Play To Kill

    'Yeah, well, there you go.'

    'Bert?'

    Yeah?'

    'How many times have I got to tell you not to walk out of here with that receipt wallet? You're going to get mugged one of these nights. Everyone in town knows you take the cash home.'

    'Everyone in this town loves me, doll baby. Kiss the kid going to college for me. Tell her the boys all want to see her down here before she shakes the dust of this town off her shoes. You gonna lock up?'

    'Don't I always?'

    Marian wiped at her cheek as the fat slimiest of all men walked out the door. She was dead tired. Six days a week for fifteen years she'd worked two shifts at the diner; then the night shift here at the bar, and most of the time she felt like she was being pulled through a knothole backwards. But Alissa was going to college, by God, and that was the brass ring.

    By the time she locked up and the worn heels of her cowboy boots clicked across the empty parking lot, the stars were out, shining on who she was and what she'd done, and the moon looked surprised. Maybe, she thought, it didn't matter so much what you did as what you made happen for somebody else. Like your kid.

    She knew Alissa was already asleep. She also knew that there would be a freshly baked, beautifully decorated chocolate almond cake on the scarred, shabby kitchen counter, because the kid baked a birthday cake for her mother every year. There was some guilt wrapped up in that, because Marian had always had three jobs to support them, and no time to be Betty Crocker. Alissa had jumped into the role. There would be forty candles on the top of the cake, and some sloppy sentiment written on the brown icing, and wrapped presents around it with curlicue ribbons.

    Marian's face had weathered and hardened into a mask that no man would want; her knees were bad and her hips were shot, and most of the time she couldn't feel her fingers from all those years carrying the heavy trays; and still she figured she was the luckiest woman in the world.

    Dew sparkled on the windshield of the old Ford Tempo, lighting her way, and made Christmas in July on the spruce that towered around the slab of tar cut into the forest. 'How lucky are you?' she whispered to herself, key out to unlock the door, heart open to the blessings of her life, and even when she saw the tripod with its mounted camera, and felt the hand on her shoulder and the cold knife on her throat, she couldn't imagine that this could be anything bad.

Chapter Eleven

    Gino had the passenger seat of the Cadillac on full recline, but his eyes were wide open. Magozzi kept glancing over to make sure he blinked.

    'Close your eyes, for God's sake. You look like you're dead.'

    'I am dead, or might as well be, and I am never going out with you after dark again. First you take me to a drag club, then to some poor dead sap's apartment so I can see the sorry remains of his sorry life, then to the county jail. Christ. I had a better time at my vasectomy. What time did you drop me off?'

    'Four a.m.'

    'And what time did you pick me up?'

    'Seven-thirty, just like always. Jeez, Gino, you got three hours. What are you complaining about?'

    'No, I did not get three hours, because the little man toddled into our bedroom at a quarter after five and hurled all over me. Why do little kids get the flu all the time? It's not even flu season. It pisses me off. And why do we have to get up and work our regular shift when we worked all night? They don't let pilots do that. So many hours in the air, you gotta take so many hours off. Shit. Even truck drivers have rules like that. But cops? Nah. No sleep? No problem. Load your weapon and get out there. I'm an armed man with a brain you could stir with a straw. Now, that's just plain stupid.'

    Magozzi yawned. 'Tell you what. I got three hours' sleep. Ask me before you shoot somebody.'

    'Okay.'

    Magozzi pulled onto Summit Avenue, and a few blocks later through the open wrought-iron gate of Harley's driveway. 'Up and at 'em, partner. Time for our play date with the Feeb.'

    'You're not going to go off on this guy and get us thrown in the pen, are you?'

    'You want me to make nice with a Fed? Your onions fall off in the shower or what?'

    'This is a little Fed. A hapless soldier. He didn't make the decision not to pull cops in earlier. Besides, I'm too weak to referee one of your pissing matches.' He got out of the car and stretched, looking around. 'Man, I keep forgetting to get the name of Harley's gardener. Look at those peonies. They're just about enough to break your heart. You know what I think of when I see peonies? Cheerleaders. Don't ask me why.'

    'I will not. I promise.'

    Gino veered to the right of the walk and tromped across Harley's perfect lawn to the koi pond, his favorite feature of the house. He pulled a bag of miniature marshmallows out of his pocket and tossed a few in the water, then started humming the Jam theme music while he waited for the feeding frenzy. After a few seconds he called over his shoulder. 'Hey, Leo. These guys aren't moving today.'

    Magozzi sighed and joined him at the pond's edge. 'Of course they're not moving. They're dead. That's why they're floating on their sides.'

    'Aw, shit. I loved those big guys. What do you suppose killed them?'

    'Marshmallows.'

    'Now that was just plain mean.'

    As far as Gino was concerned, the really cool thing about coming to Harley's mansion in the morning was that it always smelled like his grandmother's house. Which meant that it smelled like animal fat. This was not permissible breakfast food in the home he loved so much, because Angela wanted him to live forever instead of letting him die young, fat, and happy. Bacon, sausage, the occasional flat steak, sometimes pork - these were the aromas that filled his memory, reminding him of Grandma's oak table and tin sink and the cast-iron pan spitting grease on an old wood-burning stove. Every time he showed up here in the morning he half-expected Harley to show up in an apron with yellow sunflowers and crinkly gray hair pulled back into a bun.

    Grace was waiting for them in the breakfast room, her eyes fixed on the cup of coffee that was cradled between her hands. Gino wanted desperately to hate this woman, because she messed with the mind of the best friend he would ever have in this life; but there was something about her that tugged at him.

    'You had food of the gods for breakfast,' he said with a smile, and Grace nodded.

    'Harley cooked cholesterol. He knew you were coming. By the way, we checked the dates on the murders confirmed so far, including your river bride. Lots of time between all of them, so your traveler theory is still alive, Gino.' She looked back at Magozzi. 'Any breaks with the river body?'

    'Nope. We got an ID on the guy, a timeline that shows him leaving a club alone, and the last person who saw him alive is a pickled judge who can't remember his own name half the time. How about you? Any luck tracing the film?'

    She shook her head. 'Nobody's been able to trace it. We think that tactic is a dead end - whoever did this is too good to leave tracks.

    'Did you bring our films?'

    Magozzi patted his sports-coat pocket. 'Ten bodies, some fresh, some not so fresh, just like you asked. It was a pretty weird request, Grace.'

    'If Roadrunner's idea works, these disks are going to teach our software program how to tell if a murder is real or staged. He can explain it better than I can. How long can we keep them?'

    'No real hurry, all the cases are cleared. But I signed for them, and they have to go back to the locker eventually, so don't give them to your pet Fed.'