After midnight, lazy at my desk, my laptop humming, I stared numbly at my feeble list of suspects. Even the word suspect now seemed pretentious. Interviewees—that was better. How many more? Idly, I added Ken Rodman’s name to the end of the list, most likely a throwaway gesture. Someone whose rooms she cleaned killed her—possibly. If murder it was…My fingers typed: “I understand a pesky Marta Kowalski cleaned your apartment one time. Did you murder her? Did she leave a particularly egregious dust ball that sent you into a fevered rage?” I highlighted the line and pressed delete.
It was late. I was punchy, humming with a slight buzz from the beer, a little annoyed at Hank and not certain exactly why, hazy with the uncertainties of the case. Standing up, I slipped off my shirt and rubbed my chest. I yawned. It was time for bed.
The phone rang. I glanced at the clock—nearly one in the morning. I debated letting the machine pick up because the caller ID indicated UNKNOWN, but at that hour the temptation was immediate and welcome.
At first the phone voice was faraway and small, almost indistinguishable, like a small child sputtering into the phone.
“Who is it?”
The rambling went on. A thick voice, a man’s voice I could tell now, but a foggy one, as if something were stuck in his throat.
Nothing.
I was ready to hang up when I heard my name. My whole name. “Rick Van Lam.” Said sarcastically in a singsong tone.
“Who’s this?”
“Like you don’t know.”
Well, I didn’t. So I waited. Someone knew my name, so the call was deliberate. My eyes half-shut with fatigue. I rubbed my chest as I settled into a chair. We waited, both of us, in silence, the sound of tinny laughter in the background. I guessed the caller was at a bar. I heard the twang of a country song playing on a jukebox, the clinking of glass against glass. Someone yelled, an indistinguishable slurring of words.
“It’s Davey Corcoran.” The voice spoke directly into the receiver, the words now clear and sharp, but spiked with sloppy anger. Davey Corcoran, calling from a last-call tavern, drunk out of his mind. Great, I thought. A good-night bedtime call, so much better than a lullaby.
“What’s up?”
He laughed that phony laugh of bitter drunks, a rumble hearty yet cold and deadpan. A laugh with no soul. “You know what’s up, man. I just want to tell you one thing.” His words slurred into each other so that the effect was breathy and difficult to understand: Ijuswannatellyaonethinnng. Like that.
I waited. Silence. “Well…”
“Well, my sister got a fucking nerve hiring you to do this shit about my aunt. She leaves a note on my door, telling me you’re gonna talk to me. I don’t think you realize that this is a crock of bullshit.”
“Davey, it’s her money.”
That laugh again. “It’s my aunt’s money.”
“Davey…”
“Save the shit, Lam. Little sister sucked her way into that cash, and that’s a fact. Not that I cared. Or even had a chance. Good old Marta had no use for me and…” He babbled on, again incoherent.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did she leave you out of the will?”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Well, why are you calling?”
“I want this stopped. I don’t want you bothering me—or anyone.”
“If your aunt was murdered…”
He gasped. “Shit. It wasn’t murder. Who’d wanna kill that old bitch?”
“Karen thinks…”
He cut in, furious. “Let me tell you something about little sister. Karen’s not the pretty little thing that gets you all itchy between your legs, Lam boy. I know how she works around guys. She always got her way. She hated my aunt—Christ, how could she not hate that witch?—but she put up with her shit because she knew I wouldn’t. I don’t know what this game of hers is, but I want you to think about one thing.” A long pause. “You listening?”
“Yeah.”
I heard the jukebox music stop. I heard glasses tinkling, someone yelling a man’s name.
“She’s crazy. I don’t mean she’s, you know, like, just funny crazy. Oh, that Karen—how wacky. I mean she’s certifiable. I don’t mean she hears voices and stuff”—he started to laugh again—“but she gets real depressed, and—well, she’s nuts. Psychiatrists run away from her, you know. We both belong in a ward. She’s cut from the same crazy quilt as dear old Marta.” His voice got mean now, gravelly, rich with venom.
“What’s that gotta do with your aunt’s death?”
“I never said it did.”
“Then…”
“Then nothing. I’m just warning you that she and I are not close, and I don’t give a fuck about my aunt’s money. I don’t want you pointing a finger at me, hear? All this talk about duty and respect for Aunt Marta. I don’t know what her game is—if there is a game—but she’s living in her own little world sometimes…”
“Why didn’t your aunt like you?”
He laughed a long time. “Because I once wished the old bitch would die a mean and horrible death.”
“Davey, tomorrow morning—if it’s okay—I’d like to come to see you before work, and…”
“And I got my wish,” he ran on. “A mean and horrible death. Who said there isn’t a God?” He hung up.