Read Online Bitter Truth by William Lashner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Lashner
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face.
“And you think something stinks, don’t you?” I said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Not for the baby arugula. Where’d the heat come from? Who called you off?”
He shrugged and finished his salad, poured another glass of wine, drank from it, holding the stem of the glass daintily in his sausage fingers. “The word on the Reddmans,” he said rather mysteriously, “is that it is a family dark with secrets.”
“Society types?”
“Not at all. Best I could tell they’ve been shunned completely, like lepers. All that money and not even in the Social Register . From what I could figure, you and I, we’d be more welcome in certain social circles than the Reddmans.”
“A Jew and an African-American?”
“Well maybe not you.” He laughed broadly at that and then leaned forward and twisted his voice down to a whisper. “The Reddman house is one strange place, Carl, more a huge stone tomb than anything else, with tilting spires and wild, overrun gardens. Veritas, it’s called. Don’t you love it when they name their houses?”
“Veritas? A bit presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?”
“And they pronounce it wrong.”
“You speak Latin?”
His broad shoulders shrugged. “My mother had this thing about a classical education.”
“My mother thinks classical means an olive in her gin.”
“Well, this Veritas was cold as an Eskimo’s hell,” said McDeiss. “As soon as I got there and started asking questions I could feel the freeze descend. The dead girl’s father, the grandson of the pickle king, the word on him is he’s demented. They lock him up in some upstairs room in that mansion. I had some questions for him but they wouldn’t let me up to see him, they physically barred me from going up the stairs, can you believe that? Then, just when I was about to force my way through to get to his room, a call came in from the Roundhouse. The family, through our friend Harrington, had let it be known that they wanted the case closed and suddenly the heat came down from City Hall. See, Carl, money like that, it is its own power, you understand? Money like that, it wants something, it gets it. I never got a chance to see the old man. My lieutenant told me to check off the case and move on.”
“And so you checked.”
“It was a classic suicide. We’d seen it all before a hundred times. There wasn’t much I could do.”
“No matter how much it stunk. I need you to get me the file.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“I’ll subpoena it.”
“I can’t control what you do.”
“How about the building register for the day of the death?”
He looked down at his salad and speared a lone water chestnut. “There’s nothing there, but okay. And be sure to talk to the boyfriend, Grimes.”
“You think maybe he…”
“All I think is you’ll find him interesting. He lives in that luxury high-rise on Walnut, west of Rittenhouse. You know it?”
I nodded. “By the way, you find any Darvon in her medicine cabinet?”
He looked up from his salad. “Enough to keep a football team mellow.”
“Ever wonder why she didn’t just take the pills?”
Before McDeiss could answer the waiter came and whisked away his plate, with only the remnants of the dry shrimp vinaigrette staining the porcelain. In front of me the waiter placed the restaurant’s cheapest entree, Kung Pao Chicken–Very Spicy ($10.00), thick with roasted peanuts. In front of McDeiss he placed one of the specialties of the house, Sweeter Than Honey Venison with Caramelized Pear, Sun-Dried Tomato and Hot Pepper ($20.00) . McDeiss picked off a chunk of venison with his chopsticks, swilled it in the garnish, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, carefully, mashing the meat with Pritikin determination, his shoulders shaking with joy.
While McDeiss chewed and shook, I considered. Through his patina of certainty as to the suicide I had detected something totally unexpected: doubt. For the first time I wondered
“And you think something stinks, don’t you?” I said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Not for the baby arugula. Where’d the heat come from? Who called you off?”
He shrugged and finished his salad, poured another glass of wine, drank from it, holding the stem of the glass daintily in his sausage fingers. “The word on the Reddmans,” he said rather mysteriously, “is that it is a family dark with secrets.”
“Society types?”
“Not at all. Best I could tell they’ve been shunned completely, like lepers. All that money and not even in the Social Register . From what I could figure, you and I, we’d be more welcome in certain social circles than the Reddmans.”
“A Jew and an African-American?”
“Well maybe not you.” He laughed broadly at that and then leaned forward and twisted his voice down to a whisper. “The Reddman house is one strange place, Carl, more a huge stone tomb than anything else, with tilting spires and wild, overrun gardens. Veritas, it’s called. Don’t you love it when they name their houses?”
“Veritas? A bit presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?”
“And they pronounce it wrong.”
“You speak Latin?”
His broad shoulders shrugged. “My mother had this thing about a classical education.”
“My mother thinks classical means an olive in her gin.”
“Well, this Veritas was cold as an Eskimo’s hell,” said McDeiss. “As soon as I got there and started asking questions I could feel the freeze descend. The dead girl’s father, the grandson of the pickle king, the word on him is he’s demented. They lock him up in some upstairs room in that mansion. I had some questions for him but they wouldn’t let me up to see him, they physically barred me from going up the stairs, can you believe that? Then, just when I was about to force my way through to get to his room, a call came in from the Roundhouse. The family, through our friend Harrington, had let it be known that they wanted the case closed and suddenly the heat came down from City Hall. See, Carl, money like that, it is its own power, you understand? Money like that, it wants something, it gets it. I never got a chance to see the old man. My lieutenant told me to check off the case and move on.”
“And so you checked.”
“It was a classic suicide. We’d seen it all before a hundred times. There wasn’t much I could do.”
“No matter how much it stunk. I need you to get me the file.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“I’ll subpoena it.”
“I can’t control what you do.”
“How about the building register for the day of the death?”
He looked down at his salad and speared a lone water chestnut. “There’s nothing there, but okay. And be sure to talk to the boyfriend, Grimes.”
“You think maybe he…”
“All I think is you’ll find him interesting. He lives in that luxury high-rise on Walnut, west of Rittenhouse. You know it?”
I nodded. “By the way, you find any Darvon in her medicine cabinet?”
He looked up from his salad. “Enough to keep a football team mellow.”
“Ever wonder why she didn’t just take the pills?”
Before McDeiss could answer the waiter came and whisked away his plate, with only the remnants of the dry shrimp vinaigrette staining the porcelain. In front of me the waiter placed the restaurant’s cheapest entree, Kung Pao Chicken–Very Spicy ($10.00), thick with roasted peanuts. In front of McDeiss he placed one of the specialties of the house, Sweeter Than Honey Venison with Caramelized Pear, Sun-Dried Tomato and Hot Pepper ($20.00) . McDeiss picked off a chunk of venison with his chopsticks, swilled it in the garnish, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, carefully, mashing the meat with Pritikin determination, his shoulders shaking with joy.
While McDeiss chewed and shook, I considered. Through his patina of certainty as to the suicide I had detected something totally unexpected: doubt. For the first time I wondered
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