Читать книгу Walking Shadows - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 12

THE BITSBY AREA was one step above blighted. It had an oversupply of bail bond houses, twenty-four-hour convenience stores with bars on the windows, seedy motels, OTB outlets, deep discount electronics stores, and pawnbrokers. There were blocks of weed-choked lots and junkyards secured by chain link. The uneven roads were pocked with potholes, and the sidewalks were tattooed in graffiti. Streetlights looked few and far between. Decker had no idea how bright the lamps shone because the sun was still out when he and McAdams arrived at Brandy Neil’s apartment.

The woman who answered was thirty with a thin face that bordered on emaciated. She wore no makeup, her filmy blue eyes looking tired and sad. Oddly, her face was framed with luxuriant chestnut-colored hair that had been set in waves and curls. She wore denim jeans and a black T-shirt. Her feet were bare. After Decker made the introductions, Brandy invited them in; her voice was soft and sober.

Stepping over the threshold, Decker thought about Lennie’s description of an arm’s-span apartment. This one was made even more claustrophobic because the ceiling was low—an acoustical, popcorn top, which meant the place was probably built in the ’60s or ’70s. It was spare in furniture and spare of personal items. The couch was floral in yellow and blue, the material torn and worn. She invited them to sit on it, and the men complied.

“Coffee?”

“Water, if you wouldn’t mind,” Decker said.

“And you, Detective?” She was looking at McAdams.

“Water as well. Tap is fine.”

“Times two.” Decker pulled out his notepad.

She got up and went to a back counter that held a two-burner cooktop and a microwave oven. The fridge was bar sized and sat under the cabinets. She took out glasses and filled three cups from the tap. She handed out the water, and then she sat down. “I don’t know what I can tell you that will help. I don’t know a lot about Brady’s life. I mean, about his life after I left. When we lived as a family under one roof, it was hell.”

“How so?” Decker said.

“Well, I’m hoping you know about my dad so I won’t have to get into all that shit.”

“I do know. You were shunned after he was jailed?”

“We were terrorized. We had to move thirty miles north to Grayborn—a little shit town with a nice name. We lived there for about three years until Mom brought us back to Bitsby and enrolled us in school under her maiden name, Neil. By then I was around fourteen. Of course, my classmates knew who I was, but now we were all teenagers. They fell into two categories about me. In the first group, I was a total pariah. In the second one—the bad kids—having a parent in prison for murder was cool. Guess which group I fell into.”

“Not hard to understand.”

“I dropped out at sixteen. I was a druggie and a groupie and a horrible influence on Brady. Mom and I fought all the time, but I never expected her to kick me out.” She looked down. “But she did, and things worked out well. Being self-reliant made me get my act together very quickly. I got a job with a very kind boss who knows who I am and what I went through.”

“What do you do?” McAdams asked.

“I’m a bookkeeper, believe it or not. I was always good with numbers. So was Dad, and that’s probably what got him in trouble initially. Dad gambled. Mom used to tell me he had a system. It worked for a while, but then it failed and he got into debt. Real bad debt. Hence the robbery—robberies. The Levines were probably not the first.”

McAdams said, “Forgive me for saying this, but you must have a very unusual boss.”

“Every week, I go over everything with his wife or with him. All invoices, payments out and payments received. I leave nothing up to chance.”

“What business is your boss in?” Decker said.

“Paper supplies. He wholesales out everything from typing paper and lined notebooks to high-quality stationery. I’ve turned my life around. I’ve got a little money in an IRA and a little money in the bank. I live in this shithole place in this shithole area because it’s cheap and all I want is somewhere to rest my head at night. I’m not saying my party days are over. If someone else foots the bill, I’ll go out. But I’m not paying for drinks that are pissed out in an hour and leave me with a bad headache. Most of the time, I live like a monk.”

“And you’re still on nonspeaking terms with your mother?”

“She is positively toxic. So, no, I don’t talk to her. I do send her a Christmas card with a hundred-dollar check every year, and she always cashes it. That way, I know she’s still alive.”

Decker said, “She didn’t mention that.”

“She wouldn’t. To her, I’m just a bad girl who doesn’t care.” A long sigh. “What the hell happened to my baby brother?”

“We were hoping you could maybe help us out with that. What do you know about Brady?”

“Not a lot. We did talk, but not too often.”

“What did you talk about?” McAdams asked.

“Mostly we talked about how we were coping.”

“How was he coping?”

“He said he was okay. He had a job, he had a few friends. Mom basically ignored him and he ignored her. Plus, he had the entire basement for his living quarters. About four times the space of this apartment and no rent. Mom always favored Brady. Me? Not so much.”

“Did you know any of Brady’s friends?”

She paused and shook her head. “I knew a few of his school friends, but that was a long time ago.”

Decker paged through his notes. “Patrick Markham and Brett Baderhoff.”

“Yeah. Wow, haven’t heard those names in a while.”

“Anyone of a more recent vintage?”

Brandy smiled. “Yes, come to think of it. He had a pal from work. Boxer. He was a warehouse worker. I never met him, but Brady told me that he and Boxer would go out drinking sometimes. He was an older guy—around thirty-five or so. Sounds like loser company, but I’m not one to judge.”

“Is Boxer his first or last name?”

“Don’t know. Brady just called him Boxer.”

