Moonlight Falls (A Dick Moonlight PI Series Book 1) Read online

  Phillips shifted the cigarette into his left hand, then he raised his right hand and extended the index finger.

  “To prove it, you gotta first be able to establish at least several possible sites of damage on the front torso for self-inflicted cuts,” he said.

  “Chest, stomach, and neck in this case,” I agreed. “Nothing on her back where naturally she can’t reach.”

  Now a second finger raised. “Hesitation scars have got to be present.”

  “Everything but the neck is a surface cut,” I confirmed.

  A third and last finger raised. “No damaged clothing.”

  “She was buck-naked,” I replied. “Shit.”

  The good but cancer-ailing pathologist took another toke from the medical joint.

  “So then Jake may have his suicide after all.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. “Because satisfying those three criteria doesn’t mean a goddamned thing if it turns out she was too messed up to even hold a blade in her hand, much less run it across her neck.”

  “Also don’t forget, suicide weapons do not have a nasty habit of walking away.”

  “Homicide made to look like a suicide,” I said. “That’s what I still say.” I crossed my arms over my chest, slipping my hands inside my pits to hide the scratched-up palms.

  “Maybe. . . almost definitely,” George agreed, blowing out more sweet-smelling smoke.

  Staring at the white wall, I thought about what might have been the easier alternative, how I might have simply written the report that Jake and Cain wanted in the first place. The report stating that Scarlet did indeed commit suicide. Christ, I could have collected my money and been on my merry way.

  But I chose to go a different route. The part noble, part save- my-own-ass route.

  Still, I had been the one sleeping with the victim. But now that I was involved—now that it had been made public—they had no choice but to go with me.

  Maybe my reasons for doing what I was doing were so personal, so ingrained, so motivated out of fear, that not even I understood them entirely. Maybe my reasons had something to do with not thinking straight—with once again making all the wrong decisions. But then, I was thinking straight. I had to believe that. My instincts and thought process had to be in good working order. After all, why else would I pose such a threat to Cain if I weren't in my right mind?

  Still, the law was clear in the matter of both homicide and suicide: victims must go under the knife. So at least I had that going for me in my defense should I require one in the end.

  What I did not have going for me was the irrefutable evidence I thought I would have had by now. Some shred of forensic proof that shifted the burden of guilt away from myself and that I could use to refute Cain and Montana’s suicide theory. For example: latent prints on the murder weapon, DNA samples separate from Scarlet’s, hair follicle samples, clothing fiber samples, etc. Something to establish a murder cover-up while using my case synopsis as a smoke screen. Because even though by the looks of things I could make it appear that Scarlet had been murdered, the evidence was still circumstantial at best. Conjecture based upon the interpretation of some weak physical evidence.

  Emphasis on “some” and “weak.”

  “I’ll wait for the Tox report,” I said. “They tell me she was comatose, then I take you up on your offer to examine the physics implied in suicide by the blade.”

  George licked his index finger, snuffed out what was left of the joint and returned the roach to his coat pocket.

  “They tell me she was only mildly drunk, with enough speed inside her system to light up the city, I go another route,” I said. “Which one, I have no idea.”

  “What about looking into the bruises and scratches?” George asked after a beat.

  “Could be something there,” I answered. “For all I know, they could be the leftovers from some sex game Jake made her play with him.”

  “That is, if they had sex at all.”

  “Maybe he liked to force it on her, in her own bedroom, using his cuffs as an aid.”

  George perked up. “Now you’re cooking with Wesson, Moon. Coming up with a solid theory. Motive, opportunity. . . “

  “Nothing solid about it,” I said. “Just another guess in a pile of guesses. There is one thing that’s true: if Jake was the one to slice her up, it would have made sense to cuff her limbs to the bedposts.”

  “Her bed have posts on it?”

  It felt kind of funny, him asking me about her bed.

  “I can’t remember,” I said.

  “If he did kill her and he did cuff her up, then those scratches would look a hell of a lot more like gouges. And there weren’t any.”

  “Looks like I may have to pay another visit to the Montana bungalow.”

  George made a scrunched-up, pain-filled facial expression. “Jake is not going to like that,” he said. “Move like that kind of goes against his swift conclusion objective.”

  I stood up. “I don’t think he has much choice in the matter.”

  “While you’re at it,” George added, “you might search the computer for any emails she might have sent to friends detailing her husband’s abusive nature. You might also want to see if she visited any websites that specialize in the proper methodology of killing yourself with a blade. Sick puppy websites. Lastly, little brother, you might look for a life insurance policy.”

  “Suicide doesn’t pay, remember?”

  “Nonsense. You pay out enough in premiums the insurance crooks can fix anything.”

  I pulled my leather coat off the chair back, slipped it on. Then I reached into the interior pocket and pulled out the cash envelope. I counted out ten fifties and handed them over.

  “For your granddaughter,” I said. “Per the usual deal.”

  George stuffed the bills into the side pocket of his smock without bothering to count them.

  Together we stepped back out into the autopsy room. We took one more good look at Scarlet’s body on the slab. I’m not sure I understood why, but I was beginning to get used to looking at her dead body. The pressure in my head had moderated a bit, and as for my right arm and hand, all feeling and sensation were present and accounted for.

