Читать книгу Mourn The Living - Henry Perez - Страница 18

Alex Chapa had spent much of his career kicking up piles of dirt and pissing off the people who’d built them.

He’d exposed area businessmen who had ties to the mob, cops gone bad, and all variety of cheats, chiselers, and shitheels. Chapa had paid a price for his efforts. His cars had been vandalized more times than he could remember, his front lawn was once set on fire, and there had been three death threats—at least one of which was taken seriously by the police.

But it had been some time—days, maybe weeks—since he’d last written anything that could be considered incendiary. This fact bothered Chapa, made him feel like he wasn’t doing his job.

At the moment, it was also a cause for confusion. Chapa could not imagine what he might’ve done to rile the thin but imposing man who had just burst through the door of the restaurant, rushed past the young lady offering him a table or booth, and was now rapidly narrowing the distance to where they were seated.

Maybe this was someone who’d landed in the joint after one of Chapa’s exposés. He certainly had that look. Chapa fought the urge to stand up and anticipate a confrontation. His first instinct was not to avoid trouble in front of the kids. But he was trying to work on that.

“You’re Alex Chapa?”

“As far back as I can remember.”

It was an off-the-cuff response, probably not the wisest one under the circumstances. Chapa knew that, but over the years he’d made a habit of answering that question with any one in a series of smart-ass lines.

“Then you’re the one investigating what happened to Jim.”

Chapa took a better look at the man fidgeting by their table. Did he look familiar? Maybe, though he couldn’t quite place the face. A waitress whose hands were filled with plates excused herself and did her best to shimmy past the guy who acted as though she wasn’t there.

“I’m not investigating, exactly. There’s nothing to investigate.”

“The hell there ain’t,” the guy said, then seemed to catch himself as he looked toward the children. “I’m sorry. It’s been a bad time.”

He looks like a bad time, Chapa thought as he excused himself, got up. and took the guy by the arm.

“Let’s go over here,” Chapa said and led him to the bar at the other end of the restaurant. “Can I buy you a drink?”

The guy shook his head. “Had too many already.”

Based on the stranger’s appearance and the way he smelled, Chapa had no reason to doubt that.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Warren Chakowski. I’m Jim’s brother.”

Chapa looked for a resemblance—maybe that was why the guy seemed familiar—but couldn’t find any.

“Were you two close?”

Warren Chakowski looked down, and Chapa had the answer to his question.

“I’ve had some troubles, you know?”

Chapa didn’t, but he could easily imagine, and nodded anyhow.

“I was born with some difficulties that I’ve fought to overcome,” Warren said as he rubbed his forehead. “Some times have been better than others.”

“I liked your brother a lot,” Chapa said, waving the bar-keep away. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sure you are. That’s why you need to investigate what really happened last night.”

Now Chapa remembered where he’d seen the guy. Warren Chakowski had been at the crime scene, standing along a tree line at the far end of his brother’s property. Even then it had seemed to Chapa like this guy was out of place.

“Look, Warren, I can see you’re upset, and hurt, and maybe a little confused—”

“I’m not confused about anything—” Warren said, raising his voice to an uncomfortable level.

Chapa put a hand on Warren’s shoulder and tried to settle him down.

“That came out wrong, it sounded condescending, and I apologize. But your brother’s death was a terrible accident.”

“No accident,” Warren stopped him. His demeanor had suddenly changed and he now appeared resolute, certain, and sober. “My brother knew he was going to die, knew they were out to kill him. He warned me to keep an eye out for myself and to watch who I talked to if anything happened to him.”

“Did you tell this to the police?” Chapa pulled up a stool and ordered two Newcastles.

“Like I said, Jim told me to watch who I talked to. I got the feeling he didn’t trust the police.”

The beer arrived quickly, along with chilled glasses and cardboard coasters. Chapa watched Warren take a long, cold sip from the bottle.

“Or maybe, if he really was worried about something or someone, he was concerned you might implicate anyone you spoke to.”

“And here I am now talking to you,” Warren said, smiled, and drank the rest of his beer in a single tilt. “Jim and me were supposed to go hunting this weekend.”

“I didn’t know he was a sportsman.”

Warren shook his head and signaled the bartender for another beer. Chapa shook him off, and slid his untouched bottle over to Warren.

“He wasn’t. Jim just went along because I wanted him to. Probably just to keep me from accidentally shooting myself.”

That sounded a lot like the Jim Chakowski Chapa had known. He wasn’t the sort of reporter anyone would ever want to hurt. He handled community news, did his share of feel-good pieces, and had been at the job for nearly three decades. But maybe he’d gotten himself into something.

Chapa doubted it. The cops had this one right. An old house in an even older neighborhood. Bad wiring. Worse luck. But no crime. In a few days the cops would likely reveal that Jim Chakowski had recently installed a new appliance or a new printer, or had started plugging his electric razor into a different outlet. A dozen or more possibilities that made a hell of a lot more sense than someone blowing up a house to get rid of a reporter.

Still, there was a look in Warren Chakowski’s eyes, an uneasy combination of desperation and determination that marked him as someone to be taken seriously.