Dead In Red by L.L. Bartlett Page B

even
embarrassed—that would come later—I let him lead me out the bar’s
back door. All too soon I felt the sensation of acceleration. I was
in the passenger seat of my car with Richard at the wheel, and no
memory of how I got there.
    “How’d—?”
    “Brenda’s driving my car back. What happened
to your face?”
    I rolled down the window, hot air blasting
my eyes. “Long story.” But I didn’t offer it, too busy trying to
quell the urge to purge my stomach. I leaned back against the
upholstery, concentrated on breathing only. A million years later,
Richard braked and I saw the shimmering outline of his house out
the driver’s side window beyond me. Richard got out, slammed the
door with a deafening bang and seconds later hauled me out and was
leading me up the steps and through the door. Half a minute later I
was on my bed, head hanging over the edge. Richard grabbed my left
hand, placed the wastebasket in it.
    “Just in case,” he said.
    I closed my eyes and his footsteps faded
away. Time stopped for a couple of decades. I wasn’t truly asleep,
but I wasn’t awake, either. Caught in a limbo that threatened but
refused to deliver blessed oblivion, my mind kept recycling
thoughts and images of the sparkling red shoe, glistening,
scarlet-drenched hands, and a blood-drained Walt, his vacant eyes
forever focused on an empty eternity.
     
    * * *
     
    The sun had
been up at least three hours when I cracked my eyes open the next
morning. I wasn’t sure how bad I felt—but I knew it was better than
I’d been the day before. Before the thought of food or even coffee
entered my mind, I needed to find out about the arrest Tom had told
me about the day before.
    I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand,
and punched in a number I’d memorized months before.
    “Newsroom. Sam Nielsen.”
    “The cops made an arrest?”
    “Jeff? I was going to call you. You need a
cell phone.”
    I closed my eyes against the onslaught of
light leaking around the back window. “You can always reach me
here. Besides, cell phones take money and I’ve only had a job for
four days.”
    “Your brother’s sitting on millions. He
can’t buy you one?”
    Sam and I weren’t close enough for me to get
into that situation. “Just tell me what you know.”
    “Schizophrenic homeless guy. Name’s Craig
Buchanan. He had the murder weapon on him.”
    “A stiletto.”
    “You got it. But he didn’t do it,
right?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You got a line on who did?”
    “Not yet. What else can you tell me?”
    “Just the guy’s next of kin. A sister in
Cheektowaga—not far from you.” Paper rustled, as he must’ve
consulted his notes. “Cara Scott. I’ll save you some time.” He gave
me her address. “The story’s in today’s edition. You can check it
online now.”
    “I’ll do that.” He was being too helpful.
What would he want in return?
    I pushed some more. “The cops gave Kaplan’s
cousin his house keys. Did they say anything about his wallet or
the missing ring?”
    “Nothing on the wallet. The ring hasn’t been
hocked—at least not yet. I guess the keys were on the body, along
with pocket change. You know, Jeff, we should work together on
this.”
    The memory of Richard’s blood-soaked trench
coat was still too fresh for me to want to take up anyone’s offer
of help. As it was, had I put Maggie in danger by allowing her to
come with me to Holiday Valley?
    “I thought you said this wasn’t your
story.”
    “It wasn’t. The guy who had it went on a
cruise. The Caribbean in June, can you believe it? So what’ve you
got?”
    “Nothing I can talk about yet. Just some
impressions that don’t add up.”
    “Yet.”
    “Yeah. Yet.”
    “The two of us would make a helluva team,”
he tried again. “I don’t have to name my sources, you know.”
    “I know. But I don’t have anything concrete
to give you yet.”
    “Yeah, well keep me in mind. I’ll be talking
to you, Jeff.” The receiver clicked in my