Chapter 5-2
2022 Words
He was thinking about that when, just after the last lunch customers straggled out, the detectives showed up. Mr. Crocasta led them back to the kitchen with a look in his eyes that said: What have you done now?
What have you done now?The short one, Kanon, didn’t mess around. “What did you do with the money?”
Sean sucked in his breath. They couldn’t prove the fifty came from Whiteshaw’s wallet, could they? Do bills hold fingerprints?
“What money?”
“The five thousand bucks.”
Jaybee dropped a plate, which shattered.
Lawton said, “Let’s go outside.”
Mr. Crocasta tried to follow them. Kanon killed that with a glance.
There were picnic tables outside and Lawton waved at the one farthest from the door.
Sean sat on one side and the cops sat on the other.
“So,” Lawton said, in an easy tone, “tell us about the money, Sean. I don’t blame you for taking it.”
“I don’t know anything about five grand.”
“Then you won’t mind emptying your pockets.” Sean knew that was coming. He also knew that being on parole meant you obeyed orders. He stood up and emptied them, pulling them out as he did so.
He saw two customers, a middle-aged man and woman with matching Seahawks masks, coming up to the front of the Lunchbox, staring at him.
Kanon picked up his wallet, flipped it open. “Six bucks. Living the good life.”
Silence is golden.
Silence is golden.“You had a bag on your bike,” Lawton said.
“A panier.”
“Where is it now?”
“In my locker. You’ll want to see it too.”
“It’s like you read minds,” Kanon said.
“May I put the stuff back in my pockets?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Back in the hall next to Mr. Crocasta’s office, Kanon took the panier out and went back to the table while Lawton inspected the locker.
Sean watched as Kanon opened every nook and cranny of the pack. He spotted the rolled-up bills and looked pleased until he saw they were just two twenties and a ten. Then he lost interest and stuffed them back.
“May I ask a question?”
“It’s a free country.”
“What makes you think that guy had so much money on him?”
“He took five thou out of the bank yesterday. All fifties. His wife didn’t know that and doesn’t know why. Neither do his employees. He owned the sporting goods store on Iowa.”
Lawton appeared, shaking his head. “I checked the john and the kitchen. Nothing. You stop anywhere on the way to work, Sean?”
“No, sir. May I ask a question?”
“Another one,” Kanon said, cramming things into the pack. “He’s a regular TV news reporter.”
“Go ahead.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense if the killer took the money?”
Kanon’s eyes, above the mask, went wide. “Who says he was killed?”
“You said he fell too hard for an accident.”
“Did I?” He looked at his partner. “Kid’s got an impressive memory. He’ll go far in the hospitality industry.”
Lawton sighed. “You may be right, son. But we know you were there, and we don’t know who the killer was, if there was one, so it makes sense to eliminate you as a suspect in the theft of the money. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can go back to work now.”
“Thanks.” Sean stood up. “Would you mind telling my boss I cooperated?”
“We ain’t your mama,” Kanon said, pushing the panier across the table.
“I’ll do it,” Lawton said.
Kanon sighed, puffing out his mask. “You’re lucky my partner’s a soft touch.”
“What do you think?” Jaybee asked. She was refilling the bins of ketchup packets and other condiments that they packed with take-out orders.
Sean was scrubbing the kitchen floor and trying not to get caught looking at her legs. “Think about what?”
“The guy you saw.”
“Hector Whiteshaw.”
“Wow.” She shivered. “Knowing his name makes it worse, you know? Makes it real.”
“Oh, it was real.” He tried to sound tough.
“I can’t imagine! But what I mean is, do you think he was, you know, murdered?”
“Well, I’ve thought about that a lot.” He looked around as if Mr. Crocasta might be eavesdropping. “Maybe we could talk about it later. Wanna have dinner somewhere?”
He held his breath.
“That could work, if it’s early. I’ve got a study session at nine. Zoom meeting.”
She was taking summer courses, trying to keep up with cancelled college classes.
“How about the Chinese place near Elizabeth Park? We can do take-out.”
“Sounds good. You can pick me up at—” She laughed. “I’m forgetting. You can’t.”
The damned bicycle. He felt himself reddening.
“I mean, we can’t socially distance in a car, can we?”
“Oh, right.”
He paid for dinner, thanks to the involuntary donation from Hector Whiteshaw.
There was a gazebo in the park, a funny little open-air house where bands would be playing if King Covid hadn’t overruled everything. They sat in it, leaning against opposite walls and eating Szechuan out of white foam boxes. Sean used a plastic fork, so as not to show off his incompetence with chopsticks.
“I think the guy was murdered. You don’t get your head bashed like that just by tripping.”
