Steeled for Murder (6 page)

Loosening the laces on my boots, I put them under the radiator to dry. I took a shower, letting the hot water drive the chill from my bones. Felt good to wash the sweat away, but I couldn’t quite rid my muscles of the ache or my body of the smell of interrogation rooms and jail cells. I tumbled into the lumpy bed and tried to get some sleep, without much success. I finally got up, shaved, showered again, and put on clean clothes. My boots were still a little damp, but I had nothing else I could wear to work. I just had to hope that two pairs of clean socks—first cotton and then wool—would keep my feet warm and dry enough to work.

I made two peanut butter sandwiches from my dwindling supply of food and stuffed them into a plastic shopping bag, which went into my pocket. I’d have to make do with water from the drinking fountain; my thermos was with my lunchbox, still at work, so I couldn’t bring any coffee.

I studied my face in the cracked mirror over the bathroom sink. I brushed the dark brown curls out of my eyes. I didn’t want to spend the money on a haircut, and it wasn’t long enough to tie back into a ponytail yet. Didn’t matter much at this job.

The cut on my lip was mostly on the inside, not really visible. The area around my eye was swelling and the bruise was darkening, but it didn’t look like it would turn into a real shiner. Maybe the discoloration on my cheek would be less noticeable under the fluorescent lights in the factory.

On the way out, I locked the door. It opened onto an exterior brick staircase, which led up to the broken and worn sidewalk. The building had once housed a pizza parlor but was now divided into small apartments. It was cheap, within walking distance of work, and the furniture was comfortable if old. Suited me fine.

I trotted up the wet steps to the sidewalk. The janitor had spread salt to melt the ice. It crunched underfoot.

The weather was even worse. I flipped up the hood of my jacket, lowered my head into the sleet, and stuffed my hands in my pockets. When I got paid, warm gloves would be high on my list of purchases—wool ones, since wool holds warmth even when it’s wet—if I had enough money left when I paid everything else I owed. Good luck on that.

When I got to work, I hung my jacket on a hook and went to punch in. I hesitated in front of the timecard rack. Suppose my slot was empty? But it held a timecard.

The other workers clustered around the vending machines. Some nursed cups of the muddy concoction that passed for coffee.

Seemed like the other workers moved away as I approached. Was I imagining it? A few glanced in my direction, murmuring among themselves. Not much I could do about it, so I ignored them. Leaned against the wall in my usual place.

A short, middle-aged man I didn’t recognize complained loudly to no one in particular. “Eleven years working days, and they put me on the midnight shift,” he grumbled. “First, the union rep says there’s nothing they can do. Tries to tell me it’s like a promotion, ‘cause lift driver pays a quarter an hour more than machine operator, plus the shift differential. I told him they can stuff their quarter an hour and shift differential. Put me back on days.”

He stood, short and squat, staring belligerently and waiting for someone to share his indignation. He was met with general indifference. So what if he worked midnights? We all worked that shift.

Finally, someone asked, “Did the union rep ever do anything?”

The man nodded in satisfaction. “Said he’d talk to management, ask them to train someone else on the shift to drive the lift. Maybe I’ll only be on for a few nights.”

“Kind of thing we pay union dues for.”

John approached, his bushy eyebrows raised questioningly. “A problem here, Simon?” he asked.

“Nah. Just talking about the lift driver job,” the reassigned driver told him.

“What about it?”

“Union rep’s gonna see if you can train somebody up on this shift,” Simon said.

“Hasn’t said anything to me,” John said, scanning his clipboard. “We don’t have a qualified instructor on this shift; somebody’d have to switch to days for the training.” He looked over the assembled crew and raised his voice. “Anybody interested in the lift job, let me know. I’ll tell personnel, see if that’s what they’re thinking about doing.”

“Don’t see why you don’t have a back-up driver on the shift, anyhow.” The mollified driver wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“Kelly’s a qualified driver,” John said. “She works in shipping. We can pull her in an emergency. But mostly, she’s needed back there. A lot of trucks on this shift. Drivers like to be loaded and out on the road before the rush hour traffic gets bad.”

John began assigning jobs for the night. His gray eyes glanced down at me. “Jesse. Plater two again. Good to see you back.”

A few people glanced in my direction. John was glad to see me. That was all that mattered right now. I still had a job.

I reported to the plating room. Hank waved me into the office, shut the door, and held out my lunchbox. “You forgot this,” he said, holding it out.

I smiled. “Didn’t exactly forget it. Got left behind is more like it. Not much choice.” I took the squashed peanut butter sandwiches out of my pocket and crammed them into the lunch box.

Hank grinned back, his beard twitching. “Guess that’s right.” He took the lunchbox back and stashed it under the desk. “That Detective Belkins, you wanna watch out for him.”

I agreed with the thought wholeheartedly. “I will if I can.”

Hank scratched his chin through his beard and looked uncertain. Did he know something about Belkins? And would he tell me?

I could ask. “Seems like he’s got it in for me. Thinks I must have killed Mitch.”

Hank shook his head. “He’s gone a little crazy, I think.”

“Oh?” Not comforting to know that the detective who seemed to be sure of my guilt might be a little crazy.

Hank stared off through the window in the door. “Belkins had a daughter. Marie. Pretty little thing. And nice. She was the same year in school as my oldest boy. They dated for a while, went to the prom and things.” He stopped talking, a faraway look in his eyes.

He was talking about Belkins’ daughter in the past tense. Not promising. “What happened?” I asked.

“My boy went into the Marines. I guess they were never that serious—or they were just too young. They broke up.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “She met this guy. A paroled convict. He told her his so-called friends rolled over on him, let him take the rap for something he didn’t do. A burglary. She believed him.” Another pause.

“And…?”

