Ricky had taken a shot at him two nights ago as he was driving home from the clinic. It sounded unlikely, though not impossible. Ricky had driven up behind him, the doctor claimed, as he was cruising west on I-394. Right there in rush hour traffic, he’d leaned out the window of his Hummer and started blasting away with a revolver.
Bellweather had gripped an imaginary steering wheel as he told his story, reliving the experience. “If I hadn’t managed to get a truck between us and then get off the freeway, who knows?” He steered to the right, then dropped his hands onto his lap. “He might’ve killed me. He gets in that Hummer of his, has a few drinks, he’ll do anything. He’s crazy, you know.”
Some of Crow’s doubt must have crept onto his face, because Bellweather had insisted on taking him into the attached garage to show him the bullet holes in his car.
“Can I ask you something?” Crow asked. “Why did you paint it pink?” He opened the passenger door. “Jesus, it’s pink inside too.” Pink leather upholstery, pink-wrapped steering wheel, pink sun visor …Even the gearshift—a manual transmission, to his surprise—was topped by a pink knob. It was enough to make him blush.
“I bought it for my wife. She was a Mary Kay distributor when I met her.”
“You’re kidding.”
“All custom paint and leather, cost me a fortune, and she hated it. When we split up, she got the Mercedes. You see this hole? This is where the bullet came through.”
Crow put his finger in the hole. “You sure it wasn’t a rock?”
“In the rear window? The slug was buried in the back of the passenger seat. There’s another hole in the trunk lid. I found the bullet rattling around in here.” He lifted a hinged, leather-upholstered lid to reveal a large, empty compartment in place of the back seats.
“I thought these new Jags were four-seaters.”
“I had them pull out the back seats—too small to sit in anyway—and build a storage compartment. Room for my hunting equipment. The trunk in this thing is barely large enough for the spare.”
“And you think it was Ricky shooting at you?”
“How many camouflage Hummers do you think there are in this state?”
“Did you call the police?”
“Sure I did. I gave them Ricky’s name, told them where they could find him. But guess what? Ricky was playing cards all night with Orlan Johnson and a bunch of his buddies. I don’t know why I bothered. What I need is a guy like you, Joe.”
It was just as well. He’d already decided to take the job. He really did need the money. Even if the doctor was only enjoying a paranoid fantasy, he seemed to be able to afford it.
After Bellweather retired, secure in the knowledge that the ever vigilant Joe Crow was keeping him safe from the predations of the Murphy clan, Crow wandered the first floor, inspecting Bellweather’s various possessions and trying to guess what each item had cost. The white living room gave him the creeps. In its own way, it was scarier than Bellweather’s trophy room. True, the office was full of dead animal parts—but in the living room, nothing had ever been alive.
The more he looked around, the more neglected the place looked. Dust balls gathered in the corners, faint gray trails crossed the carpeted floors. The few plants were dead or dying. The place needed a housekeeper. The guy had plenty of money—why didn’t he hire a cleaning service?
A door off the kitchen led downstairs into a finished basement, complete with game room, bar, and workshop. The shop tools all had come from the same store, probably all bought on the same day. The table saw blade still had a label glued to it. All the hand tools were shiny and appeared to be unused. It looked as though Bellweather had bought himself a complete home workshop on a whim, had it installed, forgotten about it.
The billiard table had seen some use, but not much. Crow made a few shots but found the game uninteresting without pockets to
Bellweather had gripped an imaginary steering wheel as he told his story, reliving the experience. “If I hadn’t managed to get a truck between us and then get off the freeway, who knows?” He steered to the right, then dropped his hands onto his lap. “He might’ve killed me. He gets in that Hummer of his, has a few drinks, he’ll do anything. He’s crazy, you know.”
Some of Crow’s doubt must have crept onto his face, because Bellweather had insisted on taking him into the attached garage to show him the bullet holes in his car.
“Can I ask you something?” Crow asked. “Why did you paint it pink?” He opened the passenger door. “Jesus, it’s pink inside too.” Pink leather upholstery, pink-wrapped steering wheel, pink sun visor …Even the gearshift—a manual transmission, to his surprise—was topped by a pink knob. It was enough to make him blush.
“I bought it for my wife. She was a Mary Kay distributor when I met her.”
“You’re kidding.”
“All custom paint and leather, cost me a fortune, and she hated it. When we split up, she got the Mercedes. You see this hole? This is where the bullet came through.”
Crow put his finger in the hole. “You sure it wasn’t a rock?”
“In the rear window? The slug was buried in the back of the passenger seat. There’s another hole in the trunk lid. I found the bullet rattling around in here.” He lifted a hinged, leather-upholstered lid to reveal a large, empty compartment in place of the back seats.
“I thought these new Jags were four-seaters.”
“I had them pull out the back seats—too small to sit in anyway—and build a storage compartment. Room for my hunting equipment. The trunk in this thing is barely large enough for the spare.”
“And you think it was Ricky shooting at you?”
“How many camouflage Hummers do you think there are in this state?”
“Did you call the police?”
“Sure I did. I gave them Ricky’s name, told them where they could find him. But guess what? Ricky was playing cards all night with Orlan Johnson and a bunch of his buddies. I don’t know why I bothered. What I need is a guy like you, Joe.”
It was just as well. He’d already decided to take the job. He really did need the money. Even if the doctor was only enjoying a paranoid fantasy, he seemed to be able to afford it.
After Bellweather retired, secure in the knowledge that the ever vigilant Joe Crow was keeping him safe from the predations of the Murphy clan, Crow wandered the first floor, inspecting Bellweather’s various possessions and trying to guess what each item had cost. The white living room gave him the creeps. In its own way, it was scarier than Bellweather’s trophy room. True, the office was full of dead animal parts—but in the living room, nothing had ever been alive.
The more he looked around, the more neglected the place looked. Dust balls gathered in the corners, faint gray trails crossed the carpeted floors. The few plants were dead or dying. The place needed a housekeeper. The guy had plenty of money—why didn’t he hire a cleaning service?
A door off the kitchen led downstairs into a finished basement, complete with game room, bar, and workshop. The shop tools all had come from the same store, probably all bought on the same day. The table saw blade still had a label glued to it. All the hand tools were shiny and appeared to be unused. It looked as though Bellweather had bought himself a complete home workshop on a whim, had it installed, forgotten about it.
The billiard table had seen some use, but not much. Crow made a few shots but found the game uninteresting without pockets to
Similar Books
