A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [120]
The pictures slipped from Stratton’s hand and drifted to the floor. … Broom lying by the road, Broom face-front, Broom from the waist up …
And Linda Greer.
Stratton covered his eyes and moaned. His face burned.
Beckley stood at Stratton’s side, a hand on his shoulder. “I’m very sorry,” the cop said. “Have some water. You’ll feel better.”
Stratton scooped the photographs from the floor, and, without looking, handed them to Beckley.
“Mr. Stratton, can I ask your friend’s name?”
“That wasn’t him,” Stratton croaked.
“Him?” Beckley was bewildered. “But just now—”
“My friend is a Chinese man. Wang is his name.”
“Judging by your reaction to the photo, I thought for sure that the girl was the one—”
“No. And I’m sorry I frightened you.”
“Well, it was a pretty goddamn frightening picture,” Beckley said. “I’m sorry you had to see it. Still, it’s better to know one way or another. Did you recognize the girl?”
“Never saw her before.” Stratton drank some water. “You say it was murder?”
“Lover’s quarrel, the way I figure it. The girl was a one-nighter, a fiancée, a hooker—we’ll nail it down eventually. She got it first, back of the skull, two rounds. Then Broom aced himself, one in the right temple. The gun was a cheap thirty-eight. We found it on the front seat between them.”
Beckley reached into the same drawer that held the photograph. He slid a piece of notebook paper across the desk toward Stratton. “We found this in a briefcase that was tossed in some bushes near the car.”
The suicide note had been written meticulously in black ink, each letter capitalized:
“DARLING! I AM SORRY, I COULD NOT ALLOW YOU TO LEAVE ME. THIS WAY IS BEST.”
One glance and Stratton knew who had written it. I could not allow you to leave me. Much too clumsy for a fop like Harold Broom.
“What about the fire?” Stratton asked.
“An accident. Here’s what I figure: Broom pulls off the highway in a passion. Takes out his gun, plugs the girl, writes his farewell note, then checks himself out. Bang. Leaves the engine running and the goddamn catalytic converter overheats. Catches fire. The whole things goes up in blazes. That’s Detroit for you.”
Stratton said, “I’d better go now.”
“You knew this Broom character?”
“I met him only once or twice.”
“A real asshole, right?”
Stratton shrugged. “I couldn’t say.” Suddenly he was in the line of Beckley’s fire: time to go.
“What about your friend, the Chinaman?”
“I … I guess he’s all right.”
“I’d really like to talk to him,” Beckley said, “your friend, the Chinaman. I’d like to keep it nice and friendly, too. Subpoenas are such a pain in the ass.”
“I understand,” Stratton said. “When I talk to him, I’ll be sure to have him call you.”
“Right away.” Beckley tugged at his chin. “And you’ve got no idea about the dead girl?”
“No,” Stratton replied. “I’m sorry.”
I am sorry.
Beckley led him back through a maze of dingy halls in the police station. As he reached the front desk, Beckley realized he was walking alone. He backtracked and found Stratton at the door to the property room. Staring.
“It was in the car,” Beckley explained. “Wrapped up in the trunk. Didn’t even get singed.”
Rigidly Stratton approached the Chinese soldier who stood noble and poised, an unlikely centerpiece amid the flotsam of crime—pistols, blackjacks, bags of grass and pills, helmets, stereo speakers, radios, jewelry, shotguns, crowbars. Each item, Stratton noted, was carefully marked.
The ancient Chinese warrior, too, wore a blue tag around its neck, an incongruous paper medallion.
“What do you think?” Beckley said.
Stratton was overwhelmed. He couldn’t take his eyes off the imperial soldier.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” the cop said after a few moments. “I think it’s the damnedest-looking lawn jockey I ever saw.”
Chapter 26
STRATTON SPENT THE NIGHT in Wheeling. He slept turbulently, racked by old dreams and new grief.
First David, and now Linda.
He tried to convince himself