Читать книгу Murder Doesn't Figure - Fred Yorg - Страница 19

CHAPTER TWELVE

The two cops were the first to leave the scene, which made sense since their car was pointed down the hill. Unfortunately Dave and I, had nowhere to turn around. We were forced to drive back up the hill to the point and then around down the other side. As we passed Von Klamer’s place I noticed that the big iron gates leading to the mansion, had been closed. There was now a thick chain and lock on the gates, and the ubiquitous yellow vinyl tape warning people not to enter. There appeared to be, one lone policeman still on the grounds assigned with the dubious task of protecting the crime scene. I assumed that a whole host of police personnel and forensic experts would be returning later in the evening to make a thorough inspection of the premises for any small traces of evidence. As I looked back, I sensed that the mansion was somehow in mourning. The old place seemed to be surrounded by an eerie, almost sinister aura.

Nothing was said as we made our way up the hill and past the mansion. Finally Dave out of nervousness broke the silence, “I guess its true what they say, about the murderer always returning to the scene of the crime is true.” I looked over and gave him a half-hearted smile. He was just trying to ease the tension but I really wasn’t up for any idle banter. Dave continued his way around the bend and we exited Monmouth Hills without further incident.

The ride back to my place remained silent until we approached the Rumson Bridge. Once again Dave tried to take my mind off my troubles by engaging me in small talk. “When was the last time you were up in this neck of the woods?”

“About ten years ago, and after today I doubt I’ll be returning anytime soon.”

“You know the big cop, Case, he’s one bad ass son of a bitch. You know anybody that can reach out to him?”

“No reason to Dave, he’s given me every break he can and I’m pretty sure he’s going to continue to play it that way. At least I hope he does.”

Dave continued small talk, “Didn’t Case have an older brother?”

“Yeah, his name is Enrico, he’s two or three years older than Case.”

Dave pressed on, “That son of a bitch was ten times worse than Case, what ever happened to him?”

“He had an epiphany. He became a priest,” I answered.

We continued the ride through Rumson and Fair Haven only this time I wasn’t enjoying the scenery. My mind was conjecturing about the irony of Malacasa brothers, one a cop and the other a priest.

All these years I’d tried to be a decent guy and here I was up to my neck in a murder investigation, while they were out there on the loose. We passed through Rumson and Fair Haven and were now entering Little Silver, I had to get myself together. This was no time to feel sorry for myself, I had more pressing problems that I had to deal with.

“Dave, when do you think you can get around to fixing the car?”

“Sorry Fred, I’m leaving tomorrow for vacation, I’ll be gone for the next two weeks. Why don’t you get that friend of yours, Pat Melli, to fix it? He’s a good man.”

“Remind me to give him and the attorney a call when we get to my house.”

“Don’t you think you should go to the hospital and get stitched up?”

“No. I just want to lay down.”

Dave pulled up in front of my house and we both got out of the truck. I pulled my Ford Explorer out of the driveway as Dave unhooked the Triumph from the tow truck. We were now on the other side of the road, and we decided the most sensible way to get the car into the driveway was to push it in. Dave positioned himself on the driver’s side of the car, one hand on the wheel and the other on car. I was in the back of the car, ready for Dave’s order. He waited while a half dozen cars passed by us, and then gave me the green light. One good thing about the Triumph, it was light, and we shot across the road with minimal effort, to the back of the driveway.

“Thanks for all your help Dave, I really appreciate it. What do I owe you?”

“After the day you had nothing. Don’t even think of paying me. Oh, one more thing, you may want to turn on the car, to see if there is anything wrong with the engine.”

“Good idea,” I replied. As I turned the key the engine purred and the tape player blasted. Both Dave and I just broke up in laughter at the song. It was Warren Zevon’s classic, “Send Money, Guns, and Lawyers.”

“You still want me to remind you, about calling the lawyer?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”