Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [77]
Outside, all at once, rain began pouring down with a roar, pummelling the corrugated-iron roof.
Jack stared at Louisa’s smooth, unblemished nineteen-year-old face. Then he had a look at Peterson’s. Maybe somewhere deep down he had a beautiful soul.
‘We’ve discussed it and we want a traditional church wedding,’ said Louisa. ‘Something small and intimate.’
‘Who’s going to walk you down the aisle?’ asked Jack.
‘Maybe you can,’ replied Louisa without looking at him. ‘Or maybe not.’ The tone was beyond her years and all the more chilling for it.
‘I think Mr Susko might be busy.’ Peterson got up, walked over and stood beside Annabelle. The new son-in-law-to-be hugged her to him. She was still staring at her daughter.
‘Don’t look so shocked, Mother,’ said Peterson. ‘It’s a lot of money you’re getting. Turn the Pope against God.’
‘And I love him, Mum.’
‘And I love her, too, Mum.’ Peterson was smiling like a spoilt kid born too close to Christmas, who always got two presents. Jack hated those kids.
‘Does anybody have a cigarette?’ asked Annabelle.
The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack. He snapped the lighter. ‘That’s it, Mother,’ he said in his oily voice. ‘Just relax.’
Annabelle smoked. ‘Did he get you a ring?’
Louisa smiled and held up the back of her left hand.
‘It’s not very big.’ Annabelle dropped her cigarette to the floor, letting it burn. ‘I warned you about cheap men.’
Peterson gave her a dirty look and stepped on the cigarette. His back was still to Louisa and Jack on the couch. He did not see his fiancée wink at Annabelle.
Jack did. His eyes widened and the muscles in his body contracted. He watched her stand up. For a moment he felt sorry for Peterson. Then the moment passed.
She fired three times. The detective arched his back and then his legs gave way. He fell. No last look at his love. No shocked eyes. No terrible realisation. Nothing.
24
ANNABELLE KASPROWICZ STRETCHED OUT her foot and pressed Peterson’s arm.
‘Think we should call an ambulance?’ said Jack.
She ignored him, crouched down beside the body and reached into the jacket for the white envelope.
The detective’s right trouser leg had come up a little. Jack could see the edge of a black leather holster strapped to his ankle.
‘Let’s go, baby,’ said Annabelle. ‘Quickly.’
‘Can I get a ride?’
‘I don’t think so, Jack.’
‘No? We could stop for coffee somewhere on the way, chat, have a laugh. Maybe some chocolate cake? My shout.’
‘Always the funny man.’
‘Better than psycho woman.’
Annabelle took the gun from Louisa. ‘I don’t want to kill you, Jack,’ she said. ‘That’s for Ziggy to worry about. But maybe you don’t need two nuts.’ She pointed the gun at his crotch. Her lips pressed together into a hard line.
Jack had never seen this woman before. ‘I thought you liked my nuts?’
‘I like balls, Jack.’
‘That’s good. You’ll get plenty in the women’s penitentiary.’
Louisa walked over and peered through the curtained window. ‘Shouldn’t we tie him up or something?’
‘We’ll lock him in the bathroom, there’s —’
‘Mum! I think I just saw someone out there!’
‘Get away from the window!’
There was the sound of a crash, of smashed glass and splitting timber.
Detective Sergeant Keith Glendenning ran in through the back door. ‘Put the weapon on the ground! Now!’
Instead, Annabelle fired. Glendenning’s shoulder snapped back, his body spinning around to follow it. Before hitting the ground his gun fired once: all the bullet did was put a small hole in a lot of air.
Jack dived to the floor, grabbed at Peterson’s trouser leg. Then somebody started yelling from outside. More guns opened up, shattering the front windows of the house. He pulled the gun free of the holster.
There was blood on the sleeves of his suede coat. If only Peterson had grabbed the goddamn black denim jacket …
He held the gun up, lying across the detective’s body. Annabelle saw him and fired. Jack fired too, squeezing the trigger three times. One of the bullets found Louisa over by the window.
‘Louisa! Louisa!’ Annabelle ran to her daughter.