Read Online And Leave Her Lay Dying by John Lawrence Reynolds - Free Book Online

Massachusetts, McGuire confirmed that one 1988 Buick Le Sabre had been destroyed in a highway accident on New Year’s Eve, the driver charged with D.W.I. A second Buick matching the description of the car that killed Silky Pete had been registered in La Jolla, California since February fourth. Its owner, a retired newspaper publisher, still resided there. He was seventy-three years old and had sold his weekly paper for a substantial sum before trading the Massachusetts winter for California sun.
    The third Buick had been involved in a fatal accident on an interstate highway near Mansfield in the early morning of . . .
    McGuire blinked. March 5th. The lone driver, killed in the accident, had been a thirty-eight-year-old resident of Taunton. He had owned a chain of three restaurants in the Taunton-Brockton area.
    McGuire made two telephone calls before driving south to Taunton, cursing the sloppy police work he had exposed.
    Five hours later he was sitting in Kavander’s office on Berkeley Street.
    â€œHe was doing at least ninety when he hit the bridge abutment,” McGuire said. Silky Pete’s grey file lay between them on Kavander’s desk. “State cop I talked to said they literally peeled him off the concrete.”
    â€œGo on.” Kavander looked bored, restless. He removed the toothpick from his mouth, examined the tip, and replaced it between his teeth.
    â€œDumb whistles talk to the wife and she tells them it happened on Saturday night. The cops check their calendars, say Gee, that’s March 4th. Too bad. We’re looking for a car involved in an accident on March 5th. Sorry to bother you, have a nice day, la-di-da, let’s go have a coffee. See, it happened within an hour of Silky being hit. All the cops are given is a date. One o’clock in the morning, the wife still considers it Saturday night. No witnesses, but a truck driver said he saw the car come up behind him maybe a mile ahead of the bridge. He said the Buick passed him at close to a hundred. Guess how he remembered the car.”
    Kavander shrugged.
    â€œIt had one headlight. Only the left one was working. The right headlight was out. This guy in the Buick, his name was Skerrett and he was in trouble at the beginning of the year. Bad money trouble. The bank was ready to call its loan, he’s behind on payments to his suppliers, he’s working with nothing but a skeleton staff at his restaurants. Then, end of January, he pays a big chunk on the bank loan. He gets the suppliers off his back, hires enough staff to get customers back, and he’s golden. Nobody knows where he gets the money. And he’s not talking.”
    Kavander studied his fingernails.
    â€œYou seeing a pattern here?” McGuire asked.
    â€œYou got more?”
    â€œLots more. I visit Skerrett’s widow. Big house on a hill in Taunton. She’s got two kids and some young guy has moved in with her. She sold the restaurants, even though she didn’t have to. Skerrett’s insurance company paid off on a half-million dollar accidental death policy with a lot of reluctance. I just finished talking to the investigator with the company and he’s convinced Skerrett didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. He figures the guy aimed the goddamned Buick at the wall because his business was going under.”
    â€œIt’s happened before.”
    â€œBut it wasn’t going under, Jack. He’d turned it around with about two hundred grand in cash. So where did he get it?”
    Kavander inspected his toothpick again and began breaking it into tiny pieces. “How the hell do I know?”
    â€œYou know where he got it. He touched Silky for it and when he couldn’t make the vigorish, or didn’t want to, he arranged a meet. Silky figures the guy’s a cream puff, he’s standing around Atlantic Avenue looking for Skerrett’s car and here comes the Buick. Silky’s caught like a rabbit on the road. Bang,