Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [65]
‘Who was it?’ The question came out of Jack’s mouth of its own accord.
‘Nobody. It was nothing. But he was the father of Louisa’s best friend. He’s still with his wife. And his daughter is still Louisa’s best friend.’
‘So it’s not about the money.’
‘It is for Ian. And as far as my father’s concerned. He can’t understand why I won’t sign the divorce papers. He wants Ian gone. Of course, he doesn’t know about the tapes.’
‘How did Durst get them?’
‘Private investigator.’ Annabelle wiped away some tears. ‘Do you understand, Jack? Can you see?’
Above them a door slammed. Footsteps thudded down the hall. Annabelle looked at the ceiling and then rushed up the stairs. Jack took a deep breath. He looked over at the lockers for a moment and then followed, unhurried. The cops were going to love it. Hammond Kasprowicz was going to have a lot of explaining to do. So was Jack.
Annabelle met him at the top of the stairs. It was not her father who had arrived home.
‘It’s Louisa,’ she said. ‘You have to go.’
Jack nodded. ‘You going to call the cops?’
‘What choice have I got?’
‘None.’
‘Call me tomorrow.’ Annabelle kissed him on the cheek and walked off down the corridor. She disappeared into the house.
As he left, Jack made as little noise as possible. He closed the front door with the barest click of the lock, and slipped away into the night. How was it that he found himself sneaking through the shadows once again?
19
AT 7.45 THE NEXT MORNING, as Jack was about to head off to Susko Books, somebody knocked on his door. Something about the tone of the knock said: Bad news. Maybe he was just a little nervous. Hearing things that were not there. Maybe it was just a neighbour, over for a cup of sugar. He opened the door. Maybe not.
‘They really should have a security system on the entrance here. Anybody can just walk in off the street. Bums, thieves, rapists.’ Detective Geoff Peterson smiled. ‘Stand-over guys wearing brass knuckles.’
He stood in the half-dark of the hall, smug and vaguely threatening. The light from Jack’s apartment threw a shadow that sliced his tall sinewy body like a mayor’s sash. But he looked too shabby for the position. His hands were in his pockets. There were bags under his eyes. His tie was undone and the silvery-grey suit looked slept in. The face was pinched; the eyes loaded. And here was Jack, at point-blank range.
‘Any light in here?’ asked Peterson, looking down the entrance hall.
‘All the bulbs were stolen. You looking for work?’
‘What if somebody was waiting for you, hiding over there by the stairs? You open your front door, quick bang on the head, and they help themselves to the plasma TV.’
Lois miaowed in the lounge room. Peterson looked over Jack’s shoulder and grinned. ‘And then just for the hell of it they play with the cat and a box of matches.’
‘Lucky we got you hanging around,’ said Jack. ‘Maybe we could get you a stool for the slow afternoon shift.’
‘Might be someone with a gun or a knife. Up under the chin. Inside motherfucker and keep it quiet!’
‘You know the lines, Detective. And the way it just rolled off your tongue. I almost forgot you were a cop.’
‘They tie you up, ask politely where all the good stuff is. Then they kill the cat if you don’t feel like talking.’
Jack tried to read Peterson’s face but it was like a wet newspaper. Had Clifford Harris called the cops about his assault on Durst? Jack’s guts told him no.
‘Hand over the cash you fuck!’ hissed the detective. His eyes were dry and red and a touch on the wired side.
‘They’d get a haul, too,’ said Jack. ‘With all the cash I’ve got stashed in my socks and folded inside the hamburger buns in the freezer. Don’t tell anyone.’
‘He might have followed you to work, guessed that not every dollar was declared to the tax department. These guys are smart cunts.’
‘Smarter than you, Detective?’ Jack began to close the door. ‘I