The Merchant of Death (Playing the Fool, #2) Page 8

  Henry sat down and stared at his lap. Let his hair fall in front of his face as he twirled the beaded bracelet on his wrist. “Okay.”

  “Now, we all got very worried when you ran off the other day. You know that you’re not allowed to leave the grounds, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it because you’re upset about Mr. Crowley?”

  He shrugged.

  “Okay. Well, it’s perfectly normal to be upset when a friend goes away. I’m sure that Mr. Crowley would have wanted to say good-bye, but he was just very, very sick.”

  Was this the sort of shit they fed the patients here? Viola wasn’t a child. She knew what death was. They didn’t have to sugarcoat it for her.

  “Now, Dreama tells me that you’ve had a visitor as well.” Dr. Carlisle looked at his notes. “Your cousin Mac?”

  “Second cousin,” Henry said.

  “You’re not supposed to have visitors that aren’t on the list.” Dr. Carlisle set the notes aside. “Even family. Next time Mac comes, we’ll have to tell him that he can’t see you unless Sebastian puts his name on the list.”

  He tilted his head. “Okay.”

  Five minutes alone with a fax machine should sort that little problem out. He’d fax a letter of authority to Mac, have him chop the St. Albinus header off, and resend it. Hopefully not from the Indianapolis FBI field office. Because, awkward.

  Or he could go and write a letter now, and slip it to Mac when he arrived. Because who was to say that Sebastian and cousin Mac hadn’t met up for coffee that very morning? He wondered if Viola had any paper in her room that wasn’t covered in ponies or rainbows. She liked pretty things.

  He felt the familiar twist in his guts. The guilt. The self-disgust. He’d only done it for the money, he’d told himself a thousand times, but it wasn’t true. He’d done it because he was too scared to refuse. Because he didn’t want his mother to find out what her boyfriend was doing. It was sick, and dirty, and he was just a fucking weak crybaby like J.J. said, but the money made it feel . . . not better, but it made him feel as though he was stronger somehow, that he was colder. That it was a transaction, not an assault. The money made him feel that he was an accomplice, not a victim. And he might have kept on believing it, if only Viola hadn’t heard one night and come crashing in to save him.

  “Are you even listening to me, Viola?”

  He glanced up at Dr. Carlisle’s craggy face, and seethed with anger. Even if Carlisle hadn’t done anything to Mr. Crowley, he was a bastard. Talking down to him as if he were a kid. Did he treat all his patients like this, or just Viola? “Sorry,” he said softly. “I won’t run away again.”

  “See that you don’t.” Dr. Carlisle drummed his fingers on his desk. “It’s a privilege for you to stay here, Viola. Your brother pays good money to let us care for you. You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?”

  “No,” Henry murmured, hating the man more every second. “I don’t want that.”

  “Good.” Dr. Carlisle’s thin mouth turned up in a smile. “That’s a good girl.”

  Patronizing fuck.

  “Agent McGuinness.” Janice Bixler was coolly polite. “I was told you were on leave.” She glanced at the place where Mac had been shot. Even though the wound was covered, she seemed to know exactly where it was.

  “But you thought you’d check my office, just in case?” He knew it was playing with fire to cop an attitude with OPR, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Are you on leave, or aren’t you?”

  “I am. But I stopped by the office to check the progress on a couple of cases.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Yes, I fucking mind. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes until he was supposed to meet Penny.

  “Somewhere to be?” she asked.

  Mac stepped back and gestured to his office. “Not at all.”

  “It’s about Lonny Harris.” Bixler stepped past him, into the office.

  He closed the door behind them, with the distinct feeling he’d just sprung a trap shut on himself. “Lonny Harris?”

  Bixler turned. “That name mean anything to you?”

  It hadn’t an hour ago. He hesitated probably a half a second—which was still too long. “I don’t know who that is.”

  No way was he showing his hand before Bixler showed hers. Not that he had much of a hand, but every instinct told him to trust Bixler only as far as he could throw her. She was here to crucify someone, and Mac had a feeling he was at the top of her list.

