Pumped for Murder (16 page)

“He became a real estate dealer,” Helen said. “Not sure how solid that is.”

“He became a rich real estate dealer,” Phil said. “I know that for sure. He’s living on four acres of waterfront property on Hendin Isle. That’s several million for the land alone. And he’s not sleeping in a double-wide. His house has eight bedrooms, a tennis court, pool and private dock.”

“Now, that sounds like a
Miami Vice
drug dealer,” Helen said.

“I think Ahmet got scared out of the drug business.”

“Can he just leave like that?” Helen asked.

“On his level, yes,” Phil said. “It’s not the mob. You’ve seen too many movies. You’re still thinking about those two Colombians meeting in a parking lot with a suitcase full of cash. Drug dealing is a business. There are six or seven levels before the drugs reach the actual consumer. Nice white kids buy drugs from their nice white friends. Middle-class people do not go into the ghetto. They get the drugs from other middle-class people.

“Ahmet was probably at level four or five. Mark and his friends were at level six or seven. Mark made a lot less money because he was so far away from the source.

“Drug dealing is a business, like Kmart, Home Depot or Mc-Donald’s. The dealers set up a surprisingly corporate structure with a regular chain of command. There’s a CEO at the top, far removed from the street sales. The lower levels have lots of employees. Ahmet was like the manager of a McDonald’s, and Mark was a lowly burger flipper. He’d be wearing a hairnet at Mickey D’s.

“Dealers usually let the low-level players walk away. They can’t kill them without a good reason. A death invites too much attention. Drug dealing breeds in the dark, like vermin.”

“Gus insists his brother didn’t sell drugs, even as a low-level player,” Helen said.

“Gus doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Phil said. “Dealers do not hang around with users. Ahmet wouldn’t have let Mark near him if he’d only been a user. Mark was selling drugs first, then fell nose-first into the snow and became a user. Most of those guys eventually wind up dead.”

“Like Mark,” Helen said.

Phil took a long sip of his beer. “I hate drug cases. Hate them.” His blue eyes flashed with anger, and Helen wondered if he was thinking of Marcie, the lost girl from Little Rock. His first case and his first failure. Marcie had been buried as long as Mark.

Helen tried to bring Phil back to their case. “So we’ve got low-level Mark selling drugs, asking people if they want fries with their coke. Why did he need a gun? Was he afraid someone would shoot him when he hung out in the projects?”

“Mark? Selling in the projects? Not a chance,” Phil said. “People like Mark would not go into that neighborhood. He doesn’t belong there. He probably peddled coke at parties.”

“I’ve never been to any parties like that,” Helen said.

“Yes, you have; you just didn’t know it,” Phil said. “You were probably drinking or dancing in the main rooms. The drug users congregate in a basement, a rec room or a bedroom. They use coded language like
I’m really stressed. I need to relax and mellow out.
Or
I need some energy.
That’s the cue to bring out the drugs.”

“That’s just middle-class drug use,” Helen said and shrugged.

“Drug dealers are businessmen, Helen, and the middle class has lots of those. The good dealers are smart businessmen. They have to be.

“In the eighties, it seemed like everyone was either using coke, selling it or both. Ordinary blue-collar guys were stashing drug money in their closets. The handy ones built secret compartments in the bedroom closet. The cops always knew where to look. They’d lift up the carpet on the closet floor, and the secret was revealed. Or the cops would see some cheesy door cut into the sheetrock closet wall with boxes of Christmas decorations piled in front of it. Obvious as hell. Once the small-timers were caught, they usually folded.”

Phil paced up and down on the terrazzo floor, trying to work off his anger.

“Rob and I were offered a chance to bankroll a couple of drug dealers in St. Louis,” Helen said. “They promised we could make fifty thousand dollars. It was presented as an investment opportunity.”

“And you turned them down?” Phil said.

“Of course. Rob wanted to go for it. He thought we could make one big score and quit. I was too scared.”

“You were too moral,” Phil said.

“No, I knew I’d get caught.”

“You might have,” Phil said. “But you’d be surprised who got away with dealing. A lot of respectable businesspeople got their nest egg selling drugs. They got in, made some money and got out. When I was on that drug case, I kept hearing, ‘I’m just in this until I can buy a house.’ Sometimes it was a restaurant. Or a boat. Or a flashy vacation. They had a goal. They wanted to make a hundred thousand or two hundred thousand. Enough to open the restaurant, take the luxury cruise, or start their dream business.