  “They send over instructions for burial?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, stepping back into his office and rummaging through his file cabinet until he came out with a manila envelope. He pulled out a thin pile of papers, which he scanned. “This arrived by currier not long before you got here,” he said. “Surprise, surprise, they’re calling for an immediate cremation.”

  He handed me the requests. Nothing fishy about them. Standard requests for burial, signed by both Jake and Scarlet Montana back in 2003 when they acquired a living will. I handed the papers back to George.

  “They say how soon?”

  “Word I got from Fitzgerald’s Funeral Home is tomorrow afternoon, four o’clock,” he said. “No calling hours, just the bonfire.”

  “Jesus, George,” I said. “When were you planning on letting me in this little tidbit of information?”

  He threw his hands up in the air as if to say Oops!

  “I’ve got less than twenty-four hours,” I thought out loud.

  “What for?”

  “Before they torch our body of evidence.”

  “Listen, as a licensed county pathologist I can have it postponed pending your investigation.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want you getting in over your head until I have the definite proof I need to nail their asses for a cover-up.”

  “They’re gonna destroy the evidence, Moon,” he pointed out. “That one cadaver just might be the most important proof you’re ever going to get—your body of evidence.”

  “We have the law and procedure on our side,” I said. “You have the Polaroids and the computer disks. Keep them locked up. Do the same with the Tox report once it arrives.” I nodded in the direction of Scarlet. “She gets incinerated, that stuff will become as precious
as gold.”

  George walked me out into the dark, empty corridor.

  “One thing,” he said, eyes not focused on me, but on the concrete floor. “That seminal fluid I collected during her internal.”

  I knew exactly what he was getting at.

  “She definitely had sex with somebody within a few hours of her death.”

  I hesitated. “You gonna make slides of the samples?” I asked, a little under my breath. Actually, a lot under my breath.

  He shook his head. “Wasn’t enough material there to get a good read,” he said.

  “Not enough?” I asked.

  “Yeah, not enough,” he said, wide-eyed and convincing. “I decided just to toss the shit.” He looked up, pursed his lips. I couldn’t decide if he was a good or bad liar.

  “Why are you so willing to stick your neck out for me, George?”

  “You’re my little brother,” he said. “But I also like the side of right. The law, it’s not always right.”

  “You’re a dying breed, George,” I said. But as soon as I said it, I wished I could take it back.

  “Nahhh, just dying,” he said. “From this point on, I follow my heart. ‘Sides, I have to sock away all the bucks I can for my granddaughter out in Bozeman.”

  “You already make good money.”

  “I go with my heart. Probably would do it even if you didn’t contribute to the little sweetheart’s college fund. But like I said, no matter what you involve me with, it has to be on the side of right or I won’t play the game.”

  “That’s exactly how you should have put it to the draft board when they nailed you for Nam,” I said, gazing into his eyes.

  He smiled. But as I turned for the door, he stopped me.

  “Your hands,” he said. “You want me to take a look at them?”

  I felt my throat close up.

  “I tripped and fell is all,” I said.

  “Sure thing,” George said. “And you and Scarlet were just friends.”

  A strange guilt weighed heavily upon my shoulders as I trudged back down the corridor towards the freight elevator.

  27

  Stocky Agent stands and paces the gray room while staring at the concrete floor.

  I get the feeling that if this were a Russian spy movie, I’d already be strapped to a metal chair, my eyes blackened, my lips burst and swelled, my front teeth snapped at the roots.

  “Let’s change the subject for a minute,” he says. “Go back in time to October, 2003.”

  Coming from a G-man, the mere mention of the month and year makes my skin crawl.

  “What about it?” I ask.

  “According to your testimony, that’s the night you had your. . . how do you refer to it? Your accident.”

  I reach up with my left hand and pull back my left earlobe, exposing the button-sized scar.

  “This what you want to feast your fucking eyes on?”

  “Take it easy, Moonlight. We’re just talking here.”

  I feel my eyes do this crazy roll inside their sockets, as though triggered by a sudden jolt of electricity or pain. Almost automatically, I pull another cigarette from the pack, shove it in between tingling index and middle finger and fire it up.

  “I don’t see the connection between my accident and Scarlet’s death.”

  Stocky Agent steps back over to the table, sits back down. “I get to decide the questions, remember?”

  “I’m a trained dick, remember?”

  “Okay, I get it,” he says. “But what I want to know is, what drives a man to suicide?”

  “What drives anybody to suicide?”

  “Bankruptcy, clinical depression, terminal disease. . . bad marriage.”

  In my head, I picture my wife. . . the way I used to picture her to the point of obsession: fucking Mitch Cain. That one vision is what drove me over the edge, caused me to place the barrel of that .22 to my temple and pull the trigger. But then I never realized that it had been the same for her, her having to imagine what it was like for me to fuck Scarlet. It’s the answer they’re searching for—the parallel they’re trying to make between me and Scarlet. The failed marriage leading to suicide.

  I breathe in and out, trying my best to keep head and heart even keel.

