Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (38 page)

Goodall's eyes widened as he took the photo in a shaking hand and turned toward the light. After a moment, he handed it back. "Nope, sorry," he said, looking everywhere but at Burgess's face. "I've never seen this man before in my life."

Chapter 30

Burgess reclaimed the photograph, letting the silence grow as Goodall squirmed on the couch, his eyes flickering around the room, looking at everything but the two detectives facing him.

The insistent ring of Kyle's phone broke the silence. He answered, barking a crisp, "Terry Kyle." He listened and opened his notebook on his knee, making a series of what looked like hieroglyphics on the page.

Goodall raised the bottle, but Burgess stopped him. "We're not finished," he whispered. "Like you to stay lucid 'til we're done, then you can drink all you want." The sculptor seemed on the cusp of argument, his face belligerent, and Burgess leaned forward, ready for what might come. Then Goodall's shoulders slumped. He burrowed deeper into the sofa, his hands back between his knees. Across the room, the fire snapped and hissed.

"Okay. Okay. That's great," Kyle said. "Thanks for letting me know." He snapped the phone shut and finished making his notes. "Well," he said finally, giving Goodall a friendly grin. "That was the drug guys. They've just finished searching your boat. You want to know what they found? Or maybe..."

Kyle's glance circled the room as though inventorying the pricey space, the artwork, the high-end leather furniture, and expensive rugs. "Maybe you already know?"

In a flash, penitent morphed into defensive. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your boat," Kyle said, "the one you're letting Joey Libby use? We talked about it earlier on the phone. You said we could search it?" Kyle's cold eyes stayed on Goodall's face until the man nodded. "Drug team says your boat was like a pharmacy. Ecstasy, marijuana, OxyContin, Dilaudid, Rohypnol." He looked down at his notes. "Cocaine. You got an explanation for that?"

"That's not on me," Goodall said, shaking his head vehemently. "That's Joey. Little prick never did have any sense. Just does what he wants and fuck everybody. You can't think I—"

"So, maybe you could tell us about your relationship with Joey Libby?"

"I don't
have
a relationship with Joey Libby." The sculptor's hands had knotted up again and he was looking at the phone like there was someone he should call.

Burgess could have told him. Call your lawyer and don't say another word to us. But he'd already gone through the warning and wasn't about to repeat himself. Not with a signed waiver in his pocket. "He's been living on your boat."

Goodall exhaled a long, boozy breath. "
Renting
my boat," he said.

"What was the arrangement?" Burgess said.

"I just told you," Goodall said. "He was renting my boat."

"Since when?"

Goodall shrugged. "Since a couple months. He was going crazy living at home with Claire."

"What was the arrangement?" Burgess repeated.

"Claire gave me a check."

"So for two months or so, Joey's been living on the boat and Claire has been paying you rent? That right?" Burgess looked at Kyle. "What were the conditions of Joey's probation? Do we know?"

"Live at home. Keep a job. Stay out of bars, away from drugs, and out of trouble."

They knew Joey had taken Amanda Mercer to a bar. Burgess looked at Goodall. "Monthly checks? Weekly?"

"Monthly."

"How much?"

"No idea." Goodall shrugged. "The checks went to Star."

"Did you have the arrangement in writing?"

Goodall gave him a "you think I'm stupid?" look. "Like you said, Joey's supposed to be living at home."

Burgess didn't yet know if Goodall was stupid. Weak, yes. Self-indulgent and self-pitying. Irresponsible. Pussy-whipped. "But you know that the rent is being paid?"

"Otherwise I'd hear from Star, wouldn't I?"

"Okay, let's see if I've got this straight. Joey lives on your boat and Claire pays rent to your ex-wife, that's how it works?"

"Yup."

"It's a pretty valuable boat," Burgess said. "You keep an eye on it? Check up on Joey from time to time?"

Goodall scowled. "Claire said she'd take care of that."

"You know if she did?"

Goodall shrugged. "As long as the arrangement kept Star off my back, I didn't much care. I went down there once. The place was a mess. Kid wasn't even taking out the garbage. I called Claire and reminded her about our deal. I mean, I knew what Joey was like, didn't I? She said she'd get it cleaned up and keep a closer eye on Joey."

"You remember when that was? Last week? Last month?" Goodall didn't. Maybe Tolliver could fill in some of the gaps in Goodall's selective memory.

"You keep insurance on the boat?"

Goodall gave him a suspicious look, then said, "Of course. It's a valuable boat."

"But you don't know if Claire was making sure Joey took care of the boat?"

"No. I do not. I don't know and I don't care. The bank cares. The loan on that boat pays for this place. Boat's been nothing but a headache. I've got nothing but headaches everywhere. Star. Claire. Joey. That damned boat. Goddamned kid was supposed to take care of that boat for me. And now this business with Reggie."

He rubbed his head. "I'm an artist, for Christ's sake, not a businessman. I'm just trying to do my work—I've got a big piece commissioned—and everybody's always at me, wanting something." He tangled his hands in his hair and bowed his head.

"Reggie's death gives you a headache? That's what this is to you?" Even through his anger, he'd noticed a change in the sculptor's behavior. As soon as the words, "supposed to take care of that boat for me" were uttered, the man had leaned forward, making a sucking sound as though he wanted to draw them back in. How was Joey supposed to take care of the boat? Not keep it neat or clean. Claire had that job. Was Goodall talking about a more permanent solution? One that would let him collect insurance?

