Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [74]
Peterson pointed at the couch with his gun. ‘Sit.’
Jack walked over to the couch.
‘Arms out.’
With one hand, the detective snapped the loose handcuff over Jack’s other wrist. It hit the knuckle of the wrist bone, sending a dull vibration of pain up his arm. His whole body was becoming rigid, cold as steel; the pain echoed through his limbs, bounced back and forth, collected in his head. His jaw ached as though a clamp was attached to it, slowly tightening.
He glanced at Durst’s lifeless body again. ‘I thought you two were best friends.’
Peterson frowned. He held the gun up in front of him, as though he did not know how it got there. He turned it to one side, then the other, admiringly. He continued looking at it as he slowly stretched his arm out and pointed the gun at Jack. He angled his head, closed one eye and aimed. Then he shouted: ‘Bang!’
Jack closed his eyes. He waited for his heart to slip back down his throat and then opened them again.
Peterson laughed. His eyes were wide. His forehead glistened with sweat. He had a sick grin on his face, like a clown who was starting to hate his job. Then in an instant it dropped away and his face tightened like a fist. He lowered the gun, held it against his leg. ‘No more chances, Jackie boy.’
He turned and looked at Celia Mitten and Ian Durst, draining into the carpet behind him. ‘Stupid bitch.’
‘Lucky Ziggy’s got more than one construction site,’ said Jack. ‘But you’ll owe him. Big time.’
Peterson said nothing, slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He flipped it open, dialled, waited. ‘Yeah, it’s me. You on your way? … Ten minutes? Good … That’s right … No longer a problem … We’ll just have to skip a couple of steps.’ He hung up. He looked thoughtfully at Jack, his brain ticking over.
‘How come I never saw you with Ziggy before?’ asked Jack.
‘Nobody’s ever seen me with Ziggy.’
‘You sure? I bet he’s got a DVD somewhere.’
Peterson stared hard at Jack — no more grinning. ‘Who says I don’t?’
Now Jack gave a wry smile. ‘Who says it’d help you?’
The detective thought about that. His face said that he did not like it.
‘Got yourself a bit of a situation.’
‘Not me, Jack. You.’ He snapped open the mobile again and dialled. ‘I want you to say hello to someone for me.’
‘You calling the police?’
The detective ignored him. Somebody answered. ‘It’s Peterson. You can come down now … Yes, pronto … Hang on, there’s somebody here wants to say hello …’
The detective held the phone to Jack’s ear.
‘Yes?’ asked the voice on the phone. It was an irritated voice. A woman’s irritated voice.
‘Hey Annabelle,’ said Jack. ‘It’s me.’ He felt surprisingly calm. Shock did that sometimes.
Silence from the other end.
‘Don’t worry, everyone’s dead,’ he added. It was as though his mouth was on automatic pilot. ‘The money’s all yours. You can keep the poetry books as well.’
There was a pause: Jack could hear her breathing. Was she about to say: I wanted to tell you?
She hung up. Peterson pocketed the phone, a thin smile on his face. He patted Jack on the shoulder. ‘Love fucks you up, doesn’t it, diddums?’
Jesus Christ. Jack had officially left the sane world. Everybody he knew was demented.
‘So the whole time, you and her,’ he said, his tone carrying a whiff of admiration. Then he sighed: it was involuntary. The new disappointment was getting heavier by the second.
But knots were quickly undoing in his mind, too. He could see clearer now, the course of events, the steady clicking into place of all that had happened. Mainly he could see that he was an A-class fucking idiot. The first painful step of self-realisation on the road to Nirvana.
The detective slipped his gun into the holster at the small of his back. He grabbed his elbow and eased it across his chest, stretching his gun arm like a discus thrower preparing for a heat.
‘Nice plan,’ said Jack. ‘Ziggy fixes you up for delivering Kasprowicz,