  I tell him, “If Scarlet wanted to commit suicide, I’m sure she had her reasons.”

  “Just like you had your reasons.”

  “Yeah, just like that.”

  Stocky Agent throws a look at his bearded partner standing in the corner that says Can you believe this guy?

  The agent sits back in his chair, lets out a breath. He says, “Let me ask you something else. Guess for me the odds of a man shooting himself in the head point blank and surviving?”

  I smoke and think. “Ten million to one. Maybe a billion to one”

  “More like a one-hundred billion to one if you were to ask me,” Stocky Agent exclaims. “Fucking-no-way impossible scenario.”

  I stamp out the cigarette, exhaling a waft of gray-blue smoke. “So what’s your point?”

  “What’s the likelihood of a woman cutting the shit out of herself, not to mention her own neck, then disposing of the weapon after the deed?”

  I laugh. I can’t help myself. “Impossible,” I say. “But weirder things have happened. Am I right?”

  “Just take a look in the mirror, Moonlight,” Stocky Agent chuckles. “You fell off the tree of fucked-up-weird and slammed every branch on the way down.”

  28

  I saw the shadow of a figure standing in the driveway even before I made the right turn onto Hope Lane. A sole silhouette standing beside the house like an evil spirit.

  I cut the engine on the funeral coach, killed the lights and rolled quietly to a stop. I got out of the car, Browning in hand, and cut across the wet lawn to the slate steps that paralleled most of the split-level’s front facade. Making my way down to the drive, I glanced over my right shoulder with the expectation of finding a blue Toyota Land Cruiser parked out front.

  But I couldn’t see a thing. No Land Cruiser, anyway.

  Pressing my shoulder up against the corner of the house, I took a deep breath and exhaled. Then, with pistol aimed directly ahead, I stepped out of the shadows.

  “Down on the ground!” I shouted.

  “Please don’t shoot,” came the unexpected plea of a woman. “Please, please, I just came here to talk.”

  The motion-sensitive spotlight mounted to the stone wall above the garage had picked up our movement. It was now brightly illuminated.

  She was one of the Psychic Fair women. The short one with the long gray hair and fifty extra pounds of beads wrapped around her neck. She was dressed in a long flowery skirt and a matching blouse, all of which were soaked with rainwater.

  I pulled up my pistol, returning it to my shoulder holster, safety on.

  “Good way to get yourself killed,” I said, my heart rate only now beginning to slow. “But what am I saying? You people are immortal.”

  I sensed her trying to work up a smile, but it didn’t seem to take. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I thought that if I talked to you, face to face, I could somehow get it off my chest.”

  “Get what off your chest?”

  “Why Scarlet murdered herself.”

  29

  We were sitting at the kitchen table, she sipping a cup of Lipton tea, me slow-sipping a glass of Jack. She’d dried herself with a towel in the bathroom off the kitchen. The long gray hair that draped her pale face made her look quite sad. Her psychic name was Suma, but her real name was Natalie, so she explained.

  “I knew if I said anything when you showed up at our meeting, I would have been in big trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  She pressed her lips together. “Just. . . trouble. Maybe tossed from the group.”

  “I get the feeling your Master “Doobie” Dubois is anything but a live-and-let-live kind of hippie.”

  She tried to smile, but again it was useless.r />
  “Yes, the master Reverend is controlling,” she admitted, “but he is not the reason why I am here.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked, taking another taste of the whiskey. She sipped her tea, sat back in her chair.

  “She had no family, you know,” Suma-cum-Natalie said. “Scarlet. She had no family. For the past twelve months, we had been her family. She liked to tell us that.”

  I thought about it. I was well aware that Scarlet’s parents had died when she was young; that she had no siblings; that her first husband and only child had died in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. But in my heart, I knew Suma was not referring to that version of immediate family. She was referring to the family she might have had with Jake, but had been cheated out of.

  “She was learning a lot about herself,” the pleasant but shy woman continued. “About her inner self. Her dreams were becoming more and more vivid, more luminous, full of flying and astral images. But then, that was also her problem.”

  I poured some more whiskey and asked her to be more specific.

  “You see, Mr. Moonlight, for some people it can take an entire lifetime to reach the point that Scarlet reached in just one year. The point where one becomes so in touch with their subconscious soul, that they can actually control their dreams.”

  “I dream a lot,” I said, “but I guess I haven’t reached the point of being able to control them.”

  “That’s because you’ve probably never tried. But for some people, the separation of the soul from its body is the pinnacle of the mystical pyramid.” She paused for a beat, gazing into her tea. “Of course, that kind of power carries with it some risks.”

  “What risks?”

  “As heavenly as the vivid dream state can be, so too can it turn hellish.”

  “Scarlet’s dreams weren’t heavenly, I take it.”

  “While they would start out beautifully and wonderfully, they would almost always regress into a nightmare in which several shadow-like figures would appear,” she explained. “The way she told it to me, these figures would carry her paralyzed body away to an unknown place. They would strap her down and slice her open. She would experience this dream night after night. It would be so vivid, so real, it was like living her own death over and over again.”