Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,50

company called Lancer. Padilla revealed them operating sweatshops, which is a major public relations negative if you do it in a place like Thailand. The problem is that they did it in Alabama, and Padilla caught them in the act. It devastated them; they were a quarter-of-a-billion-dollar company one day, bankrupt the next. The owner of the company, one Rudolph Faulk, was particularly embittered, claiming that Padilla set him up.

Kevin and Laurie have their own personal favorites. We discuss them for a while, but I can’t say that I’m remotely optimistic we’re going to turn up a serial killer in their midst. If one of these people wanted Padilla dead, they might kill her, but would likely not preface their actions with murders of random, innocent women.

What we have in our favor is that we don’t have to prove anyone’s guilt. What we have to do is come up with a credible alternative killer for the jury to consider, a daunting enough task in itself.

Kevin is about to leave when the phone rings. I answer it, an act I regret immediately, since it’s Marcus calling. It’s impossible for me to understand a word that he says over the phone; I find myself yearning for subtitles on the bottom of the screen.

I put Laurie on the phone, and she seems to have no problem deciphering his words. She even takes notes, and after a minute or so hangs up.

“Marcus wants you to meet him at this address,” she says.

I look at what she’s written; the location is a particularly run-down industrial area just north of Paterson. “Did he say why?” I ask.

“No, but if Marcus made the call, you can be sure he thinks it’s important.”

“I’ll go with you,” Kevin says.

I offer a simultaneous sigh and nod; I’m not pleased to be spending the next hour or so with Marcus when I could have been in bed with Laurie. “Are you going?” I ask her.

“No, he said I couldn’t. Said it was okay if Kevin went, but that I definitely should stay here.”

“That make any sense to anybody on this planet?” I ask.

Kevin shrugs. “Probably to Marcus.”

• • • • •

KEVIN IS EVEN LESS pleased than I am when we arrive at the location Marcus has given us. It’s on Bergen Street near the river, an old abandoned junkyard that the faded sign indicates was once aptly called “Paterson Waste Material.” Two rats scurry away as we open the door; they’re probably ashamed to be caught living here.

“This place is awful,” understates Kevin.

Through the darkness I see a faint light coming from under a door, so I point it out to Kevin, and we walk toward it. I call out, “Marcus?”

“Yunh,” is the return grunt that I get, and since it seems to be coming from behind the same door, I open it.

The room is surprisingly bright, causing me to adjust my eyes so that I can see. Once I’m able to see, I regret making the adjustment.

Except for some strewn garbage, some of which seems to be smoldering in the far corner, the only objects in the room are a wooden table and chair. On the otherwise empty tabletop is a knife, about the size you would expect Crocodile Dundee to carry. Its point is sticking into the table, and the handle of the knife is pointing straight upward.

Marcus stands near the table, and another man, whom I don’t recognize, sits in the chair. The man is maybe forty-five years old, five ten, a hundred sixty pounds, balding slightly, and naked.

“He’s naked,” says Kevin.

“You don’t miss a thing,” I say. The situation is surreal, and made more so by my realization that Marcus was demonstrating a prudish streak by telling Laurie not to come down here. He didn’t want to embarrass her or himself by having her see this naked guy. The naked guy, for his part, doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. His dominant facial expression is fear, with perhaps a little anger thrown in.

“Uhhh . . . Marcus. Who is this guy and why is he naked?”

“Jimmy,” Marcus says, then points to the corner. “I burned his clothes.”

The mystery of the smoldering garbage has been solved; now we’re getting somewhere. “Why exactly are we here to meet Jimmy?” I ask.

Marcus doesn’t answer me directly, instead issuing instructions to Jimmy. “Tell him.”

“Come on, man,” moans Jimmy. “I told you what can happen if I . . .”

Marcus just looks at him, then looks at the knife. Jimmy looks at Marcus,