Little Black Book of Murder Page 14

  So far, Kuzik hadn’t found anything incriminating.

  Normally, I would have been working on poker night, so I rarely bumped into him. Tonight, though, I lingered on the porch. I said, “Who’s playing this evening?”

  Perhaps surprised that I had initiated more conversation for once, he paused and flicked cigarette ash off the porch before speaking. “The usual crew. One of Mick’s lawyers, and Ray, the bread-­baking cousin. Ken, the guy from the fishing store. And the new kid, Dolph.”

  “Dolph?”

  “He’s one of Mick’s guys. Not much of a player.”

  Card games usually bored Michael, and he didn’t often win. Poker didn’t bring out his competitive nature. I had long ago decided he played cards not for the money, but rather to learn something about his opponents. Sometimes he deliberately lost just to see what character flaw might show itself. His motivations for organizing the monthly poker game made me a little nervous, but I was also glad to see him enjoy the camaraderie of his male friends. He was always in a good mood when I came home after the game. Since Kuzik had joined the group, though, I wondered what Michael’s agenda was. I felt pretty sure this kind of fraternizing was against the rules.

  Carefully, I said, “Michael has a good time on these evenings.”

  “I brought some steaks. He did the cooking. They were great.”

  “He likes to cook.”

  We heard a roar of laughter from inside the house. Michael’s lawyer, and his slippery cousin, along with one of his partners in the fly-­fishing business were not the men from Michael’s other life—­the life I feared would suck him out of my arms and back into shady places where he could get into trouble. I felt moderately sure he was in safe company with this group.

  Maybe I should have said good night to Kuzik and gone inside without further ado. I took a chance, however, and said, “I think Michael could benefit by having something else to do with himself.”

  Carefully, Kuzik extinguished his cigarette on the bottom of his boot, then turned his full attention to me. He possessed an air of professional intimidation that he could turn off and on—­used, no doubt, to threaten his parolees into behaving themselves—­and suddenly he switched it on, full force, aimed at me.

  I stood my ground and met his gaze squarely. “I think Michael needs an outlet. Something that engages his mind, but maybe something physical, too. Normally, he’d go fishing or ride his motorcycle. But he can’t do those things now, and I—­I wish he had a way to blow off a little steam. He can’t be cooped up like this without . . .”

  “Without?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, sure he was thinking of crime. “I just wish he had something else to do.”

  Kuzik didn’t answer for a long time. Maybe he understood that I was asking for help. That I was worried about Michael’s tendency to break the rules, if he could get away with it. That I was nervous about some of the people with whom Michael associated.

  Finally, Kuzik said, “What did you have in mind?”

  “If I knew, I’d have encouraged it already.”

  Kuzik frowned out into the darkness, considering the problem. “Does he like sports? Bowling, maybe?”

  “He plays basketball.”

  Kuzik nodded. “Prison basketball, a dirty game. He ever get his teeth knocked out?”

  “No,” I said, testily.

  Soothingly, Kuzik said, “All I’m saying is, I could get him into a game, couple of mornings a week, maybe. But it’s with a doctor and a chiropractor and a university professor or two. Guys that don’t want their smiles messed up.”

  “I can’t vouch for his playing style, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said. “I’m just saying Michael could really use an outlet.”

  Kuzik nodded again. “Okay, I get it. I’ll see what I can do. And I won’t mention we had this little talk.”

  “Thank you,” I said, although I wasn’t sure how I felt about making a secret pact with Kuzik. I reached for the door handle.

  “Oh, there’s another poker player here tonight,” Kuzik said, as if it were an afterthought. “I forgot to mention. Your nephew. Is his name Rawlings?”

  “Rawlins.” I hoped my voice sounded normal.

  I went into the house.

  Kuzik followed.

