Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [70]
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Ask your friend Chester.’
‘Sinclair? Come on, Geoff. You expect me to —’
‘No joke, Jackie boy. He had plenty to say to me and Detective Sergeant Glendenning about you and all your wonderful adventures. Mr Brandt was very interested.’
Jack shook his head. Jesus Christ. Chester had asked Jack about Ziggy Brandt once, about his time driving for him. Jack had been vague: but all he had done was give Sinclair room to stretch his ridiculous imagination. Jack could see Chester talking himself into it with gusto, a whole load of fantastic bullshit, feeding it to the cops in buckets.
‘Ziggy knows I’d never say a word,’ said Jack, mustering a little confidence in his voice. ‘And even if I were as stupid as you, he wouldn’t go to all this trouble just to fuck me over.’
The detective walked round to the back of Jack’s chair and ran a hand through his hair. He leaned in, close. His breath was sour: cigarettes and toothpaste and empty stomach. ‘But this isn’t just about you, baby.’
Jack turned, looked hard at Peterson. Kasprowicz. The old man’s name popped into his head, smoking like a piece of burnt toast. ‘Where’s Hammond Kasprowicz?’
Peterson pushed Jack’s head away roughly. He walked back to the window. ‘He’s in Hong Kong, Jack, you know that. Doing a runner after doing his brother.’
‘Bullshit.’
The sound of a car. Peterson put his eye to the crack in the curtains. He shook his head; a look of anger contorted his face. He sat down in the gold and red, floral-print couch opposite Jack. His right knee jerked up and down impatiently.
Footsteps over the timber steps and decking. The hinge-squeak of the screen and then the front door opening. Peterson looked up. Jack turned his head in the same direction. Ian Durst stood in the doorway. He glanced at Jack, then set his blue eyes on the detective. He put his hand on his hips.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ said Peterson.
Durst screwed up his face, tight as a cat’s anus. He nodded his head as though agreeing with something he had just confirmed. ‘Fucking Glendenning’s onto us.’
21
PETERSON STOOD UP. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘He’s fucking onto us!’ repeated Durst. He was wearing a thick black coat over a stiff-collared white shirt and designer jeans. And, courtesy of Jack, a black eye and a bruised cheek, too, both turning yellow. ‘He came around to my apartment asking questions.’
‘About what?’
‘You, for fuck’s sake! He wanted to know if I knew you.’
Detective Geoff Peterson looked at Jack, then back at Durst. ‘He’s fishing.’ But his tone lacked confidence. ‘What did he say exactly?’
Durst walked into the room. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit up with a red disposable lighter and blew smoke with a long sigh.
‘He said, So you know Detective Peterson? And I said no. Then he said, But you’ve met him before, and I said that I didn’t think I had. I couldn’t remember, maybe I had, you know. Then he nodded his head. Smug as all shit. The fucking cunt.’
Peterson stared at Durst and said: ‘He doesn’t know anything.’
‘It’s fucking Celia,’ said Durst, sitting down heavily on the couch. ‘She’s sniffed something and gone to Glendenning.’
‘You wouldn’t be here if she had.’
‘No, she has, I can sense it. She’s not talking to me … I can’t even touch her … She’s looking at me with those crazy fucking eyes of hers … I’m telling you, she knows.’
‘Her old man’s just been murdered, for Christ’s sake! What do you think she’s going to do? Have a fucking party?’
Durst’s face brightened a touch. He looked at the detective for more reassurance but that was it for the day. His face went back to looking bleached. ‘So why does she keep asking me why I went to the apartment to meet her, instead of the shop? I keep telling her it’s because