A Visible Darkness - By Jonathon King Page 0,37

“But it feels right.”

McCane seemed truly disappointed, and took another drink.

“All right, bud. But we got bigger fish to fry now.”

He filled me in on his middleman theory. He and Billy might not be able to look each other objectively in the face, but their paper chase had become an effective partnership.

Billy had run down the legal work on several of the insurance policies. In the ways of lawyers and accountants, there had been a meticulous recording of money expended in obtaining the discounted policies.

One of the line items was the payment of a finder’s fee. Billy had come up with a Dr. Harold Marshack, psychologist, address in Florida.

“Guy lives in a condo by the beach,” said McCane. “Gives the same address for his office. Manchester ran him through some Internet link he’s got with the state department of transportation and gave me his plate and car description and I tailed him.”

McCane finished off his shot. The small glass looked ridiculous pinched between his thick fingers. There was no alcoholic glow in his eyes. Just the enjoyment of letting his tale leak out slowly to me.

“I followed him to the grocery for milk and donuts. To the Office Depot for paper and stuff. To the bank. Then he takes me on a squirrelly ride to the west side. At first I thought he’d made me. But he was just being careful.”

McCane took another drink of his beer chaser.

“He makes one stop at some shabby liquor store on the edge of blacktown over on West Sunrise.”

No one at the bar acknowledged the slur, if they even heard it. The bartender kept washing glasses. The two guys watching ESPN never flinched. Bonnie Raitt kept singing about shattered love on the jukebox. I’d been wrong about the lack of effect the alcohol was having on McCane as he continued.

“He goes into the store empty-handed. Comes out with a bottle in a bag, gives a handout to some panhandler and goes straight back home.”

“You get anything from the store clerk?”

McCane pointed again at his empty glasses. I waved Suzy off.

“I came back. Old Tom in the store pretends like I’m not even there. Then when I started asking him about Marshack, he gives me some shit about ‘White cop askin’ bout some white guy in here? That’s a new one.’ And then he goes on about how Marshack comes in maybe once every couple months. He buys a bottle of Hennessy Cognac. Doesn’t use the phone or meet anyone. Just buys his booze and leaves. Only weird thing I could get out of the old coot was that the good doctor always pays with a hundred-dollar bill. No doubt an oddity in that place.”

McCane waited a moment to let the information settle and then asked, “That ring any bells for you?” He was looking intently into my face for an answer.

I was trying to grind out the scene in my head, working the possibilities. There was a new rock in there but with only the slightest edge to it, and I couldn’t get a hold of it.

“You on him again last night?” I finally said.

“I found a nice comfortable spot across the road from his place. Watched the Caprice for hours. Never moved.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I woke up at 5:00 A.M. You know how surveillance goes. But the Caprice was still there. I even moseyed on over and felt the hood. Stone cold.”

McCane was a bigot. Might be an alcoholic. But he hadn’t lost all of his cop instincts.

“He ain’t your doer, Freeman,” he said. “Not the kind who creeps into houses and smothers old ladies. I seen him up close. He ain’t got the hands for it. But if you get your detective friend to get a warrant and toss his place we might find something.”

I stopped and let McCane’s words settle in my head for a few seconds.

“Which detective is that?” I asked, knowing Billy would not have brought Richards’s name into a conversation with McCane.

“Guy like you gotta have a local on the pad, Freeman. No P.I. I know gets along without one.”

He held my eyes with his and didn’t allow them to slide away. I didn’t respond.

“You track the Thompson policy if there is one. We’ll wait and see what we come up with,” I said, pushing back the stool and taking one last appreciative look at the bar back.

“Follow the money, bud,” McCane said, tossing back another shot. “Just follow the money.”

17

Eddie went home when he got confused.