“The ‘buy the restaurant’ guy was more likely to quit when he reached his goal. Some small-timers did that in the eighties. They scored and got out of the business. Or something happened and the middle-class ones got frightened back into being so-called good citizens. The ones who didn’t either died or got busted.”

“Behind every great fortune is a great crime,” Helen said. “And behind many small fortunes are small crimes.”

“You’d be surprised how many comfortably off people are living off a small, tainted fortune,” Phil said.

“Or their brother’s dream business,” Helen said. “Poor Gus. Do you really think it’s better that he knows everything?”

“Maybe if he quits idealizing his brother,” Phil said, “he can live with the memory of the real Mark.”

“H
elen!” The telephone could not hide Kathy’s cry of primal fear. Helen could hear her sister’s anguish a thousand miles away in St. Louis.

“Kathy, honey, is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” Kathy said, but Helen could hardly understand her sister, her voice was so distorted by tears. “Tom’s taken the kids out for ice cream. Are you alone so you can talk?”

Helen heard Phil whistling in the shower. “For a little while.”

More tears. “He called, Helen. He promised he’d go away, but he called.”

“Who?”

Anger spiked in Kathy’s voice. “The blackmailer, that’s who. That dirtbag—” Kathy stopped to calm herself. “The one you paid five thousand dollars a month ago. Now he wants twice as much—ten thousand dollars—or he’ll ruin Tommy’s life. He knows Tommy killed Rob. He saw it. He must have. He asked me how it would feel to be the mother of the Killer Bat Boy.”

More tears. Helen’s gut squirmed like a basket of snakes. She could see the sensational headlines now: KILLER BAT BOY WHACKS UNCLE. Tommy had swung at Helen’s worthless ex-husband with his aluminum bat, and Rob had died soon after. Rob had refused to go to the hospital. He’d laughed when Kathy had suggested it. Right before he died.

“Tommy didn’t kill Rob,” Helen said. “I did. Rob woke up again, and I bopped him with the bat.”

“I told the blackmailer that. He laughed. He said he’d tell the police he saw Tommy swing at Rob and his mother and Aunt Helen bury Uncle Rob in the church basement. He said it would make a touching story about families working together—mother, aunt and the Killer Bat Boy. The blackmailer said you could say what you wanted, but that title would stick to Tommy like Velcro. For the rest of his life, my boy will be known as the Killer Bat Boy.”

“No, he won’t,” Helen said. “I’ll FedEx you the money.”

“You can’t. There isn’t time. He wants the cash tomorrow night or else. It’s eight thirty in Fort Lauderdale right now. The FedEx pickups are over.”

“I can wire transfer the money to your bank account,” Helen said.

“No!” Kathy sounded crazed with terror. “Tom will find out. My Tom. He’ll go to the police.You know he’s a straight arrow.”

So is Phil, Helen thought. Her new husband was whistling his Clapton favorites. He’d switched to a slightly out-of-tune version of “Layla,” the Clapton song about hopeless love.

“Then I’ll hop on a plane and bring the money myself,” Helen told her sister. “I still have that St. Louis bank account. I have to tell Phil about the blackmailer, Sis. He can help us. He’s a detective. I don’t like lying to my husband.”

“You don’t like lying?” Kathy said. “What about me? What if Tom finds out his boring suburban wife buried a body in the church basement? Bringing Phil into this mess will make it worse. You promised, Helen.You promised not to tell.” Her sister’s voice rose to a panicked shriek.

“Take it easy, Kathy,” Helen said. “What if Tom and the kids walk in and hear you? Take some deep breaths. Fix yourself a soothing cup of tea.”

“Tea, hell,” Kathy said. “I want a glass of wine.”

Helen spoke slowly, as if she were talking her sister off a ledge. “Good.You do that. Do you have a bottle open?”

“Yes,” Kathy said in a small voice.

“Pour yourself a big glass and take a drink. I’m going to put the phone down and check the flights to St. Louis on the Internet. I’ll be right here, Kathy. I won’t hang up. Give me just a minute.”