“It turns out he was some kind of a pervert. His conviction was for rape and murder, not breaking and entering. Nobody else involved. Of course, this was before you had a sex offender registry to look people up in. When she tried to break up with him, he kidnapped her. Tortured her. She didn’t survive.”

I felt a chill.

Hank shook his massive head. “Belkins never got over it. Can’t say as I blame him. His wife said it was his fault, and she left him.”

That seemed like a stretch. “How come she blamed him? Wasn’t his fault.”

“Who knows? People aren’t rational about these things. Something about if he’d been the right kind of a father, he’d’ve made sure the guy’s parole was violated, and he would have been locked up again.”

Not rational is right. “So I guess he wouldn’t be particularly sympathetic to somebody like me with a murder conviction. Especially if he thought I might have killed someone else.”

Hank nodded. “And especially if he thinks you’ve got some kind of background as a sex pervert.”

That surprised me. “Not me. No sex offenses.”

“But Mitch said you did. The night before he died. He said it right out in front of everybody, before the shift started. Then, anybody who’d listen, he went on about how he was worried about his wife. So now a lot of other people think so, too. Some of them are even saying that’s why you killed him.”

Didn’t make much difference, but I said, “I didn’t kill Mitch.”

Hank shrugged. “Don’t see how you could’ve. Not during the shift, anyhow. And that’s when he died.”

Pretty discouraging. “Don’t know that there’s much I can do about what people think. But I’ll try to keep out of Belkins’ way.”

“You do that. He’s definitely not wrapped real tight now. He used to be a top-notch cop.”

I remembered how Montgomery had made it clear that it was in my best interest not to report Belkins for hitting me—even if no one would believe me. Cops took care of their own.

Hank looked away from me. “I just thought you should know.”

“Appreciate it.” I did. He didn’t have to say anything.

Hank put the clipboard back on the desk and opened the door. The dull thud of the machinery increased to a heavy throb.

As the whistle blew, I stepped up to take the place of the departing worker. Plater two was still running the heavy cabinets. This time, I was able to swing into the rhythm almost right away. I wasn’t able to load every set of hooks, but I was able to catch all the pieces coming off the plater, and I was up to maybe seventy-five percent of the unfinished ones.

Hank watched me for a few minutes. He leaned over and shouted, “Good job. You’ll have it down by the end of the shift.”

“Hope so.” I put a cabinet on the pallet.

“‘Course,” he shouted with a grin, “we’re almost done running them. Something else tomorrow.”

Figured.

Hank brought me the lunchbox when he came to relieve me for lunch.

Most of the shift had lunch from four o’clock to four eighteen a.m. Workers on jobs that couldn’t be shut down, like plater operators or packing line workers, got staggered breaks as the group leader—Hank, in my case—filled in. The plater operators ate at a picnic table in a back corner of the shipping department.

It was a relief to get away from the steam, noise, and the chemical odors. I stopped in the men’s room, where I rinsed the old coffee residue out of the thermos and filled it with water. Better than nothing. Peanut butter sandwiches go down pretty dry.

I rounded the corner into shipping and came to a dead stop. Someone was already sitting at the table, lunchbox open. A female someone.

The woman looked up at me. She was the one who had been driving the forklift last night. Undoubtedly the Kelly person John had mentioned earlier. Lift drivers got lunch whenever their supervisor decided they weren’t needed immediately.

Our midnight shift was small. Never been a secret that the company hired parolees; if everybody hadn’t been aware that I was a convicted felon before Mitch’s murder, they had to know now. Here this female driver was, by herself in an isolated part of the plant. She might be uncomfortable if I sat down near her. Not fair to her, and she might complain. I could do without that. I hesitated, wondering where else I could go to eat.

“Come on over and sit down,” she yelled to me. “I don’t bite.”

I had to grin at that. “I don’t, either,” I said, slipping onto the bench on the other side of the table. I was careful not to let my knees touch hers.

She was just unwrapping a sandwich. I tried not to stare at it. Sliced meat and cheese spilled out from between thick slices of dark bread. She had a little plastic bag with lettuce, tomato, and onion that she added to the sandwich. She ripped open a bag of chips.

“My name’s Kelly,” she said.

She had a cute little gap between her upper front teeth that showed when she talked. Her long brown hair was drawn back into a ponytail. She’d flipped it over her shoulder while she sat at the table. It made a thick, glistening rope that invited me to reach out and touch it. I kept my hands to myself.

“You’re Jesse, right?”

I nodded. She did know who I was.

“What happened to your face?” she asked.

I touched the swollen eye and cheek. I remembered Montgomery’s promise to tell my PO I’d been cooperative. “Ran into a cell door,” I said.

She threw back her head and laughed.

What was so funny?

“And did that ‘cell door’ have a fist on it, by any chance?” she asked.

Once again, I had to grin. I hadn’t smiled so much in years. “Maybe.”

“My dad’s been locked up a lot. Doing life on the installment plan. Can’t count the number of times I’ve gone to visit him and found him with his face all messed up. Always ‘ran into a cell door.’” She took a big bite of her sandwich.

I took a bite of my mangled mess that had once been a peanut butter sandwich.

She chewed for a minute and swallowed. “One of the guards or another prisoner?”

“Detective,” I said, examining what was left of my lunch.

“Interrogation?” she asked.

“If you want to call it that.” I tore my gaze off her sandwich.

“Did they charge you?”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t be here if they’d decided to charge me,” I said. “No way I’d ever get bail set on a homicide charge. And no bail bondsman in his right mind would post it—even if by some miracle it was set and I could come up with my ten percent.”

“Probably true.” She pulled the top off her sandwich and rearranged the contents. It smelled delicious. “From what I hear, though, Hank says you couldn’t have killed Mitch. Weren’t away from the line long enough. Not at the time he must have been killed.”