  The kitchen was a wreck of dirty dishes, the result of the feast Michael usually prepared for his friends now that the game was permanently at Blackbird Farm. Four empty wine bottles stood on the counter, no doubt a gift from Michael’s lawyer friend, Cannoli. Several loaves of rich, crusty bread had come from Ray, Michael’s cousin, who ran some kind of underground bakery that sold magnificent artisanal breads to the most discerning restaurants. I spotted a pastry box from a patisserie in New Hope—­probably an offering from Ken, who managed the fly-­fishing company Michael co-­owned. Kuzik had said he’d brought the steaks. I wondered if he brought food to the homes of his other cases.

  Was Michael drawing in Kuzik? Studying him the way he studied poker players? And if so, to what purpose? I felt certain their relationship was different from Kuzik’s time spent with other parolees. But I wasn’t sure how. Or why.

  Kuzik followed me as I went through the butler’s pantry and the dining room to the library where Michael’s posse was gathered around an antique gaming table that had belonged to a long-­dead Blackbird cardsharp. All of the players had just picked up their hands and were studying the cards. They had unlit cigars at the ready for the end-­of-­the-­game ritual that now took place on the back porch since Michael and I had had a discussion concerning cigar smoke. And empty beer bottles were lined up on the floor around the table.

  Michael put down his cards and got up to give me a kiss, which caused them all to stand and say hello like perfect gentlemen. Even the somewhat sullen newcomer, Dolph, I presumed, stood when Cannoli the Younger gave him a poke on the shoulder.

  Michael introduced Dolph, and I shook his hand, which was the size of an iron skillet. He was a bodybuilder, I guessed, but short in stature. He clearly spent plenty of time in the gym or doing whatever manual labor Michael’s family required. Not even as tall as me, he had the shoulders and chest of a much larger man. I recognized him for what he probably was—­the latest in a line of interchangeable bodyguards from the Abruzzo family, albeit smaller than most. I wondered what had changed in the last day that required Michael to have protection in the house again. Dolph had one lone poker chip in front of his chair, while everybody else seemed to be sitting pretty.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” I said, feeling as if I were suddenly standing in a forest of big men. “Who’s winning?”

  “Not me,” Dolph said dolefully.

  “Cannoli,” Michael said.

  The lawyer smiled. When Michael got into legal trouble, he used the services of a law firm his family had dubbed, “Cannoli and Sons,” because of their appreciation of sweet pastries. One of the sons was Michael’s close friend as well as his attorney. He was tall and wore a bespoke dress shirt and a silk tie that had been selected by someone with very discerning taste.

  To me, Cannoli said with his usual courtly courtesy, “You’re looking lovely this evening, Miss Blackbird.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a smile. “For that, I hope you win big tonight.”

  While they laughed jovially, I turned to Michael. “I heard Rawlins is here.”

  “He’s waiting for you in the living room.”

  “Can I get anything for anyone?” I asked, feeling as if I should make an effort to play hostess.

  “We’re fine,” Michael said. “Leave the dishes. The loser cleans up.”

  Dolph sighed.

  I left them to their poker and went through the entry hall and into the living room. Shoulders hunched, Rawlins had his nose pointed at the screen of his cell phone as he lay on the sofa. His legs looked very long, his feet huge. He c
licked off the screen when I bent over him, but he didn’t meet my eye.

  “Hi, Aunt Nora.” His voice didn’t have much enthusiasm.

  I gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Come help me with the dishes.”

  I closed the door between the kitchen and the butler’s pantry to keep our conversation private. Rawlins followed me and made himself useful without being told what to do. Silent, he carried the wine bottles into the scullery to my recycling bin and scraped plates into the garbage. I wrapped up the leftover loaves of bread and rinsed the dishes before loading them into the dishwasher. Then I ran the sink full of soapy water to wash the glassware and pots. Rawlins pulled a clean dish towel from the drawer.

  When I was elbow deep in the water, I said, “So tell me what’s going on.”

  Rawlins sighed and accepted the first wineglass to dry. But he didn’t respond.

  “The police called. They towed your car.”

  “Mick told me. It was impounded, huh?”

