road. “I was dealing with Elmer Fudd over there,” he said.
“Jesus Christ,” said Skene. He reached down and adjusted the waist of his pants. Then he looked back at Brendan.
“I checked his ID. Kevin Heilshorn, from Scarsdale.”
“Okay. Tell me what else you have.”
“In the shed,” said Brendan. “There appeared to be a burnt device in the trash.”
“A ‘burnt device’? What does that mean?”
“Burned. Cooked. Incinerated. A computer, maybe. Someone torched their laptop. The one upstairs could be a dummy.”
“Why would you think that?”
“A hunch. I also . . .”
“A hunch. Who are you, Kojak? Check it anyway.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Brendan. He turned and started walking away. His head was blazing hot from the sun beating down on his dark hair. His suit was itchy. The breakfast he’d horked down at the diner wasn’t sitting right in his stomach. Suddenly, he stopped, and bent forward, putting his hands on his knees. There he swayed. He thought he was going to vomit, just like Kevin Heilshorn had.
He closed his eyes. He could hear Delaney and Skene mumbling behind him. Skene sounded agitated, incredulous. Delaney was placating. A moment later, Delaney walked over and put a hand on Brendan’s shoulder.
“You alright?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Don’t let him get to you,” Delaney whispered. “He’s a fucking prick. It’s an election year. Now come on. Stand up. It’s almost over.”
Brendan slowly got to his feet. He felt lightheaded, but the sensation was starting to subside. He looked at the house. With sweat in his eyes, it took on the look of a looming funhouse, pitching and yawing. He wiped the moisture away with the back of his suit sleeve. A second later, he took off the jacket and tossed it in the grass.
When he looked back at Skene and Delaney, Delaney’s mouth was open, his hands out in front of him, ready to minister the make-up between the prosecutor and rookie detective. Brendan said, “I have something else to show you.”
Skene’s flat face showed a tremor of response to this. He came over, with his weird, shit-pants walk. Delaney, a little dumbfounded, followed. As they approached, Delaney’s expression tried to convey, What aren’t you telling me ?
Brendan unsnapped the sleeves of his shirt. He rolled up the cuffs to his elbows. He looked at both men, their eyes concealed behind their sunglasses. Then he turned and started towards the house.
* * *
Inside, the kitchen was gloomy and refreshingly cool.
Skene goggled at everything, his eyes darting around like a kid looking for Christmas presents. Delaney wore a mildly puzzled, mildly amused expression. Both men had removed their sunglasses and perched them atop their heads – Delaney with a few wispy hairs left, Skene with thick salt-and-pepper curls.
“What are we looking at?”
For a moment, Brendan saw Delaney’s eyes drop to the pile of knives on the butcher’s block. Brendan shot Delaney a look that conveyed: It’s not the knives. They walked further into the room, passing the appliances, including the new dishwasher, the sink, the counter space, the spice rack and two hanging bunches of dried herbs, and through into another room.
Brendan flipped the light switch.
The large oval, antique dining table had a leaf added to its center. Eight chairs were around it. As Brendan had told Skene outside, the furniture was thick with dust. Silken cobwebs were festooned around the corners of the room. There were no placemats or adornments to the table except for two cast iron candelabras, giving the whole set-up a rather macabre feel. Flanking the table were two banks of cabinetry, all white, with small wood knobs on the drawers. Fine dinnerware was stored in the top glass cabinets.
In between the rows of drawers and upper glass-front cabinets, was an open shelf. Other candles and candle holders sat there, as well as a basket of faded cloth napkins. Everything was covered in dust.
“Jesus Christ,” said Skene. He reached down and adjusted the waist of his pants. Then he looked back at Brendan.
“I checked his ID. Kevin Heilshorn, from Scarsdale.”
“Okay. Tell me what else you have.”
“In the shed,” said Brendan. “There appeared to be a burnt device in the trash.”
“A ‘burnt device’? What does that mean?”
“Burned. Cooked. Incinerated. A computer, maybe. Someone torched their laptop. The one upstairs could be a dummy.”
“Why would you think that?”
“A hunch. I also . . .”
“A hunch. Who are you, Kojak? Check it anyway.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Brendan. He turned and started walking away. His head was blazing hot from the sun beating down on his dark hair. His suit was itchy. The breakfast he’d horked down at the diner wasn’t sitting right in his stomach. Suddenly, he stopped, and bent forward, putting his hands on his knees. There he swayed. He thought he was going to vomit, just like Kevin Heilshorn had.
He closed his eyes. He could hear Delaney and Skene mumbling behind him. Skene sounded agitated, incredulous. Delaney was placating. A moment later, Delaney walked over and put a hand on Brendan’s shoulder.
“You alright?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Don’t let him get to you,” Delaney whispered. “He’s a fucking prick. It’s an election year. Now come on. Stand up. It’s almost over.”
Brendan slowly got to his feet. He felt lightheaded, but the sensation was starting to subside. He looked at the house. With sweat in his eyes, it took on the look of a looming funhouse, pitching and yawing. He wiped the moisture away with the back of his suit sleeve. A second later, he took off the jacket and tossed it in the grass.
When he looked back at Skene and Delaney, Delaney’s mouth was open, his hands out in front of him, ready to minister the make-up between the prosecutor and rookie detective. Brendan said, “I have something else to show you.”
Skene’s flat face showed a tremor of response to this. He came over, with his weird, shit-pants walk. Delaney, a little dumbfounded, followed. As they approached, Delaney’s expression tried to convey, What aren’t you telling me ?
Brendan unsnapped the sleeves of his shirt. He rolled up the cuffs to his elbows. He looked at both men, their eyes concealed behind their sunglasses. Then he turned and started towards the house.
* * *
Inside, the kitchen was gloomy and refreshingly cool.
Skene goggled at everything, his eyes darting around like a kid looking for Christmas presents. Delaney wore a mildly puzzled, mildly amused expression. Both men had removed their sunglasses and perched them atop their heads – Delaney with a few wispy hairs left, Skene with thick salt-and-pepper curls.
“What are we looking at?”
For a moment, Brendan saw Delaney’s eyes drop to the pile of knives on the butcher’s block. Brendan shot Delaney a look that conveyed: It’s not the knives. They walked further into the room, passing the appliances, including the new dishwasher, the sink, the counter space, the spice rack and two hanging bunches of dried herbs, and through into another room.
Brendan flipped the light switch.
The large oval, antique dining table had a leaf added to its center. Eight chairs were around it. As Brendan had told Skene outside, the furniture was thick with dust. Silken cobwebs were festooned around the corners of the room. There were no placemats or adornments to the table except for two cast iron candelabras, giving the whole set-up a rather macabre feel. Flanking the table were two banks of cabinetry, all white, with small wood knobs on the drawers. Fine dinnerware was stored in the top glass cabinets.
In between the rows of drawers and upper glass-front cabinets, was an open shelf. Other candles and candle holders sat there, as well as a basket of faded cloth napkins. Everything was covered in dust.
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