Homicide Related (4 page)

“You're
sure
you're good for it?” Dooley said.

“One hundred percent.”

“Because I can find you if I have to, Jeffie. You don't want to mess me up over this, you really don't. You got that?”

Jeffie grinned, but even in the darkness Dooley caught the uncertainty in his eyes as Jeffie remembered the Dooley he used to know. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would give Jeffie the right incentive to pay him back.

“Don't worry,” Jeffie said. “You'll get your money. If you want, I'll deliver it to your house.”

That was the last thing Dooley wanted.

“There's a restaurant across the street from where I work,” he said. He told Jeffie where it was. “Meet me there on Monday, nine o'clock. That's when I get my break.” He ignored Jeffie's amused smirk and checked his watch. Unless he wanted to have to come up with excuses, which he knew his uncle would never buy, he had to get moving. “Monday night, Jeffie. Nine o'clock. Be there, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jeffie said. “Don't sweat it.”

“Jesus H. Murphy,” Dooley's uncle said as he came into the kitchen the next morning. “Just because I own a dry-cleaning store”—in fact, he owned two—“that doesn't make me head laundress around here. The hamper is overflowing. When was the last time the thought of laundry crossed your mind, Ryan?”

“I'll get to it,” Dooley said.

“Yeah? Like you're going to get to picking up the clothes all over your floor? There's a closet in your room, in case you didn't notice. A chest of drawers, too.”

Dooley gulped down the last of his orange juice and stood up.

“You still want me to come by the store after school?”

“What for?”

What for?
Dooley shook his head. “You told me a hundred times last week you're getting the offices painted.”

There were three offices at the back of his uncle's original store—his uncle's, the store manager's, and the bookkeeper's—all dingy and windowless. “You said you wanted me to move furniture for you.”

“I have to go downtown today.”

“How come?”

“I have a meeting with Larry.” Larry Quayle, his uncle's financial advisor.

“I thought you met with him last week.” In fact, Dooley was sure of it. He had come down to breakfast one morning and found his uncle sitting at the kitchen table with a bunch of documents spread out in front of him. He'd been grousing about interest rates and the stock market.

His uncle gave him a sharp look. “
You're
keeping tabs on
me
now?” he said.

Dooley rinsed his juice glass and set it in the dishwasher. Whatever had flown up his uncle's nose, Dooley wished he'd snort it out soon.

“I gotta go,” he said. “I'm gonna be late. I'll go by the store after school and move the furniture, okay?”

His uncle grunted.

Two

T
he next night at supper Dooley said, “If you want me for anything later, you're going to have to get me on my cell phone.”

His uncle looked up from his plate. “Why?” he said. Is the phone here busted and no one bothered to tell me?”

“I have to go out,” Dooley said. “And it's poker night, right?” Dooley knew for a fact it was, because it was written on the calendar on his uncle's fridge. His uncle and a bunch of his cop and ex-cop friends played whenever they could pull a game together. When that happened and Dooley's uncle left Dooley alone at home, he always called to check on him. He insisted on calling him on a regular phone line, never on his cell phone, his way of making sure Dooley was where he was supposed to be.

“Where were you planning to go?” his uncle said, his choice of tenses making it clear that it wasn't a done deal.

“To the library. I'm going to see if Beth can come with me.”

“You two have been spending a lot of time at the library lately.”

There was no pleasing some people. When he'd first met his uncle, it was always, “Read a book, for Christ's sake,” as if lack of reading had landed Dooley in trouble in the first place. Now it was, “You spend a lot of time at the library,” like that was the road to disaster.

“You know Beth,” he said. “She's into school.”

“She's a smart girl.” His uncle liked Beth. He particularly liked that Beth wasn't the least bit intimidated by him. “Library closes at ten, correct?”

Dooley nodded.

“So be back at ten-thirty. Call me on my cell when you get in.” The idea being that his uncle would be able to see from the readout on his phone that Dooley was actually home.

“Make it eleven,” Dooley said. “Give me time to take Beth home.”

His uncle gave Dooley a look that Dooley couldn't decide about. Either he was surprised that Dooley was so careful with Beth or he was suspicious, maybe wondering if Beth's mother was going to be out and that's why Dooley wanted to take Beth home, if maybe he'd take her home early—thinking that over and then probably wondering if Dooley would even make it to the library. Finally he nodded and said, “Eleven. I'm going to be expecting that call.”

As soon as Dooley's uncle left for his poker game, Dooley phoned Beth.

“I have to go to the library to work on something for school,” he said. “You want to come?”

“Again?” she said. “You were there last night—and the day before yesterday.”

“I ended up not going last night,” he said. “You know, on account of you couldn't make it because … what was the reason again?”

“I had an essay due today,” she said. “And when I go to the library with you, I end up not getting a lot of work done.”

Normally Dooley would have smiled at that—but not tonight.

“So how'd it go?” he said.

“The essay?”

“Yeah.”

“I handed it in on time. What a relief.”