  “We took care of it. Your mother paid the fine, so you owe her. But when I showed up, a state trooper got a brainstorm about a connection between you and Michael—­not in a good way. I’m afraid they are keeping the car so they can go through it more carefully.” I put the second dripping glass on the counter. Seriously, I said, “Rawlins, you know you can tell me anything. We’re not mad at you. We just want the best for you.”

  “I know.” He avoided my gaze, looking miserable. “That’s what Mick said.”

  I went back to washing dishes. It seemed easier to talk when we weren’t looking at each other. “So what happened? You left the car out on Sheffield Road in the middle of the night? Why? Did you run out of gas?”

  “That was part of it.”

  “Part of it? Were you with someone? A girlfriend? Or Porter Starr?”

  My nephew’s face turned stony, and he didn’t answer.

  “Rawlins, it’s just me. I’m not the district attorney, but that’s who’s going to be asking questions next if we don’t figure this out.”

  “I can’t tell anybody. I promised.”

  I said, “Did you give Porter the keys to your car?” The boy’s face twisted with discomfort, but he didn’t answer, so I said, “I ask because I found the keys. Beside Swain Starr’s body.”

  His eyes widened, but he said nothing.

  “Start at the beginning,” I said gently. “Where were you Saturday night?”

  “I’d rather not—”

  “You know Porter’s father was killed, right? He was stabbed, Rawlins. Murdered in cold blood and left to die in a pigpen. I saw everything, and believe me, it was horrible. I haven’t felt normal since the moment I found him. But the police are trying to discover who did it, and they’re not going to give up until they do, honey. They’re going to use sophisticated tests on your car, and they’ll probably find DNA from every person who’s ever been in it. So you might as well tell me now so we can figure out what to do. We can help you. But only if you tell the truth.”

  I thought Rawlins might burst into tears. His face turned dark, and his expression puckered. He didn’t look seventeen anymore, but more like he had when he was eleven and I’d caught him playing with matches in the barn.

  Michael let himself through the butler’s pantry door and stuck his head into the kitchen. He said, “Don’t do the dishes, Nora. I mean it. I’ll take care of the mess later.”

  “It’s okay,” I replied. “Rawlins and I are just keeping our hands busy while we talk.”

  Michael’s appearance stiffened Rawlins’s spine. He said, “I can’t tell you any more. You can’t make me.”

  Michael had already turned and was on his way back to the game, but the words Rawlins spoke—­although softly—­made him change course and return to the kitchen, closing the door behind himself.

  I glanced at Michael beseechingly, then said to my nephew, “Rawlins, we can help, but you have to tell us what happened.”

  Rawlins shook his head stubbornly. “I made a promise.”

  “You could get into terrible trouble! Michael, tell him.”

  But Michael was silent.

  That silence seemed to encourage Rawlins. He said to me, “I can’t go back on my word.”

  “Honey, are you involved in this murder somehow? How did your keys end up beside a dead man? And your car—­if you didn’t use it that night, did Porter? What for?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Michael,” I said, exasperated, “can you make him understand?”

  Michael had been watching Rawlins grow more adamant by the moment. He didn’t try to convince Rawlins to talk. Instead, he said quietly, “Sometimes your word is more important than the truth.”

  Rawlins flashed him a look of relief.

  “What is this?” I demanded. “Some kind of misguided code of honor? It’s a bad situation, and Rawlins needs to come clean or risk—”

  Rawlins said, “I know what I have to do.”

  He met Michael’s gaze, and the two of them exchanged a look I did not understand.

  “So what happens next?” I asked. “Am I supposed to tell the police I found the keys?”

  “If they ask,” Rawlins said steadily, “you should tell them the truth.”

  “But—”

  “Nora,” Michael said.

  “This is ridiculous! I don’t want to get Rawlins in trouble. We should get everything out in the open so we can help.”

  Before I could ask more questions, Michael said, “You ready to go home, kid?”

  Rawlins nodded.

  Michael pushed open the pantry door and barked, “Dolph!”