  “Interesting.” Bixler took a seat in front of his desk and crossed her legs. “I was given to understand you were very much aware of Lonny Harris.”

  Now what the hell did that mean? He rubbed his aching chest.

  “Valerie Kimura tells me that you were appraised of the file on the John Doe that was found shot in the head and the chest.”

  Thanks for the heads-up, Val.

  “Are you telling me that my John Doe is called Lonny Harris?” Shit, he really hoped Bixler hadn’t talked to Penny. “If that’s the case, I still don’t recognize the name.”

  “Lonny Harris was a piece of shit,” Bixler snapped, leaning forward. “A thief, an addict, and an all-around waste of oxygen.” She settled back. Took a breath. “He was also an informant.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mine,” Bixler said pleasantly. “And, because of course you’ve never heard of him, you didn’t know that, right?”

  “Right.” Mac clenched his jaw.

  “Lonny Harris dealt coke.”

  “And?” Mac was at a loss to understand where this was going.

  “He claimed you were a pretty regular customer.”

  Mac might not have known what to expect, but it sure as fuck wasn’t this. “That’s ridiculous!”

  Bixler stared at him. “Calm down, Agent.”

  “I never—”

  “He said you got rough with him one night when you thought he’d screwed you over.”

  “For fuck’s sake!” Mac couldn’t get his voice down, though he knew yelling wasn’t doing him any favors. “You’re gonna believe the word of some fucking scumbag—”

  “Agent McGuinness,” Bixler said, “we are taking this very seriously, given your penchant for—shall we say excessive force?”

  “Shall we say . . .?” Mac mocked. “No we shall not say. I want to know where on my record it says—”

  “Louie Gallo,” Bixler said. “No formal disciplinary action, but there was a hearing—”

  “Gallo fought like an animal. An animal. It was me or him. Anyone’ll tell you that. Val will tell you that.”

  “Jimmy Rasnick,” Bixler continued. “His wife said you brutalized him during his arrest.”

  Mac heard again the sound of Rasnick’s head hitting the wall. “I did what was necessary to get my perp under control. If the Bureau had a problem with it, they would have investigated.”

  “Well, Agent McGuinness, I’m investigating now.” Bixler crossed her legs. “You and your partner, Agent Kimura, were both candidates for a promotion after that bust. She got it. Even though you made the arrest.”

  “She deserved it. She was the one who got Rasnick where we needed him.”

  “Are you sure that’s why she got it?”

  “What other reason would there be?” Mac asked, voice cold.

  “I’ve spoken to former AD Sullivan. Who said the Bureau had to discipline you somehow. So it was good-bye to any hope of Special Agent in Charge McGuinness.”

  She was lying. Val would have gotten the promotion no matter what.

  Somewhere, a jealousy Mac had always tried to pretend didn’t exist showed its head. He had wanted the promotion. He’d been a fucking hero in the Rasnick bust. Not some fucking local pig who played dumb on the difference between subduing a perp and beating the shit out of him.

  “So, Agent,” Bixler went on. “You can see why we want to look into Harris’s claims.”

 
“I have never heard of anyone named Lonny Harris. And you really think I’m—what, a coke addict?” Mac laughed. “All of my drug tests are clean, my record is clean . . .”

  “I don’t know that I’d call it clean, Agent McGuinness. Louie Gallo. Jimmy Rasnick. The cabin in Altona. And given the recent reports of your erratic behavior—”

  “What reports?”

  “Your coworkers have mentioned mood swings. Temper tantrums.”

  His diet. His fucking doctor-recommended, no-sugar, no-carbs, no-coffee, no-alcohol, no-joy diet. Yeah, he’d been a bastard over the last few weeks. But what sane person would jump to the conclusion he was using drugs?

  Bixler wasn’t sane, though. She and Dreama Carey Coleman could have started a fucking coven of crazy together.

  “I was giving up coffee,” he told Bixler, aware he sounded defensive. “You ever given up caffeine before?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.” Bixler glanced at her watch. “Careless mistakes—you let your witness walk away from a crime scene. Then you lost him a second time. Let him walk out of this office.”