Kyle cleared his throat. When Burgess looked at him, he nodded toward Burgess's hands, rolled up into tight, trembling fists.

"Walk us through last Friday again, if you would," Burgess said, forcing his fingers to uncurl. "When did you first hear from Star, asking for your help?"

Goodall reached for the bottle again and Burgess moved it out of his reach. "In good time," he said. "Now... when did you—"

"Jesus!" Goodall's chin jutted. "Since when can't a man have a quiet drink in his own home with some nosy parker cop telling him what to do?"

"Since Reginald Libby got killed."

Goodall folded his arms. "It wasn't my fault. I just got in too deep, is all, and then Dugan said—"

Not what he'd said a few minutes ago, was it? Back when he didn't know Dugan? Maybe the habit of confession was so ingrained he thought that all he had to do was admit what he'd done, act contrite, get absolution, and he could go back to communing with his bottle. "When did she get in touch with you about getting some help for Reggie?"

"Who?"

"Your ex-wife. Star Goodall."

"It wasn't Star that got in touch with me," Goodall said. "It was Claire."

There were flags all over the field. "Okay. When did Claire get in touch with you?"

"Let's see." Goodall fingered his chin, looking puzzled, as though he'd recently had a beard and someone had taken it while he wasn't looking. "Probably Thursday. That's when she dropped off the check." His hands scrabbled around the coffee table, organizing scattered magazines and mail into a neat stack.

Burgess looked at Kyle, who was taking notes. Kyle shook his head. "Claire was here on Thursday to drop off a check?"

Goodall reached for the bottle. Kyle moved it to the kitchen counter. "Hey!" Goodall half rose from the couch. "You bring that back here. That's mine."

"So Claire was here on Thursday to drop off a check?" Burgess said. "Tell us about that."

"Nothing to tell. She said that Reggie was in a bad way and she and Star were worried about him and wanted him to go to this clinic. She said they needed my help in convincing him. And she brought the check."

"She say where this clinic was?" Goodall shook his head. "Okay, so what did she want you to do?"

"I already told you, man. Star was going to meet Reggie for lunch and then this guy Kevin and I were supposed to pick up Reggie, get him into the truck, and then they'd drive him to the clinic."

"Did you and Kevin meet near the restaurant or somewhere else?"

"I met him down by the waterfront. Had to. I'd need my truck to get home, wouldn't I?"

"So Kevin brought a truck?"

"That's what I said."

"Do you remember what kind of truck it was?"

"Big. Dark. Double cab. I can't tell you what make, if that's what you're asking. I don't pay attention to things like that."

"Truck have a logo?"

"Might have. I didn't notice."

Goodall fingered his chin again. "That scratch on your face," Burgess said. "Reggie give you that?"

"I told you. It was that guy. Kevin. Reggie hit him, though. Hit that Kevin guy. I betcha he's got bruises." Burgess hoped so. He ached to give Goodall some bruises on Reggie's behalf. Felt his fingers start to curl into fists again and forced them to relax. Business before pleasure. He needed the rest of the story.

"You ever met Kevin before?" Goodall shook his head. "Can you describe him, please."

"He was tall. Not as tall as me, but tall. A burly guy. Maybe in his forties. Dark hair."

"Eye color?" Burgess prompted. "Features? Anything about him that was distinctive? Any facial scars? What was he wearing?" He pulled out Kevin Dugan's picture again and slapped it down on the table in front of Goodall. "You're sure it wasn't this guy?"

"I don't remember."

"And you're sure that it was Star who helped push Reggie into the truck and drove away with him and Kevin? Sure that wasn't you?"

A look of sheer panic on his face, Goodall lurched to his feet, knocking hard into the coffee table and sending the empty bottles tumbling. "Gotta take a piss," he said. He crossed the room and disappeared through a door.

Kyle grabbed his coat. "I'll just take a look outside."

While he waited, Burgess examined the items on the coffee table. Along with the bottles and the glass, there was the neat stack of mail and papers Goodall had just arranged. Curious timing. Burgess looked through it. Some magazines, a couple unopened bills, and beneath them, a check from Claire Libby for $2000. No wonder Goodall had been willing to rent the boat to Joey, if this was what he was getting for rent. Joey could have rented a palace for that.

He brought the check up to the light so he could read the small print on the memo line. It didn't say rent, or Joey, or boat. It said, for services rendered. He wondered if the other checks were the same. Or if this check wasn't for rent at all.

There was a crash from outside, audible even over the wind and rain, and men's voices. He grabbed his coat and tried the door Goodall had gone through. Locked. He hurried out the front, following the noise around the side of the building. In the illumination from a security light on the building, two men struggled. Then one of them pushed free and started to run.

He didn't want to shoot Goodall before he got the rest of the story, so he took off after him, hearing the slap of Kyle's feet behind him. Goodall had reached a vehicle and was scrabbling for his keys when Burgess grabbed him and slammed him against it.

"Put your hands on your head," he yelled over the noise of the rain and wind. "Do it. Goddammit, do it now!"

Goodall, intoxicated, stubborn, now removed any doubt about his stupidity. He wrenched free, turned, and swung. His fist slid along Burgess's wet face, the impetus throwing him into Burgess's arms. Burgess shoved him away and moved in, delivering a small, punishing lesson from a lifelong professional to the man who thought that helping bring about someone's death was just another aggravating headache in a life that interfered with his creativity.