Retirement Plan (2 page)

“Probably should get some photos.”

“Camera’s in the car,” Henry said. “If you want to interview the garbage guys, I’ll take some pictures and watch for the crime-scene techs.”

Morgan nodded, turned away, and ducked under the yellow tape again. The trash collectors sat on the bench, waiting. The older, heavyset, light-skinned black man was probably the driver. Surely he wouldn’t lift and move full trash cans all day. A younger, darker, solid-built black man and a slim white guy, who, under closer scrutiny, could be a woman, sat as far apart as possible on the narrow bench.

Morgan motioned the older guy out of range of the others’ hearing and introduced herself. She recorded his name, Alonzo Thomas, careful to get the middle initial, J. She asked his age and discovered, though he looked older, he was in his late forties, just a few years older than she was.

Poised with notebook and pen ready, she said, “Tell me, in your own words, what happened this morning.”

He looked heavenward and said, “We was coming down the alley like any other morning. Cans supposed to be pulled out there, but this guy forgets often as not. Last time he did, we went on by and he called the office and raised hell. So when we come to this house and I seen the cans wasn’t out, I told Tashaun to take CJ, go up and carry them back.”

Alonzo Thomas stopped and took a couple of deep breaths while Morgan kept writing. Finally she prompted him. “You told Tashaun and J.T. to go up to the house—”

“CJ.”

“Yes, CJ, thank you.”

“Next thing I know, Tashaun come running back to the truck. He jump up on the running board and look at me all wide-eyed. So, I says, ‘What happen, boy?’ And he says, ‘We got to get out of here—they’s a dead body up there.’ I look past him and see CJ standing over by the garage on her cell phone, and I say, ‘Who she calling?’ Turn out it was the po’lice. It was all I could do to keep Tashaun here. His parole’s almost up. He don’t want to be associated with no dead body. I told him it’d be okay. It will, won’t it, ma’am?”

A breeze carried the smells of garbage and exhaust fumes toward them. Sweat was running between Morgan’s breasts and the back of her neck was moist. She looked at the round-faced man, who was smiling, encouragingly, she supposed. “I just need to get a statement from those two and you’ll be free to go. I may need you to come down to the station later on. Those two will be going with you unless one or both of them have outstanding warrants.”

Alonzo Thomas nodded and said, “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be working late tonight as it is. We got most of the route to cover yet.”

Morgan interviewed the trash carriers one at a time. After she radioed in Tashaun’s name, he checked out. She took his statement quickly because forensics had arrived, and she wanted to talk to them. The slender blonde, CJ Kent, had a baby-butch thing going: short-cropped hair, men’s work boots, a tight camouflage T-shirt, and thin but ropey biceps. Her skin was tanned from working in the sun. According to her driver’s license, she was nineteen. She seemed to want to talk more than the others, but she didn’t add anything new. Morgan gave her a card with the Homicide Department number on it and told her to call if she thought of anything else. As Morgan finished the interview, Alonzo approached her again and asked if they should take the trash. Morgan sighed and said, “No. Not this week.”

As the Ralph’s truck started to roll, with both carriers holding on to the sides, Henry motioned to Morgan from the alley. One of the forensics guys was working on the back gate as she approached.

Henry pointed to a spot behind a bush. “This is where he was. Grass is kind of beat down. This guy must be a sniper to get the victim in the temple from this distance. He’s either a marksman or damn lucky. Far as anybody can tell, there was just one shot.”

Morgan turned and looked toward the house. She could have hit the guy from there with a rifle, but someone who didn’t spend several hours a week on the range would be hard-pressed to. She said, “You think this is professional?”

Henry put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me. I don’t think a pro would have left this spot in the grass. He must have remembered to pick up the casing, though. Should be off to the right, but I’ve gone over the whole area, including those bushes there, and found nothing.”

“I wonder if there’s more to the victim than meets the eye.” Morgan jerked her chin toward the body. “Maybe he’s involved in something shady. Maybe he owes money to the wrong person.”

Henry frowned. “I don’t think you can collect a debt from a dead man.”

Morgan scanned the alleyway, which wasn’t like the alley that ran behind her house. No broken glass. No abandoned tires. No bits of trash. In her neighborhood, a shell casing might be hard to find. But here the alley was clean. At last she said, “Let’s go see what forensics has come up with.”

