Gone, Baby, Gone - Dennis Lehane [44]
Whoever had killed Wee David and Kimmie seemed to have been thorough.
“You want to call it in?” Broussard said.
Poole shrugged. “Why don’t we poke around a bit first?”
Poole produced several pairs of thin plastic gloves from his pocket. He separated them and passed a pair each to Broussard, Angie, and me.
“This is a crime scene,” Broussard said to Angie and me. “Don’t queer it.”
The bedroom and bathroom were in the same state of distress as the kitchen and living room. Everything had been overturned, cut open, emptied onto the floor. Given the houses of other drug addicts I’ve seen, it wasn’t noticeably worse than most.
“The TV,” Angie said.
I stuck my head out of the bedroom as Poole came out of the kitchen and Broussard exited the bathroom. We joined Angie around the TV.
“No one thought to touch it.”
“Probably because it’s on,” Poole said.
“So?”
“Kind of hard to hide two hundred grand in there and keep all the parts working,” Broussard said. “Don’t you think?”
Angie shrugged, looked at the screen, watched one of Jerry Springer’s guests being restrained. She turned up the volume.
One of Jerry Springer’s guests called another guest a ho’, called an amused man a dirty dog.
Broussard sighed. “I’ll get a screwdriver.”
Jerry Springer looked at the audience knowingly. The audience hooted. Many words were bleeped out.
Behind us, Helene said, “Oh, cool. Springer Time.”
Broussard came out of the bathroom with a tiny screwdriver with a red rubber handle. “Miss McCready,” he said, “I need you to wait outside.”
Helene sat on the edge of the torn-up futon, eyes on the TV. “That lady’s yelling ’cause of the cats. She said she’s calling the police.”
“You tell her we are the police?”
Helene smiled distantly as one of Jerry’s female guests threw a lopping punch at another one. “I told her. She said she was going to call ’em anyway.”
Broussard brandished the screwdriver and nodded at Angie. She shut off the TV in mid-bleep.
Helene said, “Damn.” She sniffed the air. “Smells in here.”
“Want some cologne?”
She shook her head. “My old boyfriend’s trailer smelled worse. He used to, like, leave dirty socks soaking in the sink. Now that’s a smell, lemme tell you.”
Poole tilted his head as if about to say something, but then he glanced at her and changed his mind, exhaled a loud, hopeless sigh.
Broussard unscrewed the back of the TV, and I helped slide it off. We peered in.
“Anything?” Poole said.
“Cables, wires, internal speakers, a motor, picture tube,” Broussard said.
We slid the casing back on.
“Shoot me,” Angie said. “It wasn’t the worst idea of the day.”
“Oh, no.” Poole held up his hands.
“Wasn’t the best, either,” Broussard said out of the side of his mouth.
“What?” Angie said.
Broussard flashed his million-dollar smile at her. “Hmm?”
“Could you turn it back on?” Helene said.
Poole narrowed his eyes in her direction, shook his head. “Patrick?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a backyard behind here. Could you take Miss McCready out there while we finish up in here?”
“What about the show?” Helene said.
“I’ll fill in the blanks,” I said. “Ho’,” I said. “You dirty dog,” I said. “Bleep,” I said.
Helene looked up at me as I offered her my hand. “You don’t make sense a lot.”
“Whoo-whoo,” I said.
As we approached the kitchen, Poole said, “Close your eyes, Miss McCready.”
“What?” Helene reared back from him a bit.
“You don’t want to see what’s in here.”
Before either of us could stop her, Helene leaned forward and craned her head over his shoulder.
Poole’s face sagged and he stepped aside.
Helene entered the kitchen and stopped. I stood behind her, waited for her to scream or faint or fall to her knees or run back into the living room.
“They dead?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Very.”
She moved into the kitchen, headed for the back door. I looked at Poole. He raised an eyebrow.
As Helene passed Wee Dave, she paused to look at his chest.
“It’s like in that movie,” she said.
“Which?”
“The one with all the aliens who