The Best American Mystery Stories 2002
- Автор: Грейди Джеймс, Камински Стюарт Мелвин
- Год: 2002
- Язык: английский
- Год: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
- ISBN: 978-0-618-12494-7
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Best American Mystery Stories 2002». Краткое содержание книги:
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Richard said.
“Wasn’t there a fight yesterday? In the parking lot of a school? Right after a baseball game with your kid?”
He winced again as his hand clenched the phone tighter. “It wasn’t my fault. He picked the fight, not me. There was no complaint filed with the cops.”
Another chuckle. “Yeah, I heard you didn’t even put up a fight. Man, you must really like that place to put up with crap like that. So here’s the facts, one more time. You’re right on the edge, my friend. Right on the edge. One more little problem, and I don’t care whose fault it was, who threw the first punch, you’re still coming out to testify. But you’ll come back to that pig farm in Nebraska.”
Richard didn’t even bother replying, because the caller had already hung up.
He sat back in his chair, looked at the little computer mouse next to the computer, and in one flurry of motion, tore it from his desk and threw it across the room.
Two days after the phone call, he was in the kitchen when Sam came tearing through. He wanted to call out to Sam, to tell him to slow down, but instead he said, “Hey, bud. What do you have going on today?”
Sam went to the refrigerator, opened up the door, and started chugging down a couple of swallows of orange juice. His mother would never let him get away with doing anything like that, but he knew his father would. What a kid. Sam put the juice away and said, “Not much. Some fishing later with Greg over at the river.”
“Want to catch a late-afternoon matinee?” he asked.
Sam smiled. “Just the two of us? What would Mom and Olivia think?”
“Mom’s at work,” he said, “and Olivia’s over with some friends, staying through till dinner. I’ll leave a note for your mom. It’ll be fine. Come on, you’ve got a big day tomorrow. Last game of the season.”
Sam slammed the door of the refrigerator. “When?”
“Right now.”
“Cool, Dad,” he said.
The movie theater was on the outskirts of town, in a little shopping mall, and the cool interior felt comfortable. He let Sam pick the movie, and it was a live-action film based on a popular comic book series Richard had never heard of. Most of the audience were kids about Sam’s age, with a scattering of parents like himself, there to chaperone and make sure the little ones didn’t walk out and sneak into an R-rated film. He sat in a row next to a guy he knew, some clerk at the hardware store named Paul, who was there with a boy of about eight or nine.
He checked his watch as the movie droned on with punches and gunshots and buildings blowing up. He looked at the smiling faces of the young boys, illuminated some from what was up on the screen. Smiling and young and full of energy and life. He wondered how Leo was doing, if he was dreading tomorrow’s game, the last game of the year, the last chance to win one before the season was over, one more time out there in the field with his father watching and shouting at him.
One more time with his watch. Time. He leaned over to Sam and whispered, “I’m going to get some more popcorn. You want another drink?”
“Uh-huh,” Sam whispered back, attention still focused on the screen.
Richard got up, stepped on Paul’s foot — “Jeez, excuse me” — and walked out of the dark theater.
Later that night, he was in the living room, trying to judge which one of Olivia’s drawn horses was the best one — “for a contest the library’s holding, Dad, and the deadline is tomorrow!” — when the doorbell rang. Olivia looked up at him and then Carla appeared in the entranceway to the kitchen, slowly wiping a salad bowl from dinner. He looked down at Olivia and said, “Right away, squirt. Go see your mom.”
“But, Dad...”
“Now, please,” he said, and Carla added, “Olivia, listen to your father. He’ll finish with your horses later.”
He went to the door, wiped at his hair for a moment, remembered the many other times when he had answered evening doorbells like this one, so he wasn’t surprised when he opened the door and saw the town’s police chief there.
“Mr. Dow?” he said quietly. “Ted Reiser. Chief of police.”
The chief was about ten years older than Richard, heavyset, with a black mustache and a chubby neck that spilled over the collar of his white uniform dress shirt. A gold star was in each of his collar tabs, and Richard thought the chief — who was boss of a whole six officers — looked slightly ridiculous.
“Sure,” Richard said. “What can I do for you?”
The chief looked past Richard and said, “Can I come in for a moment?”
“Absolutely, come on in,” he said, and the chief came in and took a seat on the couch, balancing his gold-brimmed hat on his knees. Richard sat down and said, “If you’d like, can I get you a drink, or—”
Reiser raised his hand. “Sorry, no. Look, I’m sorry, but this is an official call. I’m investigating something that occurred earlier today. Something I’m afraid that might involve you.”
He made a point of folding his hands together and leaning forward in his chair. “One of my kids? Did they do something?”
The chief ignored the question, went on. “George Winn. I take it you know him.”
“Sure. I coach his kid in the baseball league.”
“You’ve also had words with him, plus one altercation. True?”
Richard nodded. “True. I try to help out his boy, and George thought the kid would work best under threats.”
“But there was an altercation, nearly a week ago.”
“I didn’t hit him, not once. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
The chief sighed. “George Winn was attacked and severely injured today. An intruder broke into his home, struck him from the rear. No description of the attacker, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you what you were doing at about four forty-five P.M. today.”
“Why?”
“Please, Mr. Dow. You were in a fight with him last week. I need to know this.”
“Should I be getting a lawyer?”
That got the chief s attention. “Do you think you need one?”
“No,” Richard answered.
“Then why don’t you tell me where you were this afternoon.”
Richard shrugged. “All right. I was at the movies with my boy Sam, at the River Mall theater. The picture started at three-thirty, got out at five-thirty.”
“Do you have any proof?” the chief asked.
“Sure.” He dug into his pants pocket, past his handkerchief and change. “Look. Ticket stubs for the both of us.”
“Anybody see you at the theater?”
“Um, a kid named Larry who took my money.”
“Anybody else?”
“Let’s see... oh, sure. Paul, who works at Twombly’s Hardware. He sat next to me. In fact, I stepped on the poor guy’s toes when I left to get some popcorn about halfway through the movie.”
The chief moved his hat in a semicircle. “Did you know what time it was?”
“Nope.”
“And what time did you get back into the theater?”
Richard looked at the chief, tried to feel what was going on behind those unblinking eyes. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Now it was time for the police chief to lean forward. “You said you left the theater to get some popcorn. And what I want to know is, how long were you out there?”
“Two minutes, maybe three.”
“And did anybody see you come back into the theater?”
“Yeah, Paul did, I’m sure.”
“Oh, you are, are you,” the chief said. “And why’s that?”
Richard looked at the chief calmly. “Because when I tried to get past him and sit next to my son, I accidentally poured a cold drink on his head. That’s why.”