Right, Dooley thought.

“You worked hard on it, huh?” he said. What he was remembering: He'd started for the library but had lost interest when Beth said she couldn't go. Instead, he'd drifted over to her building, thinking he'd maybe call her when he got there and see if her mother was out. If she was, maybe Beth would let him come up for a while. Or maybe she'd come down. It turned out that was a big mistake because while he was standing across the street so that he could look up at what he knew was her apartment, he saw a midnight blue Jag pull into the visitor parking area and a guy with perfect hair get out. Nevin. He went in through the main door and still hadn't come out again forty minutes later when Dooley's cell phone rang. It was his uncle, telling him, “Pick up some tonic water on your way home, would you? Jeannie's coming over.”

“I always work hard on my essays,” Beth said now.

“Come to the library with me,” Dooley said. “I'll let you work. I promise.” He would let her do whatever she wanted, just so long as she was with him and not Nevin.

“I can't.” There was a slight pause—what was that about?—before she said, “My history team is coming over.”

“Your history team?”

“We got divided into teams for a class project. My team is meeting tonight.”

“You didn't mention that,” Dooley said, meaning, when he had talked to her last night. And, just like that, he was thinking about Nevin again. He wondered how long Nevin had been there last night and what he and Beth had been doing up there in Beth's place. He couldn't believe it was debating. If Dooley had been alone with her in her apartment, the absolute last thing he would ever be interested in was debating. He wouldn't even be interested in talking.

“We just got assigned today,” Beth said. “Believe me, I'd rather go with you. But I can't.”

History teams. What kind of dumb idea was that, especially when, from what Beth had told him, there was no team spirit at her school when it came to academics? The way Beth had described it, getting the best grades was practically a blood sport.

“There aren't any boys on your history team, are there?” he said. He tried to say it like he was kidding around.

“It's a girls' school, Dooley.”

“A girls' school that debates
boys'
schools.”

“The history teams are all girls,” Beth said. She dropped her voice, and Dooley wondered if her mother was listening in. “Come on, Dooley. If I could go with you, I would. But—”

“If you can't, you can't,” Dooley said. “It's no big deal.” Well, it wasn't, was it? “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

He cleaned up the kitchen and then went up to his room to grab a sweatshirt. He ground to a halt when he passed the bathroom.

What the hell …?

The hamper had been overflowing this morning. Now it wasn't. He lifted the lid. It was empty. Shit. He'd promised his uncle but …

He went into his room. Double shit.

Not only had all the clothes been picked up off his floor, but there were two fresh piles of laundry on his bed. And, triple shit, there was a little heap of stuff on his dresser that hadn't been there this morning—a half-gone pack of gum, some coins, a couple of crumpled pieces of paper, damn, and a couple of rubbers. His uncle had emptied Dooley's pockets before doing his laundry. The thing Dooley couldn't figure out: Why his uncle hadn't rubbed his nose in it over supper. He picked up one of the pieces of paper, smoothed it out, and stared at it for a moment before folding it and tucking it into his jeans pocket. He grabbed the sweatshirt he had come upstairs to get, pulled it on, and went back downstairs. He locked the house and walked to the bus stop, where he got on the bus and rode it to within one block of the central library. He went straight to the information desk and asked one of the women behind it half a dozen questions about where he could find information for a project on global warming. The library was full of people—students and older people, plus a lot of people from different countries. A lot of
them
were using the rows and rows of computers on the main floor. Dooley thanked the woman behind the information desk and went upstairs. Half an hour later, he couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't handle the library when he wasn't with Beth. She always worked hard, which made it easier for him to concentrate. Plus he could look at her. But when she wasn't there … He wondered about her history team. It had to be all girls, right? She went to an all-girls school.

He went back down to the main floor and got in line to leave. The library had an electronic security system, but it obviously left a lot to be desired because it also had guards posted at the exits to search briefcases, purses, backpacks, whatever you were carrying. One of the guards must have been on a break or something because the line-up for the only other guard was long. Everyone in it was speaking a foreign language. Dooley thought it was Chinese or maybe Korean, he wasn't sure which. Finally he got to the head of the line and opened his backpack for inspection. The guard barely glanced into it. Dooley left the library—which was still crowded—without saying a word to anyone. He stood outside for a moment, trying to decide what to do. He kept thinking about that slip of paper in his pocket. Should he call? What would he say? What would she say? Maybe he should just drop by and check things out. Jesus, every thing had been going so well. At least, that's what he'd thought. Why did it have to go and get all complicated?

Fuck it.

He walked to the bus stop and got on the first bus that came along. It wasn't long before he was standing in front of an apartment building. He hesitated. Should he or shouldn't he? Do the right thing, Dooley. Don't screw things up.

He crossed the street and marched up the concrete-slab walk. A man was coming out just as Dooley reached the security door. Dooley turned away quickly, as if he had forgotten something. The man strode past him without looking back, which made it easy for Dooley to grab the security door before it clicked shut.