  The bodyguard appeared as promptly as a summoned dog, and Michael said, “Take Rawlins home. Come straight back.”

  Dolph took the order with a nod and went to the door. He opened it and held it wide, waiting.

  Rawlins came over and gave me a kiss. “Thanks for understanding, Aunt Nora. I mean it.”

  I didn’t understand. Not remotely. But I gave him a hug and was surprised to find how tall and substantial my nephew had become. He had a scratchy cheek, too. He had grown up fast, and now the world was getting complicated for him. Maybe he had to become an adult, but this felt like a hard way to do it. Tears stung my eyes as I held him tight and whispered good night. Before he went out the door, Rawlins grabbed a baseball cap off the hook by the door. He put it on, and they went out. Dolph slammed the back door so hard, the windows rattled. The concussion seemed to reverberate in my chest, too. Seeing Rawlins in a hat gave me a terrible thought.

  Michael said, “Okay, then.” And he turned to leave.

  As steadily as I could manage, I said, “What are you doing? Rawlins needs to come clean.”

  “Rawlins has to do what he thinks is right.”

  “Do you know what’s going on with him?”

  “I don’t know any more than you do, except he’s trying to act in an honorable way.”

  “Michael, you should have explained to him that—”

  “You don’t explain to a guy, Nora. And Rawlins isn’t a baby anymore. A messy, emotional, convoluted argument isn’t going to work with him.” Michael spoke quietly, but firmly. He set his jaw, too, exactly as Rawlins had done. “He has to think it through for himself.”

  “Are you condoning his behavior?”

  “You gotta let a kid fall down on the playground once in a while. Maybe he gets his knees scraped, but he gets up by himself.”

  “This isn’t a playground! We’re not talking about scraped knees. He’s not being honorable if he’s lying!”

  “He’s not lying. That’s the point. You were right with the code of honor crack. He needs to decide what kind of man he is.”

  “And if it’s a misguided choice?” I asked, struggling with my composure. “If he gets into bad trouble? He could end up in j
ail.”

  Michael had been that boy once—­playing games with the neighbors one day and hurting his brother the next. And paying a dear price. Eventually he moved on to stealing motorcycles and probably other crimes he hadn’t told me about—­but crimes that had landed him in big trouble. Nine years in prison had eaten up his young adulthood and set up the house of cards that was the rest of his life now. I ached with the thought that Rawlins might get washed into the same kind of quagmire.

  “Jail isn’t the worst that can happen,” Michael said, keeping his voice down. “The kid has to figure out who he is.”

  I walked away from Michael and found myself splashing into a new puddle on the kitchen floor. Dolph’s door slam had somehow triggered another leak, dammit.

  Maybe the puddle on the floor was the last straw, I don’t know, but like an idiot, I burst into tears.

  At once, Michael came over and gathered me up in his arms. “Hey,” he said. “It’ll be okay. Take it easy.”

  I pushed out of his embrace and choked on my words. “I know who he’s protecting, and that person isn’t worth the sacrifice. Or maybe it’s something totally different. Look at this.”

  I pulled the pregnancy test from my pocket. I’d meant to discuss it with Rawlins, but he’d left before I had the chance. I showed Michael.

  He went still. “Is that—?”

  “A pregnancy test, yes. And it’s positive. See the pink lines?”

  “Nora,” he said.

  “The girlfriend Rawlins was last seeing is away at college, and now he must be dating other girls, so who this belongs to I can’t imagine. He’s keeping a lot of secrets. If this is his doing, his mother is going to kill him.”

  “Oh,” Michael said. “This came from one of Rawlins’s girlfriends?”

  “It must have! I was working up to talking with him about it, but I didn’t get a chance before—­I just can’t—­Libby’s going to throw a fit.” I could hear myself getting hysterical. “I can’t stand it that a man is dead—­a very nice man, who had a family who loved him and—­and—­Rawlins of all people is in the thick of it somehow. But a pregnant teenager, too, is just more than I—­more than I—”