  “That witness—” Mac began, but stopped. I’d like to see you hold on to him for more than five minutes.

  Bixler tilted her head. “Where is that witness, Agent?”

  “I’m not his jailer. He’s free to move about town.”

  “You seem so . . . close to Henry Page. Yet you have no way of contacting him?” Her voice was low. And the way she said the word “close” made Mac queasy.

  “None right now,” Mac said, making sure there was an edge to his tone. “And I’m not going to say another word to you without a lawyer present.”

  “All right then.” Bixler rose. She seemed oddly satisfied. “That’s a good idea. And I hope you’ll be able to produce that elusive witness of yours. Since you’re so sure he can corroborate your version of what happened in Altona.”

  “I can’t believe you’re wasting my time with this crap.”

  “Lonny Harris was killed just before he prepared to lodge an official complaint against you. That’s very convenient.” She straightened her jacket. “I don’t think it’s nonsense.”

  “Anyone here would speak up for me.” Mac hoped that was true. So far all they’d apparently spoken up about were his caffeine-withdrawal symptoms. Fuckers.

  Maybe this was why Henry had suggested he make friends with his coworkers. So that when the opportunity arose to throw him under a bus, they didn’t line up, jostling to be first.

  “The best thing you can do right now is cooperate fully. Find that witness.” She smiled tightly. “Have a good day, Agent McGuinness.”

  She was out the door before Mac could figure out how to move again.

  Fuck her and the phony color-of-law complaint she’d ridden in on.

  Mac really didn’t have time for this. He texted Penny, took two Tylenol, grabbed his jacket, and headed out.

  Lonny Harris’s body had been found behind an abandoned building just off Capitol Avenue. Mac’s shoes crunched over broken glass as he inspected the small yard.

  Paper fluttered in the breeze as Penny opened the report.

  “Okay,” she said, squinting into the sun. “Going by the photos, the body was found over there, against that wall.”

  They headed over.

  It was strange. Mac knew there wasn’t anything to find; the local police had already been over the crime scene. But visiting the location was important for more than collecting physical evidence. It gave Mac a feel for the dimensions of the place. It gave him better perspective.

  Not that he could concentrate on anything but what Agent Bixler had told him.

  It’s bullshit. I didn’t know Lonny Harris; he didn’t know me.

  He and Penny walked around for a while.

  Penny was doing her best not to bounce, but there was a spring in her step she couldn’t hide. She was recovering from shoulder surgery, and had been deskbound for a lot longer than Mac. She was stir-crazy, and being outside at an actual crime scene was obviously like Christmas. She couldn’t stop smiling. Mac almost expected her to burst into song.

  It was worth the risk of getting busted by Val.

  And the risk of getting caught sniffing around the murder of someone who’d apparently had it in for Mac.

  He’d made absolutely sure he hadn’t been followed here. Might have looked kind of funny, him going straight from an interview where he’d all but had Harris’s death pinned on him to the scene of Harris’s murder. The last thing he needed was to give Janice Bixler any more ammunition.

  But part of him was glad he was doing this. It wasn’t illegal, and fuck Bixler and her bullshit. It was more important than ever to find out why Lonny Harris had been killed. And by whom.

  “One exit,” Penny said, pointing toward the busted gate that led into the alley. “But nothing to suggest he was chased in here. He was probably meeting someone.”

  Mac looked up at the back wall of the abandoned building. The windows were broken, and plastic had been taped over them. Squares of it had torn partially free on several of the windows, and snapped like sails in a high wind. Walls rose on the other two sides of the yard.

  “Who owns the building?”

  “A Chinese company,” Penny said. “They’re buying up everything in the block to knock down and build a mall. No link to Rasnick or any of his known associates that I could find.”

  He was impressed that she’d already checked it out. He hadn’t worked with Penny much in the past, but she had a reputation for efficiency. He supposed she needed it, being blonde and pretty. There were probably a lot of assholes who looked her up and down and assumed they knew why she got the job. He’d seen some of the same prejudices at play when he’d been partnered with Val.

