Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [64]
‘So he stored them here,’ he said. ‘So what?’
‘Look inside the boxes.’
He tugged at a shoebox, edged it out carefully and then lifted the lid. There were photographs in it. They had all been cut up into tiny pieces. It was like a box of confetti.
‘There’s more in the other lockers.’ Annabelle’s voice was hard, emotionless. ‘They used to be photos of my mother.’
Jack put the box down and pulled out one of the framed photographs. The glass was broken, only a few splinters remained around the edges of the frame. Mrs Kasprowicz’s face had been slashed and hacked, maybe with a pair of scissors. It was the same story with the other photos there. Those with Edward Kass in them had been given the same treatment.
‘I know my father hated them both,’ said Annabelle. ‘But this?’
Jack turned to her. She was standing with her arms loose by her sides.
‘There are burnt photos in other boxes. My mother had thousands of photos of herself. I remember going through them as a child. So many albums, envelopes stuffed with them. And he’s destroyed them all.’
‘He sure has.’
‘Why would he keep them?’
‘You’ll have to ask him.’
She stared vacantly for a moment. ‘You don’t think he had anything to do with Edward’s death?’
Jack thought of the cops. ‘Doesn’t matter what I think.’ He walked over and gave Annabelle the key. ‘How did you find this?’
‘After I spoke to you I went into his study, hoping I’d find something that would tell me where he might be. I don’t know, a receipt, a note, anything. In one of the bottom drawers of his desk I found a diary. The whole thing was blank, he hadn’t written a word in it anywhere. Businesses send them to him all the time, he usually throws them out or gives them to Louisa. I didn’t think there’d be anything there, but I flipped through it. The back cover slipped out of the leather sleeve of the jacket. The key was taped to it.’
Jack nodded. ‘And here we are.’ He thought of Edward Kass. He remembered the old man’s dead body, flopped like a life-sized puppet over the kitchen table, blood dripping slowly down to the floor, thick, dull splashes onto that soaked tartan slipper.
Annabelle’s moccasins scraped on the gritty concrete floor. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Why would your old man just take off?’ The stuff in the lockers had been there a long time.
‘Maybe he panicked when he heard about Edward’s death.’
Jack looked around the cellar. Hammond Kasprowicz was not the panicking type. ‘Maybe.’
Annabelle put her hand on Jack’s arm. ‘Can you stay with me? I don’t want to be alone when the police come.’
The cops were the last people Jack wanted to see. ‘Sure.’ The cellar was starting to make him feel claustrophobic. It was the middle of the night. It had already been an intense day. He should have been home in bed. Annabelle Kasprowicz had still not answered his question. ‘I’ll stay, but first tell me what’s going on with Durst.’
‘Are you serious? I’m asking for your help, Jack. Can’t you drop it?’
‘No.’
Tears glazed Annabelle’s eyes. ‘Fuck!’
‘I want to help,’ said Jack. ‘But you have to tell me.’
‘I thought maybe you loved me.’
‘So what if I did?’ Jack raised his voice. ‘Why are you still screwing your ex-husband?’
‘Don’t.’
‘Answer me.’
‘I told you the story.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘No problem.’ Jack made for the stairs.
‘Wait!’ Annabelle grabbed him by the arm. ‘It’s not what you think.’
‘What is it then?’
She let go. Jack could see small red veins creeping into the corners of her eyes.
‘Ian signed a pre-nup when we married,’ she said, looking at Jack intently. ‘All he gets is fifty thousand if we divorce. He owes a lot more than that.’
‘So what? Sign the divorce papers and off you go.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if I do he’ll take me to court. And if it goes to court, he’ll ruin me.’ Annabelle walked over to one of the wine racks, reached out with a hand and held on. She thought