Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [49]
‘I didn’t pick you for a cat lover,’ said Annabelle.
‘Neither did I.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Lois.’
‘A girl? Maybe I should leave?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s an open relationship.’
Annabelle removed her scarf. She crouched down and stroked the cat. Lois began to purr. Jack moved the heater into the centre of the living room.
‘You’ve heard,’ he said.
Annabelle looked up, continued stroking the cat. ‘Ian called me last night from the police station.’
So they had taken Durst to the cop shop. Jack extinguished his cigarette. ‘You don’t seem too upset.’
Annabelle turned to the cat again. ‘I’m shocked by what’s happened, of course, but … ’ She stopped, rubbed Lois’ nose. ‘You know my family, Jack. You know it’s fucked. I might have passed my uncle in the street and not even recognised him.’ She looked up. ‘I’ve never really known him. What else can I say?’
‘Have you told your father?’
‘He’s not due back until tonight. I can’t get him on his mobile.’ She paused. ‘I can’t just leave a message.’
‘Sure.’
Annabelle stood up, brushed cat hairs from her hands. ‘So Ian caught someone breaking into the place?’
Jack nodded.
‘What happened exactly?’
‘Exactly, I don’t know. When I got there with Celia, the door was open, Durst was wearing a blood-splattered shirt and holding a gun, and there were two bodies in the kitchen. All that was missing were lights and a camera.’
‘Who was the other man?’ Annabelle sat down on a red, corduroy two-seater couch.
Jack hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t the police say anything?’
‘The police never say anything.’ He picked up his cigarettes from the coffee table. ‘What about Durst? What did he tell you?’
‘Not much. The man who broke in had already shot Edward. Ian caught him going through his pockets.’
Jack put the cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. ‘So Durst’s definitely with Celia.’
‘Looks that way.’ Annabelle smiled — a second later it slipped from her face like an icicle.
‘It looks a lot of ways,’ muttered Jack.
Annabelle reached across for his cigarette. ‘Poor Celia. She doesn’t know Ian. Though maybe she deserves him.’
‘You don’t think it’s love, then?’
‘That’s not even close to being funny.’
‘You think he’s using her?’
‘Ian can’t help himself. It’s the way he was born.’
‘Why? Just to get at you?’
She shrugged, smoked.
‘I thought he wanted you back?’ said Jack.
‘My ex-husband is a very childish man.’ Annabelle tapped the cigarette in an ashtray. ‘He probably thinks it will make me jealous. And my father angry.’
‘What’s he got to do with it?’
‘He’s always hated Ian. He wants to see him disappear. No money from the settlement and no Louisa. His lawyers are very good. Poor Ian doesn’t have much to fight with.’
‘Why would seeing Celia annoy your father?’
‘He owns Celia’s business.’ She drew on the cigarette, blew smoke up to the ceiling.
Jack frowned. There was always something around the corner with these people. And it always seemed to be Hammond Kasprowicz.
‘Don’t look so confused! Silly little games are how the world turns.’
‘Your old man owns Celia Mitten’s business?’
Annabelle nodded. ‘Sometimes guilt can work with him. Or at least it used to. Celia possesses her own unique talents. I told you not to believe anything she said.’
‘Your ex-husband goes a long way to be a pain in the arse.’
Annabelle stared at the cigarette in her hand. ‘He used to be fun. Once.’
‘Memories are wonderful things.’
‘Are you jealous?’
‘Who? Me?’ Jack got up and went into the kitchen. He wished he had cracked Durst one back at Kass’s apartment. He came back with a plunger of coffee and a clean cup. Nobody spoke. Plumbing thrummed in one of the walls. It seemed to go with the mood.
‘I know who the other guy was,’ said Jack. The words came out by themselves.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The guy who Durst shot, who killed your uncle. I knew him.’
Silence. Then: ‘Who?’
‘This guy.’ Jack lifted his T-shirt, exposing the stitches just above his hip. He looked down at the wound, but not at Annabelle. Then he let go of the T-shirt and sat