  Val, who had been promoted above him and currently thought Penny and Mac were out picking up lunch, and definitely not checking out a crime scene on their own.

  “The report puts time of death at around four in the morning,” Penny said. “The body was discovered at 9 a.m. by some kids playing hooky, and it had rained. Heavily. Washed away most of the physical evidence.”

  “So what have we got?” Mac studied the ground, as though it might somehow tell him. “Lonny Harris, last known address in Greenwood. So who the hell was he meeting here at 4 a.m.? And how is he connected to Jimmy Rasnick?”

  And how the fuck is he connected to me?

  Harris was hardly a criminal heavyweight. He had a few previous arrests for selling stolen property, some drug offenses, and he’d done a couple of months in prison. There was nothing in his history that leaped out and screamed an association with Jimmy Rasnick.

  If Lonny’s death was a message, it was an obscure one.

  “I’m getting his phone records sent over from Homicide. Maybe they missed something.” Penny squatted down. “Hey, I found a quarter.”

  “Must be your lucky day.”

  Penny looked at him curiously, almost as though she was searching for sarcasm.

  Shit. Was he really that unlikable? He’d always thought of himself as professional, until Henry had kindly pointed out that in his case, professional meant the same as friendless. So what if he didn’t know every little detail about his colleagues’ partners or kids or softball tournaments or favorite colors or horoscopes or brands of toothpaste? How was any of that necessary? He worked with these people, he wasn’t trying to get into a green card marriage with them.

  Penny smiled at last. “I guess it is.” She slipped the quarter into her jacket pocket and wiped her hands on her pants.

  Mac looked around the yard again. “When we get back, I need you to go through all Harris’s phone contacts. Run their names and see if anyone stands out. And keep it under your hat, okay?”

  Penny nodded, her expression suddenly wary.

  Mac didn’t dare spell it out for her. She either had his back or she didn’t.

  He checked his watch. “Shit. I’m supposed to be somewhere.”

  He was su
pposed to be in Zionsville, reminding Henry not to do anything stupid. Zionsville, where there was still no evidence of a crime at all, unless Henry’s instincts had been right. The whole thing was starting to appear more and more suspicious and, after talking with Barbara Eiling, Mac knew Henry was right about one thing: Viola would be better off living somewhere else.

  “Um . . .” Penny frowned.

  “What?”

  She drew a deep breath. “You’re supposed to be at a doctor’s appointment, right? Because that’s what I’m going to tell the boss when she asks where you are and reminds us to play by the book now that OPR is sniffing around.”

  “Right.” Mac was relieved. She had his back. “A doctor’s appointment.”

  Penny flashed him a smile. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  They headed to the car.

  “I’m sorry,” the cheery woman in the frighteningly vivid sweatshirt told Mac. “You’re not authorized to see Viola, and Dr. Carlisle is much too busy to see you.”

  Stymied by Dreama Carey Coleman.

  He wondered if he should just flash his badge, but if Henry was right about this place, that would be a mistake.

  “Ten minutes?”

  “I’m sorry,” Dreama trilled smugly.

  Mac glowered. “Fine.” He glanced down the corridor, and saw a figure flitting along. A figure in a floral baby-doll dress. Shit. How wrong was it that Henry looked so fucking good like that? Drag had never done anything for him, and neither had girls. So what the hell was it with Henry in a dress that made Mac want to bend him over the nearest flat surface and pound him into next week?

  Henry tapped his wrist, then splayed his fingers and pointed at the front door. Five minutes?

  Mac pulled his gaze back to Dreama before she noticed the pantomime playing out over her fuzzy shoulder. “Fine. I’ll come back later.”

  “Visiting hours are between ten and twelve, and then two and six.”

  “For a place so concerned with security, you don’t do a great job keeping tabs on your residents.”

  Dreama pursed her lips. “If you want to speak with someone from security, I can call them now.” She fiddled with a plastic tag around her neck. A panic button.