What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (most read books txt) 📗

“McKenzie’s always getting into trouble. Remember the last time we got a call like this? Someone tried to blow him up.”

“This feels different somehow.”

“I’m going to the hospital.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No.”

“Bobby…”

“I’ll be working.”

“Then I’ll drive separately. Nina will need a friend.”

“’Kay.”

Shelby and Bobby explained the situation to their daughters. I have no idea what they were thinking at that moment, but they must have remembered that I had designated them as my heirs, that they both stood to inherit a couple of million bucks each when I cashed in, mustn’t they? Or not. I don’t know. I never asked them, not even to be funny.

They remained in the driveway while mom and dad went into the house for their keys and whatnot, opened the garage doors, and walked to their separate vehicles.

“I love you,” Shelby said across the roof of her car.

“I love you more,” Bobby replied.

The girls didn’t say much of anything as they watched their parents drive off. Katie went back to shooting baskets, slowly, methodically, telling herself Just get the ball through the hoop; don’t think about anything except getting the ball through the hoop. Victoria soon joined her. Katherine gave her tips. Victoria accepted them. The girls kept shooting until the next-door neighbor told them it was late and the noise and bright garage lights were keeping everyone awake. Katie was tempted to tell the neighbor where he could go, only Vic restrained her. After all, she was the mature sister. Or at least the eldest.

Nancy Moosbrugger sat on the passenger side of Detective Mason Gafford’s unmarked car parked with a clear view of the club’s entrance, her long legs dangling over the edge of the seat toward the street, the hem of her dress hiked up to there. She was trembling like a leaf in a high wind.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. “I was perfectly fine when I was holding that poor man in my lap. I wasn’t even bothered by the blood.”

Gafford glanced at her legs, at the blood staining her thighs and calves. The EMTs should have given her a towel or something. He wondered if there was one in the trunk. He had never driven that particular unit before so he wasn’t sure.

“The cop was more upset than me,” Nancy said, “and I hadn’t seen anyone shot before.”

“Probably he hadn’t, either,” Gafford said.

“He got real upset when he found out that the man was a police officer.”

“Ex–police officer, retired.”

“Do you think that’s why he was shot, because he was a police officer?”

“I don’t know. He often worked as a kind of unlicensed private investigator, so there’s that.”

“Is that why he was hanging around this part of town? The North End? Rice Street? I mean it’s not as bad as the East Side, but still.”

“Could be.”

“McKenzie? His name was McKenzie, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know him?”

“We’ve met.”

“He was a nice guy, wasn’t he?”

“I thought so.”

“I could tell, the way he smiled and said, ‘Good evening,’ like he meant it. Most men…”

Nancy didn’t finish the thought. Instead, she glanced down at her hands shaking in her lap as if it was something she had never seen before. Gafford squatted down in front of her. At a distance she could pass for late twenties, but up close she appeared to be in her late thirties, perhaps early forties, especially around the eyes. Gafford rested his hand on top of Nancy’s. She slipped one hand on top of his, catching it between both of her hands, and squeezed. Gafford let her even though it hurt.

He glanced around. The officer assigned to crowd control was having a tough time of it; people attempting to enter and exit the club through the front door were treating him with all of the respect given a bouncer brandishing a red velvet rope. Meanwhile, the Forensic Services Unit was carefully inspecting the crime scene under the bright lights that they had taken from the tricked-out van they utilized. If they found anything, they hadn’t bothered to inform him.

“Why can’t I stop shaking?” Nancy asked.

Gafford decided that he was the one who should be asking the questions. It’s what they were paying him for after all.

“Did you see the assailant?” he asked.

Nancy repeated the word, “As-sai-lant,” as if she liked the way it rolled off her tongue. “No, I didn’t. He must have been standing behind McKenzie.”

“He?”

“He. She. I couldn’t tell. McKenzie was blocking my view and when he fell I was watching him.”

“Did you see anyone else on the sidewalk…”

“No.”

“While you were walking toward the club?”

“No. Just McKenzie.”

“You heard the shot,” Gafford said.

“Yes.”

“Did the shot come from inside the bar?”

“No. McKenzie was standing sideways to the bar, sideways to the entrance and watching me. The door was closed. I was moving past him to open the door and thinking—the way he smiled and said, ‘Good evening,’ I thought maybe … Then I heard the gunshot.”

“Coming from behind him?”

“I guess,” Nancy said. “It wasn’t loud. Not like in the movies. It didn’t go boom, you know? More like crack, crack.”

“You heard two shots?”

“No, just the one. Crack.”

“What happened next?”

“Then he fell against me. Well, not fell. More like he was shoved. I screamed because—I heard the crack and he fell against me and I knew, just knew that he had been shot. I had never seen anything like this before except in the movies, yet I knew. It seemed so clear to me. He fell and I caught him and kinda lowered him to the ground. I screamed because it seemed like the thing to do. I wasn’t afraid. I am now. I can’t stop shaking. But I wasn’t at the time.”

“What happened next?” Gafford repeated.

“A couple of people walked out of the bar and a couple of people walked in. No one bothered to stop and ask what was going on. They must have thought McKenzie was a drunk who passed out or something. It seemed like we were there for a long time although I