Eddie Bourque: Speak Ill Of The Living Part 22

"Jimmy wasn't here with me last night."

Brill shrugged, too deliberately, like an actor in a high school drama. "Jimmy was wearing a ski mask."

"It wasn't him," Eddie insisted. "Whistle was a broken down old man. The guy in the mask last night was strong."

Brill got angry, leaned over the seat and shook a finger at Eddie. "Dr. Crane, Lew Cuhna and now Jimmy Whistle-there's three bodies in your tracks, Bourque."

Was that a question?

Eddie said nothing. Orr hadn't made a sound during the interrogation. Eddie couldn't remember even seeing her blink. Was this supposed to be good cop-bad cop? Or something else? Mute cop-a.s.shole?

Brill asked, "Is your brother calling the shots here?"

"My brother is in the federal pen."

"Yeah, in upstate New York. You were there recently, according to their visitor logs."

He had already checked the logs?

"So what?" Eddie said. "I visited my brother in the can." Don't you visit your mother in the wh.o.r.ehouse? He almost said it, but caught himself in time.

"There's blood evidence in that bas.e.m.e.nt," Brill said. "Maybe that's your blood down there."

No maybe about it, and no sense denying what a few simple tests would confirm. "I told you guys I fought for my life down there last night," Eddie said. "I probably dripped blood from here to New Hampshire."

"Stay with me here," Brill said. "You visited your brother in the can, and then the doctor who testified against him dies on a rope. Next, you lead us to the body of your brother's old partner-a street punk who testified against Henry Bourque at his trial. Not to mention that the body is in a shallow grave you admit you dug yourself."

Wow, when you put it all together like that...

Eddie sputtered, "But how would Lew Cuhna fit in?"

Brill frowned, grim. "Don't know, Ed. Why don't you tell us how Cuhna fits in?"

G.o.ddam it!

Eddie had fallen for the trap of applying logic to Brill's crazy hypotheticals. "Like I told you guys," he repeated, "my statement stands. Obviously, somebody removed the bones during the night, then whacked Jimmy and dumped him here."

"Probably the guy in the ski mask," Brill offered, obviously patronizing him. "But not Jimmy-it's the other guy in a mask."

"I see why you made detective," Eddie answered, icily.

Brill smiled. He said, "No more trips to New York until we get to the bottom of this, Bourque." He got out of the car and slammed the door.

Orr got out, closed her door gently and had a hushed conversation with Brill.

Eddie struggled to hear what they were saying-no luck.

Orr got back into the car. "Are you in shape to ride that awful bike?" she asked "Or do you need a lift?"

"That's it? I'm not under arrest or anything?"

"Brill knows you didn't kill Jimmy," she said. "He was just trying to rattle you. I told him it was a waste of time."

"But...how?"

"A driver reported a madman fitting your description wandering some back road in New Hampshire this morning. She was pretty scared and called right away from her cell phone. That was more than four hours ago."

Eddie brightened. "I remember that woman!"

"The medical examiner says there's no rigor yet, and body-temperature loss has been minimal, even in that cool bas.e.m.e.nt," she said. "He guesses that Whistle died less than three hours ago, though he can't pinpoint it any better than that. You also left an obvious track through the woods when you ran from here last night-blood smears, footprints in the mud, broken branches-so that part of your nutty story checks out."

"So why did Brill strap me to the rack?"

"Because he thinks you know more than you're telling, Eddie," she said. "And so do I."

"Lucy-"

"Stow it!" she interrupted. "I want to know why you're obsessed with the Roger Lime case, and what you thought you were going to find in that bas.e.m.e.nt."

Eddie ma.s.saged the welt on his chin. "It's for Henry," he admitted with a sigh. "And my sister-in-law."

"Since when do you have in-laws?"

"Her name's Bobbi-Bobbi Bourque. She tracked me down in Lowell after Dr. Crane died. She's convinced that Henry is innocent of murdering those armored car guards, and she asked for my help to prove he didn't do it."

"That was thirty years ago."

Eddie shrugged. "You can't discourage this woman-I've tried. Look, Lucy, it was a circ.u.mstantial case against Henry." He looked down to his borrowed high-tops and wondered from where his sudden wave of mournfulness had come. "I think Bobbi's right. Henry was a screwed-up kid, mixed in a stupid holdup scheme, but he didn't kill those guards."

Eddie suddenly recognized he had lost an important opportunity in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the old house. Frustration boiled up in a froth. "I had found real evidence, the bones!" he shouted. "And I let them slip away."

"The way you tell it, you didn't let anybody do anything-you fought."

Eddie wouldn't hear it. Tears were not far off. "I let that a.s.sa.s.sin in a ski mask take my brother from me."

Eddie was barely capable on the motorcycle when healthy, and didn't dare ride it after getting choked, beaten up, and nearly drowned. By the time the flatbed tow truck reached Eddie's house in Lowell that evening, the neighborhood's barbeque grills had perfumed Pawtucketville with charcoal and roasted meat.

With the bike stowed in the driveway, the tow driver thanked and tipped a fiver, Eddie grabbed the dirty clothes from the saddlebag, picked an intact Washington Post off the lawn, and went inside.

"What the h.e.l.l...?"