*

Lois Burnett woke at dawn. She hadn’t been able to sleep and, not wanting to disturb Sophie, had gotten up to read. Even though the recliner was good for naps, her joints ached, and, of course, her shoulder hurt. Her Clark Kent style (although Sophie called them Mr. Potato Head) glasses were sitting cockeyed on her nose. When she righted them, she saw that her book had fallen to the floor. She hadn’t been able to read anyway. She didn’t know how Sophie could sleep. Lois had come home with adrenaline pumping. She’d forgotten that killing a man could be so invigorating.

She’d aimed the rifle and squeezed the trigger, and, in an instant, she earned more than she got in three months from Social Security. But it wasn’t really the money that excited her. It was the power. She’d taken matters into her own hands. In addition, as a result of careful planning, the mess that came of it was someone else’s to clean up.

She and Sophie had taken turns watching him—getting to know his routine. No current wife. Children grown. No pets. Everything in his life was by the clock. They’d narrowed his murder time down to the last cigarette of the day. At that time Lois could hide in the darkness in the alley behind the house, along which two mature, untrimmed bushes provided extra cover.

About ten thirty, when Lois and Sophie were usually sitting in bed reading, Lois had crept down the dark alley and knelt behind the bushes to wait until he stepped outside his back door. Damn cigarettes would kill him anyway. She was doing him a favor. Unlike lung cancer, a bullet through the brain was quick. She’d worried a little about the flash and crack of the single shot. But she couldn’t think of any way to avoid them.

Zach Ingram sat on top of a picnic table and lit up. Lois could see the orange glow of the cigarette as he brought it to his lips. The ember brightened as he drew on it, and his head made a distinct silhouette before the blue bug light. She squeezed the trigger gently and he slammed forward into the darkness. The blinding flash disappeared, but the smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Her shoulder hurt from the kick of the M-16, but she couldn’t use a tripod on this shot. She’d probably have a bruise.

The night remained quiet except for a dog several houses down that barked tentatively, then stopped. She knew the family in the house next door was on vacation.  Plus the houses were well spaced in the west-end neighborhoods, but an M-16 made a helluva explosion.    

Lois took a little time finding the casing in the dark alley. The thing had landed a good eight feet to her right. She pocketed the shell and, with shaking hands, took off her glasses to clean away the fog. Her mouth was dry as she opened the back gate and stepped into the yard. She was excited to be in charge.

Ingram had fallen facedown and, except for a couple of leg spasms, hadn’t moved again. Lois approached him carefully, hoping he wouldn’t need a second shot. He didn’t.

Sophie had been waiting in the truck with the motor running at the end of the alley. Lois turned from the body and hurried away. As she passed the garage, closer this time, a security light flicked on. Light flooded the patio. She picked up her pace. Why had she forgotten about that damn light? They’d discussed it more than once.

She walked faster than she had in several years, down the alley to the waiting truck. When she was safely inside, she looked back. Nothing had moved. All was quiet.

She and Sophie sped away into the night.

*

Lois Burnett and Sophie Long still couldn’t agree on when the killing-for-money idea took shape. Lois said it was on pinochle night—the night of the potato-salad incident. Because their hostess knew better than to ask this bunch of women to bring a dish to pass, she’d asked them to bring a salad of some kind. Sometimes Myrtle Dixon would come in with a slow cooker full of those little hot dogs in grape jelly and chili sauce. But others weren’t as reliable. So they’d end up with six bags of potato chips, three different-sized tubs of store-bought dip, a loaf of bread, and a bag of Oreos that got opened on the way over.

That morning Lois found the lettuce floating in brown liquid. They often bought fresh vegetables with the best intentions, but the stuff usually rotted in the fridge.

She told Sophie, “I have a few dollars. We’ll stop on the way and buy a salad of some kind.”

“What kind of salad can you get with a few dollars?”

Lois shrugged.

They stopped at Save Mart a few blocks from home. While Sophie waited in the car, Lois went in. A long while later she came out of the store with a plastic quart of potato salad.

Sophie said, “I don’t think that’s the kind of salad they meant.”

