, sometimes once-every-two-weeks, visits, which really didn't tell him anything except what his uncle was like when he was doing his hard-ass, retired cop routine, visiting his newly discovered nephew who was up shit creek. Then came the past six months living in his uncle's house. Maybe those six months should have told him something, but, then again, maybe not. After all, his uncle had lived nearly three times longer than Dooley before Dooley had even made his acquaintance, and that made it hard for Dooley to tell if the way he had been the past six months was the way he always was or just the way he was now that Dooley was around. Finally—and, okay, it was a minor problem, all things considered—he hated having to wait for Jeffie to pay him back and not knowing whether he'd been stiffed or not. If he ever got his hands on Jeffie …

When Dooley turned up the front walk after school, a woman got out of a car that was parked at the curb. Gloria Thomas, Lorraine's sponsor. She had a package in her hand.

“You didn't get in touch,” she said. “So I thought I should drop by.” She held the package out to him.

Dooley looked at it. It was a squarish object in a big brown envelope.

“What is it?”

“Why don't you open it?”

He looked at her. She didn't know him, but he bet she thought she knew Lorraine.

She took one of his hands and folded it around the package.

“I don't want it,” Dooley said.

Her hands were wrapped around his so that he couldn't let go even if he'd wanted to. He saw a steely determination in her.

“About two weeks after I met your mother, she went through a bad patch,” she said. “I found her tearing her place apart, ripping things up, smashing things—she was on a real rampage. I managed to wrestle this away from her. I was sure she'd regret it if she destroyed it. When she pulled herself together, she asked me to keep it for her. It's yours now. What you do with it is up to you. It was very nice meeting you, Ryan.”

She released his hand and started back to her car.

“Hey!” he called.

She turned.

“You said she called you the night she died.”

She nodded.

“What time?”

He could tell she was wondering why he wanted to know, but she didn't ask.

“Ten,” she said, “according to the read-out on my home phone.”

The cops knew Lorraine had been alive at ten o'clock. They figured, by her watch, that she'd died a little more than an hour later. What they didn't know for sure yet—his uncle said they were treating her death as suspicious—were the circumstances. It made Dooley uneasy.

She walked to the curb and climbed back into her car. Dooley went around the side of the house where his uncle kept the garbage cans. He removed the lid from the nearest can and dropped the package inside. On his way back to the house, he realized that Gloria Thomas's car was still there. Their eyes met. Then she turned the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the street.

Jeannie came over that night—for the first time in a long time. She filled the house with her perfume, made his uncle smile a little, and, when she went upstairs with him later, made Dooley yearn for Beth. He tried Beth's cell. No answer. He prowled restlessly in his room. There was too much going on, too much to think about, and no way to make it all go away.

As soon as things quieted down in his uncle's bedroom, Dooley went outside and dug Gloria Thomas's package out of the garbage can. He held it in his hands. It felt like some kind of book. He thought about opening it but couldn't make himself do it. He wanted to tear it up, burn it, shred it, stomp it, hack it to pieces. His hands picked at the corner of the envelope. If he kept it, he'd destroy it for sure. He lifted the lid on the garbage can again. Then hesitated. Finally he took the package inside and slipped it into his backpack.

Six

W
arren stopped short when he rounded the corner at school the next day and saw Dooley standing at his locker.

“You can't make it,” he said, despondent but resigned.

“What?” Dooley said.

“Alicia's party. You can't make it.” He shook his head. “I already told her you were coming. She was so excited—”

“I said I'd be there, and I will,” Dooley said.

“Really?”

“Even if I have to call in sick.”

Warren breathed a sigh of relief. “I really appreciate it, Dooley.”

“I
like
your sister, Warren. She's a sweet kid.”

Warren beamed at him. “She is,” he said.

“Look, Warren, I need you to do something for me.”

Warren didn't hesitate. “Sure.”

Dooley pulled a bulky envelope out of his backpack and handed it to Warren.

“Hang onto this for me for a while.”

“No problem.”

“Just until I decide what I want to do with it.”

“You got it.”