‘Every day, buddy.’
3
Marty Pullman was sitting on the closed toilet lid in his downstairs bathroom, staring down the muzzle of a 357 Magnum. The round black hole looked very large, which worried him. Worse yet, the toilet faced the big mirror on the sliding doors that enclosed the bathtub, and he wasn’t too keen on watching his own snuff film. He thought about it for a minute, then got into the bathtub and slid the doors closed behind him.
He smiled a little as he aimed the shower nozzle toward the back of the tub and turned the spray on full blast. He may have made a mess of his life, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to make a mess of his death.
Finally satisfied, he sat down in the tub and put the muzzle in his mouth. Water poured over his head, his clothes, his shoes.
He hesitated for just a few seconds, wondering again what, if anything, he’d done last night. Not that it would matter now, he thought, slipping his thumb through the trigger guard.
‘Mr Pullman?’
Marty froze, his thumb quivering on the trigger. Goddamn it, he was hallucinating. He had to be. No one ever came to this house, and certainly no one would just let himself in – except maybe a Jehovah’s Witness, which made him glad he had the gun.
‘Mr Pullman?’ The male voice was louder now, closer, and he sounded young. ‘Are you in there, sir?’ A forceful knock rattled the bathroom door in its frame.
The gun tasted terrible as he pulled it from his mouth, and he spat into the water swirling toward the drain. ‘Who is it?’ he shouted, trying his best to sound scary and aggressive.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Pullman, but Mrs Gilbert told me to break the door down if I had to.’
‘Who the hell are you and how do you know Lily?’ Marty shouted.
‘Jeff Montgomery, sir? I work at the nursery?’
The kid spoke only in questions. God, that was irritating. Marty looked down at the gun and sighed. He was never going to get this done. ‘Stay right where you are. I’ll be out in a minute.’
He scrambled out of the tub, stripped out of his drenched clothes, then stuffed gun, clothes, and shoes into the hamper. He wrapped a towel around his waist, then opened the bathroom door.
A tall, good-looking kid – eighteen or nineteen at most – was standing awkwardly in the hallway, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets.
‘Okay. Here I am. Now tell me why Lily wanted you to break my door down.’
Jeff Montgomery had big blue eyes that grew comically wide when he noticed the thick scar that slashed a diagonal across Marty’s bare chest. He looked away quickly.
‘Uh . . . I didn’t actually break down your door? It was open? And Mrs Gilbert has been trying to call you forever, but no one answered your phone? And jeez, Mr Pullman, I’m really sorry, but Mr Gilbert passed away.’
Marty didn’t move for a minute; didn’t even blink; then he rubbed the heel of his hand hard against his forehead, as if it would help him absorb the information. ‘What?’ he whispered. ‘Morey’s dead?’
The kid pressed his lips together and scowled down at the floor, trying not to cry, and Marty’s opinion of him shot up a few degrees, even if he did end every sentence with a question mark. Anyone who liked Morey enough to cry for him couldn’t be all bad.
‘He was shot, Mr Pullman. Someone shot Mr Gilbert.’
Marty didn’t say anything, but he felt the blood drain from his face as if someone had just pulled a plug. He sagged sideways against the bathroom door frame, glad it was there to hold him up.
Jesus Christ, he hated this world.
4
‘Come on, Leo. Stop at Target or someplace so I can buy a pair of pants,’ Gino grumbled from the passenger seat.
Magozzi shook his head. ‘Can’t. Crime scene’s getting older by the minute.’
Gino plucked unhappily at the legs of his shorts. ‘This is totally unprofessional.’ He blew out a noisy sigh and looked out the window.
He’d always liked this part of Minneapolis. They were on Calhoun Parkway now, circling Lake Calhoun only a little slower than the bikers who decorated the asphalt trail in their brightly colored costumes. There were even a few windsurfers out today, dancing across the water with their triangle sails.
‘Damn, I hate this part.’
‘At least we don’t have to tell her,’ Magozzi said. ‘That’s something.’
‘Yeah, I suppose. But we still have to ask her questions, like did she shoot her husband in the head.’
‘That’s why we get the big bucks.’
There was a squad on the street and another one blocking the driveway of the Uptown Nursery when Magozzi and Gino arrived. A couple of uniforms were standing around with rolls of yellow crime-scene tape, looking lost. Magozzi showed his badge when one of them approached the window. ‘You got a grid staked out? You want us to park on the street?’
The uniform took off his hat and wiped his shiny forehead with a sleeve. It was already hot in the sun, especially on asphalt. ‘Hell, I don’t know, Detective. We got no clue where to string the tape.’
‘Gee, how about around the body?’ Gino suggested.
The cop bristled a little. ‘Yeah, well the wife moved the body.’
‘What?’
‘That’s right. She found him outside and moved him into the greenhouse. Said she didn’t want to leave him out in the rain.’
Magozzi groaned. ‘Oh, man.’
‘Lock her up,’ Gino muttered. ‘Tampering with evidence, destroying a crime scene. Lock her up and throw away the key. She probably killed him anyway.’
‘She’s about a million years old, Detective.’
‘Yeah, well that’s the thing about guns. Old people, kids, anybody can use ’em. They’re equal-opportunity murder weapons.’ He got out of the car and slammed the door and started walking slowly toward the big greenhouse in front, eyes down in case the rain had missed a bloody footprint or something.
The uniform watched him go, shaking his head. ‘That is not a happy man.’
‘Normally he is,’ Magozzi replied. ‘He’s just pissed because I wouldn’t let him stop and change into some long pants before we came here.’
‘You gotta give him points, then. Those are some bad legs.’
‘Who belongs to the other squad?’
‘Viegs and Berman. They’re walking the block, hitting the neighbors. Couple of bike patrols are baby-sitting the body inside, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the old lady has them watering plants or something.’
‘Yeah?’
The uniform wiped his brow with his sleeve again. ‘She’s a piece of work, that one.’
‘You got a feeling about her?’
‘Yeah. I got a feeling her husband’s getting the first rest he’s had in years.’
Magozzi caught up to Gino in the middle of the lot, staring at the hearse angled in front of the greenhouse.
‘We got no crime scene,’ Gino grumbled. ‘Rain trashed it first, then the funeral director drove his tank all over it, and . . . oh, man. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?’
Behind and almost hidden by the hearse was a white ’66 Chevy Malibu convertible, red leather interior, positively cherry. Gino had lusted after it from the first time he’d seen it.
‘Huh,’ Magozzi grunted. ‘What do you think?’
Gino clucked his tongue, the envy as ripe as ever. ‘Gotta be his. There isn’t another one like it in the Cities.’
‘So what’s he doing here?’
‘Beats me. Buying flowers?’
Neither one of them had seen Marty Pullman since he’d left the force a year ago, a few months after his wife had died. Not that they’d known him that well even when they were all carrying the same badge. In Minneapolis, Homicide and Narcotics didn’t mix nearly as often as they did on TV. It was just that once you saw Marty, you weren’t likely to forget him. He still had the wrestler’s physique that had taken him to State in high school. Short, bowlegs, massive chest and arms, and dark eyes that had looked haunted even before they were. They’d called him Gorilla back when he’d still had a sense of humor, but those days were long gone.