Jaybee made a face. It was nice to be able to see her nose and mouth for a change. “I’m glad I wasn’t there. I’d have nightmares.”
“You want to stop talking about it? I don’t want to spoil your appetite.”
“I’m okay. Are the cops going to make trouble for you? You were in jail.”
“Car theft. Not violent crime.” He shrugged. “Lucky for me he died hours before I got there. Why would I hang around with a corpse and then phone it in?”
“Yeah, that would be dumb. It was good of you to call nine-one-one, though.”
He nodded. No reason to mention the damaged bike.
“And what about the money? Do they think you have, what, five grand?”
“They were just checking. I wish I did, though.”
“Yeah, that would be great.” She raised her head from her Buddha’s Delight. “Hey, is there a reward?”
“Wow. I never thought of that.” He considered. “What would we have to do? Find the murderer?”
“Or the money.”
“The reward would be less than the money, right?”
“I think it’s usually ten percent.”
“Why not keep it all?”
She laughed, a sweet sound. “That’s smart. But how would we find it?”
“Find the killer.”
Jaybee put down her container. “How?”
“I don’t know. Let’s think about it.”
She looked at her phone. “Uh oh. I’m gonna be late. You can tell me tomorrow. Thanks for dinner!”
“It was fun. Maybe we can—”
“Gotta run.”
Sean sighed. Well, what was he expecting? This was the year of social distancing.
His apartment was above a pizza parlor. The rent was good because most of the potential tenants were students who split when the university went on lockdown.
The pizza joint wasn’t doing so well either. He saw one customer at the counter and a man waiting six feet behind her. Everybody wore masks.
The door leading up to his apartment was on the left. Sean unlocked it and pushed it wide to get his bike through.
Something rammed him from behind and he fell forward on the steps, landing on the bike. The handlebar hit him in the breastbone, which hurt like hell. When he tried to stand somebody crashed on top of him.
A hand grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head backwards. “Stand up! Up, asshole, or I’ll tear out your scalp.”
Sean stuck an elbow into the guy behind him and earned a kidney punch in return. He vomited pork chow mein.
The thug yanked the bike away from him and dropped it down the steps. “Up, jerk. And don’t step in that stuff.”
They stumbled up together. On the landing, Sean pulled out his key and fumbled the door open. He thought about trying to push the guy down the stairs and slamming the door. An arm around his throat changed his mind.
Inside, the thug released him and shoved him forward. Sean fell on the futon, which was the main piece of furniture in the room. “What the hell do you want?”
The thug flipped a light switch and Sean saw him for the first time. He was six-foot-three or four, which gave him half a foot on Sean, and probably thirty pounds as well. He wore a black bandanna, like the villain in a Western movie. A black watch cap covered his hair, and he had sunglasses on. Not much face to see.
“I want my money.”
“What money? I don’t owe you anything.”
The thug snorted. “Oh yes you do, punk. Five big ones.”
“Five—” Sean blinked. “The dead guy’s money?”
“That’s right. You killed him and swiped the cash. It was supposed to be mine.”
“What for?”
“I’m running for mayor.”
There was a bicycle pump on the floor. The thug picked it up and swung it casually, looking for something to hit.
“I didn’t kill the guy and I didn’t see any money. Whoever offed Whiteshaw must have taken it.”
“Yeah?” Apparently frustrated that he saw nothing in the place worth breaking the thug pressed the handle of the pump against Sean’s chin. There was a smell now: something weird, sweet, and fruity. “Why should I believe you?”
“If I killed him the cops would have arrested me, right?”
“They aren’t so smart.” He tossed the pump to the floor. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cigarette lighter.
Was this lunatic going to burn the place down?
Was this lunatic going to burn the place down?No, he lit a cigarette. Then he threw the lighter overhand, smashing the frame of a photo of Bellingham Bay. That would come out of the security deposit. “I’ll be watching you, bike boy. If you start spending money, I’ll be down your throat like a cold beer. You get me?”
“Trust me, that’s not gonna happen.”
Sean listened to the thug descending the stairs. He kicked the lighter against the wall. Then he turned out the lights and peeked out the window. The thug took off his sunglasses and stared up. There was something wrong with his left eye. The lid didn’t open all the way, and there was a scar that sliced his eyebrow in two.
Not the kind of face you would want to meet in a dark stairwell. Or under a highway.
Sean left early for work the next morning, knowing he was not going to take the short cut through the underpass.
Jaybee’s day started an hour later, and when she arrived, he was dying to tell her about the nighttime visitor but the place did a crazy breakfast business for a change.
In the calm before lunch, Mr. Crocasta finally told them to take their break and they went to one of the tables outside.
- Writer