Helen booted up Phil’s computer and checked the flights, then got her credit card. She had one, now that she was no longer on the run from the law. It was one benefit of being a solid citizen. She couldn’t have bought a last-minute flight with cash before she’d settled her problems with the court.

Helen picked up the phone. “Kathy, are you still there?”

“Of course I am,” Kathy snapped. “Where do you think I’d go?”

Crazy, Helen wanted to answer. My little sister is going crazy. She could see her in her kitchen. Kathy was two years younger and four inches shorter. She had a generous figure, a touch of gray at her temples and a nice smile, though Helen was sure Kathy wasn’t smiling now.

“I need you to be strong for Tommy,” Helen said. “There’s a flight that leaves Fort Lauderdale at six thirty tomorrow morning and gets into St. Louis at nine twenty-five. I’ll stay overnight with you, then catch the afternoon nonstop back to Lauderdale. I can be home again by five o’clock the next day. I’m booking the flight while we talk.”

“How will you explain this trip to Phil?” Kathy asked.

Helen could hear her husband whistling Clapton’s “The Way You Look Tonight” as he shut off the water. Whatever she told Phil, it would have to be soon.

“I’ll tell him my lawyer, Drake Upton, wants to talk to me about a possible settlement with the IRS. I’ll call Drake when I get to St. Louis. He might be able to see me on short notice.”

Helen could hear her sister sniffling, then taking a gulp of wine. Kathy’s tear storm was nearly over. “Do you think you could? Do you mind?” she asked.

“Of course I don’t mind, you little twit,” Helen said. “I want to help my nephew. Tommy doesn’t deserve to have his life ruined because I married the wrong man.”

“There’s the sister I know and love,” Kathy said. Now Helen could hear her sunshine smile. “Allison and I will pick you up at the airport tomorrow.”

Helen hung up the phone as Phil stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. Wrapped in a thick terry robe, he flopped down on the bed beside Helen. “Did I hear the phone ring?”

“That was our lawyer, Drake Upton,” Helen said. “He wants me to make a quick run to St. Louis tomorrow to talk about a possible settlement with the IRS.”

“Short notice,” Phil said. “It’s late for Drake to make a business call.”

“It’s only seven thirty in St. Louis,” Helen said. “This is a real shot in the dark, but I think it’s worth the risk. I can stay with Kathy. She’ll be happy to see me. So will Allison and Tommy Junior.”

“Well, okay,” Phil said. “If that’s what you want.”

There. She’d said it. She’d lied to Phil. She’d tried to tell him the truth about Rob before they married, but he thought she was having bridal jitters and kissed her fears away. And it had been so easy to forget her lies during their honeymoon. She almost convinced herself it had never happened. But this St. Louis trip was a deliberate choice. She felt numb. Is this the first sign of marital death? she wondered. Helen tried to bury her unease under more talk.

“I’ve already booked my ticket, Phil. My flight is at six thirty tomorrow. We’ll have to leave here at five in the morning. Do you mind taking me to the airport, or should I drive the Igloo and park it there overnight?”

“I’ll take you,” he said.

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to help you with Gus’s case tomorrow.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll look for more pages to Mark’s accident report. While you’re in St. Louis having fun, I’ll be going through Sunset Palms police records.”

“You’re still convinced there’s more paper?”

“Let’s just say I have a strong hunch,” he said. “And I’m usually right. That search will probably take up most of tomorrow. Maybe part of the next day, too. Sounds like you’re getting back early enough that we could do some research at Granddaddy’s Bar. Have drinks and dinner.You might have to eat some french fries.”

Helen buried her face in Phil’s bathrobe, ashamed to look him in the eye. She licked a drop of water off his ear. “French fries. That’s my kind of research,” she said.

Phil pulled her closer, and she kissed him. “Glad the gym is still closed,” she said. “Derek says it won’t open for at least another two days. I’d risk losing my job if I asked for time off so soon after getting hired.”

“Any news for our client Shelby?” Phil asked.

“Nothing. I think my first case is a bust. Bryan never looks at another woman except Paula—and everyone looks at her.”

“Which one is Paula?”

“She’s a gorgeous woman who makes dramatic, actressy entrances into the gym. She’s competing in the bikini competition at the upcoming East Coast Physique Championships. When Paula floats down the aisle, all the guys on the treadmills suck in their guts. For some of the older ones, that’s the heaviest lifting they do at Fantastic Fitness.