“They’ll eat it.”

“We should, at least, take it home and put it in one of our own dishes.”

“Don’t be silly. Most of these old gals never cook.”

Sophie squared her shoulders. “Well, you’re carrying it in.”

And it was settled. Lois walked into the house and went straight to the kitchen.  When Sophie found her twenty minutes later, Lois was working with a pair of pliers trying to pull the lid off the container.

“What’s going on?”

“Lid’s stuck.”

“Let me see.” Sophie easily lifted it off.

“How’d you do that?”

Sophie pointed to an arrow. “Directions.”

Sounds of laughter came from the crowded living room. Lois set the tub of potato salad on a card table next to a slow cooker of little hot dogs and a bag of chips. She and Sophie sat opposite each other at one of four card tables.

Myrtle Dixon said, “Murder. That’s rich.”

While Myrtle, two tables away, continued talking, Connie something-or-other, a younger woman, probably high side of fifty, filled them in. “Myrtle’s ex phoned her from Florida. She’s been all in a twist about it.”

Lois looked across the table at Sophie, who returned a toothy smile that made crinkles around her eyes. They’d had their differences, but no breakups. No ex-lovers in Florida. Not a single infidelity, although fidelity wasn’t a virtue for Lois because she’d never wanted anyone else since the day she met Sophie. Sophie was her best friend. They’d been through difficult times in the past thirty-two years. They’d disagreed on things, but Sophie had never even mentioned leaving, nor had Lois.

Connie went on. “Myrtle told us she and the ex had this plan for their old age. They’d become hired killers.”

Myrtle’s voice startled them. She was standing between the card tables. “Think about it,” she said. “Everyone has someone they want dead.”

Lois laughed, but Sophie asked, “What if you get caught?”

Myrtle said, “Then we’d have gone to prison and had a roof over our heads, three meals a day, and free medical. Why, they’d even pay for our prescriptions.”

Other women around them tittered nervously.

“There was just one problem,” Myrtle said. “We couldn’t figure out the killing part. It’s a messy business.”

“Use an assault rifle,” Sophie put in. “We’ll loan you ours.”

Myrtle shrugged. “Won’t work now. The hot-shot that came up with the plan is living in Florida with an ex-Playboy Bunny.” Before they could ask questions, Myrtle wandered off toward the food table, where she picked up a paper plate and a fork and fished out a couple of little hot dogs.

*

For Sophie, the accident had set things in motion. She had been driving home from the drugstore when a teenage girl ran a red light and struck her broadside. The girl stepped out of her car, shoved her cell phone in a backpack, and hurried over toward Sophie. She yelled across her own crumpled hood and through Sophie’s broken driver’s side window. “Lady? Hey, lady, are you all right?”

When Sophie didn’t answer, the girl raised her voice. Traffic stopped, and people began to gather around the cars. Then a man in greasy coveralls leaned in the broken window and said, “Ma’am, we need to get you out of here. Your gas tank is leaking.”

Sophie shook her head trying to clear it. Finally the man appeared on the passenger side, worked the door open, crawled across the seat, and pulled her toward him. She tried to help him, but the pain in her left shoulder nauseated her.

The next thing Sophie remembered was sitting on the bus bench staring at her wrecked Subaru.

A paramedic asked her something.

“What?”

“Your name,” a voice said, “what is your name?”

“Long. I’m Miss Long.” She said her name like she’d said it every autumn for thirty years to the new fifth-grade class.

“Do you know who the president is, Miss Long?” he asked.

His face was so close to hers she could smell mint on his breath. He spoke again, louder this time.

“Who is the president, Miss Long?”

Sophie drew in a breath—she wouldn’t mention that she hadn’t voted for him. She exhaled. “Richard Nixon.”

That was all. The corners of her vision grew increasingly fuzzy, then the light shrank to a pinpoint and went out.

When Sophie woke again, Lois was sitting beside the bed, sleeping. A rumpled paper sack with some magazines was on the floor next to her. Sophie’s arm was in a cast, and she couldn’t move her head. She cut her eyes toward the nightstand. A porcelain vase from home held a bunch of crimson peonies from the backyard.

A man’s voice startled her. “How are you feeling, Sophie?”