“It sounds like a nickname,” McAdams said.

“It might be.”

“What about girlfriends?” Decker asked.

She shrugged ignorance. “He never mentioned anyone specific.”

“I have to ask you this. Did you know of any activities that might have compromised Brady in some way?”

“If he was dealing, I didn’t know about it.”

“Your mom said he always had cash.”

“Then ask my mom about it.”

“I did. She had no idea how he got it.”

“Neither do I.”

Decker wondered how much he should say to her. Brandy appeared to be truthful. Maybe it was worth the chance. “I pulled in a couple of punks this afternoon. Both of them told me that Brady was selling used and out-of-date electronic equipment to recycling dealers.”

She waited. “Okay. Is there something wrong with that?”

“No. The kids said he found the stuff dumpster diving. Does that sound like the kind of thing your brother might do?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Brady could be … entrepreneurial. But his business wasn’t always legal, to put it mildly.”

“He dealt drugs?”

“Nothing big, but yes, he sold pot and pills in high school.”

“And that’s all?”

“He didn’t peddle tar or crack, if that’s what you’re asking.” A pause. “At least, if he did, I didn’t know about it.”

“So it’s possible he could have dealt harder stuff.”

“Maybe.” She looked at the ceiling. “Something got him murdered.”

“True enough,” McAdams said. “Was he good at computers?”

“I’ve never known him to be a whiz or geeky or anything like that. But he did work in the electronics department at Bigstore, and he was promoted to manager. So maybe he was more adroit than I knew.”

“Was Brady good at numbers like you and your dad?” Decker asked.

“Yes, he was, come to think of it. He was no abstract math genius, but he could add and subtract in his head. I imagine that a gift like that would come in handy working in retail. Today, with calculators and computers, his skill doesn’t bring much to the table. But it’s a great party trick.”

“How about if you’re betting and the odds keep changing?”

“I don’t think Brady was a gambler. We both had our fill of that life from Dad.” Brandy checked her watch. “I’m sorry to be rude, but I have to meet my mom at the mortuary tomorrow and I’m just dreading it. I need a little time to relax. If you have more questions down the road, I’m fine with it. Just not now.”

The men got up and gave Brandy their cards. “Call if you can think of anything else,” Decker told her. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Have I?”

“Very much. Thanks for your time, Ms. Neil.”

“Just call me Brandy. It’s kind of a stripper name, but I like it. It’s about the only thing I’ve kept from my old life.”

AFTER THEY GOT into the car, McAdams said, “If Brady was a gambler like his old man, it could explain how he wound up dead. Maybe he borrowed money from the wrong person.”

“It’s a thought, but a true gambler usually doesn’t have cash lying around. They spend it as soon as they get it.”

“A professional poker player?”

“Living in the basement of his mother’s home?”

“A mediocre professional poker player?” When Decker didn’t answer, McAdams said, “Well, what do you think?”

“I don’t have any definite theories right now. But what do you think about a manager of the electronics department of Bigstore keeping company with a warehouse worker?”

“He was stealing from the inventory?” McAdams said. “Don’t they keep meticulous records?”

“I’m sure they have records … how meticulous?” Decker shrugged. “If he was dealing in broken-down parts, what’s to say that a box here and there didn’t get accidentally dropped and ruined?”

“Then Bigstore would return it to the manufacturer.”

“Yes, if it was a really big, expensive item. But Bigstore sells a lot of glasses, decorative pots and vases, and kitchenware and small appliances and food in jars. Stuff they wouldn’t ship back because it’s too little. If it was a smaller item—a phone or a cheap game system—maybe the store would elect to lump it all together under its breakage insurance policy.”

“Okay. Suppose Neil and Boxer were occasionally lifting broken items. That’s a good theory for explaining Neil’s extra cash. But it doesn’t explain how he got whacked in the head and ended up dead.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Decker’s phone rang and Butterfield’s voice emerged on Bluetooth.

“Hey, Deck.”

“Hey, Kev. How did the canvassing go?”

“Between that and CCTV, I have a few things. I’m at the station house. Where are you?”

“We’re just coming back from talking to Brady Neil’s sister. We’ll be right over.”

“Is the kid with you?”

“The kid is right here,” said McAdams. “When do I lose the moniker? I mean, is it really proper to call someone a kid if he’s been shot two times in the line of duty?”

Over the line, Kevin Butterfield said, “You’re right. You are now officially Harvard. The girl can be The Kid. Because I’m sure you can’t call any female a girl anymore without getting into trouble by the PC police.”

Decker smiled. “Okay, Lennie Baccus is officially the kid.”

“Good to have the rules down,” Butterfield said. “See you both later.”

After he disconnected, McAdams said, “You didn’t tell him about Lennie’s supposed sexual harassment.”

“It’s not supposed, it’s real. My daughter confirmed it. I didn’t tell Butterfield because I don’t want to bias his opinion of her. She needs to be judged on her own merit.”

“Even though she’s a spy for her father.”

“I never said that. You did.”

“But you did tell me that you don’t trust her.”

“That has nothing to do with who she is. It has everything to do with who I am. I’m very cautious.”

“Indeed,” McAdams said. “I started out cynical. You’ve turned me suspicious. If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be downright curmudgeonly before I hit thirty.”