For a moment, he thought the place had been ransacked-a snowstorm of shredded paper covered everything: the carpet, the furniture, the windowsills. He was about to phone for help when into the mess strode General VonKatz, the ripped remnants of a cardboard paper towel tube in his jaws.

Eddie groaned, "I know you've missed a couple meals, but that was a brand-new roll!"

The cat dropped the tube, dug in the mess to gather shredded paper into a little pile, and then pounced on the pile and scattered the paper again.

Eddie muttered, "I gotta clean this place with a rake."

He fed the General a can of chicken hearts and liver, and then inched the sofa across the room and in front of the door. He skipped dinner, flopped onto his sofa barricade, and tried to sleep. He saw an image of Jimmy Whistle in his mind, in the grave, rubbed raw around the neck. Eddie turned over and ordered his brain to think about baseball. The players had rope burns around their throats.

The moment you feel safe, that's when I'll appear.

Eddie didn't feel safe. Did that mean the man was not coming? The question twirled in his mind as he fell into fitful sleep.

Chapter 23.

Eddie felt pressure on his neck and woke with a start. He grabbed for his throat and felt fur. The General screeched in surprise and bolted from the sofa.

"Sorry!" Eddie called after the cat.

The clock read seven-thirty. Eddie had slept thirteen hours. He rolled sore off the sofa and peeked through the blinds. Bright sun. Kids choosing sides for a whiffleball game in the street. Washington Post, intact once again, on the lawn.

Eddie brewed hazelnut coffee, pushed the sofa out of the way, and got his newspaper.

The General sat at attention next to his empty food dish. The cat's message would not have been clearer if he had typed it in headline font. Eddie threw a handful of crunchy food in the bowl, which attracted one sniff and an incredulous are you b.l.o.o.d.y kidding me? meow.

"Okay," Eddie said. "No sense us both starving." He fed the cat a can of chopped chicken parts in savory gravy, which stank like a landfill. Cripes! What "parts" of the chicken did they grind up and pack in these cans?

General VonKatz seemed to like the bouquet. He nosed into the dish.

Eddie hadn't read the paper for three days, maybe the longest dry spell since he had entered the news business. His obsession with his brother's case had consumed him. He had lacked the processing power to digest a world's worth of news. But Eddie and the General had to eat, and Eddie needed another writing a.s.signment.

He wiped shredded paper towel off the table and sat down with black coffee. He scanned the morning's mayhem on the front page and then flipped to the cla.s.sified section.

The phone rang.

Eddie reached for it, and then hesitated.

What if it's HIM?

He shook off the thought as ridiculous and answered, "Bourque."

"It's Lucy," said Detective Orr.

Eddie laughed with relief. He said, "Are you just seeing if I'm all right?"

She was all business. "I've been doing some checking. How much do you know about this sister-in-law of yours?"

Checking? On Bobbi?

"I know she married Henry about six months ago," Eddie said. "I know she takes eight sugars in her coffee." What else did he know about her?

"The records show that her marriage to Henry Bourque was filed in Ess.e.x County, New York state last spring."

"Sounds right."

"That was the day after her divorce from her second husband."

"The next day?"

"Yup-after fifteen years of marriage she got a divorce and remarried the very next day."

Eddie thought it over. "Well, sure," he offered. "She was probably separated when she met Henry, and they had to wait until her divorce was official before they could get married."

"Have you heard from her today?"

Eddie double-checked his answering machine. No blinking light. "I have not." Should he have? He felt a flicker of worry. "Huh."

"I'm sure she's fine," Orr said. "The next time you hear from her, have her give me a call."

"Why? You don't think-"

"I don't think she did anything wrong," Orr interrupted. She lowered her voice: "But somebody is killing the people connected to you, to your brother, and the Roger Lime investigation. I need to know who your sister-in-law has been speaking to around Lowell. She could be in danger, or she could be unwittingly stirring up old secrets and putting other people into harm's way."

Orr wouldn't lie to Eddie, but Eddie didn't believe she was telling him the whole truth. What did Orr suspect Bobbi was up to?

"I'll tell her to call," he promised.

They chatted a few minutes about Eddie's recovery from his night in the well. Orr told him: "Keep your nose out of trouble."

"No problem there." Eddie had no leads, nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait for the police to catch the man in the ski mask, or for the man to catch Eddie.

They hung up.

Eddie gave a glance to the chessboard, the pieces frozen two moves into an imaginary game with Henry. He forced his eyes to the cla.s.sifieds.

There has to be some work in here...

An advertis.e.m.e.nt halfway down the first column stopped Eddie hard: Attention EDDIE B.

Trouble for me. I trust only journalists. Left the key with the two giants, you know the duo. Don't send the cavalry; follow the Union rider to General Lee's surrender. -LEW Eddie read the item three more times.

Was this a message from Lew Cuhna? A message from the grave?

How was that possible?

The last two days of the Washington Post rested intact and unread on the table. Eddie tore them open, found the cla.s.sified sections-the same odd advertis.e.m.e.nt was there, in both editions.

He rifled through the paper until he found the telephone number for the Post's cla.s.sified department, and then s.n.a.t.c.hed up the telephone and dialed it. He negotiated the automatic answering system until he found the human he needed.