Pale Kings and Princes

“Kid was killed with a .357 Mag. Two shots through the chest. One punctured his heart, and lodged up against his backbone. Other one went on through, exited under his left shoulder blade.”

“Found it in the wall,” J.D. said.

“What killed Valdez?” I said.

“Thirty-eight,” Lundquist said.

“Esteva own a gun,” I said.

“Nothing registered,” Lundquist said.

“I’m telling you,” Henry said. “Esteva’s clean. Why in hell would he give a murder weapon to some fucking seventeen-year-old retard?”

“Some kind of gesture,” I said. “Give the kid the gun that killed his father.”

“Sure, and let the kid drive around with a truckload of coke that’s gonna sell for a hundred a gram on the street,” Henry said.

“Henry’s got a point,” Lundquist said.

“Sure he has,” I said. “And it’s the point Esteva wants made. It’s why he used the kid.”

“If he did,” Henry said. “We only got your story for any of this.”

“Why would I make it up?”

“The fucking newspaper,” Henry said. “They been yelling for years about the cocaine trade in Wheaton, and they hire you and you come down here and find shit until all of a sudden you turn up with a hundred kilos that you say is Esteva’s.”

“Sell a lot of papers,” J.D. said. He spit again into his paper cup.

“Okay,” Lundquist said, “you don’t like Esteva for it. You got anybody else in mind?”

“Bailey had a lot of people didn’t like him,” Henry said.

“And didn’t like his kid?” I said.

“One at a time,” Henry said. “Maybe they’re connected, maybe they’re not.”

“So you have anybody in mind that didn’t like Bailey,” Lundquist said.

Henry eased around in his chair and put one foot up on the edge of the desk.

“Well, I don’t like to talk about this much, but Bailey was a guy who fooled around a little.”

“Women?” Lundquist said.

“He had a few. Most people didn’t know it, and it was no business of mine what he did on his time, you know. But...” Henry shrugged.

“Names?” I said.

“We ain’t got any names right now,” Henry said. “And I don’t know as I’d want to mention any to you if we did.”

Lundquist said, “If you don’t have any names how do you know Bailey was fooling around?”

“Aw, hell, Brian, you know. Guys fool around, they sort of half joke about it, they sort of let on, you know?”

Lundquist nodded. “And you think some one of his girlfriends killed him?”

“Maybe, or a husband, maybe. Things happen,” Henry said.

“Whoever killed the kid was let into the house,” I said. “No doors jimmied, no windows cracked. Kid let him in.”

“Or her,” J.D. said.

“We get who killed Bailey, maybe it’ll tell us who done the kid,” Henry said.

“Maybe Caroline,” J.D. said. “Maybe she caught old Bailey in the saddle up there.”

“I think maybe it was Madonna,” I said. “When Bailey criticized her singing.”

“That another fucking joke?” Henry said.

“The whole goddamned scene is a joke,” I said. “Esteva’s running C through here like water through a millrace and you clowns are sitting around fantasizing a mystery lover. I don’t know whether you’re as stupid as you seem or whether you’re in Esteva’s pocket. Or both... I sort of like both.”

J.D. stood up. “You son of a bitch, you can’t talk to me that way.” He reached a left hand out to grab my shirt front and I caught his wrist and held it.

“J.D.,” Henry said, “knock it off.”

J.D. strained his arm toward me. I held it still.

Lundquist stood up and slid between us. He didn’t say anything. He simply waited. I let go of J.D.’s wrist. He stepped back away from Lundquist.

“There be another time, smart mouth,” he said.

“One hopes,” I said.

Lundquist said, “This is going downhill too fast for me.” He turned toward Henry. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

Henry nodded.

“Let’s go,” Lundquist said.

He opened the office door and stood aside to let me precede him. I turned in the open door and said to Henry and J.D., “Cherchez la femme.”

Lundquist stepped after me and we went out and Lundquist closed the door.

In the parking lot, Lundquist said, “That didn’t help.”

“Maybe not,” I said, “but did it hurt?”

Lundquist shrugged. “I don’t know. They won’t be too cooperative.”

“They aren’t anyway.”

Lundquist nodded. “I still like Esteva for this,” he said.

“They don’t,” I said.

“They don’t like you,” Lundquist said.

“Maybe they don’t like me because I might find out something.”

“Maybe,” Lundquist said. “Watch out for yourself.”

He got in the cruiser and backed out and drove away.

26

Caroline Rogers was sitting up in bed watching a soap opera when I went to see her at the hospital. Her hair was brushed back from her face and she had on lipstick. Her nightgown was white with a blue ribbon at the throat. There were flowers in the room.

“Hello,” I said.

She turned her head away from the television and refocused slowly on me.

“Hello,” she said.

I put my hand out and took hers and held it.

“I’m all right,” she said, as if I’d asked. “I’m a little dull feeling, he says it’s shock. And I know I have tranquilizers in me.” Her voice was not quite slurred, but slow and unanimated.

I kept hold of her hand.